John's spent the last two hours gardening. Not so much "gardening" as "weeding," because their backyard is a haven for every dandelion seed in on the Atlantic coast. He's also spent the last three hours not seeing Rodney, two of those because Rodney had g
His hands were shaking, just a little; a fine irregular tremor that wasn't serious enough to get in the way of the work, but was enough to be distracting. He could hear the heavy ticks of the machine behind him, counting down, the rapid hammer of his own
"Lasers?" Sheppard asked, and Rodney put his head down, groaning. "No lasers," he said through gritted teeth. "And no razor claws, and no, I don't know, no poisoned pinchers. And it does not spit acid."
"Teyla Emmagen, would you marry me for the purposes of this off-world expedition?"
It's rare for him to wake naturally; much more normal for him to be awakened by a frantic voice in his ear, needing him now, Colonel Sheppard, we can't find the seventeenth box of ammunition. It's even rarer to feel rested. His sleep is usually broken and
John stood there staring. It was an odd moment of deja vu, back to all those months before when he'd first seen them together. Except now he could do more than watch and the warmth low in his belly was more than just lust.
"No people, no technology, this planet doesn't even have a crashed Wraith cruiser to make things interesting," Rodney grumbled, jerking at the strap of his field pack to distribute the weight more evenly across his shoulders.
It takes one debrief, a staff meeting, and an aborted mission to realize something's going on other than the fact that Elizabeth's typical meeting agendas are kind of like brain death.
"I can't sleep, I can't, I just-- " Rodney lies on his back, hand swooping in a large, desperate gesture. "I'll-- "
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