Notes: Liz's fault. Was bored. Needed fluff.
Inadmissable by ALC Punk!
It didn't used to hit her like this. She thinks it's his fault. Before him, she never would have felt the cold. Would have stepped past it or around it, or just plain pretended it didn't exist.
But her body has become used to another person there, warming the bed.
Irritatingly, she knows that five months ago, she would have been able to sleep anywhere. Tent, mosque, sands of the hourglass, front deck on a lifeboat, you name it. And it could be freezing, and she would have been fine.
Treaty negotiations used to be exciting enough without armed men shooting at each other. Or Major John Sheppard smirking at her and wriggling his fingers.
And half the delegates think she's insane for breaking down into nervous giggles during his presentation.
Even with three blankets and her knees curled up to her chest she isn't warm enough.
The door creaks open, and she jerks up, rolls from the bed to fumble for the weapon (he started insisting she carry one after the genii) she left on the side there.
"Liz?" her name is on a breath of air, just enough to carry to her.
And she relaxes. She hates that about him, too.
"What?" She sounds cranky. Good. This is his fault.
He climbs onto the bed and peers at her, perplexed. The half-light from the window shows he's barefoot and looks tousled. "Whatcha doin'?"
"Getting ready to shoot you."
"Ah." A nod. "Can't sleep."
She blinks. "You can't?"
"Nope." He proceeds to drag the covers down and crawls beneath them. "Too cold." A hand pats the sheets next to him, a winning grin covers his lips. "Wanna keep me warm?"
She sets the gun down and climbs back into bed, spooning up against him. This is his fault, after all, and so HE can keep her warm.
"Better." Air brushes the nape of her neck, and then his arm is around her waist.
A grunt from her.
The arm tightens. "You were cold, too."
He's right. But she's not going to tell him that. "Go to sleep, Major."