blue flamingos

(Mis)Adventures in the Milky Way Galaxy

Fandom: Stargate Atlantis/Stargate SG1

Category/Rated: Slash, PG

Year/Length: 2007/ ~778 words

Pairing: John/Cam

Spoilers: The Return II

Disclaimer: No, I don't own them, for which I should think they're profoundly grateful.

Series: The Return 'verse

Author's Notes: International "How the heck did I get that bruise??" Day!

Feedback: Yes please. Even if it's bad. Especially if it's bad.


John answers the door in jeans with a hole in the knee and a sweatshirt that could fit both of them, his hair sticking up in damp clumps. His looks how Cam feels, leaning on the door and smiling a tired smile.

"Rough day?" Cam asks, nudging John out of the way so he can step into the apartment and close the door. It doesn't look any more lived in than it did the last time Cam was there. He doesn't take this as a good sign.

John drifts after him into the tiny kitchen, watching him stow the beer he brought and pull out a couple of bottles of water, like this is Cam's place not his. He shrugs in response to Cam's question and catches the bottle Cam throws at him.


Cam can't stop the groan that escapes. He doesn't even want to *think* about it, much less talk about it with someone who's yet to put together a full sentence. "You're in tomorrow?" John nods. "You'll hear all about it then."

John's face scrunches in sympathy, and, yeah, sometimes Cam forgets that he knows what it's like to do this every day, even if he's only been at the SGC for a couple of weeks. It's weirdly easy to forget that John's been in Atlantis for over two years, and, from the mission reports Cam sometimes stays up too late reading, Pegasus's natives are about as much fun to deal with as the Ori and the Lucien Alliance.

"You want something to eat?" John asks. Cam keeps his eyes from going to the open-but-still-packed boxes on the kitchen counter. He doesn't think either of them are up to the amount of work it'll take to find stuff to cook with, even assuming John actually has any food, which is by no means certain.

"Nah, I'm good." He swallows half the bottle of water, though, ridiculously thirsty. He doesn't remember drinking anything all day, which might explain it, or might just be his memory.

"You want to go to bed?" John's still leaning in the kitchen doorway, his body tilted at an uncomfortable looking angle, so Cam's not sure if he means for sleep or for sex: he thinks it's probably not a good sign that he's kind of hoping for the former, when this is the longest continuous period they've ever been together.

"Yeah." He drains the last of the water and takes John's unopened bottle from him, replacing it on the kitchen counter. When he turns back, John pushes away from the door frame and into his personal space and they kiss, soft and slow. He's definitely in way over his head, because he can't imagine this ever getting old.

John's hands are on his shoulders, holding him still; his own hands settle on John's waist, and John gasps, pulling away. The gasping he's sort of used to, but it's not usually followed by pulling away, or accompanied by the grimace on John's face. "What?" he asks, letting his hands fall away.

"Nothing." John steps back, twisting his whole upper body like he's trying to shrug something off. Cam remembers the weird angle he was leaning at and grabs for the hem of John's sweatshirt before John can stop him. "Hey!" John says sharply, then shrugs and lets Cam pull it up.

His entire right side is dark with bruising, the skin rough with abrasions, hot to Cam's careful touch. He casts his mind back to John talking about the mission he had with his new team. "I thought you were cataloguing rabbits or ducks or something. What the hell happened?"

John pushes Cam's hand away and pulls his sweatshirt back down. "Three-legged hens," he corrects, dead-pan, making Cam grin. "Let's just say babbling brooks and Marines don't mix."

Cam's dying to ask because, even if it's left him with obviously painful bruises, it sounds like John had more fun on his mission than he did, but John looks so utterly miserable, he bites down on the urge. His job's mostly a step up from what he was doing before, while John's is a massive step down, in a place he doesn't want to be. Plus, three-legged hens – their own galaxy is supposed to be less freaky, not more, and anyway, who in their right mind cares about cataloguing hens, however many legs they have?

Aware that he's rambling, even if it is only in his mind, Cam pulls it together, and slings his arm carefully round John's shoulders. "Come on, let's go to bed. It'll look better in the morning."

John leans into him, just slightly, and says, "no, it won't."

Next: Fauna Native to P3X 479

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