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One.
It’s the first thing he finds, when he opens John’s medicine cabinet. He’s somewhere between spending every other night in John’s bed, and the moment he finally feels comfortable enough to shit in his bathroom, that sweet spot of familiarity where he feels entitled to rummage through John’s toiletries and medications.
Most of it isn’t too shocking - a new-ish razor, the antiseptic-smelling, military issued soap, an alarming number of thick, heavy trauma bandages, the ones usually stocked in the infirmary. But some of it does surprise him - a good, unscented moisturizer, a nail file, an unused looking comb.
Rodney’s a man on a mission. It takes a few minutes for him to find what he’s after - shifting bottles and packages, carefully and quietly, mindful of John in the other room, setting up the laptop on the bed, changing into something a bit more comfortable.
He emerges from the bathroom, triumphant, his trophy held high.
“I knew it! I knew it. Of course it doesn’t just do that naturally.” Rodney waves the bottle of hair mousse in John’s face, looking smug as he rolls his eyes.
“Fine, yes, you caught me. I sometimes, occasionally use a bit of mousse. Just to smooth things out.”
“You told me you didn’t use gel,” Rodney gloats, unwilling to let this go. Seven years of needling and prodding and he’s finally vindicated. He deserves to enjoy his victory.
“And I don’t,” John sneers back, crossing his arms defensively. “It’s mousse, not gel. And I’ve had that bottle for years, I only use it on special occasions, not like every day.”
Rodney opens his mouth for a moment, ready to argue the point, because he’s sure he’s accused John of using hair products in general at least once, but then he takes in the soft sheets, the rumpled bed, John in sweats, and nothing else, with the laptop across his thighs.
He sets aside the bottle with a sigh.
“Fine. But I’m still telling Teyla and Ronon. And Zelenka!”
—
There’s a little plastic stick in the small glass next to his sink, crammed in between his worn, smushed white toothbrush, and Rodney’s decidedly fresher looking blue one. The blue toothbrush appeared sometime a couple months back, right around the time John’s stretched out Academy sweatshirt disappeared for good.
But the plastic thing. That’s new. It’s got a little flared loop at the end, and the handle has a little rubber grip. Maybe some sort of skin exfoliator, John guesses, or a toothpick?
He ignores it until the next time Rodney comes over. It’s late, Rodney is spread out in his bed, bare body covered by twisted sheets, tongue peeking out in concentration as he taps out emails.
“Rodney? This yours?” John asks, as he leaves the bathroom, waving the little plastic tool about, finger hooked through the loop.
“What are you doing? Yes of course that’s mine, that’s my tongue scraper. Put it down, do you know how unhygienic it is to hold it like that?”
John winces and returns it to the bathroom, being sure to fully wash his hands and the scraper, leaving the door open so Rodney can hear him doing both.
He wanders back out and climbs into bed, tangling his chilled feet with Rodney’s warm, sturdy legs. Rodney yelps a bit, but doesn’t move.
“Tongue scraper, eh?” John murmurs into the back of Rodney’s neck.
“Do you know how much bacteria lives on the tongue? People think flossing and brushing is enough, but you really need to get the tongue too, especially if you want to avoid halitosis.”
“Huh,” John says, pressing his nose against the nape, snuffling at the short hairs prickling his nose. Rodney’s brought his tongue scraper. It feels significant somehow.
He still remembers the moment he found the little pile of bobby pins on his bedside table, dark brown, a near enough shade to Nancy’s hair. He found them everywhere, for months - hell, there’s probably still some sitting in the boxes he stored back in Colorado.
A tongue scraper isn’t exactly a few dozen bobby pins, but it’s a start.
“I got you one, too,” Rodney says, snuggling back.
“Got a problem with my breath, McKay?” John asks through a yawn.
Rodney sniffs.
“No, just your oral hygiene.”
—
Two .
“I can’t believe you actually use this stuff,” Rodney mutters, eyeing the rounded blue bottle with distaste. “My dad used it. The guys in his bowling league used it. My high school gym teacher used it.”
Rodney wipes his face down with a towel and sighs, pouring the blue liquid into his palms and rubbing his hands together, before vigorously patting his hands along his cheeks and chin, leaving them reddened and shiny.
In the doorway, John shifts his weight against the frame and snorts.
“You know, you could always just not use it. Or go back and shave at your own place.”
Rodney brushes past John into his room, pulling on his pants and giving his shirt a disdainful sniff. He grabs a shirt from John’s dresser, one of his plain black ones, and tugs it on without even asking. John almost protests - the shirt is going to end up stretched out, the elastic loose and useless, but he pauses to admire the way it hugs the muscles on Rodney’s arms, a shade too small to be comfortable, with way it stretches tight across his belly and chest, the clinging fabric all too clearly irritating his sensitive nipples, and the moment is lost.
“I would have,” Rodney says, picking up the train of their argument again, stooping to tie his shoes, the shirt riding up, “but someone wanted to take their time this morning, and if I don’t use something after I shave, I get ingrown hairs, you know my skin is sensitive. And now I have to head to senior staff smelling like a sleazy used car salesman.”
“I thought you liked how I smell,” John protests, feeling the skin memory of Rodney’s nose pressed back behind his ear, the huffing of his warm breath against John’s sensitive, freshly shaved cheek.
“Yes, well, I also had a bit of a crush on my gym teacher, so it’s probably pathological at this point. Dumb as a brick, but he always wore these tiny little high waisted shorts, and really, really tight shirts, even in winter. And sometimes, when he ran, those shorts would ride up a bit…” Rodney drifts off dreamily.
John suppresses the urge to whack Rodney upside his head, instead, stooping to lace up his boots.
“You know, they do say there’s something about an Aqua Velva man,” John mutters, leading Rodney out into the hall.
“There’s something alright,” Rodney says, fondly.
—
Blearily, John opens up the medicine cabinet, flinching as a bunch of white, plastic bottles tumble out.
“Rodney!” he calls, suddenly awake. “Rodney, what the hell is this?”
“What the hell is what?” Rodney shouts from the bed, sounding irritable. It always takes him ages to get over the gate lag, regardless of the fact that his sleep schedule is aspirational at the best of times.
“This crap you’ve shoved in my shelves.” And maybe John’s a bit tetchy too. He just hasn’t been sleeping well the past few weeks. Stress, he tells himself.
John stoops and picks up a bottle, examining the label. Minoxidil 5%, it reads. Some sort of medication, he guesses. But why Rodney is hoarding it in his bathroom, he has no idea.
John moves back to his room, waving the bottle at Rodney, who’s still cocooned cozily in his duvet.
“It’s not like you were using the space anyways,” Rodney protests. “And I’m running low on storage in my room.”
“You wouldn’t be if you’d just store your projects in the lab, where they belong.”
“Please, and let some well-intentioned brown-noser destroy my work? I think not,” Rodney says, crossing his arms.
“So?” John asks, waving the bottle at Rodney. “What’s so important that you’ve stockpiled half a dozen bottles in my bathroom.”
“It’s minoxidil. Rogaine,” Rodney explains, exasperated at John’s blank looks. “I stocked up when I was in Colorado.”
Against his better judgment, John guffaws, still laughing even after Rodney flings a pillow straight into his face.
“Laugh it up, wolfman. You know hair loss is linked to high levels of testosterone.”
John picks up the pillow, sets the Rogaine aside, and climbs back into bed. He presses a fond kiss to the crown of Rodney’s head, right where the hair is thinnest. Rodney swats him away.
“I told you already. You had hair in the future. I was just messing with you.”
Rodney huffs, but leans in closer, sighs as John cards his fingers through, fine, soft hair.
“I probably only had any because I was proactive about hair loss. No point in denying the inevitable.”
“If you say so.” The hair’s clearly still a sore point. John leaves it be, in favor of pressing a firm kiss along his hairline.
“Why aren’t you getting this stuff from the infirmary,” John asks, settling after a moment.
“Oh I’m sorry, not only do I have to face the humiliation of going bald next to a middle aged man with better hair than most 20 year olds, but I also need to ask my ex-girlfriend to order Rogaine for me? I think not. I swung by a few pharmacies, bought out their stock, and now I don’t need to discuss my receding hairline with Jennifer.”
Rodney melts against John, sighing happily as he continues to massage his scalp, his eyes beginning to drift shut.
“I think you’d look sexy bald,” John says after a moment.
“You’re just saying that.”
“Am not. Did I ever tell you about my crush on Picard?”
—
Three.
Rodney stoops down low, pulls out the green satchel from under the sink and groans as he slowly straightens up. He rifles through, laying aside bandages, a needle and thread, a tourniquet, gloves, and antiseptic wipes. At the bottom, he finds a random assortment of blister packs, none of them painkillers.
“Seriously? No ibuprofen? Aspirin? Hell, I’d settle for tylenol,” Rodney grouses.
“I thought Keller said no pain pills,” John calls from his room.
“She just meant the good stuff. I can have over the counter. I would have gotten some from her, except I assumed you would have some in your fully stocked first aid kid.” He hopes John can hear the air quotes. First thing tomorrow, he’s going down to Lt. Sharma, insisting that the quartermaster restock John’s first aid kit.
Lord knows the other man uses it enough.
Rodney shoves the contents back into the bag, leaving it unzipped on the counter, his shoulder twinging in protest. Stiffly, he moves back out to the room, sitting gingerly down on the bed.
“Your back?” John asks, rubbing a gentle hand down his spine.
“My shoulder. Wrenched it when I tried to grab hold of that root.”
“Hold on,” John says, rising and heading back to the bathroom, where Rodney can hear him putting away the kit, rifling through the cupboards. “Take your shirt off,” he calls, and Rodney obeys, slowly and carefully, trying his best to avoid irritating the scratches all along his left arm.
John returns with a small glass jar, already half opened, the eye-watering smell permeating the air.
“Not this stuff again,” Rodney groans, even as he lays down on his stomach, wriggling as he tries to find a position that avoids pressing on his worst bruises.
“It works, Rodney,” John says, settling next to him on the bed, his fingertips on his shoulder, rubbing gently, but firmly.
The smell of menthol and something almost like rosemary burns his nostrils. Ronon swears by this stuff, the Pegasus equivalent of Tiger Balm, only somehow even more pungent, and John’s a recent convert. These days, he reeks of the stuff more often than not. Rodney should speak to Ronon about going a little easier on him in the gym.
Rodney prefers anti-inflammatories, but he has to admit, the balm isn’t totally useless. John’s pressing harder now, digging in under his scapula, massaging the tender muscle and working out the kinks.
“If you did the stretches Dr. Lightfoot recommended, your shoulder might not be so stiff,” John comments, his thumb brushing against the skin, stroking gently now.
“And if the path hadn’t been totally washed out in mud, I wouldn’t have slipped in the first place.”
John’s hands drift down his back, tracing his spine, past the two moles that Rodney has felt, more than seen. He dips his fingers in the jar again, and rubs the cream into his lower back, right where Rodney always aches, even on the best, least muddy days.
The balm stings, burning hot, then cold, and he tenses and then sighs, relaxing against the warm touch of John’s hand.
—
John doesn’t question the little earthen pot at first.
His bathroom counters are beyond cluttered these days; he seems to have two sets of everything. Two toothbrushes, two razors, even two types of shaving cream. Why they need two types of floss is beyond him, but Rodney had glared the one time John had suggested they share.
But the pot is different enough to draw his eye, polished and handmade, almost certainly a Pegasus creation, rather than some Earth import.
The first time he spots Rodney dabbing it under his eyes, patting light circles down his cheeks, John can’t stop the laugh from escaping.
“Is that a night cream? Want me to slice some cucumbers for you too?”
Rodney scoops up some more of the yellow cream and shoots John a withering glare. The effect is undermined, by him tapping his fingers into his chin, paying special attention to the creases next to his lips.
“Laugh all you want, but when your skin looks like one of Ronon’s leather vests, you’ll be sorry.”
John picks up the jar and examines it, the smooth brown clay, the small black pattern etched along the edge.
“Where’d you get this from, anyways?” he asks.
“Dr. Park picks it up every time their team goes to Vern. They had the chemists run some tests, and apparently it’s a miracle potion,” Rodney says, examining his face closely in the mirror, tugging on his crow’s feet with a finger.
“I thought you didn’t use products that weren’t FDA approved,” John says.
“Please, as if I trust your country’s regulatory systems more than the best chemists Earth has to offer.”
Rodney is still squinting at the mirror, daubing little bits of cream into the creases of his nostrils, along the furrow of his brow. Finally satisfied, he heads back to John’s room, tugs a spare pair of pajama pants from the top drawer, the one John recently cleared out for him.
John closes the door, takes a piss. He washes his hands, lets the water keep running, even after they’re dry, and reaches for the jar. Quietly, he takes off the lid, and scoops up the thick cream, smearing it across his forehead. Maybe it’s just a trick of the light, but already he swears the skin looks smoother.
—
Four.
Rodney nearly misses the nondescript orange bottle, little blue pills rattling about in Sheppard’s graveyard of unfinished prescriptions. It’s the perfect hiding place, really, tucked in amongst the barely opened ativan, half-finished muscle relaxants.
If the branding wasn’t so infamous, if Rodney hadn’t tried it once in college, just to see , he’d never have spotted it.
He should leave it, he thinks. Tuck it back behind the mostly empty bottle of amoxicillin and go lecture John about antibiotic resistance.
“John,” he says instead, shaking the pill bottle at him, “what is this?”
John accepts the container, squinting at the small tablets for a moment, before stilling. He sets them aside, executes a carefully casual shrug, and says “I don’t know. Some leftover prescription, I guess.”
“Let’s try this again, like I’m not a complete idiot. John, why do you have a bottle of viagra?”
John’s never had any performance issues, at least not that he can remember, not outside the nights where they’re too drunk, too injured, too tired, too over-40. He finds it hard to imagine that John, who looks like the poster boy for healthy virility, could possibly need any help in that department.
Maybe there really is something to the hair loss-testosterone relationship after all.
“Sometimes I need a little help,” John confesses, looking like he’d rather enter a cave full of iratus bugs than have this conversation.
“Really? When? I’ve never noticed.”
John slumps further down in his bed, buries his feet under the blankets.
“Sometimes, when I, you know,” he gestures abstractly, “fuck you. It’s just hard with a condom-”
“Or not,” Rodney quips, unable to stop the smirk even when faced with John’s glare.
“This is why I didn’t want to say anything.”
Rodney ponders for a moment. It’s not like the idea had never crossed his mind. It’d be messy, sure, but hot, and probably no more dangerous than anything else they face on a daily basis.
“We could always stop using condoms,” Rodney suggests. John stares at him bug eyed.
“We don’t have to, Rodney, really, the pills help.”
“Yes, well I can admit that I’ve perhaps been a little overly cautious. We have more physicals in a month than most people have in a decade.”
John sits up, grins lasciviously at Rodney as he tugs him down to the bed, letting out a little ooph as he stumbles into his lap.
“You’re not worried you’re gonna pick up some nanite-std from me anymore?” John rolls them, pinning Rodney to the bed, his hands already making quick work of Rodney’s shirt.
“Of course I still am. But hello,” Rodney says, tapping his head. “Genius here. I’ll figure out the cure. Now hand me one of those pills, I want to try celebrating.”
—
“Rodney, buddy,” John says, gingerly waving the test in his hand, “something you need to tell me?”
He’s only half-joking, because this is Pegasus, and stranger things have happened.
Rodney blinks up from the desk, where he’s shoved aside John’s puzzles and books, set up his third-favorite laptop and second-favorite coffee machine.
“Oh! Has it already been fifteen minutes?” Rodney checks his watch, and then grabs the test from John’s hand giving it a close look. “Good,” Rodney says firmly, “it’s negative.”
“Were you expecting a different result?” John asks, his voice laudably calm and steady, if he does say so himself. Because really, a little hysteria at the sight of his very biologically male boyfriend- partner- whatever , taking a pregnancy test would probably be warranted.
“Of course not,” Rodney says, setting the pregnancy test, that he definitely just pissed on, back down on the desk. “But it’s good to check regularly.”
“That you aren’t pregnant?”
“That I don’t have testicular cancer,” Rodney says, as though it should be obvious. “Although, really, this is Pegasus, so I guess it’s worth checking that too.”
“Don’t you have doctors and scanners for that kind of thing?” John asks. He’s certain Marie got up close and personal with his own balls at his last physical, and they both end up in that scanner at least every other month.
“Please, as if medicine isn’t just two steps removed from witchcraft,” Rodney says, as if pissing on a pregnancy test to see if he has cancer is any more scientifically sound.
But John knows better than to argue, really. Instead he grimaces and grabs a tissue, picking up the test and chucking it into the trash can. He heads back to the bathroom, picking up the little boxes and stowing them carefully, next to his box of bandages. If Rodney’s going to stock his cabinet with a dozen pregnancy tests, at least he can keep them organized.
—
Five.
Rodney twists under the covers, shifting onto his belly, rubbing a foot against his leg in an attempt to get some relief. Next to him, John shuffles over, just minutely, but enough to let Rodney know that he’s awake, and probably annoyed.
Rodney huffs and twists to his side, rolling his shoulders, nudging his head against the pillow, before finally giving in and shoving a hand up his shirt and scratching at his stomach.
“Ahhh,” he sighs, reveling in the sweet, albeit temporary relief, the sharp drag of his nails across the tiny bumps on his skin.
But the relief is short-lived.
He itches all over, and there’s just no way to get comfortable. He scratches his stomach, but then the bite on his shoulder itches; he tries to relieve it by rubbing his skin against the rough material of his shirt, but then that spot on the back of his knee screams for attention.
John had barely been bitten, and the bugs had left Ronon and Teyla alone entirely. He just has all the luck, doesn’t he.
He tosses and turns, getting hot and annoyed under the covers, and John inches closer and closer to the edge of the bed, when Rodney finally gives up.
He swings his legs over the edge and stands, pressing a kiss against John’s forehead.
“I’m going back to my room. I’ll try to sleep there.”
John rolls back to him, hand shooting out to grab the fabric of Rodney’s pajama bottoms.
“Y’don’t have to leave,” John mumbles, halfheartedly attempting to tug Rodney back to bed.
Rodney just snorts, firmly disentangles himself from John’s grip.
“It’s those stupid bug bites, I just can’t stop scratching. No matter how much I try to just ignore it, mind over matter and all that nonsense, I can’t. It itches.”
John’s sitting up now, thinking the lights up just enough to see, and leaning towards Rodney, squinting.
“Are you having an allergic reaction?” he asks, hand already reaching for Rodney’s pulse.
“Of course I am, did you not just hear me about the itching?”
“I mean a serious one, like do we need to get you to the infirmary?” he asks, showing an appalling lack of sympathy for Rodney’s condition.
“No,” Rodney sighs. “But I should get back to my room. I have a stash of antihistamines. Maybe I’ll swing by the infirmary and see if Carson has any of that calamine lotion they traded for last year.”
“Just wait a second,” John says, as he heads into the bathroom. The bright light spills out into the room, hurting Rodney’s eyes. He sinks back on John’s bed, and listens to the sound of John rifling through his over-cluttered medicine cabinet.
It’s late and he’s tired, and the cold walk to his quarters isn’t particularly appealing. Plus all his clean uniforms are here - John sent them off to be washed with his own laundry, and Rodney’s too tired to be bothered to dig one out of his drawer right now.
And then John emerges, triumphant, pressing a bottle of pills into Rodney’s hand.
“Acrivastine?” Rodney asks, reading the label.
“For the bug bites. It’s an antihistamine, right? Carson gave it to me.”
Rodney pops two pills in his mouth, washing them down with a swig from his water bottle.
“What for?” Rodney asks, “It’s not like you have allergies. Not even hayfever, which should practically be a given; we are in a galaxy surrounded by entirely alien pollen. Some people have all the luck.”
“For you,” John shrugs. “Just in case.”
“Oh.”
Rodney lays back in bed. He’s too itchy to snuggle close to John, but he reaches out, rests a hand on his wrist, where it’s curled between them. He’s still uncomfortable, but he no longer wants to take a cheese grater to his skin, so he supposes it’s a win.
“For me?” he asks again, softly, drowsiness tugging at the corners of his eyes.
“Go to sleep, Rodney,” John says.
—
John hisses as he carefully lowers himself into the steaming bath. Next to him, Rodney is hovering, dipping his hand into the water, testing it for a moment, before pouring in some more epsom salts.
John slips in further, lets his head drop back against the edge, wincing a bit as his neck twinges in protest.
“You need to stop bullying Jennifer into releasing you early,” Rodney admonishes, stooping down and reaching into one of the cupboards under the sink.
“Teldy needed her more.”
“Teldy was doing just fine with Biro.” Rodney pulls himself up, a bright red bag in his hand. He closes the toilet seat and makes himself comfortable, rifling through the bag, pulling out bandages and creams and blister packs.
“Where’s my first aid kit?” John asks, eyes half closed, as he watches Rodney’s focussed search. He’s not sure what he could possibly be looking for - the bath is already easing some of his worst aches, and sure the hot water stings the pricks along his back and legs, but he’ll be fine. Nothing that a good night’s sleep, and maybe some sympathy coddling from Rodney can’t fix.
“It’s in your closet. Top shelf. Mine is much better equipped.”
John wonders vaguely when Rodney brought his first aid kit to John’s room. He really should keep it in his own room, John thinks, because what if there’s some sort of accident? Only, John realizes, he can’t actually remember the last time Rodney even went back to his room. Maybe to get his Voyager DVDs last week.
Rodney pops out two small, white pills and offers them to John. John takes just one, swallowing it dry.
“Naproxen makes my head fuzzy,” he says.
Rodney shoves the other pill at him. “I know; it’s aspirin.”
John takes it begrudgingly. He relaxes back into the water, lets the heat and the pills do their job, sighs as Rodney dips in a washcloth and wipes the dirt and dust of the day from him. He’s careful, gentle, rubbing behind John’s ears, the back of his neck, across his chest and down his stomach. He must look rough, because Rodney doesn’t even try to cop a feel, just gently washes his cock and balls, before shifting John’s leg up to clean the tender skin behind his knee. He’s careful of the scratches, the washcloth touching light as a feather.
Finally, when the water is starting to cool, and John’s skin is clean enough to satisfy him, Rodney helps him up, wraps him in one of the fluffy white towels that Rodney brought from his own quarters. He wraps John in his blue robe, and sits him on the toilet seat, opening a fresh tube of antibiotic cream and daubing it gently over the tiny scratches covering John’s legs.
“I have a first aid kit,” John says. “A perfectly good one.”
Rodney snorts. “If you’re going to continue to refuse necessary medical treatment, then I’m going to at least make sure your quarters are properly stocked,” Rodney says, brooking no argument.
The kit’s more than properly stocked, bursting at the seams. John pokes through it, as Rodney presses bandaids over the larger cuts, examining the anticoagulant bandages, the surgical needles, the inhaler. It looks like Rodney lifted it straight from the infirmary or one of the jumpers, far better stocked than even the one Rodney keeps in his lab.
Like Rodney’s preparing for something, he thinks.
He lets Rodney lead him to bed, strip off the robe, and tuck him in. When Rodney joins him a few minutes later, gingerly laying one arm across John’s chest, John entwines their fingers, and whispers a quiet thank you into his neck. John drifts off, head filled with half formed images of bandages and pills, tongue scrapers and bobby pins.
—
Plus one thing they share:
It’s a testament to how busy life on Atlantis is, that it takes Rodney a few weeks to notice. He’s brushing his teeth, hips pressed tight against the sink, trying to make room for John, as he emerges from the shower and towels off.
Their schedules are fluid - they’re both frequently off-world and Rodney works such odd hours, that they haven’t yet managed to find a rhythm for the days when they both rise at the same time, the days when they both need to be showered, dressed, and ready for the senior staff meeting on time.
Rodney gives John an appreciative glance as he bends over, dries off his hair with a quick rub of the towel, leaving it ruffled and spiky. Wordlessly, Rodney hands John the hair mousse.
Rodney’s just applying sunscreen, when John reaches past him to grab the stick of deodorant, giving it a quick swipe under his arms, before widening his stance and shifting his dick, applying it liberally to his balls and inner thighs.
The action doesn’t even register to Rodney anymore - he’s no longer confused and a little grossed out by John’s solution to sweaty junk and chafing, nor is he even turned on by the sight of John nude and handling his own cock.
Long-term relationships, Rodney muses, just as John places the deodorant stick back on the counter.
“Oh come on,” Rodney says, waving his hand, as John begins dressing is his- no, he corrects himself, their room. “Use your own!”
“Own what?” John asks, innocently, as if Rodney hadn’t just witnessed him rubbing Rodney’s deodorant all over his balls. Shower fresh balls, but balls all the same. It’s the principle of the matter.
“Deodorant!”
John walks back into the bathroom, stares at Rodney like he’s just admitted that Radek might be as smart as him.
“That’s my deodorant,” John says, pointing to the counter. “I picked it up last month.”
Rodney stares. “No, that’s the stick I brought with when I finally cleared out my room. I had a new one in the back of my medicine cabinet. I threw out my old tube of mountain breeze last month.”
“That was mine, too!” John says, wide-eyed. “I thought you were just cleaning up!”
“So what, we’ve just been sharing for the past few months? And we never noticed?”
“Ew,” John says, eyeing the deodorant disdainfully.
“Ew? You don’t get to say ew; I’m the one who’s been sharing my deodorant with your sweaty junk!” Rodney exclaims, pushing past John to pull on his shoes and jacket. Arguments about shared body sweat aside, he doesn’t need to be late again . He’s worried Teyla’s face might just get stuck on that look of pinched exasperation if he is.
“At least I don’t treat a fresh application of deodorant as the equivalent of a shower,” John says, tugging on his own boots.
“I’d finally had a breakthrough on the energy readings from PX-459, and besides, it’s not like I get sweaty sitting in the lab all day.”
Both finally dressed and ready to go, Rodney grabs his tablet, heading out the door, John closely on his heels.
“Whatever. I’m getting myself a new stick as soon as we’re done with this meeting,” John says, striding ahead of Rodney and into the transporter.
“Get me one too,” Rodney says. “This is even worse than sharing floss.”