John's morning starts out the same as it always does. He wakes up, wondering vaguely why the bed feels so empty, and then remembers it's because he's been sleeping alone for the past three months. Heaving a sigh, he rolls over onto his back, letting one arm flop out over the unoccupied side of the bed.
But this morning, his arm hits warm sheets.
At about the same instant, John realiizes that he's naked, a state in which he hasn't slept in a while.
Finally it occurs to him to open his eyes and look around. Consequently he is able to learn that the t-shirt and boxers he wore to bed last night are now in a heap on the floor, along with a blue t-shirt, gray fatigue pants, and someone else's boxers and shoes. John stares at this arrangement for a while, trying to wrap his groggy brain around what it implies.
When the bathroom door opens, John's still staring, but his gaze moves up from the floor, his jaw dropping to compensate. "Rodney--" He has to swallow hard a couple of times before continuing. "It's you."
"Really." Rodney pretends surprise, in all likelihood mocking John's own expression. "And here I thought I might be Teyla . . ." His voice trails off and he sits down, hard, on the bed. The abrupt movement undoes the towel around his waist, but Rodney doesn't seem to notice and John doesn't mind.
John grabs his hand, suddenly frightened. He realizes he still doesn't know where Rodney's been for the last three months, or what's happened to him, and he's not sure he wants to know just yet.
At last Rodney turns to face him, running the fingers of his free hand over John's face and neck and chest as if he expects to feel something there other than what he sees. "And you're you, right?"
There really doesn't seem to be a good answer to that, so John settles for sitting up and kissing him gently. Rodney kisses him back with considerably more force, and in very little time he's pressed John back down to the mattress.
John pulls away just for a second, a faint shred of duty tickling the back of his brain. "I should call someone." He has to force the words out, because Rodney's mouth is doing something to his collarbone that's making it really difficult to talk. "Elizabeth, or Carson, or someone . . . tell them you're back . . ."
Rodney pulls his knees up so he's straddling John's hips, and cracks a small smile-- perhaps, John thinks, the first in months. "It's been three months. They can wait another couple of hours."
This makes sense to John, especially to the bit of him where most of his blood is heading right now, so he wraps both arms around Rodney's back and sets about proving just how alive they both really are.
THE END