John
Jesus. If he never sees another General, or even an Admiral, it'll be too soon. John slumps down in his chair and stares dumbly at the metal surface, tracing the odd striations without actually registering them.

The Joint Fucking Chiefs. Three days with four Generals and two Admirals, and even the Air Force guy hadn't liked him much. It was like going out on the worst date in the world, except that it lasted three days and instead of dating the hot chick, you were dating her Dad and five of his asshole friends. John hadn't felt so disapproved of since his Article 15 hearing before Antarctica.

Seeing that group off through the gate had been a relief for everyone - the entire military contingent had been on pins and needles, and the civilians seemed unsettled by the sheer volume of spit and polish and saluting and sir-ing going on in the normally laid-back city.

"I think you might need this," Rodney says from the door, and John looks up tiredly.

His eyes go wide when he sees what Rodney's holding, and he can't stop himself from making a "grabby-hands" gesture for the bottle of Coors that's dewed with perfect condensation. Rodney twists off the cap and steps inside the office to hand it over. He drinks half the bottle in one long pull, and the icy bitterness revives him a little, makes him feel more like a human and less like the U.S. Military's chew-toy.

"I...God, Rodney..." he starts, but Rodney waves a hand and grins.

"General O'Neill sent it when the Joint Chiefs came through - he said you'd need it after." Rodney wipes his hands off on the leg of his pants. "They sure hated you, didn't they?"

John sips his beer. "Fuck you, Rodney," he says happily.

"No, really," Rodney says. "Those two Marine Generals wanted to shave your head, and the Navy guy was actually appalled that we don't have boats. I think the Army guy wanted to kidnap Ronon."

"Ha!" John says. "He wanted to know if we could clone Ronon. The Air Force General wasn't horrible, though. He liked the jumpers."

"Yeah," Rodney says. "And don't think I didn't hear him ask why they aren't called gateships."

John scowls, but the cold beer is gong a long way to unknot his back and unclench his jaw, and even Rodney's taunts aren't going to penetrate the light haze of goodwill toward all mankind that's enveloping him.

"Well, come on," Rodney says. "The rest of the beer is in the lounge and O'Neill also sent Independence Day. He said we should watch the part where they blow up the White House on repeat until you feel better."

Rodney
Rodney laughs when he opens the crate from O'Neill. The guy might be kind of an ass, and he's much too under the spell of Samantha Carter, but he's got a good sense of humor. He's also a decent human being, judging by the three cases of Coors beer and the stack of DVDs he's sent, with specific instruction for how Rodney should detox Sheppard from the three days with the Joint Chiefs that started about an hour ago.

And - man - did those guys hate Sheppard on sight. It was right there on their faces - everything from "fuckup" to "murderer," depending on which asshole you looked at. It wasn't the first time Rodney had ever wanted to punch some crew-cutted jerkoff, but it was the first time he thought he might have a chance at making a bit of an impression.

Rodney finds a cart and loads up the beer to take it to the mess. Alistair loves Sheppard - he'll hide it in the cooler where no one will touch it until those bastards get the hell off his city and stop messing with his friends.

He remembers the stiff set of Sheppard's shoulders, how hideously uncomfortable he'd looked in his dress blues as he crisply saluted the Generals and Admirals while they looked down their noses at him. Elizabeth and Teyla had exchanged sympathetic looks, and Ronon gave Rodney a crankily raised eyebrow before trotting off behind Sheppard and his charges. At least Rodney could rest assured that they wouldn't find some way to kill Sheppard, not with his faithful alien watchdog at his back.

And Rodney's not dwelling on the dress blues, nor on what the jacket did for Sheppard's shoulders. Or his hips. Or the unexpected number and colors of ribbons that adorned that jacket, and how much he really wants to know the stories behind them. He sighs and drapes a dustcover over the cart to keep prying eyes away during transit.

No, he's better off not thinking about Sheppard at all. He's a big boy. He can take care of himself. And when the assholes go away, Rodney will be there. Rodney will turn up with a cold beer and a scientifically ridiculous movie and be Sheppard's friend. It'll do. It'll have to.