It was cold, a dry wintry cold, but high above in the forest canopy, Rodney could hear the patter of rain against leaves as big and thick as his body, and never mind everything else--the brilliant yellow toadstools that were releasing deadly spores into his lungs at this very moment; the deadly microscopic alien mites burrowing into his skin through the tree bark they leaned against; the gnawing hunger in his belly and his plummeting blood sugar; and oh yeah, the overall fact that they were *lost*, lost on an alien planet in a wilderness the size of Canada, and excuse him if he wondered aloud how a man supposedly capable of navigating dense jungle planets exactly like this in seven years of flight from the Wraith couldn't manage to get them back to the gate--never mind that, did the man have to *grope* Rodney, who hadn't gotten laid in--well, far longer than one might expect considering the broad swathe he'd cut in his youth.

"Stop doing that," he said, trying to inch away from the weight of Ronon's arm and the fit of his big annoying hand against the side of Rodney's neck, but the other man was clearly determined to maintain his pretense of huddling to conserve body heat, so Rodney sighed and settled in and tried not to notice how his own head had found its perfect jigsaw match in the juncture of Ronon's jaw and neck and shoulder. He'd assumed that Ronon had a big stupid thing for Sheppard, given the doglike way he dogged his heels, but the tickling of his dreadlocks and beard was getting more and more suggestive, almost enough to distract Rodney from the hunger and the sudden pressing question of whether there were spiders in the trees above them, and more than enough to distract him from the realization that he'd been narrating most of his thoughts aloud for the last fifteen minutes.

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