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Not So Artificial

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"Here, over here, it's flatter."

John figured that, somehow, he'd screwed up. Because the next thing he knew was cold concrete against his back, water pooling along his collarbone.

Maybe he'd forgotten to follow one of those damn laws (like gravity) close enough.

"Shit, I don't know, what should we-"

Plenty of people, John could tell, even though not who, or why, or what he was doing soaked on the floor of Atlantis.

"Here, here, let me," someone was saying, and as the body got closer it was Rodney, frantic hands against his chest, pale skin and anxious (how he could tell things like pale from a voice, who knew) and then Rodney's breath against his lips. Then Rodney's lips, not frantic at all, but strong, sure, and warm.

John forgot gravity again.

It was to make him breath, John realized, right after his lungs decided to finally reject the large amount of water they'd been holding. It was all about breathing. Even though John could still taste Rodney, warm and safe, in his mouth.

But when he was finally breathing, eyes open and looking at Rodney, he could see where the blush was rising up his neck, how swollen his mouth looked. When he saw John looking, Rodney's eyes darkened. He swallowed.

It hadn't really been about breathing, it turned out.