(No, actually, it is gen. Really.)
He really has no desire to do this, and he really should have known better than let himself get into this position in the first place, but the girl (old enough to be a woman, sure doesn’t act like it) just won’t take no for an answer. And it’s been a long year, full of shrinking gene pools and for some reason the women keep targeting him.
Which isn’t fair, because no matter what Rodney claims, John is not the galaxy’s Kirk, and he has no desire to become it. He’s watched enough Star Trek to know that.
The girl’s bearing down on him now like a bloodhound, even as he gives her his best ‘Hi, yeah, no’ smile. That has as much effect as all the other subtle and not-so subtle hints he’s dropped that he’s not interested, thanks. Unfortunately, she’s well-connected, and the expedition needs those connections at the moment, so it’s not like he can say stay the hell away from me without pissing off someone important.
His back’s against the wall—literally—or he’d beat feet. Rodney’s blocking the doorway, staring at his scanner and mumbling to himself. And Teyla and Ford are off bartering for cloth or something on behalf of the Athosians, so there’s no help from that quarter. Which means there’s no way out of it, because his choice is down to kiss or be kissed, and he doesn’t think this society’s ever heard of the toothbrush.
So he snags Rodney by the shoulder, places a sweaty hand against the back of his neck, and places a fervently chaste kiss on his lips, hoping to heaven that’s enough of a display to get the message across.
A glance over his shoulder tells him it is: the girl’s wearing a thunderous expression, but doesn’t look likely to kick up a ruckus.
“Major, what the h—” Rodney, on the other hand. . . .
John sighs, and kisses him again. For verisimilitude, of course. Nothing to do with shutting him up.