"'Like a leaf kissing the surface of a pond,'" John scoffed. "What were you trying to do, make me crash the city?"
"Yes," Rodney said dryly, looking up to see John leaning in his doorway with his arms crossed. "I wanted to die and I thought it would be fun to take the entire city with me, spires and all."
"I can think of, like, fifty ways to out us to everyone that are way more fun than reciting poetry over the radios at me in the middle of a crisis, Rodney. You could have asked."
"Yes, well," Rodney flushed. "The image fit the occasion. I wasn't actually thinking about the poem."
"Why not? It was a good poem." John strode into the room like he owned it and sat down on the bed next to Rodney. "Wasn't it?"
"Do you really have to do the lovesick thirteen year old girl thing right now? I'm still trying to recover from your landing." Rodney thought the discussion was going to move on. It didn't. "Fine. It was the lamest, most ridiculous, sweetest poem I've ever read in my life, but you're still a thirteen year old girl."
"Fair enough," John grinned. "But I'm your thirteen year old girl, and you're stuck with me."
Rodney rolled his eyes. "That would make me a pervert, Sheppard."
"The things you can do with your tongue make me a pervert," John countered.
"I smell another poem coming on," Rodney groaned, falling back on the bed.
"An ode to Rodney McKay's tongue," John all but crowed, laughing when Rodney pulled him down on top of him.
Somehow, John became distracted and that poem never got written.