a stirring tale of manly fortitude
by Pares

"I'm clearly dying," he snapped. "Fever, a rash, dry mouth--"

"Carson said you don't have a temperature. Or a rash," John continued grimly. "You're just a little scratched up."

"I should say so! I was assaulted by the local wildlife, and I've probably been exposed to a dozen different gruesome parasitic--"

John rolled his eyes.

"Oh, give it a rest, Rodney, you got pecked on by a couple of songbirds! Besides, you came through the med scan clean. Atlantis says you're contagion free."

"Yes, but its list of microbes and viral agents is hardly exhaustive, not to mention ten thousand years out of date. New things spring up all the time, I could be carrying the Avian Flu of the Pegasus Galaxy and--"

"Rodney. You'll be fine. You're not dying and you're not contagious and you need to relax about this."

Rodney abruptly shut his mouth, screwing his eyes shut and lifting his chin. After a moment, he folded his arms across his chest, his mouth moving minutely. It looked to John like he was counting to himself, and he cocked his head and asked, "What are you doing?"

"I'm relaxing," Rodney reported tightly, his face still sort of clamped shut.

"Funny, you don't look relaxed," John told him.

Rodney's eyes snapped open and he brought his hands down sharply.

"I'm trying to visualize myself in an open field. One where there are no bloodthirsty, disease-ridden birds, or marauding animals of any sort, and it would be easier to do that if you would just shut up."

"You're going to be fine," John assured him, and patted his shoulder for good measure.

"These scratches are already inflamed," Rodney insisted, pointing at a faint red line on the back of his hand. "And I got quite a number of bruises when I fell down that hill, I'll have you know."

"Bruises, huh?" John tipped up an inquiring eyebrow. "Where?"

Rodney skinned out of his jacket and held both his arms out. They were, as promised, mottled with bruises.

"Huh. Those are bruises all right."

"Yes, well. They are."

"Bet they're sore, too."

"Yes. They're incredibly painful, in fact, but I'm bearing up with manly fortitude."

"I can see that," John allowed.

Rodney looked down at his own arms and fingered one thumb-print sized bruise with a small, indrawn hiss.

"Well, I guess I could kiss it better," John offered.

Rodney made his, "Ha ha, make fun of the scientist" face and scowled. But John just looked back at him, keeping his own face neutral. He decided against batting his lashes, but only just.

After a moment, Rodney swallowed hard, and then stiffly held out one arm.

John took a step closer and brushed a dry kiss on the spot Rodney had just touched.

"There. Does it hurt anywhere else?"

Rodney stared at him, but eventually pointed to another bruise, high on the round of his shoulder.

John dropped his head and kissed that one, too.

Rodney's face was still wary, but speculative, too, and he tugged at the collar of his T-shirt to reveal a pretty spectacular purple splotch turning dark right below his collarbone. John kissed it, this time just touching it briefly with the tip of his tongue.

For a while after that, Rodney held very still, and then tapped at his slightly puffy lower lip.

"I. I bit it. When I fell down," he muttered. "It's. Very sore."

"It looks it," John sympathized. "In fact, it's probably too tender to--"

Rodney had his hands anchored in John's jacket by then, and was already saying, "Shut up, shut up, kiss it better--"

And John did.

END