At twenty-two thirty, it's late enough in the infirmary that they've changed to the soothing half light of night shift. Over in the corner Kari, the nurse on duty, does paperwork, her hands and the curve of her cheek illuminated by the pool of light from her desk lamp. She glances up at the thump of his boots against the tiles. He pauses, tipping his head to the side in silent inquiry and she flaps her hand at him. He hadn't really expected her to refuse but it never hurts to be polite to infirmary staff since he and his team seem to end up in their care way too often.

John follows the soft, regular beeping of the heart monitor to the bed surrounded by half-closed curtains and peers around the edge. As he expects, he finds Rodney propped up in one of the infirmary beds, right ankle wrapped in a white and green air cast and propped up on three pillows. McKay's wired to the monitor and has an IV; Carson could give a mother hen a run for her money. The fall had left huge skinned areas on Rodney's forearms and hands that look painfully raw and purple-red and another on his left cheekbone, but John had frequently suffered similar injuries sliding into home base too enthusiastically during high school baseball games so he wasn’t particularly concerned with those. They hurt like hell but are fairly harmless. All things considered Rodney actually looks pretty good for a guy who’d tumbled partway down a mountain. Thinking back on it, subtracting the terror he'd felt at seeing Rodney vanish as the narrow path crumbled and disappeared beneath his feet, John had been sincerely impressed by that last bounce before Rodney had crashed into a stand of little scrubby bushes and come to a halt.

He’d had a moment of panic as he and Ford half-scrambled and half-slid down the slope to see if Rodney had broken his neck but the anxiety had quickly faded, replaced by relief at the sheer volume and creativity of the swearing he’d heard coming from the bushes. He’d learned over the course of several missions that if McKay could complain he was mostly fine and wow, had Rodney really put his heart into complaining then. John had tucked away some of the more colorful curses for later use; it would be a crime to waste such spectacular filth.

Rodney looks up from the laptop balanced precariously on his left thigh, his expression narrowing into annoyance and peevishness. John shrugs it off easily; the McKay Glare 'O Death has lost much of its power over John due to Rodney's constant use of it. “What? Come to laugh a little more at the mortally wounded, Major Sheppard?”

John pulls a chair closer, turns it around and straddles it, folding his arms along the top of the chair back. All his muscles ache like a bitch from dragging Rodney back up to the mountain path then half-carrying him back to the Gate; unlike most of the scientists he's seen on the expedition who tend to weediness, Rodney's big, all broad shoulders and muscled arms and thick thighs. “Nah,” he says easily. “Already did that.”

“I'm so very glad that my misfortune and near-death experience can provide you with entertainment,” Rodney says acidly. Rodney had been spectacularly lucky to escape with no more than a badly-sprained ankle, a couple of cracked ribs, abrasions and massive bruising. It could've been much worse and at the time John had imagined a hundred different outcomes, all bad.

John shrugs. “I'm easily amused. Just going with my strengths here,” he replies, and the corner of his mouth quirks upward as Rodney’s brows lower even further.

“I’m amused beyond all words by your rapier wit. Now, unless you've come here with something specific on your mind—and I use that term loosely in regards to you—then get out. In case you hadn’t noticed, I was wounded on a mission. I’m suffering here, but it seems to have surprisingly little bearing on the amount of work that doesn't wait for me.” John's learned to interpret Rodney-ese; often it isn't the words that count but rather his expressive eyes, which at the moment betray his pleasure at having John here, in spite of the scowl on his face and the pugnacious lift of his chin.

Surrounded by a snowstorm of papers covered in equations, two laptops humming merrily with various models and diagrams spinning slowly on their screens, and the empty remains of a food tray, it looks pretty much like his corner of the lab usually does, though on a much smaller scale. Rodney looks pale and tired with violet smudges beneath his eyes, but he usually works until he can't work a moment longer so this is familiar, nothing new. The Puritans had nothing on Rodney's work ethic.

“Oh, I’m sure Beckett is suffering more,” John says in a teasing drawl that he's learned infuriates Rodney, and winding him up has quickly become one of John's favorite things to do. Although undoubtedly Rodney's very uncomfortable—John's had experience with cracked ribs before—he also knows his words are true at least on one level; Rodney is far from the ideal patient and the lack of hovering medical personnel in this corner of the infirmary bears it out. He can’t blame them for avoiding Rodney’s infamous bad temper, particularly when he's so very willing to take it out on anyone around him. Carson is the only one besides John himself who can handle Rodney when he gets really surly, but evidently he's gone off duty for the evening.

“Ha fucking ha,” Rodney says, but without his usual zestful venom. He reaches up and pinches the bridge of his nose wearily and starts to rub at his face, his hand jerking back as he scrapes across the raw place on his cheek. “Really. What do you want, Major, because, well, busy here, in case that escaped your notice.”

”Okay. I was walking the perimeter before turning in and thought I'd come in to check on you, what with you being a valued team member and everything,” John says, shrugging off Rodney's words with the ease of long experience. ”And, to see if you needed anything, but looks like Dr. Zelenka already beat me to it by bringing in all the cool toys.”

John's actually surprised that Rodney has his work. He doesn't even want to consider the battle Rodney probably had with Beckett over getting it brought to him, because it had to have been vicious; Carson's view of rest and Rodney's view are galaxies apart. ”Guess I'll just have to settle for giving you a gift.”

”A gift?” Surprise and suspicion war on Rodney's mobile face; although he tries to hide it, he has an almost boyish love of presents, but doesn't get them often enough to keep from feeling a certain amount of doubt concerning the motivation behind them.

John reaches into his inner jacket pocket and pulls out a package of red Twizzlers, warm from the heat of his body. He gives it a gentle, easy toss, and Rodney catches it with a little fumble and a quick intake of breath as his ribs protest. ”Hey. I thought we'd run out of these a couple of months ago.” For a moment his expression lightens, pleased, then his blue eyes narrow again. ”Where did you get them? Are you hoarding them?”

”Hello, Pot, Kettle,” John answers with a roll of his eyes, because Rodney is a notorious hoarder himself—he always manages to have things no one else does and John's often admired his ruthlessness in regard to barter. Unless of course, he's the one attempting to trade, and in that case, Rodney's just a stubborn, avaricious shit. ”I just happened to have them, and thought you might like them, given you're a lucky bastard to escape near-death yet again.” In truth John's been hanging onto them for a while in spite of their trade value simply because he knows Rodney likes them, and today seems as good a time to give them to him as any, what with the whole falling off the mountain thing this afternoon.

”Thanks,” Rodney says grudgingly, and if John hadn't been watching he'd have missed the tiny smile that hovers at the corner of Rodney's wide, crooked mouth. It clears almost instantly, as if it had never been there, but John's seen it. Rodney opens the package and after a moment's hesitation, looking from John to the package and back again, offers it to him. ”Here. Since you came to my heroic rescue and all that, I'll share.”

John grins and helps himself to one. The scent is fake strawberry, strong, and he feels an odd rush of homesickness. ”You can do the next heroic rescue,” he says, and bites off a piece. It's just as artificial and plasticy as it smells, and it's wonderful. Given that Rodney never offers to share food, particularly sweets, he recognizes the value of the offer and that makes it even better.

”I'm sure I probably will,” Rodney says, ”given your disturbing tendency to find trouble anywhere.”

”Hey,” John protests, though he really can't deny Rodney's aspersions, ”I wasn't the one who fell off a mountain.”

”This time,” Rodney replies with asperity, though his eyes glint with amusement, and John can't help the slow smile that curves his own mouth in return.