Disclaimer: Not mine. Rating: PG13 Spoilers: Vague. Set: Sometime later than now, probably. Notes: Erm. Allllll Little Red's fault. Totally. And slightly A.j.'s, although she wants porn. Title stolen from James' 'Laid'.

Sleeping Next To Me
by ALC Punk!


Okay. So he should feel guilty. He was sure there was a part of him that was, even now, pounding the drum of guiltiness. After all, he'd taken advantage of his best friend. Or had she taken advantage of him?

Suddenly, things could be even more murky.

But, even with the headache (and the sticky feeling in his mouth, and the bad breath they were sure to have), he was kind of okay with the idea.

Especially since, well, it had been nice. What he could remember of it.

Really nice.

Not red, white and blue stars exploding in the sky nice, but... nice.

The body tangled with his stirred slightly, and suddenly, the headache was gone.

Ooh. Hey. Hands. Fingers. Toes. It was kind of cute, he decided muzzily. She wiggled her toes when she started to wake up.

Not just wiggled. Sliding up and down his own legs, and, hey. Knee.

One green eye was suddenly staring at him.

"Hi."

The eye closed, and then a pained grimace appeared on Lizzie's face. "I hate you."

"Hate the geeks who said it was pure alcohol."

A growl escaped her.

John considered protesting again. It really wasn't *his* fault they'd been drinking rotgut. It was those damned Telo-phony-whatsits. Telophisians? Nah. That wasn't it. He nudged Elizabeth, who'd closed her eye again. "Hey."

He was pretty sure another growl exited her mouth. This was, apparently, a new way of communication for her.

Although she purred, too.

"Liz-zie."

A hand dug fingernails into his side, and he yelped.

But the sounds had apparently been enough and the ambient light turned itself on, perfectly certain that the people in the room would want it on, and would be *happy* to have it on. John sometimes was certain that it clicked on with a self-satisfied smugness that echoed McKay at his worst. The eye opened again, and its twin joined it. "What?" Her voice was muffled by the chest her head was laying on, and he could swear he felt teeth as she drew breath against his skin.

"Those--alien. Thingies. Who were they?"

"You woke me up to ask me what our new allies' names are?"

He shrugged, "I can't remember."

The eyes closed again, and her forehead touched his chest. "Have I said I hate you?"

"Yup."

"Good."

Minutes passed, and he was sure she'd answer, but she seemed to have settled back down and almost be about to drift off again. He poked her shoulder. "Well?"

"John." The tone was arctic.

"Lizzie."

"I'm going to get up in a moment. And I'm not going to kill you. I'm going to find my clothes--"

"They're all over the floor," he inserted helpfully.

"--and I'm going to get dressed." There was a pause while she disentangled herself from him. "And then I'm going to *my* room, and deciding how best to kill people. I'm sure General O'Neill won't miss any of you."

"Even me?" He tried his best puppy-dog look on her, while simultaneously enjoying the skin he was viewing.

She jerked to her feet with a groan. "Even you."

One of his hands snaked out to trail a finger down her back. Her skin shivered. "You sure?"

"Yes." Abruptly she stood, swaying slightly. "Oh, god. Beckett better have aspirin."

"I've heard sex is good for headaches."

The look she shot him could have fried a wraith where it stood (which wasn't difficult, since all you had to do was wave a candle at them and the damned things lit up like a bonfire. The team had taken to carrying extra matches and a lighter or two). "I could just drown you."

He decided to let her get dressed -- after all, if she was bound (and. Oo. Fuzzy handcuffs) and determined to do so... "So. What were they called, anyway?"

"Cathayans." Her voice was only slightly muffled by the shirt she was pulling over her head.

It occured to him that there was something scarily sexy about a woman getting dressed. And he was suddenly discovering that that headache was going away. Maybe she'd wait for him to find a toothbrush...

"John?"

He realized he was staring at her. "Yes?" His eyes tracked down her half-naked torso and feasted on the slim length of her legs. There were scars now, a few extra muscles (all that running around the city was doing *wonders* for her calves), but they were, basically, legs. Nice legs, at that.

"Why--" She broke off and tilted her head, listening. A second later, the alarm sounded.

He sighed.

"No rest for the wicked."

Yeah. No sex, either. It almost made him pout. But it wasn't her fault. Yet.

-end-

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© 2005 ALC Punk!