Teyla comes back from the jumper, entirely too soon, with the first-aid kit, and between the two of them--which mostly means Rodney grabbing a bandage and painkillers and telling Teyla he'd take care of it--they get John patched up.
John can move, though he's a bit woozy and will need to go see Carson, because the man is constitutionally incapable of setting foot outside his quarters without disaster striking. Rodney tells John this as he makes him rotate his neck.
"I'm not five, McKay," John says, and winces. "Ow."
"Since you haven't yet mastered basic motor skills, you're obviously overestimating. Come on, we need to get you to Carson. You know how he gets when he can't see you at least once a day." He offers a hand, scowling Ronon away from even thinking about helping.
Ronon retires with an eyeroll, a muttered and completely unnecessary remark, and moves off to the jumper.
John sways a bit, a careful hand to his forehead to keep it from exploding--Rodney knows the feeling--but steadies enough to start walking. Rodney inserts himself under one of John's arms, pulling it across his shoulders, and all that sun-warm length of bone and muscle is draped along him, bare skin shockingly present, separated from Rodney by his t-shirt, and by nothing at all where John's arm curves across the back of his neck.
"I can walk, you know," John says. His breath comes soft and hot over Rodney's ear.
"No you can't."
"I'm getting better."
Rodney tightens his grip around John's wrist, feeling the thin thread of bracelet pressing into his palm. "No you're not."
"Okay," John says, smirking and soft all at once. "I'm not."
He leans in a bit closer, and Rodney wraps his free arm around John's back, play of muscle under his arm, sand scratching between them, but everything about John is smooth and effortless and alive.
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John can move, though he's a bit woozy and will need to go see Carson, because the man is constitutionally incapable of setting foot outside his quarters without disaster striking. Rodney tells John this as he makes him rotate his neck.
"I'm not five, McKay," John says, and winces. "Ow."
"Since you haven't yet mastered basic motor skills, you're obviously overestimating. Come on, we need to get you to Carson. You know how he gets when he can't see you at least once a day." He offers a hand, scowling Ronon away from even thinking about helping.
Ronon retires with an eyeroll, a muttered and completely unnecessary remark, and moves off to the jumper.
John sways a bit, a careful hand to his forehead to keep it from exploding--Rodney knows the feeling--but steadies enough to start walking. Rodney inserts himself under one of John's arms, pulling it across his shoulders, and all that sun-warm length of bone and muscle is draped along him, bare skin shockingly present, separated from Rodney by his t-shirt, and by nothing at all where John's arm curves across the back of his neck.
"I can walk, you know," John says. His breath comes soft and hot over Rodney's ear.
"No you can't."
"I'm getting better."
Rodney tightens his grip around John's wrist, feeling the thin thread of bracelet pressing into his palm. "No you're not."
"Okay," John says, smirking and soft all at once. "I'm not."
He leans in a bit closer, and Rodney wraps his free arm around John's back, play of muscle under his arm, sand scratching between them, but everything about John is smooth and effortless and alive.