Silence. Sweet silence. Rodney smiled. It had been a headache of a day in the lab. First, the Czech had called in sick which left him alone with Kavanagh. Now, Rodney thought of himself as a pretty tolerant person -though others (maybe lots of others) might have begged to differ- but all he could say about Kavanagh was that he hated his guts. He hadn't even bothered to remove the picture of his face the labTechs had put up on the dartboard. And then there was the whole 'random piece of Ancient technology 1313' nearly blowing up. He was seriously considering skipping any catalogue numbers that involved 13 or its multiples (to be safe), despite the fact that he didn't believe in bad luck. If not for John's quick intervention, he had no idea how bad the damage could have been. Kavanagh had nearly wet his pants that would have been pretty damn funny, except Rodney hadn't been far behind. John, of course, had simply turned to Rodney and said in the snide but good humored way of his, "Next time, Rodney, do us a little favor and take days off, OFF."

Plus, he had a paper cut on his right index finger, and it stung, goddamnit.

Oh, and John had been wearing THE SHIRT. Yes, it was definitely deserving of all caps. Rodney simultaneously wished he would wear it every time he had an off day and dreaded it when John did. It was obviously much worn and much loved, in that faded rugged style that Americans seemed to find so posh these days Rodney couldn't understand buying new clothing specifically so it would look old. John's shirt, however, was definitely truly vintage. The bottom hem was only half intact, and you could see little holes sown together (rather ineptly, in Rodney's opinion) when he raised his arms. Still, the faded blue made his eyes shine in the most amazing way like you could see the penetrating blue of the open sky in them. The writing on the front was faded, but it said, "Army Brat' written in magic marker with an uneven scrawl that could only be John's (yes, Rodney had had the horror of looking over some 'notes' John had made during a briefing - before Weir had confiscated his pen though the man sure did know how to doodle).

But that wasn't the worst thing about THE SHIRT. The worst thing was that, being old as it was, it was also a few sizes too small, old fabric thin and stretching tight over every inch of toned chest and rippling back, accentuating his narrow waist and scrumptious ass (yes, scrumptious Rondey thought of most good things in terms of food, and John's ass was definitely a good thing). But, like that water on the edge of the desert horizon, or your mother's homemade apple pie when she was forcing you (but not that whiny anorexic bi beautiful-young-woman of a sister of yours) on a diet, it was the ultimate in unattainable, floating gloatingly just beyond your reach.

Speaking of which Rodney's comforting silence was broken by a couple of deep giggles and a loud guffaw, punctuated by a "No you don't!" Rodney rolled his eyes and sighed exasperatedly, "Why me?" They were at it again. Why couldn't they just shut the hell up and get a room?

Preferably not this room, he amended, as the door to the gear-up room crashed open and John and Aiden landed on the floor in a crumpled heap, panting and swearing. "Sir, may I respectfully" Aiden broke off in a peel of laughter, his hands trapped in a net of John's arms.

". . . respectfully tell me that you're embarrassed to be seen off-world without your hat?" John finished, taking advantage of Aiden's chuckle-fit to roll out from under him, standing on a bench with his back to Rodney tossing the hat easily up over one of the light fixtures.

"No, sir." Aiden said from the floor. "I just don't like the sun in my eyes."

"That's why we need to get you some bad-ass glasses. Like my groovy seventies shades."

There was a loud guffaw from the ground, to which John responded both mockingly and slightly woundedly, "What? You don't like them."

"No they're they're fine, sir," Aiden just stifled another fit of laughter.

"Yeah, if you're a Federally or a cocaine-lord," Rodney chimed in, though he did find them rather sexy on John then again, he would probably find a fusca-flowered muumuu sexy, on John.

John spun around and Aiden's head peeked up over the lip of the bench. "Rodney?" Before he could blink, John was off the bench and Aiden off the floor, both trying not to look guilty, despite the fact that they had been caught with their hands in the cookie jar. Just feel lucky you didn't catch their hands somewhere else, Rodney reminded himself . He could stand the two of them always joking and laughing and touching each other, but he didn't think he could actually handle irrefutable proof that they were together. Incidentally, he thought the same thing about proof of God.

"May I, ahem, have my hat back Sir?" Aiden asked after an uncomfortable moment's staring.

"Sure." John climbed up onto the bench and reached for the light fixture, SHIRT hiking up to reveal toned abs dusted with fine black hair. Rodney tried not to swoon, grabbing a firm hold of the cubicle where he stored his things.

Rodney had been attracted to Major John Sheppard from the moment he laid eyes on him. He remembered it clear as day he was walking through the Antarctic base arguing with Carson about something or another (he did a good deal of arguing with Carson, so the specifics were really unimportant) and there he was. General O'Neill was there (Rodney had to admit that he had had a slight crush on him at one point in time as well he was just so damn cool) but Rodney had barely spared him a glance, because trailing behind, looking around at every wonder in a puzzled but almost skeptical way, was John Sheppard, decked out in his oh-so-sexy chopper jumpsuit, brows knitted in the most adorable way.

Rodney wasn't about to say love at first sight he really had no opportunity to test this hypothesis called love (it could just be some chemical reactions swirling around in the brain though Carson knew more about that than he did, to his great resentment) so he was going to hold off on verifying its existence or non-existence. Of course, that didn't preclude it from being lust at first sight, which it most definitely was.

And it had only gotten worse.

John jumped down from the bench with a loud thud. "Sorry, Ai-Ford, I really didn't mean it. You want to borrow mine this mission, before we can track down a ladder?"

"Sure, sir, no problem," Aiden grinned mischievously. "I'll just go to your room and get it."

"Lieutenant," he spoke in mock-warning, "that's a little presumptuous don'cha think?"

"Yes, Sir. I'll leave you two to it." He sounded smug. Rodney didn't like smug especially not on the guy who was boinking his boinkbunny (okay, so maybe that wasn't the right term, but he didn't like using bad words in his head he reserved them for special, dire situations. Inner monologue was just a waste).

John opened his mouth to respond, but before he could actually say anything, Aiden was already charging off down the hallway. He turned slowly to face Rodney, a forced smile on his lips. "So, how are you today?"

And it opened the floodgates. "Oh, I don't know, the lab nearly exploding was pretty fun you know how I love near death experiences and then there was that thing with Kavanagh"

"Evil scientist steal your favorite pen?"

He rolled his eyes. "Yeah, how did you guess?"

"I'm just good that way."

"Yes you are. Then the Czech"

"Zelenka."

"Yes, Zelenka, he saves our lives and I still can't remember his name well, he called in sick and Kavanagh was being such a bastard," the whole bad-words thing obviously didn't apply to Kavanagh, "and then I got a paper cut and my computer got a worm it was a rather idiotic one, -five minutes to fix, create, and distribute a systems-wide patch and eradicate- but you'd think that being in a whole other Galaxy would put an end to that and they didn't have banana créme for lunch today apparently we've run out of bananas and"



And John was taking his pants off. And he was wearing 'Best Daddy in the World' boxers with squiggly wannabe-child's handwriting and red hearts which was oddly arousing. Seriously, what was wrong with his cock these days? First it lusted after the untouchable, and now it decided that it liked Hallmark-greeting-card-style underwear? Where was a picture of the Olympic Swim Team (Men's, of course) when he needed it? Or MacGyver man was that guy hot and smart too.

But Rodney's thought train came to a crashing halt. 'Best Daddy?' Surely John would have told them if he had a family besides, he didn't seem like the family type. Though he was pretty good with kids (at least by Rodney's standards, which, admittedly, were not all that high) and he definitely had an eye for the female form, even if he was doing his 2IC and he hadn't really told them a lot about himself

Great, now I'm lusting after a married unattainable, unavailable man. A perfect ending to a perfect day.

"And?" And now that married unattainable, unavailable man was staring at him, eyebrows raised, with a smug smile on his face.

"Huh?"

"And you were telling me the five million excruciating details of Rodney's awful day. You can't leave a man hanging in suspense like this." Hanging yes hung hmmm Rodney was trying not too look at the front of John's slightly too-small boxers. Look at the eyes, Rodney. You can do it. It's only a couple of feet, a handful of degrees, come on Of course, Rodney was a notably crappy motivator when his more base urges took over like the need to oh, eat, breath, not die, and, oh yeah, stare at John Sheppard's underwear.

John looked down at his own equipment, as though surprised to find it there. "Go ahead, ask."

"Ask what?" Ask you to get butt naked and um screw me through the wall? Okay, so maybe a swear word would have been in order there.

John sighed melodramatically. "Some asshole in the laundry department down at McMurdo decided to switch my underwear with someone a few sizes smaller. I decided I kinda liked the title 'Best in the World' even if it was 'Best Daddy.' You know, Rodney, you might want to put your pants on before you do up the boots. Just a suggestion."

Rodney looked down. He had completely forgotten he was in the middle of dressing until John had started actually discussing his underwear. There was only so much that even a brilliant and seemingly-vast mind such as his could take, after all. Fuck! Okay, this was a swear-worthy situation. There it was plain as day, the reaction he was only half aware of (yes, he could get a little tied up in sheer jaw-dropping mental imagery that he would fail to notice what specifically was going on with his own body). "Um"

John smirked and turned away, bending over to grab something he'd dropped on the floor. Rodney could feel the swear-words rising in his throat Sheppard-ass in his face too tight boxers with oddly erotic Father/Child messages (Though Rodney refused to acknowledge Freud as being anywhere near right that was not science) his head really was going to implode - that's what tended to happened with too much pressure was directed at a small and less than structurally stable space. Verses explode which was generally a swelling of liquid or other fluid substances Don't think about exploding, Rodney really bad idea, especially when staring at tasty Don't think about food either or chocolate chocolate is an aphro. . . best not think at all.

Rodney tried not-thinking for about 2.73 seconds, but gave up soon afterwards; it was even harder than not-talking, and he often struggled with that. The only thing he was remotely good at was not-doing, and that was only because fear was powerful paralyzing agent.

"You know what's really hard, Rodney?" Oh, boy did he ever. "Every time I come " John coming ". . . by, you're not in your lab unless you're about to blow it up, of course. I've been dying to ask you something. I swear I'm going to explode" He used the E-word! Rodney promptly sat down and put his hands in his lap unfortunately big hands lead to well, they weren't as useful as, say, a large notebook.Wait, John Sheppard did not say things like that. He didn't talk about wanting to talk he ordered. Which meant that he was using all this innuendo on purpose. The rotten bastard.

Well, two could play that game. "I don't think I'm a particularly hard guy to find, Major. Not everyone happens to harmonize their schedule with Sheppard-world, you know. I have to take frequent blood sugar renewal breaks. I come and go rather often."

John straightened, pulling on his fatigues, eyebrow quirking. "Really I didn't know you came and went so frequently. You've never come to see me." This is getting old, Shep. You can do better. Of course, Rodney realized that it was too late for him to be careful what he wished for, because John gave a wicked and horribly smug smile and yanked off his shirt.

Rodney didn't think he could equal that one. He was all flab and blinding whiteness under there. In fact, unless he could otherwise distract John with other parts of his anatomy, he didn't think he liked the idea of John (or anyone, for that matter) getting an eyeful of his jellyrolls.

"I come to see you. You're usually with Ford, exploring somewhere." If 'exploring' was what they were calling it these days. Why the hell was John flirting with him anyway? He already had a boytoy or was one not good enough? Then again, while Rodney might have considered any kind words or traces of humor (or even the willingness to talk to him) a flirtation in women, this was more antagonistic. Was John just rattling his cage? Messing with him? Was this just another extension of their banter the game of wit? Surely John must have known that in the 'who can best turn the other on,' department there really was not competition, just as in the whole 'who can build an a-bomb' category, 'Rodney was supreme ruler.

"I get bored without my little ball of McKay-sunshine there to entertain me." John shrugged. And then he did it he stretched. Rodney wanted to surrender. He wanted to let that low moan building at the back of his throat like a really big hairball out on the unsuspecting world (well, maybe John was suspecting but that was no excuse). He took in a deep gasp of air (pressure coming in equals no groan getting out). Of course, his lungs hadn't quite got with the pressure direction program, so he ended up choking himself.

John stopped his long luxurious stretch in a second, nothing but concern in his eyes as he darted over to pat Rodney on the back. "You okay?"

When Rodney finally got his breath he responded, "Yeah, fine. I have asthma, you know you shouldn't" He closed his mouth tightly shut before more could get out. That problem with not talking seemed to get even worse when John was around.



John narrowed his eyes. "I shouldn't what?" It was then that Rodney noticed at he was inches away from a shirtless, concerned, and oddly mischievous John Sheppard. This could not be good for his blood pressure.

"Nothing," Rodney squeaked, turning away to fiddle with some stuff in his pack would five chocolate bars be enough? He highly doubted it.

John inched closer, so Rodney could feel the caress of his breath on those pesky little hairs on the back of his neck. He held in the contented sigh, though not as overenthusiastically as he had the groan if he choked again, John might be tempted to perform CPR.

Remind me, again, why that's a bad thing? one of his less-inhibited inner-voices asked.

"Rodney " the tone was warning. Rodney knew that Sheppard-patience was in even scarcer supply than coffee (not that the knowledge stopped him from taking more than his fair share of either), but he kept fiddling with his pack anyway. "What don't you want me to do again?"

Rodney gulped.

"Look at me." It was an actual order this time. John wasn't very big on the commanding he mostly let Rodney do his thing, when not telling him to shut up. John liked to use the 'we' a lot. Which was good, because it meant that Rodney wouldn't be walking into danger alone, yet bad because, if left to his own devices, he wouldn't be going there at all.

Rodney turned slowly, looking down at the matt of dark chest hair and the prominent collarbones. His fingers twitched he wanted to run a hand down the smooth curve of neck, over the taunt muscles of the shoulders. He stopped just short of whimpering.

"Look at me," John repeated.

Not the eyes. John's eyes were definitely his best feature well, maybe his hair or but Rodney didn't actually know about that. But, he looked up anyway - he never really could disobey any kind of heartfelt order from John. And there they were, enormous and bright green shining with mirth, but dark with challenge.

Somehow, John's face was inches from his. He could feel the beads of sweet building at his temple. "Admit it, Rodney." Another order.

"A admit what?" Rodney stammered.

John replied slowly, as though he was talking down to a four-year-old, but with the sharp edge of challenge lurking beneath the welcoming tones. "Admit that you're attracted to me."

Of course Rodney was attracted to him. They both knew it. But there was no chance in hell he was going to let John humiliate him by getting him to actually admit it. Especially when, in all likelihood, John didn't want to actually do anything about it. Rodney was a prideful man, and he made no attempt to hide it, so there was no way he was going to let this man (no matter how gorgeous he was, smiling like that) get to him. John thought that a boyish grin and a few stretches were enough to win people over. Well, it wasn't enough for Rodney. John Sheppard was far too used to getting his way.

He inched his face closer. "I'll admit I'm attracted to you" he was momentarily captivated by the wide smile that crept onto John's lips, the sun rising over the sea of sarcasm, ". . . when pigs fly."

"When pigs fly?" John and Rodney's heads snapped to the side in unison, to find a confused Althosian staring at them knowingly, barely hiding a grin.

"Good afternoon, Teyla," Rodney sighed, trying his best to look busy and not-guilty (though the redness on the nape of his neck and tips of his ears was making it a bit hard).

"What is the meaning of that phrase?"

Rodney looked up from his continued pack-fussing (which hadn't succeeded in accomplishing anything but jumbling the contents as of yet) and opened his mouth to answer when John interrupted him, fixing Rodney with a meaningful stare. "It means it's inevitable."

Pigs. Pigs with wings. He was outside a red barn (just like in those cheese commercials and farmer paintings and whatnot) looking in at pigs. Pigs with wings. John grimaced. He liked being right but this was a little creepy. His forearm was already red from so many times pinching it and telling himself to wake up.

When he'd wished for pigs to fly, he should have been more specific. He meant in the metaphorical sense, of course. He had wanted Rodney to admit that he was attracted to him. John had been pulling all the stops with the guy since they first met and still, he didn't budge. He started with cute little looks and occasional touches, and just recently had even brought out the big guns: THE SHIRT. He knew he looked dead sexy in it. It was his lucky shirt. Bagged them every time.

Except for Rodney. Rodney was as stubborn as a mule (actually, he was as stubborn as John himself. He figured he should lay off animal metaphors for a while, lest the wish-granting powers that be decided to get literal again).

Rodney was standing as far away from the window as he could -without being rude, of course- the normal lines of panic on his generally constipated looking face. Not that John found constipation at all attractive, but he did like the look on Rodney. Or maybe he had just gotten used to it. But, frankly, John was still baffled as to his sudden attraction to the squirming scientist. He was not John's type - he wasn't tall and ripped like Arnold the Governator, nor did he look good in a uniform. John had even tried a few of the 'pretty-boy' actor types you could find hanging around the clubs in L.A., and Rodney wasn't even that. He was a geek. A Geek!

John had been a geek once until he discovered women and, eventually, men. Once he realized he had the looks to charm, he dropped the science club and his entire collection of fantasy books and computer games in favor of well, sex. John liked sex. He liked it a lot. And he liked sex with hot people there was something innately arousing in the innocent doe-like features you'd find on one of those Hollywood-types. He also liked sex with strong people - people who would slam him against the wall and fuck him until he wouldn't be able to walk straight the next day; people who would tie him up and spank him and order him around (for the bedroom was the one place John would ever deign to bow down to authority hell, he'd worship it).

Dr. Rodney McKay was none of those things. John thought that had he even been a spectator at one of his more intense lays, Rodney might have had an asthma attack. And, while he wasn't ugly, Rodney wasn't cute in that quasi-feminine way. He well, he looked constantly upset or worried or constipated.

But, when they bickered (which is how they occupied most of their time together) John got this odd feeling in the pit of his stomach. It was like sex with another man, one about his size and strength and experience - someone who could give as good as they got. It was a constant struggle for power, no holding back. And it was exhilarating. Only, with Rodney, it was like that without ever even touching each other. When he was around Rodney, he felt smarter, and better. Rodney would push him and he would find out how easily he really could push back. It was such a relief after a lifetime spent around military-types and pretty-boys, to find out that his brain still worked.

Sure, he had already separated himself out as one of the intelligent ones by becoming a pilot (a Huey has a whole hell of a lot of buttons, after all) but there was still this macho dumbshit attitude that, frankly, got on his nerves sometimes (even when it came out of his own mouth). Which wasn't to say that there weren't a whole hell of a lot of great guys in the Air Force. But Aiden was a perfect example: cute, funny, nice as hell, but ultimately a little lacking in the brains department. Well it wasn't brains really. Aiden was smart. It was more like comparing a bottle of beer to a glass of quality champagne: they might be equally potent alcohol-wise, but one was just more sophisticated.

Not that he was comparing Rodney to champagne. They day he resorted to the cliché of comparing his object of affection to food would be the day he died. Of course, it could be worse: he could be thinking flowers (John was still military, after all).

Then again, this theory could be all wrong (which is why John generally preferred the seat-of-his-pants approach over theory) and he could simply be lusting after someone because they were resisting his charms. It had been a long time since someone had played hard to get - a long time since he had to work for it. John had been pretty cautious with military men - he always waited for a fuck-buddy to come to him, and he tried not to have his heart set on anyone in particular. There was no playing hard to get in the military not when you were putting both your careers on the line. No one wanted to get with someone that seemed unsure - it was a liability. As for the gay scene in L.A. - it was one giant mosh-pit of a free-for-all.

But that didn't change anything - he was going to get into Rodney's pants - if it was the last thing he did (double entendre definitely intended). He growled under his breath.

"So, in exchange for the right to mine some of the mineral deposits beneath your field here, we would be glad to provide you with help in farming techniques that would allow you to cultivate much of the surrounding land - more than enough to make up for this one field."

Wait was Teyla making a trade? Was she even authorized to do that? John startled himself out of his own train of thought (which, surprisingly, kind of hurt his head). He cleared his throat. "Um Teyla, I think it would be best if we consulted with Dr. Weir before we make any type of trade." John had already had to 'go to the principle's office' for that one, and he wasn't looking forward to doing it again.

"We are not making a trade, Major Sheppard, simply a mutually beneficial compromise." Mutually beneficial compromise that sounded an awful lot like his definition of trade. But, then again, what did he know? In the military you didn't trade you requisitioned (or you bribed, depending how close you were to the guys in provisions).

"Yeah, Sheppard, a mutually beneficial compromise." Rodney growled resentfully. John rolled his eyes. What was this? Grade school? Rodney had been bitchy (even more-so than usual) ever since he saw the pigs and their wings. Of course, the little fuckers didn't look particularly aerodynamic, and John wasn't willing to bet those wings were anything but vestigial (which Rodney had hurriedly pointed out in a harsh whisper). But, in John's humble opinion, the only greater sign than actually seeing pigs with wings would involve hearing voices, and he didn't think Rodney could handle that. John turned and shot Rodney an angry glare it was bad enough that he was so distracted that Teyla was taking charge. He didn't even remember these farmer-people's names. He only knew that they looked like some hicks directly out of the toothless. Pitchfork-wielding, moonshine-producing, deliverance territory of 'West Virginy,' and that he wanted to take his city-boy ass and hightail it out of there. Maybe, if he was nice, he would bring Rodney with him.

"I could assist, Sir," Aiden said, practically jumping up and down in his eagerness. John remembered that Aiden had grown up on a farm in Idaho - of course he could help. He wished the kid weren't so damn helpful Teyla too. John was automatically distrustful of things that were too easy which was probably one of the reasons he was so insistent on going after men in the Air Force, when women could have done him just fine.

Farmer number one, who John had named 'Leroy,' stepped in eagerly. "Maybe ye'd like ta see the other fields. This one 'ere's our best. The others" he sniffled, rubbing his nose, where a piece seemed to be inexplicably missing, "ain't so good, I'm 'fraid."

"We would be happy to accompany you." Teyla put on her diplomat smile (deep down, he doubted she was thrilled at the prospect). John didn't think the smile particularly became her, but at least it wasn't that forehead touching ritual - he didn't know why, but it creeped him out.

"Alrighty then," Leroy gave a toothless grin. John shuddered and tried not to stare. He was so not a diplomat.

Then hick number two looked as though he was going to speak, by the way he was scratching his ear with his lip curled up like that. John had named him number two, because, well the only person he'd ever met from West Virginia had been named Leroy. Leroy liked to shoot cans of baked beans - until he arrived in Antarctica and realized that they tended not to explode at twenty-degrees below zero. "Did I tell ya 'bout the time I saw myself a bar?" John knew enough hickspeak to know that he meant a bear. And that he'd better cut this off before his head imploded.

"That's nice. You know what I think I should probably head back and check to see if Dr. Weir has any farming advice." Because New Yorkers knew so much about farming.

"But who'll watch the sklejebs while we're gone? We can't jes up an' leave 'em!"

While John was frantically scrolling back in his memory trying to remember what the hell a sklejeb was, Rodney reminded him. "The pigs."

"I knew that," he snapped.

Teyla brightened. "Well, just before we departed, Major Sheppard and Dr. McKay were discussing creatures such as these, so they will be able to watch them while we are away."

Rodney looked as though he was about to choke on his tongue. "That that's not what we meant. It's an expression for"

John knew everything he said came back to bite him in the ass, damn American idiomatic phrases. He should just keep his mouth shut naw it was too much fun.

Teyla shot Rodney a warning glare, and he clamped his mouth shut. Rodney was scared of her - John could tell. John would probably be scared of her too if he didn't know that she liked to meow like a pussycat during sex. But that was no longer happening. John had lost interest when Teyla had started to get all possessive. Women. All that time in Antarctica had made him forget how much of a pain in the ass they were (not that there weren't women in Antarctica, just that there was something about the florescent lighting of the base that made them hugely less attractive than usual). Of course, Rodney was a pain in the ass too, but in a totally different way.

"You er such a bright young lady, Miss Teyla. And thank ye honorable gentlemen for taking care of the sklejeb."

"Ford." John looked at Aiden pointedly. This was his 'I'm handing out crappy duty to you' look, but Aiden turned to Leroy instead of the usual 'Yes, sir.'

"I've got a lot to show you guys. We have this technique in Idaho. . ."

"Ford." John was more insistent this time. He didn't know his ass from his head in terms of normal pigs, let alone flying ones!

"Yes, Major?" Oh it was the innocent look. John hated the innocent look. It always meant that Aiden was up to something.

"It would be best if"

"But I thought you were the pig expert, sir." And then the shit-eating grin the inevitable follow-up to the innocent look. This boy would pay. John opened his mouth to make it an order, but Aiden beat him to it. "Besides, I think you and Dr. McKay could use some time alone together." And then he winked. Aiden actually had the nerve to wink! The little shit had had been plotting to get John and Rodney together for weeks now, and John felt his patience wearing very very thin. That boy was waaaaay too eager and, even worse, he actually believed in true love. Romantics.

Leroy turned to John and gave him a wide toothless smile. "So the two of ye's together?"

Here comes the pitchfork up the butt, John thought, closing his eyes. But the insult never came. When he opened his eyes again, Leroy was still smiling. "Well, we wouldn' ta wan ta be gettin' in the way, would we?" He nudged number two in the ribs, winking. He truly was on another planet. Pro-gay-rights hicks he never thought he'd see the day.

Of course, Rodney didn't seem at all concerned with this anthropological miracle. "Oh, we're not together in that sense I mean the major's and I'm not and no matter what he says about airborne swine we've never and I'm definitely not attracted to you." He finished by staring at John pointedly, hands playing nervously in front of him.

Number two guffawed in a very piglike manner (proving that you are what you eat or breed, in this case). "Sure yer not." He didn't sound very convinced by Rodney's oh-so-articulate speech.

"Well, we'll be off then. Feed 'em at midday and sunset the pail's ahangin' on the barn wall and the feed's in the storehouse."

John was still sorting out why in the hell he needed a pail when he heard Rodney's loud squeak. "Where are you going? You can't just"

"Have fun guys!" Aiden called over his shoulder as he trotted off into what appeared to be a cornrow (except the corn was orange).

"What? He he left us," Rodney stammered, dismayed.

"Apparently." John was still wondering what it was you fed flying pigs. He sure hoped it wasn't meat. He had seen Hannibal and he didn't feel as though a bunch of hungry carnivorous pigs was a very good idea - especially if they could fly. He peaked back in the window. They were dirty and rotund, but the pigs definitely had a menacing streak in their beady little eyes. But, he had stared down life-sucking catfish-looking I-am-your-death Wraith before, surely pigs would be a piece of cake.

"You're just going to let them" Rodney complained.

"Oh, how hard can it be?"

Rodney stared dubiously at the pail in John's hand. It was rusted and grimy and encrusted with some yellowish substance that vaguely resembled something you might find in the toilet the day after a wild party. Rodney did not want to know what it was.

John stuck his finger in it.

"Did you just"

He sniffed it. "Smells like chicken." He held his finger out for Rodney, who backed away as quickly as he could.

"Maybe it also tastes that way," he sneered.

"Why don't you try and see?"

"Ha ha. Look, Major, why don't we just get this over with, okay? You go into the barn, pour this whatever-this-is into the pig trough and then we can sit out here away from the creepy flying mammals." Rodney didn't care if he was going to get a sunburn sitting in the noon sun like this - he wanted to be as far from the farm animals as possible. Anything larger than a cat frightened him. He had fallen off a llama when he was young (don't ask) and ever since he hadn't been very forgiving of anything that didn't wear a collar or live in a fish tank.

"Me?" John actually had the balls to look surprised - did he actually expect Rodney to do it? Even John wasn't that dense. "Why don't you go in there and do it?"

"I don't think so, Major. It was you and your poor explanation of the whole flying pigs metaphor that got us into this mess to begin with. Besides, I'm a civilian; I don't have to take orders from you."

John seemed to pretend to consider it for a second, then looked up at Rodney devilishly. "I could just threaten to shoot you."

"You wouldn't."

"I wouldn't push it, Rodney." John was eyeing the bucket of chicken-smelling slop distastefully, and for a second Rodney wondered if he meant it.

"I'm allergic to pigs." Actually, he wasn't, but he was certainly allergic to the entire idea of them which was close enough for Rodney.

"You are not. I've seen you wolf down an entire plate of bacon before. Besides, these aren't even pigs. They're " John really wasn't on top of things today, was he?

"Sklejeb."

"Yeah, whatever. They just look like flying pigs."

"You don't know that they actually fly." Rodney was very insistent on this point. He refused to let John be right. It just wasn't possible. John was always hot, so Rodney had the right to be always well, right!

"My point is, you're not allergic to them, so why don't you help me feed them?"

"No." Rodney did what he always did in tractable situations he desperately wanted to be intractable. He sat down on the ground, letting all his limbs go limp and started humming.

"What the hell are you doing, McKay?"

Rodney paused in his rendition of the Canadian national anthem. "Not going to feed the pigs."

John sighed and put on his idiotic drug-lord glasses and stalked off toward the barn. "You are such a chickenshit."

"Yep."

When Rodney was positive John was not going to turn back and see him, he rose from the ground and brushed the slightly too-green grass off his pants. He hated being dirty. Who knew what kind of germs were on that ground?

Rodney was in the process of creeping up to the window (in hopes of catching a glimpse of John's very tasty backside bending over a trough. Oh, and to make sure the pigs didn't eat him) when he heard loud squeal a pained shout.

"John!" He ran for the barn door, flying pigs be damned. He had it bad.

John looked at the pig. The pig looked at John. John didn't move. What the hell were you supposed to do to a very fat and slightly disturbed looking swine that has inexplicably escaped from its pen, anyway? That thing was easily twice his weight (if a good deal shorter) and John really didn't feel like testing its temperament. Especially not when a closer inspection revealed that instead of hooves, this scary sonofabitch had claws.

"Nice pig" John whispered, lowering the bucket full of yellow stuff cautiously. "I'm not going to hurt you. I just want to get in here so I can feed you and all your fat bastard friends before I go outside and seduce me an astrophysicist." Great, not only was he talking to a pig about his love life (or would-be love life, depending on whether Rodney was willing to stop signing the Canadian national anthem or not) but he was starting to use hick grammar.

The pig snorted and raked its claws menacingly through the dirt. John stared it straight in the eye. "Look, Babe, I need to get through to the food trough so I can feed you, so, if you wouldn't mind, please move aside."

The pig flared its nostrils.

John was not feeling his most patient. Rodney had already pushed his nerves a little further than he could tolerate -in alien hick-country, at least- and he was sexually frustrated to boot. "All right, you fat motherfucker, don't make me shoot you."

There was a loud squeal and the pig charged. John dove to the side, crying out as the angry swine drove into him. It was like football - without the padding.



John gasped and pulled himself to a kneeling position, ignoring the pain in his side and raising his P90. He didn't care if this was a valuable piece of livestock or whatever, he would shoot it before he let it trample him. The pig lumbered around ineptly, trying to face John again. "Don't even think about it, Pork Chops." He stifled a slight whimper as he levered himself up to full height. It didn't feel as though anything was broken, but he was going to have one hell of a bruise.

The pig finally managed to face him, murder in its cold dark eyes, when the barn door burst open, revealing a slightly pear-shaped figure, silhouetted against the sunlight like some sort of Saint.

"Rodney, my savior." The pig turned around yet again, warily.

"John, are you all right?" Rodney asked, looking from the pig to the man wielding the P90.

"I've just been attacked by a flying pig, what do you think?"

"Oh, right," Rodney gulped and seemed to look down at the pig (John had trouble telling with his face in shadow). "Good pig. Nice pig." The pig took a lumbering step toward Rodney.

"Rodney, get out of here, I can take care of it." John took a step forward, and the pig wiped its head around. And he would swear it growled. John promptly took a step back again.

"Sure you can," Rodney snapped and appeared to be trembling now.

John couldn't resist. "When pigs fly." The pig grunted and began a slow lumber toward Rodney. "Get out of here!" John decided to make it an order, but Rodney stood his ground, still trembling - probably paralyzed in fear. John aimed his weapon, ready to fire at the first move.

The pig sniffed Rodney's leg and snorted. Then it no, it couldn't be. The pig was rubbing itself up against the ghost-white scientist the way a cat does its master. Rodney looked as though he was about to fall over from its enormous weight, but he stammered, "That's right. You're a good pig." He walked over to the dropped pail, and lifted it to the giant pink snout. The pig began to devour it gratefully in a cascade of joyful snorts. Rodney patted its head. John felt his jaw drop. "Major, you'd better get out of here."

"You're sure" the pig stopped slurping and growled again.

"I'll be fine." Rodney sounded a little less than convinced, but it was obvious that John's presence was doing more harm than good, so he squeezed past the filthy giant and his newfound friend and out into the fresh air and purifying sunlight. He used his charm to save me from an angry pig - I am never going to live this down.

He walked up to the window, watching Rodney petting the porkchop from hell and sighed. His side was beginning to throb, but he ignored it, determined to make sure Rodney stayed safe.

It took about ten trips to and from the storehouse (a huge inefficiency in Rodney's opinion) and the barn to get all of the pigs fed. He was still shit-scared of them, despite the fact that it afforded the opportunity to gloat at John and his non-existent animal-husbandry skills every time he passed. The only reason why he hadn't hyperventilated and 'passed out' (by which he meant fainted) yet was because he had begun to picture the lumbering beasts as fat, hairless, and dirty cats - with wings.

The first pig, whom he had decided to name Brahe (after the astronomer whose observations lead to Kepler's famous laws of planetary motion. Brahe had suffered an overdose of etiquette, refusing to leave the table before his host, and thus died from bladder poisoning. Well, he had named his cat Copernicus.) had decided to follow him everywhere he went. The others, however (having seen Rodney feed Brahe) had insisted on being fed individually, so it had taken nearly an hour. And John had watched him like a hawk the entire time. That was oddly comforting (not just because Rodney was concerned for his own safety) but because it showed how much John truly cared.

And he supposed that was another reason he was so attracted to the man. Not only was he absolutely edible and witty in that snarky way, but he made Rodney feel safe - cared for. Yes, he was a 'protector' figure and he was transferring feelings felt toward the father figure to him, but Rodney thought Freud was even more bullshit than medicine, so he didn't give a damn.

He scurried out of the barn, closing the door before Brahe could escape with him and ambled casually (well, he was trying to look casual and nonchalant, but it was awfully hard when smelling of pig and covered in yellowish chicken-smelling slop) over to where John was standing by the window.

"Well, Rodney, they seem to have accepted you as one of their own." John grinned.

"Or maybe the just hate you."

"I probably smell too clean for them."

"Thanks. So you're not going to thank me for saving you butt - yet again, might I add?" In truth, Rodney didn't really expect John to thank him. It was an unspoken thing between them. They would always save each other, and they would always be grateful, not matter what was said.

"Thank you." Rodney had no idea how John managed to sound both sincere and completely insincere at the same time. The man was a mystery in so many ways.

"So, it's a few hours till the sunset feeding, what do you want to do?"

John's look said very clearly that it was something very obscene. Rodney wasn't sure he liked eyes raking over his body in quite that fashion (lest they actually notice how oddly shaped it was) but he supposed he'd allow it. "Let's go sit over by those green haystacks over there. I need a tan." Rodney thought John was tanned enough (hell, when they met he hadn't been as pale as Rodney himself, despite the fact that he'd been in Antarctica for two years while Rodney was in New Mexico). But John was originally from California, so he obviously had different standards of paleness.

"Did you bring any sunscreen?"

"No. You don't need sunscreen. It's just an afternoon."

"I'm sorry, but we don't know the ozone concentration of this planet's atmosphere. You could be baking yourself a nice skin tumor."

"Seeing as how Leroy and his buddy seem to be fine, I think I'm willing to take that risk."

"Leroy?"

"Never mind." They stood before a disturbingly green stack of hay, eyeing it suspiciously. It wasn't like home, but then again, Rodney had never seen real hay (except in petting zoos) so he wasn't one to judge.

He lowered himself clumsily to the ground, leaning back into the comforting green pile. It poked him in the back and he grimaced. John was taking his time putting his gun down and then sitting himself. Rodney noticed John wince and grip his side as he finally settled himself. "Are you all right, Major?"

"Peachy."

Rodney pushed himself to his knees so he could move in front of John and look him in the eye. "Seriously. What happened?"

John gave an exasperated sigh. "I got a little trampled. No big deal."

"That is a big deal! You might have cracked a rib or be bleeding internally or something! You should let me examine you."

John leered at him. "You can examine me all you want, Rodney. But I'm fine. Unlike you, I know what all those things feel like, and I'm not suffering from any of them."

"Hey! One time when I was a kid, I fell off a llama and"

"What the hell were you doing on a llama?"

"Long story. I wait, no distracting me. Take off your shirt."

John grinned wolfishly. "Well, when you put it that way"

"Oh, shut up and do it." He was too concerned to play John's games at the moment. He had read all of the bad things that could happen to people with internal injuries, and he knew that Brahe was definitely big enough to deliver a serious blow. John may have liked to take chances with his life, but Rodney certainly wasn't willing to. John meant too much to him, and he wouldn't let the idiot himself take that away from him.

John unzipped his jacket, and Rodney tried to help him pull it off, though he seemed to get more in the way than he actually helped. "Stop fussing," John complained.

When John's wonderful chest was finally bared again, Rodney noted a place on his left side that was already tinged slightly green with the beginnings of a bruise with a scratch, not even deeper than a rug burn, at the center. He looked at John's discarded black shirt and vest and saw holes ripped through both of them. The vest was made of tough material. Rodney shuddered. "You're lucky this was so thick."

"I'm a lucky guy." John grinned his wide sunny smile, and Rodney couldn't help but smile back as he fetched some antiseptic wipes from the first aid kit he always kept handy in his pack, and cleaned the cut before clumsily trying to tape a dressing over it, uncomfortably aware of the soft rise and fall of John's sculpted chest, feeling eyes constantly watching him as he worked.

"There you go. Good as new," he said to John's chest.

"Thank you, Nurse Rodney."

"Actually, it's 'Doctor.'" Rodney smiled snidely and looked up, finding himself staring into mesmerizing lust-darkened eyes. He could feel the tension crackling in the air, living in the sunshine and fresh scent of hay. He would have wondered why hay seemed to smell the same in a whole other galaxy, but he was too absorbed in the intensity of the moment: his heart hammering in his chest, his breath quickening beyond his control.

He didn't know how, but his face was somehow scant inches from John's. And it was taking every drop of resolve for him not to close that last distance to kiss him, when John solved to problem by grabbing the back of Rodney's head and crushing their lips together.

John was a good kisser. His lips were soft, and his tongue demanding but not rough. He nipped playfully at Rodney's bottom lip, hands moving to yank Rodney to him.

Rodney couldn't believe that Major John Sheppard was actually kissing him. He would have said the major had been thinking of it, sure, but he never expected him to go through with it. Not that it mattered, because John Sheppard was kissing him!



Rodney knew he was not the best of kissers. He wasn't really the cuddly sit-on-the-couch-and-make-out type, and he definitely was not a fan of public displays of affection. But he thought he could get used to kissing John, and he felt that with John leading the way, he could certainly make it worthwhile. It was a passionate and insistent kiss, but, unlike hurried connections in the throws of passion -something to keep from talking and ruining the mood- it was something sustainable.

Rodney leaned into John's embrace, insinuating his legs between Johns until he could feel John's hardness rubbing up against his own. Then he found himself suddenly lipless, pushed away. For a second, Rodney feared that this was just a lark - that John would set him up to be disappointed this way, but when he looked, he saw a wince on John's flushed face.

"Even if I don't have any broken ribs, right now, it still doesn't feel all that sexy for you to lean on my chest, Rodney."

"Oh sorry of course." He felt like such an inconsiderate idiot. He had completely killed the mood, perhaps missed his only chance. Rodney slumped back onto his heels, frowning. He really did blow it. He could kick himself.

"Oh, stop feeling sorry for yourself," John said, and, before he knew it, Rodney found himself lying flat on his back, with John on top of him, unbuckling his pants. He could definitely get used to this.

John had been to a farm once. Up in the central valley, on a class field trip. They had gone on a hayride, and seen the cows get milked (not an experience John particularly cared to repeat. Cows smelled.) and all the usual tourist crap. What he didn't learn as a fifth grader too preoccupied with trying to sneak off to try and drive a tractor, was that the smell of hay went really well with the smell of sex. Okay, so maybe he wouldn't have thought that as a fifth grader (no matter how premature John Sheppard happened to be in that department) but he could see the rustic charm of all this farming business.

He stared up at the bright blue sky, watching the wisps of clouds dance slowly overhead, listening to the light chirps of some alien birds (or maybe flying something-elses, because if pigs could). He had never been particularly outdoorsy (despite the forced 'family bonding time' with his father, the Colonel that couldn't navigate) but he liked this peace, calm and sated, tanning his bare chest and legs in the afternoon sun. He heaved a contented sigh.

"I need chocolate," Rodney groused, stirring. For some reason, the nasal whine was far less attractive than usual, which was odd, because usually John found it annoying enough. Why was Rodney so damned determined to ruin his post-coital philosophizing?

John grabbed Rodney's vest and pulled open the upper left pocket, disgusted with himself for knowing exactly where Rodney kept his chocolate. He handed it to his new lover with a smile.

Rodney grabbed the candybar greedily, seemingly considering what John thought was one of the John-Sheppard-most-charming-expressions. "You know, I'm still not attracted you." Another mood killer.

He was annoyed, yet deep down he knew this was just another part of their little game. "Is that so? Well, would you mind explaining why we're lying half-naked in a cornfield then?"

"Releasing tension," Rodney said, not interrupting his chewing to do so. "Want some?" He held up the chocolate bar.

"No thanks." John reached out to wipe some melted chocolate from the side of Rodney's mouth. "Stuffing your face is such an incredibly sexy and romantic thing to do, you know," he quipped. John didn't really even like chocolate. He'd take a good turkey sandwich over a chocolate bar any day.

"Good. I always thought so." Rodney's actions betrayed his words, however, because he folded up the rest of the bar and tucked it back into his pocket. He stood up, grabbing his pants and pulling them back on.

"Hey now, there's no reason to be hasty; I was enjoying the view." So Rodney was no Mister Universe, but John liked seeing him all naked and vulnerable. Besides, he was soft and squishy, like the Pillsbury Doughboy.

"Well, excuse me if I don't want to sunburn my ass. Besides, who knows what crawling around on that ground? And this hay? What if I'm allergic to it? I don't want to have a rash"

"Well, I'd say you're already exposed." Considering the fact that John had been driving Rodney's hips into that dirty allergen-ridden ground, he was definitely too late.

"If you've never come across something before, you have the reaction on the second exposure. Something to do with antibodies and medical something-or-other And seeing as how I've never seen green hay before"

"All right, all right, I get the point." John sighed, sitting up and reaching for his clothes. Sometimes he wished Rodney would just slow down for a second and enjoy the simple things in life. John wasn't Mister Touchy Feely, and he wasn't one to want to 'talk about our relationship,' but he still felt as though he could have done with some time to let the enjoyment of it all sink in. And perhaps a small sign from Rodney that they were on the same page would have been nice. He really wasn't asking for much.

"I'm going to um check on the pigs." Now John was actually starting to get kind of worried. Rodney was so scared of facing whatever it was they had and what they had just done that he preferred flying pigs?

"Rodney" By the time he had gotten to his feet (despite the fact that he wasn't concerned with it at the time, rolling around on the hard ground probably wasn't the best thing for the soreness on his side) Rodney was already opening the door to the barn.

"Damnit." John kicked the dirt, grunting as he tried to pull on his shirt, and not looking forward to trying to get on the pants. It was then that he heard a shout and the barn doors flew open, with Rodney running out, a charging swine behind him. "Holy shit!" John looked frantically around for his weapon in the piles of clothing and hay. Before he could find it, Rodney and the pig were nearly upon him.

"Quick, climb the haystack!" Rodney yelled, and John obeyed, running from the fierce snorts and growls coming from the creature. The bales of hay were piled about fifteen feet high, but John found himself hurting by the time he made it to the top. Yes, he would have to remind himself not to have passionate, athletic (okay, so maybe he couldn't use the word athletic with Rodney involved, but it had still been a work-out) sex while injured.

When he reached the top as well, Rodney was panting and out of breath. "I don't know what happened. Brahe loved me before! Talk about biting the hand that feeds you"

"Brahe?"

"The pig."

John looked over the edge of the stack at the angry pig snorting and dragging its razor-sharp claws through the dirt below. "Maybe it's just mad because you made it stay in the barn while you were out here screwing me."

"You think the pig's jealous?"

"Why not?"

"Or maybe it just hates you and I made myself smell like you."

"I highly doubt my smell could have overpowered yours." McKay smelled so strongly of coffee and slightly pungent but not incredibly distasteful sweat that John didn't understand how a creature with a huge nose like that could possibly be confused.

"Maybe you should try talking to it."

"Yeah, that's going to do us a whole hell of a lot of good. Maybe we can discuss its problems with attachment. Just radio Ford and tell him to come get us."

"I can't radio Ford because my radio is down there with our guns and my pants!" John gave a frustrated sigh. Why did the universe hate him? He meant what he had said to Elizabeth when she officially put him in charge: he had a talent for getting into trouble.

"Well what" Rodney's eyes bulged as his voice trailed off into an odd choking sound. John spun around to see Porkchops hovering in the air, fat and round like the Spruce Goose of death or some awful flying monster from the deep dark depths of nightmares. "I guess I was wrong about the vestigial wings."

"Run!" John yelled, as the pig hovered forward, bobbing up and down like a bumblebee, making for Rodney. John threw himself against it, and they tumbled down the haystack in a mass of flab and wings and quickly bruising limbs. John didn't see where Rodney had gone, but, as he wrestled with the enormous swine, tearing at its horrible filth-covered wings, his only thought was of protecting the man who had just loved him so passionately. Not attracted to me, my ass, he thought, just as Babe used his claws to stab a deep gouge in his shoulder. John cried out in pain, rolling off the pig and bracing himself for its next attack.

Then he heard the loud crack of six quick gunshots, and felt the revolting spray of pig flesh and blood. Disgusting. He looked from the pig's still and mangled body to where Rodney stood, holding John's handgun with a trembling arm.

"Oh, God, John! Are you all right?"

He had no problem saying it this time, as he felt the relief flash over him: "Thanks, Rodney." God, it would have been embarrassing being killed by a flying pig on a jealous rampage.

"You're welcome." Rodney took a step forward, and John thought he was about to embrace him, but he never got a chance to find out, because they heard a sudden mass of squeals. "Oh shit."

John and Rodney peaked out from behind the haystack to find a swarm of angry pigs storming out the barn doors Rodney had left open. Apparently Leroy and co. were horrible at building pigpens that actually contained their pigs. Hicks. The lovers took one look at each other and ran for the nearby storehouse.

Rodney was wheezing he was breathing so hard. He really couldn't take this much exertion in one day. The sex (and the various positions it entailed) had just about sapped all his energy for the day, and now he was expected to run from murderous swine?

He knew it was against all survival instincts, but he looked back over his shoulder, noticing that John was lagging slightly, which was very troubling, considering that John was in far better shape than him and had much longer legs. John waved him ahead, and despite his compulsion to stay, Rodney reached to door of the storehouse first and flung it open. John came crashing in with pigs hot on his heals.

Rodney slammed the door shut behind him just in time. He could hear the sound of frantic pounding and scratching on the door, but was confident that it would hold. Well, he had to be confident.

As he struggled to regain his breath, he turned to John, who was slumped against the rough wood wall.

"John?" From what Rodney had seen of John's wound, it looked painful, but not at all life threatening. He wasn't losing that much blood. Yet his face was pale and he was sweating way too much for even that all out sprint. Rodney rushed to his side as he sank down the wall.

"Rodney. Something's wrong. I can't breath."

Rodney couldn't quite tell, but the wound on his shoulder seemed to be swelling slightly and his voice was strained, throat constricted. He was deteriorating rapidly and Rodney had no idea what to do other than to panic. He was running through the list of possible injuries that could cause this, but all of the bruising John could have sustained when tumbling down that haystack couldn't account for his inability to breath without some other obvious sign, like a broken rib sticking through his lung. Oh, God, Rodney thought as John took in gasping, choked breaths. John's eyes were squinting closed, and the gasps quickly faded to no breath at all.

Rodney felt tears of horror and frustration spilling down his face. Just when they had finally had he picked up the black widow effect from Major Carter? John was the best thing in his life right now, if he was willing to admit that this was more to John than just a fling to prove that he could. In fact, Rodney was ready to believe, though, now, he might never know for sure.

He felt ineffectually for a pulse. What was wrong? Could the claws be poisonous? But that couldn't be it John had been scratched before and he was fine wait, that was it! An allergic reaction happens on the second exposure! John was actually allergic to flying pigs! Rodney knew how to treat that. He just needed his adrenaline shot (kept in case of unwanted attacks of citrus). He stood, ready to fight an army of pigs to retrieve it from their scattered gear, tightening his lips into a straight line of resolve. Then he remembered that he kept it in his pants pocket - and, last he checked, he was wearing those.

Rodney fumbled with the pocket opening and the shot, trying to find the major's heart, and not stab himself when he brought the needle swinging down. John flew off the floor with a huge gasp. "Holy shit, Rodney what did you do to me?" He looked down at the needle sticking out his chest and pulled at it dazedly, looking at the long point, stained red.

"Oh thank God." Rodney collapsed forward from where he was kneeling in front of John, bracing himself on the wall behind. There faces were inches apart, and he melted the collapse into a tender kiss, which John returned tiredly but eagerly. "You almost gave me a heart attack," Rodney sighed, lying down next to John.

Rodney was expecting John to make some sarcastic quip about how he was the one whose heart had been attacked by a five-centimeter needle, but instead he just lay his head on Rodney's shoulder, dazed exhaustion and shock taking over. "Pigs flew means you're attracted to me," he mumbled.

An hour later, Paul-Sebastian Dupont IV (aka. 'Leroy') arrived on the scene to find the pride of his flock, Lady Anne, violently murdered and promptly cannibalized next to his crop of marshmoss (used for making candy and park benches on his world). His bitter cry of mourning woke the slumbering couple in the barn, making them realize that they ware incriminatingly lacking in some articles of defense/clothing that they probably shouldn't have left in the field. Still, neither of them was going to venture out into the angry horde to get them. Teyla Emagen had to promise Paul-Sebastian a whole case of handcrafted Athosian vases, several bars of chocolate, a recording of Beethoven's Fifth Symphony (the kind of music considered to be heavy metal on his planet those days), and a chance to touch her left breast, in order to make reparations, preserve their trade agreement, and keep John Sheppard from getting a pitchfork up his ass. John and Rodney lived happily ever after in a galaxy where pigs fly.

THE END (Thank god)