Run
It's easy, when John's out running (he started later than he should have; not so easy to drag himself out of bed lately), to keep going so that he can detour by Something Natural, and to keep going after that until he ends up at Rodney's door, breathing hard and swiping his sleeve across his sweaty forehead. Rodney, for his part, is blocking the entry to the rental cottage, arms crossed, looking wary and weary, and John wants to ask him if he's been staying up too late with physics stuff, but instead he just holds out the brown paper bag, crinkled and a little damp where he's been gripping it.
Rodney doesn't move from the doorway, but he does take the bag, opens it and unfolds the paper inside and inspects the sandwich: turkey, sprouts, mayo on whole wheat. "You brought me your favorite sandwich," he says, the first words between them in almost two weeks. John feels clammy and cold, maybe not just from the sweat cooling on his skin, and he shrugs and says, "It's a really good sandwich."
John thinks this might be the end of things, standing right here with his knees aching and not knowing how else to say sorry and miss you, to say that sometimes all he knows how to do is run, while Rodney peers at him like he's trying to figure out how to crack his secret code. And then he's stumbling down the step, stumbling right into John and kissing him graceless and pushy and a little angry, and John gets a hand on his shoulder and curled around the back of his neck and just holds on. Rodney's sending John a message (tongue tentative at the corner of his mouth, teeth nipping his lower lip hard enough to make John gasp, hand coming to rest against his hip, heavy and warm through John's shorts), and John's pretty sure he hears everything loud and clear.
When Rodney pulls back (too soon, too soon), he still looks tired, but happy, too, maybe. He says, "See you tomorrow, okay?" and John nods and watches Rodney go inside, and he thinks this is what lucky feels like-like he could sprint the whole way home.