Notice Anything?

"Hey, Rodney," John says irritatingly cheerfully as he lets himself into McKay's quarters. "How's the leg?"

"Just as broken as it was yesterday, Colonel," Rodney snips from his spot on the bed, then shifts when his back twinges painfully. "And what do you know, today it hurts even more." What with all the wrenched muscles that go along with falling down a big hole, again. If Rodney believed in such things, he'd think God was getting his kicks by watching him fall.

John holds up a cloth-covered offering and says, "Missed you at dinner."

"I'm not keen on moving right now, especially not for the slop that passes for—hey, is that—" A whiff, just a little something—

"Very nearly pot roast and not-quite-potatoes," John confirms and presents the tray with a flourish. Rodney quickly makes sure his lapdesk is minus a laptop, and he liberates the food from John's hands.

John settles into the chair next to the bed while Rodney digs single-mindedly into his meal. He'll probably have to pay for the room service at some point, but John will just have to add it to the tab; he's too busy eating to really care just now. Wow, they added some almost-garlic to the not-quite-potatoes, and he mumbles, "These things are fantastic."

John must have understood him because he gets a little grunt in return before John says, "You look...scruffy."

Rodney shoots John a sideways look with narrow eyes. "It's fine," he says between bites.

John crosses his arms and tilts his head in obvious scrutiny. "Seriously, McKay. I don't think I've ever seen you with a three-day beard."

"Waif sheegh?" Rodney mumbles, then swallows. "You think I had time to shave?"

"Okay, maybe that once," John concedes with a shrug. "To be fair, I didn't exactly have time to look at you."

"Way to make a meal pleasant, Colonel," Rodney snipes as he cuts up the very nearly roast. "Just what I want to remember while I'm eating, the detox off those goddamned stims."

"Sorry," John says, sounding anything but.

"I threw up for three days," Rodney whines, but it doesn't stop him from swigging his barely-milk.

"So what is it this time?"

"I didn't feel like it." Rodney tries very hard to keep his face neutral and knows he's failed when John leans his forearms onto his knees, and God, he is not going to let it go.

"You shaved when you were dying of a hangover on Callena. You shave when you're shaking with exhaustion. It's part of your chart in the infirmary, 'Rodney has sensitive skin and must shave every day, so bring him a mirror and razor.' You always feel like it."

Rodney points his knife. "Did you just air quote at me?"

"Rodney."

"I don't know why you're making such a big deal o—"

"Hurts too much to stand at the sink, huh?" John asks, his voice not nearly as mocking as it should be.

"Yes," Rodney sighs defeatedly and drops his utensils, staring down at his demolished tray.

Suddenly, John claps Rodney's good knee and picks up the tray. He's got a demented little gleam in his eye. "Well, why didn't you say so? Wait here," he calls as he disappears out the door.

"Like I'm going anywhere!" Rodney shouts after him, not caring in the least that he's essentially shouting to himself.

John isn't gone long enough for him to have taken the tray all the way back to the mess; he pops back in with a small square box and a weird look on his face. He appraises the bed, and the desk chair, and Rodney, before he sets the box down on the desk and says, "Scoot forward."

Rodney crosses his arms; he's not moving until Sheppard explains himself. "Why?"

John rubs the back of his neck and disappears into the bathroom. There's a distinct sound of rummaging and then running water while he half-shouts, "I'm going to give you a shave."

"That's funny, I don't recall agreeing to that. Seriously, I'm fine!"

John appears in the doorway with an armful of towels. "You're telling me that your beard isn't driving you nuts?"

"No, it's not." Rodney can't help scratching at his suddenly itchy chin. John smirks. "Okay, fine, maybe it is a little itchy, but I can do it myself, just...bring me my stuff."

"Come, on, Rodney," John wheedles, and damn if that wheedle doesn't work every time. One would think exposure would lead to immunity. "You always say I should take a turn doing the work."

Rodney chews at the inside of his lower lip, acutely aware of the maddening itchiness that has sprung up all over his face now that he's trying not to think about it. Finally he drops his hands next to his hips and scoots himself two inches down the bed.

John flashes a quick grin. "It'll be easiest to do it right here," he says while he piles pillows between Rodney and the headboard. Then he spreads two towels over the whole thing before bowing in an elaborate invitation. Rodney settles back, just a little.

"You know, this isn't going to work if you don't trust me," John says, both hands on his hips as punctuation.

"I trust you," Rodney says reflexively and immediately leans farther back, letting his head fall back against the pillows. He tells the ceiling, "Look, this is me, trusting you." He gasps when John drapes a damp, hot towel over his face. It's soothing, except now he can't see. He can only listen as John shuffles around the room and putters with...whatever he's puttering with. After a minute it sounds like thok thok thok and foam, which is weird, and doesn't relax Rodney one bit.

"You've never done this before," John observes from somewhere near Rodney's left ear.

"I got out of the habit of letting other people do my personal grooming when I was three," Rodney snaps, although the effect is probably somewhat muffled by the towel. "Are you telling me you have?"

"Sure," John says, and Rodney can hear the shrug, "it's the closest thing to a spa experience a guy can have without actually going to a spa."

"Wait—you've been to a spa?"

"I was rich, Rodney," John teases, low and growly and very close.

"Really?" Rodney squeaks, and this time he hopes the towel muffles it.

"No, not really," John laughs. "About the spa thing. Not the shave, though—you won't get a better one." And there's a draft of cool air as he unwinds the towel from Rodney's face.

Rodney's eyes pop open to see John coming at him with what looks like a huge ball of marshmallow fluff, and he can't stop the flinch.

The fluff pauses in midair, just a moment, and John reassures, "It's just soap. Mostly glycerin."

"Mostly?" Rodney squints skeptically.

"No citrus, I promise." John's face is very sincere.

Rodney looks resolutely back at the ceiling, letting out a long huff of breath that John must interpret as assent, because he starts to smooth the foam over Rodney's chin and jaw. He works up over Rodney's cheeks, then sweeps down over his throat, going back to the mug for more foam. The soap smells like sandalwood and vanilla, and Rodney decides that he likes it before wondering if John—

"So you've done this? Let somebody else shave you?"

"Once or twice, yeah." John sounds warm and amused and indulgent in a way he never does when there's anyone else around. There's a ceramic clunk as John sets down the soap, then a rustle as he grabs something else.

Rodney can't help it; he has to know what John's going to use against his skin. He opens his eyes—and his voice hits a register he hasn't managed in decades. "What the fuck is that?"

"It's a razor, Rodney." John's got a wicked-looking blade in his hand, and it's pointed at Rodney's face. He says in his let's-not-panic-the-natives voice, "It's for shaving. Your face."

Rodney's never really put much stock in John's let's-not-panic-the-natives voice. "You're not coming near me with that thing."

"You said you trusted me," John answers with the tiniest pout. Of course he'd bring out the big guns.

"Of course I do," Rodney shoots back, "to save everybody, to get yourself killed in the most idiotic way possible, to touch things you shouldn't—"

"You trust me with your life."

Rodney throws up his hands. "I already said yes!"

John doesn't say anything, just raises his eyebrows and motions with his hands in a way that orders Rodney to lie back down and shut the hell up.

Rodney does as he's not-told and closes his eyes so he doesn't have to see the bloodletting.

But the first thing to touch him isn't cold steel, it's warm fingertips above his eyebrow and a thumb on his cheek gently urging his head to turn away from John. The blade glides slowly over his skin, leaving a cool stripe of air from cheekbone to jaw.

John's breath puffs warm over Rodney's face. "Relax, Rodney."

"I'm trying," Rodney replies quietly, trying to move as little as possible under the foam and the weight of those fingertips.

"You trust me intellectually," John murmurs as the blade makes a somewhat faster second pass. "But for this to really work, you have to—"

"If you tell me I have to trust you emotionally, so help me, Sheppard, I will beat you with my crutches."

"No, no, no," John says quickly and the blade makes a third pass along his cheek, very close to his lips. "I'm just saying you know it but you don't feel it." The fingertips shift to the other side of his face and push gently, turning his head back toward the radiating heat that is John.

"You are slicing the hair off my face and neck with a very sharp knife, excuse me if that leaves me a little tense," Rodney grumbles. The thumb holds the skin on his other cheek taut as John makes short work of the foam on his cheek in three easy swipes. Then the fingertips disappear and the air eddies coolly as John leans away.

John snorts in a way Rodney can recognize, even with his eyes resolutely closed, as exasperated. "Would it help if I told you I've done this before? Shaved somebody else?" he asks, and before Rodney can say 'yes' he answers, clipped and fast and quiet, "Because I have, a lot. I even shaved a gunny sergeant's head once."

Rodney opens his mouth, and John says, "And may I point out that I haven't cut you yet."

He closes his mouth and scrunches up his face, then takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly through his nose. Then John's heat is back, close to his shoulder, and those warm, rough fingertips are urging his chin farther back, stretching his neck. Rodney breathes another long breath and tries not to think about the blade skating confidently along the side of his neck.

"Better," John mumbles, so soft Rodney's not entirely sure he heard it. "You gotta trust it down to the bones, my mom used to say."

That's...the first time John has ever mentioned his mother. Rodney's tempted to open his mouth—the way he always, always is—but he forces back his first response, and then his second, and finally lets himself sink back into the pillows, lets John roll his head wherever he wants. Maybe if he keeps his mouth shut and lets John do this, lets John relax into the work the way Rodney's busy relaxing into the bed, just maybe John will talk some more.

John's soft huff of breath puffs warmly over Rodney's face, a huff that sounds very much pleased.