"Oh," Sheppard mouthed, a whisper, and his eyes went wide, his face slack, just for one moment, one brief moment, before his expression settled back into its usual look, that almost smirk.

The next time he said it, the right corner of his lip was curving up. "Oh." Then: "Hey, come on, look at me," because of course Rodney had had to drop his gaze then; imminent rejection usually did that to him.

Well, usually he darted his gaze to the side and started babbling, because it was more difficult for whomever was rejecting him to get a word in edgewise that way, to actually get the words out, but not tonight.

He didn't have the energy to do that tonight.

Sheppard took a step forward and if Rodney hadn't been leaning against one of the lab benches already, he would have taken a step backwards. As it was, he scooted back a few inches so that he was almost sitting on it, but if he went any further back than that, he knew, he'd be endangering glassware, and why, he thought, had he chosen to do this in the lab rather than say, oh, anywhere else?

Oh, right. Because he hadn't chosen.

It had just happened.

Because Sheppard had come to see him, apparently, immediately after getting out of the infirmary, and the last time Rodney had seen him up and about, there had been blood and blood, and oh look, more blood, and Ronon had been fucking carrying him through the Gate. Of course, Rodney had gone to visit him in the week since, but the one time Sheppard had actually been awake, Ronon and Teyla had been there to divert his attention from Rodney, and when he was asleep, well, obviously he hadn't known Rodney was there.

But he was here now and he'd surprised Rodney and he'd sounded so Sheppard-like, so real and there and alive, like he really, really hadn't the last time Rodney had spoken to him, that Rodney hadn't been able to keep the naked relief out of his eyes. Or anything else.

And Sheppard had seen. Of course he'd seen.

"Rodney," Sheppard said. "Come on, look at me."

He didn't want to, but Rodney found himself looking up. Sheppard seemed somehow closer than before, right there, right in Rodney's space, but before Rodney could say anything—begin explaining this away—Sheppard said, "Your eyes really don't hide anything you're thinking, do they?"

Rodney said, "I'm sorry?" Because he'd been expecting Sheppard to say, well, something, yes, but not that. He didn't know what that meant.

"Your eyes," Sheppard repeated. "Now you're wondering where I'm going with this, and now you're trying to hide what you're thinking—"

And Rodney really didn't want to listen to this, so he started to turn away. There was still enough room between him and Sheppard that he could stand up, make for the door. That he could get out of here before he had to suffer through this any longer. But then Sheppard's hand was on his cheek, fingertips holding him where he was, and as Rodney started to say, "What?" Sheppard said, "What am I thinking?"

Usually Sheppard was pretty good at hiding his thoughts, Rodney knew, at keeping his gaze shuttered. Rodney had always thought it was a natural instinct, or maybe something learned in the military, a sort of personal armor just like his attitude was, but now he was wondering if maybe it was more conscious than he'd realized, because he could read Sheppard now. He could see what Sheppard was thinking—

--and he couldn’t see any thoughts of rejection, nor any betrayal. He didn't see even a hint of disgust. What he could see, though, was something that resembled—

"Oh," Rodney whispered, and Sheppard said, "Yes, oh," and smiled.