......a desk jockey, I'm *not*

[lt_col_sheppard]

Requisitions forms, schedules, duty rosters, offworld team rearrangements, mission briefings and a thousand other bits and pieces of paperwork that make up the minutae of being the Military leader of Atlantis litter John Sheppard's desk. He sits among them, one pencil in his mouth, one behind his ear, and one inbetween tired fingers, scribbling

Comments

[majorlorne]

Lorne sighed head ducked down his shoulders hunched, hands in his pockets as he walks down the hall, slipping into the gym, his eyes tumultuous his body defeated before he glanced up, "Oh sorry sir." He murmurs and moves to slip back out again

[lt_col_sheppard]

John rolls to his feet, stretching his arms over his head. A familiar form appears in the gym doorway, familiar save for the slumped shoulders and hanging head that are so absolutely unlike Marcus Lorne.

"....Major?"

Every nuance of his posture and demeanour breathe hurt and anger and fear.

"c'mon--you look like you could use a workout too. S'just you and me."

[majorlorne]

Lorne looked at him for a moment before shaking his head, "I shouldn't." He murmured

[lt_col_sheppard]

John snags a roll of tape from the supply bench and begins taping his hands, around the palm, over the fingers, over the vulnerable knuckles.

"you look like you should, Marcus. I'm not ure I've ever seen a man who looks more like he could use a little stress relief. Hell, I could use a sparring partner myself. It'd be doing me a favor."

He begins wrapping the other hand and walks over to the line of punching bags, shifting one away from the wall with his knee, prodding it to the center of the room.

"Call it mandatory training if ya have to. Just come on."