He's running for the gate, heart in his throat, Beretta in his hand jerking with bursts of fire and sound that echo in the night like thunderclaps.
There's a scream across the radio, and for a moment, he thinks one of them has been hit, but it's only feedback from the device.
A root rises up from out of nowhere in front of him, and he knows that the fall is going to hurt, but he can't seem to be able to bring his hands up in time to catch himself. Suddenly, there's a hand on the back of his vest, and his feet manage to pull themselves together long enough that they're steady under him, and it's more running, more thunderclaps, more heart trying to jump out of his throat.
Up ahead, he's aware of Teyla's form poised over the DHD, of the gate slowly spinning to life. The familiar kawoosh of a forming wormhole helps him force his heart back down somewhere lower than his adam's apple, and then it's a rush of light and sound, and the four of them are tumbling into the gate room.
He's dimly aware of voices shouting above him, Sheppard's familiar weight pressing him down as calls for the shield to be raised are nearly drowning out by the sound of enemy fire ricocheting off the walls.
After a pause, silence fills the room, before voices jump into the void. Sheppard's bulk rolls off, and Rodney is content for a moment to just stay where he is, forehead to the floor, but there are hands pulling him up, words asking if he was alright, if he was hit.
Time bounces like a ball, and when he get's his bearings again, they've left the infirmary and it's time for the post mission de-brief. The conversation flows to how things went bad, how it was no one's fault, how mistrust and fear have started to take over with so many Wraith awake, and people selling each other out to stay alive.
Another bounce, and Rodney's in his quarters, stripping his dirty, sweat-soaked clothes off, shedding them like snake skin on his way to the shower. Cranks it as hot as he can stand it, letting it pound down, washing away all traces of PRX-4563 (-Melorna, he thinks. They called their world Melorna-) in a swirl of soap and water.
Arms reach around his middle, twining with his on his stomach, and he leans back, letting them hold his weight.
"Next time, try to remember than I am not a landing pad." The arms tighten.
"Right, because that's why I was on top of you in the gateroom." Rodney snorts, before turning in the arms, looking hazel eyes head on.
"Well, in that case, try to remember that sex is for the bedroom, not where everyone can see, your voyeuristic tendencies not withstanding." John laughs lightly, water dripping of the ends of his hair.
"You got me, sorry. I'll try to control my self better next time." Rodney reaches up, twines his fingers at the nape of John's neck, pulls him down toward him.
"That's all I ask."
Summary: He's running for the gate, heart in his throat, Beretta in his hand jerking with bursts of fire and sound that echo in the night like thunderclaps.