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The thing was, Lorne had played football all throughout high school and college. Lots of the guys had. So Lorne had arranged a pick-up game, then another and another, and it had been a blast.
It had also been when the ass slapping started.
It spread through the rank and file, a silly little celebration full of nostalgia and seeing if you could get your friends to yelp.
Everything was fine until M6L-187.
Rodney tracked down an old Ancient clubhouse, for lack of a better word, and there were spare control crystals to be plundered. John barked out a 'Way to go, buddy,' and his hand was moving before his brain had a chance to register.
To be fair, Rodney let out a very satisfying yelp.
"What the hell, Sheppard?" Rodney cried, turning a peculiar shade of pink as he rubbed his ass.
"I'm sorry! I'm sorry! We've been playing tons of football, and I just—I didn't mean to! I'm sorry." John's apology was made less convincing by the laughter he was trying hard to stifle.
"God, you soldiers and your recreational violence. That hurt!"
John took a deep breath to stop the chuckles still trying to bubble up. "I really am sorry, Rodney," he drawled softly, and Rodney studied him, seeming placated.
He was reminded later, however, that turnabout is fair play.