26: a kiss where one or both parties are crying
John saw Rodney die, is the thing.
He saw his body go limp and lifeless through the thick glass of the isolation room, saw the lines of the monitors go flat, saw the doctors in their hazmat suits shake their heads and turn away.
He heard the very beginning of discussions about protocol for dealing with "the body," heard soft voices trying to calm and reassure him as he bolted from the room, heard the crackle of his comm from where he'd thrown it to the ground as soon as he got to his quarters.
John doesn't know how he could have possibly fallen asleep, but he's awakened by the sound of his door opening, which it shouldn't, Rodney's the only one it'll do that for, but then Rodney's there, standing in John's doorway dressed in infirmary scrubs.
"So, uh," Rodney says, shifting his weight. "Rumors of my death have been greatly exaggerated."
John's out of bed in a flash, needing to feel Rodney under his hands, to confirm that he's not a dream, not an illusion.
"How long did it take you to decide on that one?" John says, his voice thick.
"It was either that," Rodney says with a quirk of the lips, "or 'I was just pining for the fjords.'"
And, well, if John thought the sound of his laugh was embarrassing, it's even worse choked out through tears. He puts his hands on either side of Rodney's face, presses their lips together, tasting salt, tasting life.