John leans back in his chair, kicking his feet up on the table - his boots are a little muddy, but the whole bar is dirty enough that he doesn't think anyone's going to notice a difference - and slouches down indolently.
"Are you listening to me?" Rodney says. "Because, really, I am so mad at you. Your shower is never going to have hot water again when we get back to Atlantis, and I'm going to have Kavanaugh accidentally dismantle your favorite puddlejumper. He is so very incompetant that he'll forget to label all the parts and we'll never be able to put anything back together again."
"Hey." John catches a passing waitress's attention, smiling with all his teeth. She giggles and cocks her hip to the side flirtatiously. "Could we have two pints, please? Thanks."
When he turns back, Rodney is frowing so hard his nose is scrunched up and red. It's kind of adorable. "Do you ever stop?"
"Stop what?" John asks, feigning innocence.
Rodney seems to make a frustrated noise that sounds garbled and a little bit like furbledee, but John can't be sure, since that might actually have been the man at the table behind them that has just passed out practically on Rodney's shoulder. He lists to the side a bit, and Rodney loses his precarious balance, toppling off the bar stool with a loud yelp.
John leans over the table to look down at the tangled pile of limbs, biting down manfully on his laughter. "Rodney?"
"I hate you," comes Rodney's voice from somewhere in the vicinity of the man's armpit, muffled and petulant.
John puts his head down on the table and laughs until his stomach hurts and he feels like his throat is burning.
(In the background, Rodney gravely intones: "My back is never going to be the same. I have had spinal damage in the past, you know, this could set me back years and years of physical therapy. Are you still laughing? Sheppard? God, this man smells like - ugh, is that Aqua Velva? And beer? I think I'm going to throw up. Colonel! A little help here!")
no subject
John leans back in his chair, kicking his feet up on the table - his boots are a little muddy, but the whole bar is dirty enough that he doesn't think anyone's going to notice a difference - and slouches down indolently.
"Are you listening to me?" Rodney says. "Because, really, I am so mad at you. Your shower is never going to have hot water again when we get back to Atlantis, and I'm going to have Kavanaugh accidentally dismantle your favorite puddlejumper. He is so very incompetant that he'll forget to label all the parts and we'll never be able to put anything back together again."
"Hey." John catches a passing waitress's attention, smiling with all his teeth. She giggles and cocks her hip to the side flirtatiously. "Could we have two pints, please? Thanks."
When he turns back, Rodney is frowing so hard his nose is scrunched up and red. It's kind of adorable. "Do you ever stop?"
"Stop what?" John asks, feigning innocence.
Rodney seems to make a frustrated noise that sounds garbled and a little bit like furbledee, but John can't be sure, since that might actually have been the man at the table behind them that has just passed out practically on Rodney's shoulder. He lists to the side a bit, and Rodney loses his precarious balance, toppling off the bar stool with a loud yelp.
John leans over the table to look down at the tangled pile of limbs, biting down manfully on his laughter. "Rodney?"
"I hate you," comes Rodney's voice from somewhere in the vicinity of the man's armpit, muffled and petulant.
John puts his head down on the table and laughs until his stomach hurts and he feels like his throat is burning.
(In the background, Rodney gravely intones: "My back is never going to be the same. I have had spinal damage in the past, you know, this could set me back years and years of physical therapy. Are you still laughing? Sheppard? God, this man smells like - ugh, is that Aqua Velva? And beer? I think I'm going to throw up. Colonel! A little help here!")