#covidbrain

John wrestles the blankets down, presumably just so Rodney can see the creative way he’s got his eyebrow raised, since he doesn’t say anything, just levels Rodney with a bland look.

Or he’s hot again.

“It makes sense,” Rodney says, setting aside his laptop and grabbing the thermometer off the nightstand. John’s fever had broken the day before, but Rodney’s not above being cautious. “Maybe. Horses are strong and fast and you like them, for whatever reason.”

John glares at him, but takes the thermometer anyway, shuffling up on the bed so he’s sitting up before sticking it under his tongue.

“And,” Rodney continues, curling his fingers to stop himself from smoothing John’s hair off his forehead. “And a horse could get you away—you did say you were captured, right? Stranded?”

The thermometer beeps and John squints down at the readout before setting it aside. “Normal.” He tips his head back against the headboard. “Don’t know why I still feel like shit.”

“Seems pretty normal for someone fighting off an alien infection,” Rodney says, pushing at John until there’s room for both of them on the bed. He gives a thought to the laptop across the room, but his tablet’s on the nightstand and that’s good enough for now. “How about next time you think twice before marching through a strange swamp with an open wound?”

“You weren’t complaining at the time,” John says, but he’s sinking down into his cocoon of blankets, throwing an arm around Rodney and pulling himself close.

Stealing one of John’s pillows to give him some relief where he’s propped up against the Ancient design of John’s headboard, Rodney finally allows himself a moment to run his fingers through John’s hair—manfully ignoring the fact that it’s 48 hours overdue for a wash. “Hate to break it to you,” he says, “but you’re bound by the limitations of having a human body, just like the rest of us.”

“Yeah, well,” John says, pushing his forehead against Rodney’s hip. “Tired of lying around all the time.”

Rodney very strategically does not point out that if John weren’t as sick as he is, he wouldn’t be lying in bed, because nothing ever keeps John in bed for long unless it’s serious—and not even that’s a sure thing. It’s not something Rodney’s ready to tempt fate over.

He says instead, “Was I heroic, at least? When I was a horse?”

“Don’t remember,” John says, and he’s fading fast. He hasn’t been able to stay awake long and Rodney’s really more than happy to let him rest but—

“Did you ride me?”

That has John grinning, a smile pulling at his lips even if his eyes remain closed. “Rodney,” he murmurs, exasperated and amused and Rodney’s heart feels more than a little full.

“What?” he asks, warm and in love and happier than he’s been since Carson had told them John would be just fine. “It was an honest question! You’re the one with your head in the gutter.”

John wraps himself around Rodney more firmly, his breath warm and distracting. “Teach you to ride a horse,” he says, only a little nonsensically.

Grabbing his tablet one-handed, his other hand still preoccupied with John’s hair, Rodney supposes it’s a good thing that the deep space sensors are running just fine.