Pairing: John/Rodney
Rating: PG
Length: 346 words
Warning: Contains nine year old boy humour. (So, really, *my* humour. Sad.)
Summary: Half-awake, they’re disarmed and grouchy and they talk like they think PJ can’t hear them. In the How Not to Fly 'verse, set around the time of It Isn't That Amazing.

A/N: As I've been whining to anyone who will listen, I have the zombie plague or something because my normal-ass cold has mutated into a weird spreading itchy-as-fuck-all rash that is making me completely unable to sleep from the itching and the zombie horror. (Yes, I'm going to the doctor. No, not until Tuesday. I know. Canadian health care. It's free?) So I'm loopy enough to post this somewhat awful ficlet I wrote the other day. Unbeta'ed. Written while high and coming down with zombie plague. AND NOT EVEN THAT FUNNY IN SPITE OF THAT. Also, I have to be up in 5.5 hours. Oh, and I have two concerts tomorrow. In which I am conducting. Fuck you zombie plague!

“I thought we were so past this,” Rodney grunts into his pillow as PJ knees his way over Rodney’s lower back and into the warm divot between his uncles.

“Don’t be a dick, Rodney,” says Uncle John.

PJ would never say so, but nowadays this is half the reason he comes into his uncles’ room. Half-awake, they’re disarmed and grouchy and they talk like they think PJ can’t hear them. They have stubbly dark cheeks and sleep creases and they say awesome swear words that are weirdly satisfying to hear.

“He’s almost ten,” says Rodney, not lifting his head or moving anything but his mouth. “For fuck’s sake.”

“Quit bitching and go back to sleep,” Uncle John says. “Jesus.”

PJ wriggles under the covers, feet scraping past two sets of strong hairy legs. He burrows his face into Uncle John’s pillow – Rodney sucks at sharing – and closes his eyes, feeling his chest unknot and his body start to drop into limpness.

Rodney farts as he rolls over.

“Rodney,” Uncle John reproaches him, scandalized.

PJ bites back a grin.

“Oh, like you never fart in bed,” says Rodney. “Since when is our bed a no-farting zone?”

“The kid is here,” says Uncle John. “It’s kind of rude.”

“He’s free to fart too if he wants,” says Rodney, and his hand pokes at PJ. “Feel free to fart, Peej.”

PJ rolls onto his back and beams over at Rodney. “Like I would. That’s so gross,” he says, and farts.

“Oh my god,” says John. “Rodney, why do you encourage him?”

Rodney is smiling back at PJ, crooked and sleepy and conspiratorial. He makes a face of effort, then relaxes as he farts again. PJ giggles, and the giggling makes him fart without even trying.

“You’re both banished,” says Uncle John, aggrieved.

“Let’s hotbox him,” says Rodney, and even though PJ doesn’t know what that even means, he somehow knows exactly what to do, and they dive in unison to pull the covers up over Uncle John’s head and pin them there while he struggles and chokes and shouts.