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Rodney sat over him, back curved like a vulture; the moment John's eyes fluttered open, Rodney clutched his jacket and said, "Oh thank god, you're alive."
John blinked. "Huh?"
"Are you okay? How many fingers?" Rodney asked, holding up two.
John batted his hand away and sat up on his elbows. Blood slipped down his temple. "What happened?"
"A wall fell on you," Rodney said.
John looked at him disbelievingly, the same way he'd looked at Rodney last week when he'd made a bad joke about integrals when they were pinned down behind a partially disassembled DHD. John was okay, and Rodney could feel the rush of relief in his toes, so he reached out and put his hands on John's face and kissed him. He tasted like dust and blood, and something minty. When John shifted back, Rodney gladly pushed him flat on the ground and kissed him some more, until it clicked that that John probably was trying to get away. Rodney panicked and tried to stop, but by then John was making a growly "mff" noise and licking Rodney's tongue like it was a melting ice cream cone.
When they stopped kissing, they were both breathing hard, eyes glassy. Rodney's hand was sticky with John's blood. He still wasn't used to blood; his own was the worst, but John's terrified him almost as much, and Rodney had reason to be glad that he was already lying down.
"So," John said, his grin small and deadly.
Rodney's terror came back full force. "Please don't say anything."
"Hey, I'm having a Sally Field moment, here," John said.
"It was adrenaline," Rodney huffed.
"Right." John narrowed his eyes. "Adrenaline."
"You kissed me back!"
"Yep," John said, and slid his hand up Rodney's thigh.
Rodney squirmed. "Oh. Oh."
"Oh," John agreed.