"This sucks," Dr. Rodney McKay said as he sat despondently eating a sandwich, sans the robust enthusiasm he normally displayed at mealtime.

"Yes it does," Lieutenant Colonel John Sheppard conceded as he lay back on the infirmary bed, his hands clasped behind his head, his lunch untouched.

"Dare I say, Caldwell sucks, too?" Rodney asked rhetorically, throwing his sandwich down on his tray as he, too, leaned against the slightly raised back of his bed, tossing the spare pillow he had been provided earlier to the foot of the bed, and then watching it tumble to the floor.

"I really don't want to think about that, Rodney." John Sheppard sat silently for a while, watching the pillow find its final resting place before he added, "You're right. He does suck."

"It sucks being right all the time," Rodney continued. "Didn't I say Caldwell looked sick?" McKay reminded his comrade in isolation.

"Yes you did, Rodney," John sighed. "I should have listened to you," he offered obediently.

"Yes. You should have. But no, you had to run right up to him when he passed out, and then not tell me that you did that, and then you kissed me. Brilliant move, Colonel!" Rodney shouted, his voice rising throughout his diatribe.

"Rodney, I'm sorry. How was I to know he was infectious?"

"Because I said he looked sick?" McKay asked, dripping sarcasm. "Maybe that could have been your first clue? Or maybe when I said I couldn't afford to get sick right now? That I had tons of work to do? Or maybe when…." Rodney stopped talking and quickly curled up into a ball, a pained groan replacing the non-stop complaining. John didn't like that sound any better than the verbal beating he was receiving from his 'lover', though he hesitated to use the label considering they had had absolutely zero opportunity to take their new-found realization to that level.

"Are you okay?" John asked worriedly, dropping his legs over the side of the bed, and then jumping down to go comfort his sick roommate.

"No," Rodney eked out dejectedly. "Cramp," he whined as he held his stomach. "Why aren't you sick?" Rodney complained petulantly.

"I don't know," John said, rubbing his hand over Rodney's neck and shoulder. Both felt painfully stiff under his hand, but John had no doubt that Rodney's stomach must have felt far worse. "Believe me when I say I wish it was me instead of you," he added, completely sincere in the hope.

"Don't say that," Rodney replied through gritted teeth. "I can say that, but you can't."

"Gee, thanks," John answered. "I can feel the love."

Rodney puffed out, "Get over yourself."

Sheppard left Rodney's side and returned to his own bed. He watched as Rodney writhed in the bed for a few more minutes until the awful stomach pain subsided once again. Rodney's eyes opened to find John Sheppard looking at him sadly.

"I'm sorry for…you know…what I just said. I didn't mean it. I'm an idiot. You know how I get when I don't feel good," Rodney offered in apology.

"Yes I do. Don't worry about it. Try to get some sleep," John suggested.

Rodney replied with a frustrated grunt, followed by, "This sucks so much." And then he went quiet. John held his breath as he waited and listened, and then he let out a huge, relieved sigh as he heard Rodney's even breathing.

Finally.

John continued to relax in his bed, bored out of his mind, as he waited for someone, anyone, to come and spell him. Or just come and talk to him. But this nasty stomach virus had felled many members of the Daedalus crew, and Carson Beckett and his team were running on fumes trying to handle the overflow from the craft's infirmary. And those Atlanteans who had not been in contact with any sick people were banned from visiting the quarantined.

Sheppard eventually fell into a light doze. He felt some movement near his arm and he slowly awoke to find Atlantis' chief medical officer taking his blood pressure.

"Hello," John said as he watched the cuff inflate. "How come I get the head honcho taking my BP?"

"Hello yourself," Dr. Carson Beckett responded as he checked the reading and listened through his stethoscope. "I wanted to make sure we weren't missing anything. You should be sick, lad," he added as he removed the cuff.

"Well, let's just think positive thoughts," John said wryly as he looked over at Rodney.

Carson grinned slightly. "No, let's not. I don't understand it. And of course, leave it to Rodney to be hit the hardest. Everyone else seems to have turned a corner." He looked at Rodney sleeping peacefully for a change, and then looked back to Sheppard. "And you haven't got one sign of illness." Carson looked back at Rodney. "He's sick enough for both of you."

John frowned at the comment. "He is, isn't he?" the colonel asked.

"Aye."

"No idea what's going on? Is it possible he's just being Rodney? You know what a baby he can be when he's sick."

"That's true, but this illness really seems to have done a number on him."

"Yeah," John agreed. "But…do you think…I was wondering if it was possible…" John trailed off, in obvious deep contemplation.

"What, Colonel?" Carson asked with concern.

John was deep in thought and had not heard Carson's question. "John?" Beckett asked.

"Hm?" John returned, his eyebrows raised. "Oh. Um…I don't…nevermind, Carson. It's a crazy thought."

"Is it? Maybe you should tell me what you're thinking. It might help," Carson encouraged.

"Well, okay," he started, keeping his voice low in deference to his favorite sleeping scientist. "But you can't tell Rodney we talked about this." John looked at Carson for his agreement.

"Go ahead."

"He told you about, well, us, right? He said he was going to," John said tentatively.

"He did. I'm happy for you, if it's what you both want."

"Oh, I want. But you see, we haven't actually done anything yet," John admitted uncomfortably.

"You haven't?" Carson asked, working hard to mask his own disquiet about the subject at hand. He approved of the liaison; he just wasn't all that interested in getting into the details.

"No. Things just keep happening. It's like a conspiracy or something."

"I see," Carson replied calmly.

"You do?" John asked as he leaned over closer to Carson and lowered his voice to a whisper. "'Cause I think…I think Rodney is the sole conspirator." Rodney was still out, thankfully. The man obviously needed the sleep, and John really needed to talk about this.

"Ah. So you think maybe Rodney is using this illness as an excuse?" Carson asked curiously.

"Subconsciously," John assured the physician. John's eagerness to discuss this, combined with the hushed tones, reminded Carson of a child giving away the location of his secret hideaway to his new friend. "I don't think any of this is conscious on his part. I think maybe he's just a little…" John struggled for the right description.

"Afraid?" Carson questioned.

"Conflicted, maybe. I don't think he's afraid, Doc. He wants this, I know he does. I think he's worried…about life, and death, and losing…something before he's had a chance to appreciate it. It's hard to make a commitment like that out here, with everything we face on a daily basis. With all of the unknowns."

"But you've been able to make that commitment," Carson noted as he sat on the edge of Sheppard's bed.

"I'm different from Rodney. You know?"

Carson nodded his agreement. Indeed these two men were very different, the one a brilliant thinker, a tinkerer, a worrier, the other impulsive and free-wheeling, slyly smart and unfailingly brave, both exuding passion for their work. That they would find one another in a far-off galaxy in the midst of the highs of the adventure and exploration and science that they both marveled over and the lows of danger and death, both watching friends and colleagues die and fighting frequently for their own lives and the people they cared for, that they would find their way to each other was nothing less than a miracle.

Carson Beckett would need to do what he could to help these two men that he had grown to call friends, in whatever way he could.

"Well, I think you're right about the possibility of his subconscious sabotaging your 'doing' anything, but he's definitely a sick man. I don't think his subconscious is making him sicker. But I think you need to be talking to him about this, not me."

John grinned crookedly and looked down at his clasped hands. He peeked back up at Carson, recognizing a hardball coming at him when he saw it. Or in this case, a hard ass Scot.

"So you're saying I'm doing my own stealthy sabotage, too?"

"I wouldn't exactly call it stealthy, John, but I think you need to ask yourself how long you were going to let this go on if Rodney hadn't gotten sick."

John looked over to his would-be lover. "That's a good question," he replied, his face twisted in confusion. "I'd like to think not long. But I don't really know."

Carson placed his hand on John's arm to snatch his attention away from the sleeping physicist. "He's a good man. It seems a silly thing what you two are doing. And a bloody waste of time." Carson stood to leave. "You are free to leave isolation, by the way."

John looked disconcerted by the news.

"Hey, Doc, do you mind if I stay? Don't tell him just yet," he pleaded with the doctor as he tilted his head toward McKay's bed. "It really sucks for him to be here as it is. It would suck a whole lot worse if he had to go it alone."

"And you don't think it 'sucks' being here?" Carson asked lightly.

"Oh it sucks, don't get me wrong. It sucks big time. But it beats being separated from him, even if he does beat me up about it verbally when he's awake."

Carson laughed. "I'll get you a laptop and some reading material. You've really got it bad, Colonel Sheppard."

John smiled as he watched Carson leave. His eyes drifted back to the sleeping man next to him. Boy did he ever have it bad.

The End.