Rodney estimates that there are thirty two and a half feet between the spot where he's sitting at his workstation and the spot where John is leaning on the wall by the door. With a margin of error of five inches.

There are three people between them. Radek, Simpson and Kavanagh. Simpson will stay there for at least another minute. She has to try and get John to smile at her; she can't help it. Radek never stops moving, but he crosses back and forth, cutting parabolas through those thirty two and a half feet. With a margin of error of five inches. Kavanagh won't last - he'll stick his oversized foot into his stupid little mouth and John will dismiss him so casually that he'll slink away and not return for hours.

Casual. Everyone thinks that if they opened up a dictionary and looked the word up, they'd find a picture of John Sheppard looking much like he does leaning on the wall. They are incredibly wrong. Even across thirty two and a half feet (with a margin of error of five inches), Rodney can see through the physical lie. John has exquisite control over his body: arms crossed loosely, knees bent, hip cocked just so, rakish smile in place. But John can't control his eyes.

In the harsh light of the lab, John's eyes look very green. Rodney looks up, across the thirty two and a half feet, with a margin of error of five inches, and narrows his own eyes. Smouldering. That's the word for it. Rodney glances up and down John's body and dismisses the fake casualness with the crook of one side of his mouth. John's waiting for him, calling to him. Rodney jerks his head up in a short nod, then goes back to his work. When he looks up a minute later, John's gone, off to take up space elsewhere.

But Rodney knows where he'll be come midnight. With a margin of error of five inches.