â€œAnd,â€ John said, beaming, â€œthen! Then he let me drive the replica moon rover.â€
Rodney stared at him, fingers frozen on one of his cufflinks. â€œExcuse me?â€ he asked.
â€œThe lunar rover!â€ John repeated, still grinning. â€œGo-cart for outer space. It rocked.â€
Rodney was torn between shouting that in all his years with the Stargate program, hadnâ€™t John driven slash flown slash crashed slash piloted with his brain things much cooler than a moon go-cart? But the more important question that filtered in was:
John was sitting on Rodneyâ€™s bed, shoes kicked off and bow tie undone, the first two buttons of his tuxedo-shirt undone. John looked slightly drunk and happy, loose and shaken out, like if Rodney ran a finger down the curve of his spine nowâ€”all John would do was purr, indulgent like a cat. Rodney pulled off his tuxedo jacket; that was an interesting hypothesis that deserved further research, he decided.
â€œDr. Tyson,â€ John told him, smile going a little blurry. â€œHe runs the joint.â€
â€œNeil?â€ Rodney said. â€œDeGrasse Tyson?â€
John snapped his fingers and pointed at Rodney. â€œThatâ€™s the one. Very cool guy.â€
Smirking, Rodney said, â€œYeah, youâ€™re drunk.â€
â€œOh yeah,â€ John agreed, and reached out his arms, making grabby handsâ€”and Rodney went, without resistance and laughing, because heâ€™d realized years ago he and John were opposite polarities. There was no reason to fight physics.