"This is simultaneously the best and worst thing that ever happened to me," John says, and falls over again.

"Hey!" Rodney says. He lists dangerously to the side and falls, too.

"Ow," John says, squirming away. "You're on my wing."

While John waits for Keller to finish attending to Rodney, he practices kind of softly flapping his wing. Wing. Singular. God really is an iron: John's always dreamed of having wings, and he's got wing. The other one is flailing about and knocking things (and Keller) over while firmly attached to Rodney's shoulder. John resists the urge to cross his arms and stomp his foot and demand that Rodney give it. Yes, it's childish, but having one wing is neither useful nor any fun at all.

They're lying on the floor of the hallway in an untidy heap, and John hates his life.

"Flap!" John says, gripping Rodney's shoulder tightly. Rodney flaps. Sadly, he flaps at a rate that is entirely dissimilar to John's flap, and they crash to the floor.

"Colonel," Rodney says, his voice muffled by the wing over his face. "This." He spit out feathers. "Is futile."

John sits up and folds his wing behind his shoulder with a brisk snapping motion. "Goddammit, Rodney, we are going to fly if it kills us both. I have wings and I'm fucking well going to fly."

"You have wing," Rodney points out.

John pokes Rodney in the chest. "We're learning how to fly, Rodney. Work with me on this and I will give you whatever you want."

"Whatever I want?" Rodney says, sitting up.

"Yes," John says. "Whatever. you. want."

Rodney stands and snaps his fingers at John. "Get up. I want my bribe up front."

John leaps to his feet. "On it," he says.

"Oh, for fuck's sake." Rodney flops onto his back, staring at the ceiling.

"This is not my fault," John says. "Just to be clear. I am totally on board with this idea; the equipment failure is not my fault."

"My equipment is just fine!" Rodney yelps, gesturing to his hard-on, which John must admit is pretty damn fine. "What we have is a failure of mechanical coordination."

"Look," John says. "If I can solve this problem, will you solve the flying problem?"

"Depends." Rodney pushes his wing back out of his face. "If I fix the flying problem, can we go back to MX7-5F6 and get rid of the wings?"

John's torn. "But...flying?"

"24 hours." Rodney says.

"48?" John uses his best beseeching look.

"36," Rodney says firmly.

John nods. He probably would have gone for 24.

"So," Rodney says. "The equipment solution?"

"Mmm," John says. "Roll up on your side."

Rodney rolls toward him, and John reaches out, trailing his fingertips up the length of Rodney's cock. It's still slick from the aborted attempt at fucking, and Rodney moans. John scoots closer and wraps his hand around both of them, pulling up with a firm grip.

"How about this kind of flying?" John asks.

"Please shut up," Rodney says, shoving his hips forward.

"Flap," John says, squeezing Rodney's shoulder with his hand. His arm is secured to Rodney by a harness of strong webbing straps that connects them from the shoulder all the way down to the knee. It's like a mid-air three-legged race. Rodney flaps, and they soar.

36 hours, John thinks gleefully. Maybe he can convince Rodney that he agreed to 36 flight hours.