Archive of Our Own

“Colonel Sheppard. Who are all these people in my gateroom?”

John steps back a little out of the river of refugees that’s currently flowing through the Stargate, lives in bundles on their backs, and Woolsey follows. “Travellers,” he says, feeling the weight of his P90 in his hands and the itch of his t-shirt against his bruised skin. “We went to the planet their damn malfunctioning ship dumped them on, just like Larrin’s message said. McKay was even halfway through fixing the engines when the Wraith showed up.”

Woolsey’s eyebrows jump, but that’s his only show of consternation. “Wraith?”

“Wraith,” John confirms, almost as heavily as he feels. “A lot of them. Hive ship probably, though the Travellers’ ships sensors weren’t working so we can’t tell for sure. They started culling, beaming down ground troops.” He feels something oddly close to righteousness prickle up his spine, and watches as Teyla comes through the ‘gate, an elderly woman’s arm around her shoulders and a kid that can’t be more than a few months old strapped to her chest over her tac vest. “I wasn’t about to leave eighty people to be lunchboxes for—”

“Of course not, Colonel,” Woolsey interrupts, and it’s probably a credit to the man’s temperament that his eyes aren’t flashing at the insinuation that he’d be reprimanding John right now. “I’ll see to it that we have temporary quarters set up as soon as possible. Any idea how long our guests will be staying?”

John shakes his head, feels a whisper of relief as Rodney comes stumbling through the ‘gate next, carrying at least four rucksacks worth of belongings. They’re draped all over him like he’s some kind of packhorse, and John says, “Sorry, no clue. We’re just lucky Larrin’s people were camped close enough to the ‘gate that we could get them all offworld before the Wraith properly descended.” His lips twist. “Even then, we only got as many as we could.” Now’s not the time for that train of thought, not the time for self-pity.

Woolsey apparently disagrees. “Sheppard?” he asks, and there’s that keen perception that made him such a good diplomat and such a fucking annoying boss. “What happened?”

John turns his back a little more on the Stargate—it’s okay, he’s seen Ronon come striding through with two wide-eyed toddlers clinging to his shoulders like he’s some sort of tree and they’re just playing—and shifts his grip on his P90. His fingers are slick and sweaty. “We lost a lot,” he says, low enough that none of the people who’ve just lost their homes can hear. “As in, hundreds. The Travellers had been at some kind of interstellar market in the depths of space. When the engines started failing and they had to either jump to the nearest world or explode, there were a lot more people on board than there should have been, shoppers from the other ships, visitors, old relatives, that kind of thing.” He pauses, can’t quite bring himself to say it. “Larrin reckoned,” he says, a little quieter, “that there were maybe six hundred people on board.”

Woolsey’s eyes are shot with regret. “Six hundred,” he repeats. “You said eighty.”

“Yeah,” John says heavily, settles his weapon against his chest. “Yeah, I know I did.”

Woolsey’s quiet for a moment and John won’t disturb him. He knows how those numbers feel, too, and he watches those who made it trickle past. They’re gathering at the foot of the gateroom stairs, no one really knowing where to go or what to do, but the SFs seem to be coping pretty well—Shaw’s already got one of the kids up in his arms, while Sato’s accepting what looks like a valued heirloom with an expression that’s only vaguely confused—and Teyla’s masterminding everything even with a baby in her arms. Rodney’s starting to bitch and moan, too, so everything can’t be that bad.

“I’d like to arrange a meeting with Larrin,” Woolsey says, and he’s got his composure back already. “As soon as possible. Atlantis is of course open to all her people for as long as they need our help, but we do have limited resources and the Hammond is bringing new personnel in a week’s time. I need to discuss these issues with her.”

And here’s the bit John was really trying to forget. “That’s gonna be an issue,” he says.

He can see it in Woolsey’s face that he understands. “She didn’t make it?”

“She didn’t make it,” John confirms. “Wouldn’t leave her ship. Said that if she wasn’t getting it, no one was.” He hesitates, thinks about the wash of heat on his face as he was knocked sideways through the ‘gate to the half-way planet, says, “She stayed behind to overload her engines. Played a big part in letting us get away.” His lips twist. “I think self-sacrifice was something she learnt from me.”

Woolsey shakes his head. “You can’t blame yourself,” he says, and he’s almost earnest. “You did as best you could under the circumstances. I’m sure everyone—”

Wait.

Woolsey’s still talking, something about hard decisions and following your instincts, but John’s not listening. The refugees have stopped and the Stargate’s been shut down, so now there are eighty-odd Pegasus natives milling around Atlantis’ gateroom, waiting for someone to tell them what to do and where to go. SFs and John’s team are doing their best but they’re still reeling, everyone’s still reeling, because this situation is weird and unfamiliar and no one knows anyone else or even if they’re trying to help or just trying to get something out of the whole fuck-up.

Except for that one face that just went flashing by.

John leaves Woolsey talking to a wall, ignores his boss’s appropriately indignant Colonel Sheppard! and heads for the refugees. They’re all jumbled up, most of them avoiding eye-contact with anyone but close relatives and, for the most part, Teyla, but John knows where he’s going. He knows that face better than he knows his own, so he weaves and dodges, pulls his BDUs out of kids’ chubby grips and steps around men and women with tears in their eyes and devastation on their lips, because they can wait. They can wait, but this can’t, because that face is a million, million miles away.

John stops dead, breath short in his throat, and says, “You.”

Broad shoulders, firm with muscle, and short dark hair, cut close to the nape of the neck. A black t-shirt, stretched almost too tight, with – leather pants? That’s a new one.

“Hey,” John says, and for the first time registers that he’s raised his P90. “Turn around.”

The guy turns, boots squeaking on Atlantis’ floor. His face is schooled into a practised mask of disinterested calm with only the lips betraying the faintest hint of tension, and the hair is shorter than John remembers, cut closer to the scalp and spiked with what must be a mix of sweat and dirt – but it’s the eyes. The eyes are guarded and wary, suspicious and darting over John’s face and hands and weapon with an absolute lack of recognition. “Do I know you?” the guy says, and, fuck, that’s his voice. That’s his voice.

Woolsey seems not to have been content with talking to a wall. He’s followed John, come to stand at his side, and now he says, voice pitched higher in his surprised, “Colonel Mitchell?”

John’s finger is so close to his P90’s trigger right now, even though he knows that firing in such a crowded space is lethal at best, suicidal at worst, because his heart is pounding, thudding so loud in his ears he can barely hear his own voice when he says, “No. That’s not Mitchell.”

Not-Mitchell’s gaze is sharp and assessing. “Sorry, guys,” he says. “You must have me confused with someone else.”

“Yeah,” John says. “I’m sure we do.” But he doesn’t drop the P90, because he’s read just as many of Cam’s mission reports as Cam has his, and they’ve both had their fair share of clones and duplicates and doppelgangers and twins to not know that an unexpected face-double tends to mean trouble. “But why don’t you just come with me?” he suggests, keeping his voice easy, keeping his shoulders level. “I’ll get you set up nice and cosy. Seafront view?”

“Yes,” Woolsey says, and, wow, he’s not doing so well at disguising the strain in his voice. John supposes this is a pretty hairy start to a Tuesday morning. “Yes, why don’t you go with Colonel Sheppard? He’ll get you settled, then we can talk more when—”

John’s sparred enough with Cam over the years that he should have seen it coming. Fact is, though, he doesn’t, and so before he really knows what’s happening he’s on his ass on the gateroom floor with Woolsey on top of him and bleeding from a punch to the nose and not-Mitchell is running. John swears, shoves Woolsey off his, gropes for the P90 that has somehow gone skidding across the floor away from him—probably accidentally kicked by one of the refugees who are now pretty much stampeding—and makes it onto his feet just in time to see the flash of Ronon’s pistol.

Not-Mitchell goes down and doesn’t get up again.

Ronon saunters over to him, nudges him with one foot, then frowns, looks up at John, and says, “What’s Colonel Mitchell doing here?”

There’s something churning in John’s gut. “He’s not,” he says sharply. “That’s not Mitchell.”

Behind him, Woolsey is scrabbling to his feet. He presses a hand to his nose in what’s a pretty vain attempt to stem the bloodflow, but his voice is remarkably steady when he says, “Take him to a cell. We’ll deal with him after all these people have places to stay.” – which is probably one of many reasons Woolsey is the commander of this expedition and not John, because all John wants to do right now is tie that man down and make him tell exactly who he is and why he’s stolen Cam Mitchell’s face. Why and how, now that John’s thinking about it, because what the fuck? Mitchell has been to Pegasus a grand total of once, and, well, he wasn’t exactly doing anything on that trip that would allow some generic bad guy to make off with his DNA. Well, nothing outside of John’s quarters, but John’s pretty sure that no generic bad guys have been in there for a very long time – and, anyway, that’s so not what he should be thinking about right now.

Refugees pirouette around him. Ronon and one of the Marines have got the man with Cam’s face slung between them and they’re taking him away. John’s not entirely sure what he should be doing right now.

“John?” Teyla appears alongside him, baby unstrapped from her vest and grandma unloaded onto the other relatives. “John, are you alright? You seem upset.”

‘Upset’ isn’t quite how John would put it. ‘Upset’ doesn’t accurately describe the knot of emotion in his chest that’s been caused by a) seeing his boyfriend for the first time in seven months, and b) having said boyfriend punch his boss in the face. But it’s not Cam. It’s not.

Teyla’s still looking at him with that annoyingly-perceptive look she gets when she knows he’s hiding something and she’s got a pretty damn good idea of what exactly it is that he’s hiding from her. John hates that looks.

“I’m fine,” John says. “I’m gonna hit the showers.”

They put not-Mitchell in one of the medical isolation rooms, in the end, because the moment Carson gets wind of what exactly it is that came back with them through the Stargate he’s hooked. Not that anyone’s actually determined what not-Mitchell is yet, clone or duplicate or Replicator fake, but Carson’s basically two galaxies’ expert in expert fakes so he’s probably the best person to have on the case. Teyla asks around the Traveller refugees, but all she finds out is that he came on board when they were having their big space meet-and-greet and didn’t manage to get back to his ship before the engine started doing bad things. Teyla mentioned something about his ship, though, something about it being alive, but then she got a buzz in her ear and had to go off to corral wandering Travellers who don’t quite realise that, actually, this is at least in part a military facility and they can’t just go wandering wherever they fancy – particularly not if there’s an irritable Radek Zelenka holed up inside.

John goes to the jumper bay and sits in Jumper One, pushing dust motes around the console and trying not to think about Cam’s eyes without Cam’s memories.

John left Ronon watching not-Mitchell, pistol set to stun and two Marines on rotation with him, and he radios John the moment there’s a change. “Sheppard. He’s awake. And I think he’s angry.” The last is said with a lick of Ronon’s usual sardonic humour, and John legs it out of the jumper bay and to the nearest transporter.

He’s at the isolation room inside of six minutes, but Woolsey’s still already there ahead of him. He sort of suspects that Woolsey’s been loitering here along with Ronon and the Marines, but there’s a couple of butterfly sutures across the bridge of his nose that would seem to indicate that he’s at least been to visit Keller in the infirmary. Neither Woolsey nor Ronon acknowledges him as he trots up next to them, but that’s because they’re both peering through the window at the isolation room below, Woolsey frowning, Ronon downright grinning.

Well, John’s got to see what this is all about.

Not-Mitchell is standing on the bed in the isolation room, feet still in his boots but with the laces taken out, and he’s tracked mud and dark splotches all over the pristine white sheets. Someone’s going to have a coronary about that, John knows, but he doesn’t really have time to think about that because not-Mitchell is yelling, bouncing up and down on the bed like he wants to break it, waving his arms around and generally acting like, well, like he belongs more in a padded cell than an Atlantis isolation room. The glass is soundproof so John can’t hear a single profanity but that doesn’t stop something twisting in his heart, something bitter and confused, because what this looks like is Cam Mitchell, losing his mind and locked up where John can’t touch him anymore.

It’s closer to John’s nightmares than John would ever admit.

“Looks like Mitchell,” Ronon says shortly. “Sounds like him, too. That—” He waves a hand in front of his mouth. “—accent.”

“He’s younger,” John blurts, and the words are out of his mouth before he realises he’s said them. It’s true, though: this guy is Cam six, seven years ago, before the crash and Atlantis and the SGC. Not that this guy is Cam at all.

Ronon grunts. Woolsey gives John a suspiciously keen look, then he says, “He’s been yelling to talk to someone for ten minutes, now. Colonel, will you accompany me?”

John’s not sure he wants to be in the same room with not-Mitchell under any circumstances, but he says, “Sure.” and checks that the Wraith stunner he picked up from the armoury is still strapped to his thigh.

Not-Mitchell doesn’t even pause when John keys the door to the isolation room open, and John follows Woolsey in to the tune of a barrage of abuse that’s almost impressive: “—because it ain’t my damn fault if you frelling idiots think I’m someone I’m not, and I have people I need to go and help and save that you’re stopping me from getting to, so if you think I am just gonna sit down and play it nice then you have got another thing coming, baldy, because I do not have time for this drenn.”

Woolsey comes to a stop in front of the man who was punching him in the face a few short hours ago, lets his arms hang loose at his sides and says, “Well, if you would get down from the bed, maybe we can come to some kind of arrangement.”

That stops not-Mitchell short, and his eyes narrow as he studies both Woolsey and John in turn. John has to force himself not to shift from foot to foot, because he’s been on the receiving end of plenty of intense looks from Cam before, yeah, but none of those situations have been quite on a par with this one. “Right,” not-Mitchell says. “Sure.” He doesn’t get down from the bed, though, just eyes the stunner on John’s thigh, then says, “You planning to shoot me again?”

John shrugs. He’s having to fight the urge to shoot the guy right now just for not being Cam, but he figures that’s not a sensible thing to say. “Depends,” he says. “You planning on attacking any of us again?”

Not-Mitchell’s lips twist wryly. “Fair,” he says, and drops down from the bed with a thud that sends the floor rattling. “That stunner thing leaves a nasty taste in the back of my mouth. Pretty cool, though.” He flicks his chin up towards Ronon, still standing in the observation window. “Think your friend could get me one?”

This guy isn’t Cam. Everything about him is wrong—the stance, the hair, the eyes, the way his gaze skims over John like he’s nothing but another uniform—but there’s a lilt in his voice and his humour that rubs John in all the right, Cam-shaped places. He shifts, says, “Doubt it. I’ve been asking for years and I’ve still got nothing.”

“Now that you’re down off the bed,” Woolsey interrupts, and not-Mitchell’s sharp gaze snaps back to him in a heartbeat, “would you care to inform us of your name?”

Not-Mitchell’s eyes narrow, then dart between Woolsey and John and Ronon and back to Woolsey again. He doesn’t answer for a long moment, and then he says, slow and careful, “Are you telling me you don’t know?”

John doesn’t know what he knows. Woolsey says, “Don’t know what?”

The cogs are whirring in not-Mitchell’s brain. John can practically smell the smoke, and not-Mitchell says, “I assumed that was why you picked me out.” He looks between Woolsey and John again, spends far too long lingering on John’s for John’s tastes, then says, “But, then again, most people who lock me up tend to go straight for the mind probes and the torture. I guess you guys have held off on that, at least.” He rocks on his heels, tucks his hands in his pockets—John still hasn’t quite got over the leather pants thing, yet: it’s a good look—and says, “John Crichton. And you are?”

“Richard Woolsey,” Woolsey answers, still with that diplomat’s smile in place. “This Lieutenant Colonel John Sheppard.”

Not-Mitchell—who John should probably start calling Crichton now—gives John a measured look, long and slow, and John might not be able to read Crichton’s face quite like he can read Cam’s but he can see the confusion in those eyes. “John,” he repeats. “And Richard.” He squints at John. “ ‘Lieutenant Colonel’? Army?”

“Air Force.”

“Air Force,” Crichton repeats, then frowns and crosses his arms. “You’re from Earth. American, I’m guessing.” He pauses, and there’s a flicker of something that looks genuinely like worry in his eyes. “And you’re sure you haven’t heard of me?”

“Sorry,” John says. “Guess you’re not as famous as you thought.”

“No,” Crichton interrupts, and, oh, there’s that cocky confidence that John knows so well. If he closes his eyes this guy could be Cam, accent thick as honey and mannerisms slipping closer and closer by the moment. “No, that’s the thing,” Crichton says. “I am. We’re talking global superstar here. The guy who got shot off to the other side of universe, then came back and dumped aliens on the world’s front lawn.”

John has to fight to keep a straight face.

“I’m sorry,” Woolsey says, calm as you like, “but I’m afraid you’re mistaken.” Sometimes Woolsey’s diplomacy really does come in handy. Looks like this is turning out to be one of those times.

“Moya,” Crichton says, and he’s studying their faces for a response like they’re animals and he’s their trainer. “D’Argo. Chianna. Dominar Rygel the Sixteenth. Sikozu. Aeryn frelling Sun!” His voice is practically a shout by the end, keen and piercing, and his cheeks are stained a frantic red.

John’s rapidly realising that, actually, no, he can’t just close his eyes and imagine this guy’s Cam. This guy is fucking nuts.

“Calm down,” Woolsey says, hard as steel, smooth as velvet. “Shouting won’t get you anywhere, Mr Crichton.”

“Commander,” Crichton interrupts. “Commander John Crichton, IASA. Astronaut.”

“Commander,” Woolsey corrects. “I apologise. But I’m still going to have to ask you to calm down if—”

He breaks off at the same time as John’s earpiece buzzes with Carson’s voice. “Mr Woolsey, Colonel Sheppard. You’re going to want to see this.”

“I’m calm,” Crichton’s saying, and his voice is softer, now, but his eyes are cold and shuttered. “I’m very calm. I’m so frelling calm that I’m just going to sit here and not say anything else, if that’s okay with you. Just going to take a little break. Need to think about some things.” John knows that tone of voice. Cam’s voice was shot through with it the last time they spoke before John shipped out to Atlantis, when he was laid up in a hospital bed full of the knowledge that he may well never walk again, when John told him that he was going to be out of touch for a long while and he couldn’t say why, and Cam just said, with that little whisper in his voice, go, John, before I get down to McMurdo and kick your ass for even thinking about refusing. John didn’t even find out about the crash until they got back in touch with Stargate Command. Cam still won’t tell him how close he really got – and that’s the point, because that voice only comes out when Cam is scared and frightened and doesn’t want anyone else to know.

“Of course,” Woolsey says. “If you’ll excuse us.”

The moment the door’s shut behind them John unclenches his fists and says, “He knows something. He knows something he’s not telling us.”

“I imagine,” Woolsey answers, “that Commander Crichton knows a lot of things that he’s not telling us.” He pauses for a moment, thinks, then touches his radio and says, “Doctor Beckett. Where are you?”

Beckett’s in his lab. It’s an Ancient laboratory that they opened up some time last year, conveniently only a few corridors away from the main infirmary, and it just so happens that it’s filled with stuff Rodney pretty quickly identified as Ancient medical tech. Nothing actually useful in a front line situation, no instant bone setting machine or radiation poisoning fixing machine, but rather research equipment, deep tissue scans and advanced DNA sequencers. Beckett moved in immediately, and it’s there that John follows Woolsey. Keller’s already there, of course, studying one of the readouts, and where Keller goes so does Rodney, so there’s that at least, and Beckett looks up when John and Woolsey traipse in, says, “Gentlemen. I’ve had a chance to analyse the samples I took from our new friend.”

“John Crichton,” Woolsey fills in. “He claims he’s an astronaut with IASA.”

Rodney perks up at that. “He’s lying,” he says bluntly.

“Rodney,” Keller admonishes him gently, while not looking up from her readout.

“No, he is,” Rodney objects. “I know the names of every astronaut in every programme on Earth. John Crichton is not among them.” His forehead furrows, just for a moment, and he says, “There was a Jack Crichton, though. Walked on the moon back in the eighties.” His face pales, just a little, and he continues, a little quieter, “He was on the Challenger in eighty-six.”

John winces and files that away for later.

“Well,” Beckett says. “He may very well be lying about that, I don’t know. But I can tell you that he’s completely human. Genetically identical to the records we have on file for Colonel Mitchell.”

“Not a clone?” Woolsey asks.

“I highly doubt it,” Keller interjects. “His body and his cells show all the signs of having existed for thirty to forty years. He hasn’t just been grown in a test tube.”

“Not a Replicator?” That’s Rodney.

“No, Rodney,” Beckett says, with just a hint of exasperation in his voice. “Not a Replicator. Don’t you think we would’ve mentioned if we’d found that he was a Replicator?”

Rodney looks vaguely offended. “Just checking.”

“So he’s normal,” Woolsey says, getting everything back on track. “He’s human.”

“No,” Beckett says. “No, he’s certainly not normal. Not only is he genetically identical to Cameron Mitchell—who I’m pretty sure is in the Milky Way right now—which would seem to suggest that something’s gone a tad wrong, but there are… other things.”

“Other things,” Woolsey repeats flatly. John’s getting the impression that today is one of those days that Richard Woolsey is not particularly enjoying his job. “If you could explain that statement, Doctor Beckett?”

It’s Keller who answers. “There are a couple of abnormalities,” she says. “Firstly, there are some bacterial cultures in his blood I’ve never seen before. Nothing infectious!” She makes a calming gesture at Rodney, who was already looking horrified. “Nothing infectious,” she repeats. “We triple-checked. It’s just some sort of microbial culture, with the main colonies clustering around his brain and auditory canals.”

“If I had to guess,” Beckett interjects, “I’d say it’s translating for him.”

“Secondly,” Keller continues like Beckett never said a word, “he’s dosed with a set of exotic particles—again, Rodney, they’re harmless, we checked—that don’t have any kind of match in either our own database or the Ancient’s.”

“Meaning?” Woolsey asks, although John’s starting to figure it out for himself. Exotic particles tend to mean—

“An alternate universe,” Rodney says sharply. “You think he’s from an alternate universe.”

“It makes sense,” Keller offers. “We ran it past Radek, and he—”

“Why didn’t you run it past me?” Rodney demands, putting a dash of kicked puppy into his voice.

John’s eternally impressed by Keller’s ability to put up with Rodney’s bullshit. “We didn’t run it past you,” she says, calm and reasonable, “because we couldn’t get hold of you. According to the city’s sensors, you were in your bathroom. For about an hour.”

Rodney goes pink, doesn’t look at either John or Woolsey, and mutters something about the smell of refugees. John knows better, knows that Rodney doesn’t deal well with failure, especially when that failure is as thick with death as this one was, but it’s not the time to talk about that now.

“Alright then,” Woolsey says, apparently having the same thought as John. “So our guest is from an alternate universe. Any ideas about how to get him back?”

Rodney’s shaking his head. “We need to know more about how he got here,” he says. “Quantum mirror, Stargate malfunction, rip in space-time: we need to be very specific, especially if we want to get him back to the universe that he came from. Was he in a spaceship? Did he come through a Stargate? Is, in fact, all of this rubbish and he’s actually just a very, very, very well made bad guy clone? Or evil twin?” Rodney’s working himself up again, but John’s not about to stop him. Even Keller’s sitting there with a smile on her face.

“And how do we find that out?” Woolsey interrupts Rodney’s impending explosion, and his voice is well aware of the fact that he’s currently demonstrating the patience of a saint. Or just an Atlantis expedition leader.

Rodney looks a little at a loss. “Ask him?”

“I see,” Woolsey says flatly.

“He’s not going to talk,” John interjects, speaking for the first time since they started this little powwow. “We could put Ronon in there with him and he wouldn’t crack, trust me, I know the type. And he doesn’t trust us, which explains the whole running away and hitting you in the face.” Woolsey’s expression gets a little pained, which John can understand. “He’s not likely to trust us as long as we keep him locked up, and I’m guessing that we’re not going to just let him go?”

Woolsey shakes his head. “I can’t authorise that,” he says. “Not without knowing more about why he’s here. After all, alternate versions of SG-1 do have a history of coming here with less than noble intentions.”

Yeah, John knows all about that. On some level he’s sorry he missed it – especially the bit where both Cam and evil Cam lost their pants. “I figured,” he says, and takes a breath. Here’s the main point. “I can read some of Crichton’s tells,” he says, “because they’re pretty much identical to Mitchell’s, but I’m no expert.” Not that that’s true at all, but it’s as much as he’s going to say now. “I recommend getting Colonel Mitchell’s input. He knows himself pretty well.”

“They’re not the same person, though,” Woolsey says. “You said it yourself: this Crichton is younger, for one thing. And I suppose that I don’t quite believe that Ronon’s persuasive powers would go wasted, even on this individual.”

John’s not going to argue, but that’s only because he knows he’s right and Woolsey will have to come around eventually. “Okay,” he says. “But when Ronon fails, I’d still recommend Mitchell. He’s a good man.”

Woolsey squints at John like he knows his authority is being undercut and sort of doesn’t really mind that much. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he says, and leaves it at that.

Ronon, of course, fails to get anything out of Mitchell-Crichton. John watches the attempt, watches Ronon prowl around the outside edge of the room while Crichton sits on the bed, kicking his legs and giving what John imagines are sarcastic, unhelpful responses. Ronon doesn’t seem particularly demoralised by the whole situation, just grunts and goes to find Teyla, who manages to find half an hour spare to come and help in a schedule that currently includes finding accommodation for all the Traveller refugees, helping them hold some kind of democratic election to choose who represents them, finding them suitable settlement locations and being a mother to an increasingly stroppy toddler. She gets nowhere, either, and when no one else is willing to go into that particular isolation room anymore because they’re sick of swear words they don’t understand, Woolsey calls Stargate Command.

Crichton just sits in his room, eats his meals, and acts so disarmingly like Cam that John’s taken to avoiding the isolation rooms at all costs.

“Sounds like a bit of a situation you’ve got yourself there, Richard,” General Landry booms. “And you say he doesn’t claim to actually be Mitchell? He just looks like him?”

“That’s correct, General,” Woolsey says. “The doctors inform me that he is also a genetic match for Colonel Mitchell’s on-file DNA. He’s proving resistant to questioning, though, and Colonel Sheppard believes that Colonel Mitchell may be able to help in that area.” John tries not to perk up at that. He knows Landry can see him, and he doesn’t particularly want to be hopping from foot to foot in excitement every time the prospect of Cam schlepping out to Atlantis comes up in polite conversation.

“Well, Richard,” Landry says, “as it so happens you’re in luck! SG-1 just returned from a mission yesterday, and they’ve brought you folks back a present. I’ll send Mitchell via Midway as soon as he’s debriefed and cleared by medical. Taking into account the quarantine, he should be with you by tomorrow afternoon.”

“If I might ask, General,” Woolsey says in a tone of voice that would best be described as ‘cautiously optimistic’, “what’s the present?”

Landry’s grin spreads wider on the monitor. “SG-1 found a stash of ZPMs.”

And with that sentence, the entire scientific community of Atlantis is thrown into chaos. Zelenka gets so excited he seems to entirely forget how to speak English, instead devolving into jabbered Czech unless it’s one of those end-of-the-world-we-need-you-now kind of situations. Miko retreats completely into herself, and there’s an oddly pungent smell drifting around the botanists’ greenhouses that John’s going to choose not to think about. Rodney, oddly enough, seems mostly okay, to the extent that he spends the entirety of lunch making disparaging remarks about his more excitable, less experienced colleagues, but that’s more than a little undercut when John picks up his tablet in his lab and discovers that he’s got a list of all the new shiny toys he wants to play with when they plug in the ZedPM. At fourteen hundred hours, it’s four hundred items long.

Personally, John’s paying more attention to the ‘cleared by medical’ part of Landry’s missive, because it’s not that he doesn’t trust Cam to stay out of trouble, it’s just that, well, he knows he doesn’t.

The day rolls past.

In the evening, Teyla stops by John’s quarters to inform him that the Traveller refugees have picked a new leader—her name is Keena, and Teyla seems to approve—and then she pauses, keys the door shut, and says, “I hear Colonel Mitchell has reached Midway.”

“Yeah,” John says, fiddling with the label on his last bottle of beer. “They’re dialling in at fifteen hundred tomorrow.” He’s already cleared his schedule for the entirety of tomorrow afternoon. “Hopefully he can lend a hand with this whole Crichton situation.”

“Of course,” Teyla says, far too quickly. “I’m sure he will be most useful in dealing with John Crichton.” She’s not smirking, but she might as well be.

John narrows his eyes at her. “Something you want to say, Teyla?”

“Nothing at all,” Teyla breezes. “I just wanted to express my hope that this Crichton situation not conclude too quickly.”

“Go away,” John says.

Teyla’s eyes are sparkling. “Of course,” she says smoothly. “I will leave you, John. Make sure you are well rested before tomorrow. You will be needed to… entertain the Colonel.”

John throws a pillow at her, but she ducks out and it just hits the closing doors.

At fourteen-fifty-seven, John’s waiting in the gateroom. He’s actually been loitering in the general vicinity of the central tower for a good ten minutes now, but he knows Chuck and the other gate techs would just shoo him away if he tried to wait for the dial-in around them. The other alternative was Woolsey’s office, but ever since the memorial service for Larrin the Travellers held this morning out in the east pier Woolsey’s been quiet and subdued. John doesn’t blame him. He hasn’t exactly been Mr Cheerful himself, because whatever else Larrin was, she was an ally and she was a friend.

John won’t think about that now. Onto the next problem.

Chevrons on the Stargate are lighting up, one by one, and John pads closer to the balcony, leans against the rail and watches as the event horizon plumes outwards, bright and blue and shimmering. Woolsey leaves his office, comes to stand by John, and four seconds later (John knows, he counted) Cameron Mitchell comes strolling out of the wormhole like he hasn’t just travelled most of the way across two galaxies in a little over a day. John sees Cam squint to get his bearings, catch sight of him and Woolsey, and call, “Howdy, fellas.” He slaps the large, black case that’s slung over his right shoulder. “I’m guessing there’s some folks here who are pretty keen to get their hands on this?”

But John’s not listening. John’s not listening to a single thing that Cam’s saying, and, no, it’s not because he’s happy to see him, he’s not a fucking schoolboy.

John doesn’t even wait for Woolsey’s go ahead, and he has to control himself very, very carefully to stop himself from flat-out running through the control room and down the stairs. As it is, he walks briskly, firmly, and at least two Marines get the hell out of his way without him having to say a word – and even then he’s not the first person to reach Cam’s side. That honour goes to Rodney McKay, who was presumably lurking just as much as John, although for different reasons, and when John strolls purposefully up to Cam’s position, Rodney’s already wrestled him out of the ZPM case and is legging it to his lab.

John ignores him. John’s good at ignoring Rodney.

Cam tosses John a perfect salute. “Colonel Sheppard,” he says, lips splitting into one of his patented jaw-cracking grins. “Good to see you again.”

“I wish I could say the same,” John says, formal and stiff, and then he lowers his voice, hisses, “What the hell happened to you?”

But Woolsey gets there before Cam can answer. “Colonel,” he says, smooth as a glove. “Welcome to Atlantis.”

Cam doesn’t even break stride. “Glad to be here,” he says. “General Landry briefed me on the situation. Sounds pretty weird, even by SGC standards.”

“You’re not wrong,” Woolsey says. John can see the hesitation in his stance, the way his gaze flicks Cam up and down, and he says finally, “Odd, but not hugely urgent. Our guest is comfortable, at least, as much as he can be. I know how draining Midway can be, and I suggest that you… take the afternoon off.”

Cam beams. “You can say it, Woolsey,” he says. “I look like crap. Don’t worry, I know. Doctor Lam cleared me for this little trip, so you don’t have to bend over backwards to make sure I’m comfy. I’m a big boy.”

Woolsey raises an eyebrow, and John thinks he might even detect a smile ghosting around those thin lips. “Nonetheless,” Woolsey says, “I’d be remiss in my duties as host if I didn’t allow you time to acclimatise to Atlantis, particularly in your condition. We’ll meet to discuss the situation at oh-eight-hundred tomorrow morning. For now, I’m sure Colonel Sheppard can show you to your assigned quarters.”

Cam’s trying not to smile. He’s mostly succeeding as well, but John knows the signs: the tightness around his eyes, the up-tip of his chin. “If it’ll make you feel better,” he says, “you can send me to a spa.”

Woolsey’s eyes are bright. “Not quite that comfortable, Colonel,” he says, then nods to John. “Colonel Sheppard, Colonel Mitchell. I will see you tomorrow morning.” And he heads back to his office without another word.

Cam, for lack of a better word, guffaws. “Wow, that boy has changed,” he says under his breath. “Atlantis has been good for him.”

“Good for all of us,” John observes, shifts his stance, crosses his arms. “So. Colonel Mitchell. Are you going to tell me what happened to you, or am I going to have to beat it out of you?”

Cam winces, and John knows him more than well enough to see that that wasn’t entirely playful. “Show me where I can dump my stuff,” Cam says. “Then we can go have a beer. I’ll tell you everything, I promise.”

“No beer,” John says, a little glumly. “I’m out, and the Hammond won’t get here for another day or so.”

If that’s physically possible, Cam’s smile gets even wider. “No problem,” he says, and slaps his free hand to the duffel bag that’s slung across his body. John can hear the chink of bottles from three feet away. “I’ve got the beer, you’ve got the seafront city. Together, we’re pretty much perfect.”

John’s not going to respond to that, either to the words Cam’s actually said or the ones he’s only implied. “Right,” he says. “Okay. I’ll show you to your quarters. And seeing as you look like that, I’m taking your damn bag.”

Cameron Mitchell, leader of SG-1, decorated Air Force officer, Stargate Command’s golden boy, is an absolute mess. His face is a cacophony of scratches and bruises, with a sutured gash dipping below his hairline and a proper shiner blossomed around his left eye, and the mess continues on down past his collar. John can only imagine how far it extends – but he doesn’t really have to imagine much, because Cam’s left arm is in a cast and a sling and when he walks he’s significantly favouring his right leg. When John catches glimpses of his hands, he’s pretty sure he can see a missing fingernail.

“You’re staring, Sheppard,” Cam says out of the side of his mouth as John leads him through Atlantis’ halls. “And while I do appreciate you staring at me, you’re not being very subtle about it.”

“Everyone’s staring at you, Mitchell,” John snipes back. “It’s probably something to do with the fact that we’ve currently got another you locked up downstairs. Oh, and because you look like you went fifty rounds with a Wraith armed with a fucking butterknife.”

Just for a second, a dangerous, flagrant second, out there in Atlantis’ halls with two of Rodney’s science team heading towards them, John feels Cam’s fingertips brush against the inside of his wrist, soft, gentle, reassuring. “No Wraith in the Milky Way, Sheppard, your intel’s bad,” is the less than helpful thing Cam says, though, so John jerks his wrist away and stalks through the halls ahead of Cam until they get to the guest quarters Woolsey rustled up. “Home sweet home,” Cam says from behind him as John keys the door, and then they’re inside and the door’s shut behind them and there’s nothing but them and the bruises on Cam’s skin.

Cam, however, seems distracted. He lets out a low whistle and starts poking around the room, at the Athosian furs thrown across the king size bed and the fancy Pegasus artifacts dotted artfully around the walls. “Nice digs,” he says. “Jackson would have a field day with half of these things. You know he’s still pushing General O’Neill to get him transferred over here? I think when Landry got the call that you guys wanted me to Midway it over he nearly exploded.”

“Cam,” John says, low and dangerous, and fuck that feels good. Cam instead of Mitchell, John instead of Sheppard. “Cam, tell me what happened.”

Cam eases himself down onto one of the armchairs that’s scattered around the admittedly palatial guest quarters, says, “I’m fine, John. Honestly. Broken arm, couple of cracked ribs. Some nice bruises to add to my collection, but nothing more extensive than that. Doctor Lam did clear me, although she might have had some stern words with me before I left along the lines of not getting myself captured and tortured again anytime soon.”

John crosses his arms. “ ‘Tortured’?”

Cam winces. “Not the best word to use,” he admits. “ ‘Tortured’ is strong. I was smacked around a bit.”

John keeps looking at him flatly. “ ‘A bit’?”

Cam narrows his eyes, just briefly, and that is so reminiscent of fucking Crichton that it makes John’s heart race. “Okay,” Cam says. “More than a bit. But do you want to hear the damn story or not?”

“Yeah,” John says. “But not here.”

He gets the beers out of Cam’s bag, nods approvingly at the label, then grabs Cam’s good arm and motors him out of there, down the corridor to the transporter, across the city to John’s quarters-with-a-balcony-and-a-seaview. Cam chuckles as he’s practically shoved inside but doesn’t say anything, just waits until John’s found his bottle opener, accepts the open beer, then says, “Why is there a pillow on the floor next to the door?”

“Teyla,” John answers, as if that explains everything. “Don’t change the subject.”

Cam flops down on John’s bed, then pulls a face and says, “The bed in the guest quarters is much nicer. Why don’t you have fancy furs?”

“Cam.”

“Okay, okay.” Cam takes a mouthful of his beer, says, “It happened while we were getting those damn ZPMs that all the scientists in two galaxies are getting all excited over. This minor Goa’uld, Cybele had got her snakey hands on a couple of ZPMs and an Ancient mind-control thingy.”

“ ‘Ancient mind-control thingy’?” John repeats, but sits down on the bed next to Cam anyway.

“Yeah,” Cam says, like it’s a challenge. “Problem?”

John can feel the smile twitching at his lips despite the sling and the bruises and the fact that this beer isn’t even vaguely cold. “Not at all. Continue.”

Cam’s lips twist upwards, too, and he says, “Anyway. Cybele. Nothing major back before the Goa’uld went the way of the dodo, but she’s apparently spent the past few years doing a Ba’al and building up her own little power base in a corner of the Milky Way, using this Ancient device to brainwash whole worlds into worshipping her, doing her bidding, that kind of bad guy thing. We actually stumbled on her by accident.” John snorts. “Honestly! It was standard recon, PZ2-4791. Jackson found some ruins, started making those noises he makes when he thinks he’s found something that could change our perception of the universe. Turns out that was the Ancient mind-control thingy, and Cybele didn’t take too kindly to us trespassing on the source of her power.”

“They chased you off?”

“They chased the others off,” Cam corrects. “Me, I was too slow. Got caught. Dragged me before Cybele, she did the whole SG-1, blasphemers, you will die slowly schtick. Got her mind-slaves to lay into me, then went for the hand device. I tell you, those things hurt.” Cam’s shoulder is bumping John’s now, warm and solid and steady, and he says, “They only had me for a few hours, not enough to do any real damage. Not enough for her to break me and get her to spill my team’s location.” Cam’s nose wrinkles. “Not that I actually knew that,” he admits. “I assumed they’d gone back to the ‘gate, back to Stargate Command for reinforcements or something.”

“Is that not what happened?”

“Not quite,” Cam says, a little ruefully. “That was their plan, apparently, but then they stumbled onto Cybele’s ZPM stash. Apparently quite literally: Jackson fell in a hole, and there they were. And by ‘hole’, I mean secret underground facility, but fortunately for us Cybele was so convinced her slaves would never leave her that she only posted a minimal guard. Teal’c took them down without breaking a sweat, apparently. Not that I’m really surprised.” John isn’t, either. If the mission reports weren’t enough, the fact that Ronon of all people looks up to the guy would have him sold. “Long story short,” Cam says, “they figured out how to turn off the mind-control. Eventually.”

John knows that tone, the half-bitterness that Cam’s never been particularly good at hiding. “How long did it take them?” he asks.

“Nearly three hours,” Cam says, and John can see the tension in his jaw. “At least, that’s how long Cybele and her goons had me. I mean, for at least some of that time my team were running and hiding, but with Sam on the Hammond, all the bright, flashy lights were a little too complicated.” Cam shrugs. “They figured it out in the end. Jackson did some translation and Teal’c lent a hand with the heavy lifting. Vala actually put the nuts and bolts of it together, apparently. I think Sam’s been giving her lessons in her downtime.”

John’s not spent much time with Cam’s team, but even he’s not hugely surprised that Vala displays a certain aptitude for technology. Underneath the pigtails and the petty crime, the woman’s sharp as a tack. “So three hours,” he says. “Of torture.”

Cam looks at him sideways. “Something like that,” he admits. “But we brought back three ZPMs. If that means that you guys can keep your shield running indefinitely or even fly the damn city out of danger if needs be, then it’s worth it. All of it.”

John knows that tone, too. Emotion and passion and I’ve missed you. “Getting emotional on me, Mitchell?” he asks, sardonic as he can manage.

Cam’s lips purse. “I just thought you’d be more appreciative,” he says. “I got beaten up to get you those ZPMs.”

Something clicks in John’s head. He half turns, beer bottle still dangling from his fingers, and says, “Wait. ZPMs? Plural?”

Cam’s smile turns sly. “Plural,” he says. “Homeworld Command kept one for use in the Antarctica chair, but they figured that, with the Goa’uld and the Ori not really a problem any more and the Lucian Alliance more interested in killing each other than us, well, Atlantis needs the power more than Earth. There are two ZPMs in that box McKay nearly broke my other arm to get.”

“Two ZPMs,” John repeats. “Rodney’s going to be awful.”

Cam snickers. “I aim to please.” His eyes flicker dark at that. His voice drops from a drawl to a rasp and he says, “In every way.”

John knows that voice all too well. “No,” he says. “We are not having sex right now.”

“I haven’t seen you in seven months, two weeks, and four days,” Cam says, and John’s pretty sure that he’d have his hand on John’s thigh by now if it wasn’t already occupied by a bottle of warm beer. “Are you really going to leave me hanging?”

“You have a broken arm,” John points out flatly.

“I can work around that,” Cam answers cheerfully.

“No, you can’t.”

“Spoilsport.”

John’s happy to be a spoilsport if it means that Cam doesn’t wind up on his doorstep with a multi-coloured face anymore. “Drink your beer.”

Cam’s eyes do that twinkly little thing they do when he’s just had a bad idea, and he says, “Yes, sir.” He downs the beer in long gulps, and when he’s done he puts the bottle on the floor, pauses for a moment, then says, “You know, I’m really not sure if the meds I’m on are compatible with alcohol.” He pauses again. “Which actually reminds me. Lam wanted me to check in with Keller when I got here. We should probably do that.”

John stares at him for a moment, half disbelieving, then says, “You’re an idiot.”

Cam just smiles.

They stop by the infirmary and hang around while Keller finishes up with Lorne’s team, who’ve just come back from recon on a possible planet for the Travellers and came back with some interesting looking… artwork swirled across their skin. The smell is the most striking part, and when Lorne is finally cleared and storms out past John with nothing more than a sharp “Don’t. Sir.”, John elects to spare his 2IC’s feelings and not mention the excrement they’ve decided to decorate themselves with. Not yet, at least. Let the dust settle, and this will make excellent mockery.

Cam, on the other hand, looks positively sympathetic. John gives him a quizzical look at that, and by way of explanation Cam just says, “P5X-112.”

John doesn’t push him.

Cam lets Keller guide him to a bed and pull the privacy curtain closed around them, poke at him and shine her penlight in his eyes, but he never stops talking her ear off and so by the time she’s done with the general checkups she’s smiling a broader smile than John’s ever managed to get out of her. It makes John oddly happy to see Cam palling around with John’s people – but then he forgets that brief splash of happiness when Keller asks to see the extent of Cam’s ‘minor’ injuries, just so she can note it down in her records and make sure everything’s up to date. Cam obliges, of course, wriggles out of his jacket and t-shirt with some difficulty and the assistance of Keller’s helping hands, and then when Keller’s taking notes with a cool, clinical eye, John just stares.

Bruises so purple they’re almost black, scattered liberally across Cam’s all-American skin but especially down his left side, bootprints intermingled with handprints all marked over by star-shaped burns that John’s never seen in person but recognises as the work of Goa’uld pain sticks. Half a dozen of those burns on Cam’s chest alone, and then there are the cuts and abrasions and contusions and the bandage wrapped tight around his cracked ribs and the fact that whenever Keller’s slim fingers press even lightly into Cam’s skin there’s a twist across his face that John knows very well as pain. And then there are the old scars, of course, the striped pattern on his shoulders from his tussle with the IOA Replicator, the ugly burn from his adventures with the Sodan, and all of a sudden John’s wondering how he could have ever mistaken Crichton for Cam because there is no way that impostor’s body is as battered and worn and beautiful as this.

Cam’s watching John watching, and he says softly, “Sheppard. It’s honestly not as bad as it looks.”

“Doc?” John says, holding Cam’s gaze with an anger and a fire that he can’t quite quell.

“Colonel Mitchell’s right,” Keller confirms. “Apart from the arm and the ribs, which according to Doctor Lam’s notes are already healing well, everything is superficial. He won’t be winning any beauty contests, but he won’t be falling down dead, either.”

Cam pouts. “You wound me.”

Keller smiles, makes a final note on her tablet, and says, “I’ll let you get dressed. I want you to come back in here in three days, sooner if anything starts feeling worse, but I support the very light duty that Doctor Lam recommended.” She glances to John, says, “If you need me, I’ll be in my office.”

There’s a look in her eyes that John doesn’t quite recognise but the smile that’s tugging her lips is affectionate enough that John figures she’s probably been talking to Teyla, so he says, “Thanks, doc.” and leaves it at that.

Cam’s got his shirt in his good hand but he’s not trying to pull it back on just yet. He’s waiting, waiting for John to yell or fume or pull whatever other uncommunicative stunt he’s got on his mind right now, and to be honest John’s not in a mood to disappoint. He steps forward, hands in his pocket and head ducked forward, and says, “You shouldn’t be here, should you?”

Cam’s many things, but he’s not a liar. “Technically,” he says, “no. Lam wanted me on bedrest for at least a couple of days, but then Woolsey’s call came through and I convinced her that I was fine to come out here and consult.”

“ ‘Consult’,” John repeats flatly. “Are you aware of the mortality rate of ‘consultants’ out here?”

“Isn’t Ronon technically a consultant?”

“Cam.”

“What? Judging from your mission reports, you get the shit beaten out of you far more than I do. Now you don’t like the tables being turned?”

John’s trying not to seethe. “Apparently not.”

Cam starts pulling on his shirt, dragging it over his head and then slowly easing his casted arm through the armhole. “Well, tough shit, Sheppard,” he says. “I’m here, I’m not leaving, and I have no plans to die any time soon. So are you going to show me this guy I’m supposed to crack or should I just go back to my fancy-ass guest quarters and jerk off all afternoon?”

John recognises the aggressive humour for what it is: an olive branch, so that they can move on from all of this emotion and brush it back under the rug where it ought to be sure. “I thought you wanted to rest,” he says. “That’s what Woolsey recommended.”

Cam shrugs and smoothes out the creases in his t-shirt before moving on to his jacket. “I don’t want to talk to the guy,” he says. “I just want to see him. I still don’t quite believe all of this ‘genetically-identical-alternate-universe’ shit. He can’t be that identical.”

John raises an eyebrow. “You think I’d drag you all the way out to Pegasus if that weren’t the case?”

Cam smiles, dark and honey-sweet. “Don’t know what you’d do to drag me out to Pegasus,” he counters. “I’d take any excuse to get you back to Earth.”

John’s not going to get all mushy, not when Cam is quite literally black and blue and has wheedled his way into an intergalactic trip purely because he can’t keep it in his pants. “Not here,” he says. “Anyone could hear.”

“I’d say ‘let them’,” Cam says, “but I think you might lose it.” He smiles a disarming smile, and says, “So. Show me the weird thing?”

John figures it’s probably just easier to show him the weird thing.

The corridors around the medical isolation rooms are remarkably busy today, and John vaguely remembers something about one of the Marines coming back from offworld with a minor cough that’s developed into something closer to flu, albeit with a lot more vomiting and a much higher risk of passing it on. He’s going to be okay, he’s just under observation until he vomits all the lilac vomit he can, and so there are half a dozen doctors and, oddly, botanists wandering around, consulting tablets and talking in hushed voices.

No one’s around Crichton’s room, though. No one really seems to know what to do with him.

John leads Cam to the observation window, and if Cam’s limping a little now that they’ve traipsed halfway across Atlantis, well, John’s not going to open that can of worms again. He props himself at the edge of the window, watches Cam lean against the railing, then looks down. The mattress has stripped of its sheets and pillows and blankets and they’ve all been dumped on the floor, and Crichton is lying on the bare mattress, legs crossed at the ankle, hands behind his head, eyes shut in what looks like sleep. He’s not asleep, though, and John can tell by the way his toes are bouncing in time with whatever rhythm’s going through that disturbingly-familiar head.

“Well,” Cam says, his voice thick with that drawl he gets when he’s edging on either excited or really fucking worry, “you weren’t kidding.”

John glances up at Cam, doesn’t think about the bruises and the scratches and the broken arm. “Uncanny resemblance, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Cam says absently, and he’s got his face so close to that glass that his nose is practically touching it. “What’s the theory? Alternate universe?”

“That’s what the docs reckon,” John confirms. “McKay agrees. And I guess it make sense.”

Cam’s still peering down, forehead creased, lips pursed. “I’ve met alternate versions of me before,” he says, “but they were always me. Always Cameron Mitchell, even if they weren’t a Colonel or even military. Never met a John Crichton before.” He finally looks away from his doppelganger, looks to John, and there’s an odd look in his eyes, one that John can’t quite decipher. “Does that mean that, in his universe, there’s no Cam Mitchell? That I don’t exist?”

John doesn’t want to think about a world without Cam Mitchell, so he shrugs, says, “It’s a big universe.”

Cam’s eyes are clouded. “And does he have a John Sheppard?” he says, soft and low.

John thinks about the way Crichton’s gaze went right through him, how he looked at him and Woolsey like there was no difference between them, and he says, “Doubt it. I’m probably the only Sheppard in any universe who’d be willing to put up with you.”

Cam snorts. “Funny.”

John smirks. “I thought so,” he says, and, yes, it hurts to look at Cam when he’s like this, battered and bruised and bearing the scars of a life that John can’t protect him from, but at the same time he’s here, he’s here in Atlantis, and it’s like all the best things in John’s life are finally coming together.

Cam’s gaze is inscrutable but the corners of his lips are quirked up in a smile. “Getting mushy on me, Sheppard?”

“In your dreams,” John snarks back.

Cam laughs, and the movement and the smile twist his stitches.

Something moves in the corner of John’s eye. His heart thuds louder, just once, and he straightens, tenses, looks down – and Crichton’s eyes are open, now, open and staring, and he’s not lying down anymore, he’s sitting up and looking up and he’s staring at Cam like he can’t quite believe what he’s seeing.

“Ah,” Cam says. “Sleeping Beauty’s awake.”

Down in the isolation room, Crichton’s face is flickering through a whole panoply of confusion and fear and emotion that John doesn’t have the energy to think about. His toes have stopped tapping to his beat.

“Want to go down?” John asks. “Talk to him?”

Cam’s quiet for a moment, then he says, “No. Not yet. Woolsey wants us to wait, so we’ll wait.” He pauses, doesn’t look away from Crichton, doesn’t even breathe for a second, and then he says, “How much does he know?”

“Not much,” John answers. “We couldn’t get much out of him, so Woolsey wasn’t exactly willing to give him much in return.”

“I’m guessing,” Cam says, “he doesn’t know about me, then?”

“He knows something,” John says. “He’d have to be stupid not to. Woolsey called him by your name when he first saw him. He suspects, he must do.”

Cam huffs, finally looks away. “Bit different seeing it in the flesh, though.”

John looks at Cam, blue-eyed and beaten but still cheerful, still grinning through it, and then down at Crichton, pointedly languid and now not looking up at the man with his face anymore but back to his old nonchalant, don’t-give-a-shit attitude, hands linked over his stomach this time, staring up at the ceiling and, if the shape of his lips are anything to go by, whistling. “Yeah,” John says. “Yeah, I guess it is.”

They don’t stay long. John’s already weirded out by the time Cam says, “This is fucked up. Let’s go.”, and so he’s already pieced together a plan of action. He drags Cam to the armoury, finds him an earpiece and a nine millimetre because Lam and Keller might have him on super-light duty but John has very little faith in Pegasus’ ability to not screw everything up overnight, then on to the mess, where it’s tava bean day and John spends an hour trying not to laugh at the increasingly suspicious look on Cam’s bruised face as he pokes at the neon pink vegetables that are the latest addition to the menu. As the day whiles on, Ronon joins them and is soon followed by McKay, propping himself up after a mid-afternoon hypoglycaemic crash brought on by excessive ZPM excitement, and John watches Cam watch the three of them banter back and forth, bitching about Rodney’s gas on their last off-world exploration and trying to guess where’s the weirdest place Ronon’s ever hidden a knife.

Cam catches John watching, after a while, and the warmth in his eyes is almost enough for John to forget the bruises and the broken arm.

When the sun’s dipping below the horizon and Rodney’s long gone, back to his lab to poke and prod at the ZPM that he’s apparently hoarding all to himself (John’s pretty sure he’s going to be hearing about that from Zelenka), Teyla enters the mess, hair tied back away from her face and eyes tired. She collects her food and comes over when John waves to her, takes the seat next to Cam and says, “Colonel Mitchell. It is good to see you again.”

“Likewise, ma’am,” Cam says, laying the accent on thick, and then, “How’s the Traveller situation coming along?”

Teyla cups her tea between her hands and says, “Slowly but productively. Major Lorne has assisted me in putting together a list of potential sites for Keena and her people to inhabit until they can re-establish contact with the others. We begin tours of those sites tomorrow.”

“Need some backup?” John asks.

Teyla smiles graciously. “Thank you, John, but no, myself and Major Lorne will manage. The tour groups will be very small, and you have other things to see to right now.” If John didn’t know better, he’d say that Teyla’s teasing him. There is an unusual brightness in her eyes, and she takes a sip of tea, says, “This situation with John Crichton must be unsettling for you, Colonel Mitchell. To see another wearing your face: I do not envy you.”

Cam shrugs. “It’s not like it hasn’t happened before,” he says. At Ronon and Teyla’s blank looks, he elaborates: “There was this time, a few years back, when we came back through the Stargate from a standard recon mission and saw ourselves, me, Sam, Jackson and Teal’c, all looking back at ourselves from the control room windows. It was something to do with wormhole physics, I don’t really remember the specifics of the science, but we ended up with, what, twenty different SG-1s wandering around the SGC? Now that was trippy.”

Neither Ronon nor Teyla have heard anything about this particular exploit of Cam’s, so John sits back and lets him tell the story, only chipping in when Cam glosses over the part where he lost his pants because, well, that’s got to be recorded for posterity. Ronon’s engrossed, particularly when Cam starts detailing all the other SG-1s that turned up—the SG-1 consisting of Cam and three highly stoic Jaffa goes down especially well—but Teyla is paying much more attention to John, casting him glances that aren’t even meant to be subtle every other word Cam says and finally chirping up with, “I simply wouldn’t know what to do with that many Cameron Mitchells.” while giving John a look that says she knows exactly what he’d be doing.

John just glares at her over his coffee cup and pretends not to notice.

The afternoon passes into evening, and before long John can see that Cam’s flagging. It’s nothing obvious, of course, because Cam knows very, very well how to hide tiredness which means that not even Teyla picks up on it, but John knows Cam far too well to miss the way he blinks ever so slightly more often, how his shoulders are just that little bit too rigid and his back is faintly arched because he can’t manage to keep it straight. Cam doesn’t say anything, of course, but the moment conversation lulls John jumps in, claps Cam on the shoulder and says, “You should probably get some rest, Mitchell. Big day tomorrow.”

Cam’s look is grateful. “Good idea, Sheppard,” he answers. “Need my beauty sleep.”

“Of course,” Teyla agrees, and John’s not looking at her, damnit. “Have a good night, Colonel Mitchell, and I hope to see you again before your time with us is over.”

Ronon stands when Cam does, slaps him on the good shoulder and lopes off to do whatever it is Ronon does when he’s not beating someone up. Cam winces at the slap but John’s pretty sure he’s exaggerating, and they say their goodbyes, leave Teyla to finish up her tea and head off into nighttime Atlantis.

Neither of them even bothers with the pretence of heading to Cam’s guest quarters, and before long they’re back in John’s rooms, windows open to the sea glistening in the moonlight. John helps Cam out of his jacket and t-shirt, piles them on the chair while Cam unlaces his boots onehanded, then strips off quickly, chucks his own clothes into a pile in the corner and sits back down on the bed in his boxers.

Cam, still struggling with his right boot, shoots him a deliberately lecherous look. “You sure about the sex?”

“You can’t even take your own shoes off,” John points out.

“I wasn’t aware that sex involved shoes,” Cam answers. “I mean, if that’s what you want, sure, I can roll with that. I’m sure Teyla can lend you some high heels or something—”

John cuts him off by kissing him, and it’s only meant to be a way of shutting him up but Cam chases him when he tries to pull away, slides his hand into John’s hair and deepens the kiss with teeth and tongue, well, John forgets about all his good intentions. Two urgent, messy handjobs later, Cam’s right boot still stuck on his foot and his pants caught around his ankles, John presses a kiss to one of the new-formed scars on Cam’s shoulder and says, “You’re an idiot.”

“Back at you, Shep,” Cam quips. “Now, can you help me with my pants? I think I’m stuck.”

John strips Cam of his pants and cleans them both up, and by the time they can actually get into bed without ending up stuck firmly together by their own dried come, Cam’s got that dopey grin on his face that he only ever gets when he’s tired and fucked out. “Can I be the big spoon?” he drawls.

That’s probably in no way sensible considering Cam’s the one with the broken arm, but to be honest right now John doesn’t care. Seeing Cam’s face but not on his body or his mind has been pretty damn awful these past few days, and now that he’s here, actually here, warm and grinning and responsive, well, John’s pretty much powerless to resist. “Sure,” John says dryly. “Just go to sleep, will you? I’m getting sick of you already.”

Cam’s derisive snort makes it perfectly clear exactly what he thinks of that statement.

They settle in, John’s back to Cam’s chest with Cam’s broken arm tucked carefully between them, and the warm weight of Cam’s arm across his waist does more to mollify John’s nightmares than any of Keller’s drugs ever have. John can feel Cam nosing around in his hair, feel his breaths hot on the back of his neck, but he doesn’t say anything, doesn’t stop him even when it tickles and he wants to smack him. He knows what Cam’s doing: reassuring himself that John’s still here, that he’s still alive, that he still smells the same and that there’s nothing that could pull them apart for long. It’s okay. The notoriously touchy-feely Colonel Cam Mitchell needs this, so John lets him have it.

After a moment, Cam settles, and in the darkness of John’s quarters he says, “I missed you.”

John did, too, but he’s not about to say it. “I know,” he says, just as quiet, just as precious.

Cam’s quiet for a long moment, and then he says, “Does that make me Princess Leia?”

John smiles, but only because it’s dark enough that Cam can’t see. “Sure,” he says. “You’re Princess Leia.”

It’s not long before John feels Cam’s breathing steady into the smooth susurration of sleep, and he follows soon after. He doesn’t dream, which is a first for a long time, and Cam’s warmth goes with him into the darkness.

It doesn’t last long.

The clock on John’s bedside reads 03:24 when John jerks awake, Cam’s arm still around his waist, to someone hammering on his door. He swears sharply and grabs for the gun he keeps under his pillow – only Cam’s somehow managed to get there first, even with his eyes still bleary with sleep. Cam looks faintly sheepish when he realises what he’s done, then replaces the gun and says, “Nice wake up call, Sheppard.”

“Sheppard!” Ronon’s voice bellows from outside the door. “Open up!”

John grabs for the earpiece that’s on his bedside table, hooks it over his ear, taps it on and says, very calmly, “Ronon. What are you doing?”

“Got a situation,” Ronon answers over the radio, terse and short. “Couldn’t raise you on comms. Woolsey sent me to get you.” – and he apparently decides that John’s response means that it’s okay for him to just come barging in, because before John’s quite figured out what’s going on the door’s sliding open and Ronon’s coming in, silhouetted by two Marines, coming in and stopping dead as the lights come up and he realises that, no, John’s not alone.

Cam makes a faintly amused noise behind John’s back at the look on Ronon’s face. “Morning, Ronon,” he says dryly. “Good of you to stop by.”

Ronon looks between John and Cam for a moment, expression inscrutable, then says, “Intruders in the city. No one noticed them on sensors, but they shot up one of the science labs and McKay sounded the alarm.”

John’s not going to think about the fact that Ronon’s effectively just outed him to the whole damn expedition. He shoves out of bed, leaves Cam the covers to preserve what little dignity the pair of them have left, and grabs clothes, pulls them on. “Wraith?” he asks.

“McKay doesn’t think so,” Ronon answers. “Internal sensors are getting some funny readings, though.”

“Funny how?”

Ronon shrugs. “McKay just said ‘funny’.”

“Of course he did,” John says, then takes the P90 that Ronon offers him, fits it to his calloused hands and turns to Cam. “I’d take you along, Mitchell, but—”

Cam’s shaking his head. “Don’t think that comes under Lam’s definition of ‘very light duty’,” he says wryly. “I’m a liability on the front line with this arm. Anything useful I can do?”

Not for the first time, John’s abruptly very glad for Cam’s mile-wide dutiful streak. “Stay here and keep safe,” he says. “That nine millimetre’s got a full clip in case you run into anything nasty. Keep your comms on and I’ll keep you updated.”

Cam nods, and then—still in John’s bed, still naked, still with his goddamn broken arm strapped across his chest—salutes sharp enough for the parade ground. “Sir, yes, sir,” he quips.

John swears he hears one of the Marines snicker. “And get dressed,” he says. “Don’t want you dealing with a foothold situation naked.” He turns to Ronon, says, “Bring me up to speed. Where are we needed?”

“Major Lorne’s got some trouble in the east lab section,” Ronon answers. “Woolsey wants us over there over there as soon as possible.”

John nods. “Okay,” he says. “Okay, let’s go.”

The doors to John’s quarters slide shut on Cam struggling to pull on his pants. John lets himself half-smile at the image and the memory of all of those mission reports he’s read that end with And then Colonel Mitchell lost his pants., and then he tucks all of that away, put it to the back of his mind and turns to the mission at hand, to infiltration and eradication and getting his people out of danger.

Teyla and three more Marines meet them at the junction just before the east labs, and over the sound of gunfire that’s already audible from just around the corner she calls, “Two of Major Lorne’s men are down, and one scientist who was with them. No word on how badly they are injured.”

“What’s happening down the pier?” John asks.

“Heavy fire,” Teyla answers. “Some kind of energy weapon, not bullets. Major Lorne’s team is pinned down and cannot see who it is that is firing at them. The major wishes us to use the transporter to outflank the intruders, circle around them and come out on the other side of the laboratories.”

John nods. He trusts Lorne’s judgement. “Let’s go,” he says, and tries not to think about how steadily his heart is beating considering that three of his people could be dead.

Teyla leads them with Ronon at her side while John covers their six, P90’s muzzle flickering to every dance of every shadow, and they’re at the transporter in moments. They crowd in, John and Teyla with two Marines first, Ronon and the others to follow in a moment, and John can feel the warmth of Teyla’s bare arm pressed up against his forearm and he doesn’t think about Cam, naked and vulnerable.

His heart thuds faster at that, but it’s fine, it’s fine. Cam’s in his quarters, safe and sound and far away. Nothing’s going to touch him.

The sound of gunfire is quieter, here, but John’s not about to run into danger. He crouches at a junction, peers around with Teyla quiet above him as they wait for Ronon and his Marines to spill out of the transporter, and when he feels Teyla’s touch on his shoulder, telling him that they’re all ready, he takes point without needing to tell his team what to do. They move along the corridor, quiet as shadows, gentle as a dream, and the sound of battle crescendos in front of them, the rapid stutter of P90 fire, the buzz of energy weapons. The shouts of injured men.

John feels the hair on the nape of his neck prick alert, and he comes around the final corner already firing, short, sharp bursts that rip through flesh and armour and dead green Wraith-skin—

Except there’s no flesh to rip through.

It’s an installation, an automated weapon installation that’s been set up facing down the hallway to where Lorne’s got himself pinned down, and it fires red bursts of energy in a constantly changing pattern, giving the impression of actual human weapons fire. John takes it down with two targeted blasts, snaps off the muzzle and blasts out the energy pack, and when Ronon and Teyla come out to flank him the only sound that’s left is the rain of spent shells on Atlantis’ floors.

John’s heart is still beating steadily in his ears. He taps his earpiece, says, “Lorne. Report.”

Lorne’s voice is tight. “Halliday’s dead,” he says. “Doc Roberts is going to be fine, but Allison needs to get to the infirmary.”

“Take care of your people,” John orders. “We’ve got this.” – and then he clicks the channel off and says, “I thought you said there were actual real life intruders, Ronon, not just their toys.”

Ronon doesn’t say anything, but, then again, he doesn’t need to.

John opens another channel, says, “Control, we seem to have misplaced those intruders you detected. Just a weapons installation here, I’m guessing as a diversion.” The word is bitter in his mouth. “Anything else for us to check out?”

“Got reports coming from around one of the towers on the west side of the city, near military quarters,” Chuck’s voice comes over the comms. “Three intruders.” He hesitates, then says, “Getting some funny reports too, Colonel. I don’t think they’re human.”

John can deal with that later. “Where exactly?” he says. “Give me a transporter to go to.”

“The one next to—” Chuck cuts off, then tries again: “The one just down the corridor from your quarters, Colonel Sheppard.”

Cam.

“Understood,” John snaps. “We’re on our way.” He’s moving before he’s even said it, heading back down to the damn transporter they just got out of, Ronon and Teyla on his heels like his own personal Peter Pan shadows, and he’s back on his radio, says, “Mitchell. You hearing this?”

“Yeah,” Cam says, low and tight. “I can hear something too, Sheppard. Sounds like these new friends of yours have taken some hostages. Young ones.”

“Some of the Travellers have taken up residence near that section,” Teyla says softly from John’s shoulder. “Some of the families are there.”

“Stay where you are, Mitchell,” John says, but even as he’s saying it he knows it’s not going to work. “We’ll be there soon, and we can deal with this. Five minutes.”

Cam’s voice is tight. “Five minutes too many.”

Fear shocks through John’s heart. “Mitchell,” he barks. “That’s a goddamn order!”

Cam laughs, and it’s bitter and deeply insincere. “You can’t pull rank on me, Shep.” – and then John can hear doors opening and distant shouting, the crack of a nine millimetre—John’s nine millimetre—and the rush of energy weapons.

John swears and runs for the transporter.

He gets to his quarters in four minutes, Teyla and Ronon at his heels, but it’s already too goddamn late. There are burns streaked across the walls and John recognises the general smell of energy weapons but not this distinctive tang, but it’s the shell casings dotted down the corridor that draw his attention, a trail of gunfire that culminates in John’s handgun, broken in two and hurled into one of the walls. There’s a whimpering coming from up ahead that’s probably what lured Cam out of the safety of John’s room, and Teyla slopes past John, puts her P90 down on the floor and goes to comfort the tousle-headed little boy who’s crying in a corner and John should care about that, he really should, but there’s blood on the floor, red and sticky, and it’s smeared out into a handprint that’s the right size for Cam’s palm.

There’s no one else here, no intruders, no Marines, no SG-1 Colonels with bright blue eyes and a brighter smile. They’re gone.

John’s hands are shaking.

“Colonel,” Chuck says in John’s ear. “The intruders’ lifesigns have vanished from the sensors, and we have unconfirmed reports of something cloaked lifting off the west pier. They’ve gone.” Chuck sounds relieved, like everything’s okay again, like they’ve won.

Woolsey crackles over John’s earpiece. “Colonel, what did you do?”

John can feel Ronon’s gaze on him, sharp and piercing, and he glances over to Teyla, finds her watching him, too, over the head of the child that’s clinging to her like she’s his mother. John feels sick.

“Colonel Sheppard, report.”

John keys his earpiece. “We didn’t do a damn thing,” he snaps. “They just left. They took Colonel Mitchell, and they left.”

Cam wakes the first time to a shudder that shakes him to his bones, gets deep inside his gut and wrenches him into wakefulness with a shout – and he immediately knows that everything is wrong. People are shouting around him, voices tight and scared and angry, but the words are foreign, untranslatable, quite literally alien, and there are hands holding him down, firm and strong.

And there are tentacles. There are a lot of tentacles.

Cam’s blaming his reaction on the face that he’s still sort of only half conscious. “Mother of God!” spills from his lips like a Baptist on a Sunday, and he smashes his fist upward into that tattooed, tentacled maw. The beast those tentacles are attached to roars—properly roars, and it’s fucking terrifying—and takes its hands away from his shoulders in order to grab at its own face, and Cam decides that it’s probably an appropriate time to run away.

He launches himself off the medical bed he’d been pinned to and runs, shoving past a girl who’s fucking monochrome and through the open door. He doesn’t recognise the layout, doesn’t even recognise the style—not human, not Asgard, not Goa’uld, and Cam’s never been inside a Wraith hive ship but he’s pretty sure it doesn’t look like this—and so he just picks a direction and pegs it.

The direction he picks turns out to be the wrong one, because before he’s got ten paces there’s someone in his way, a woman, clad head to toe in black leather with her hair pulled back from her face in a severe ponytail. There’s a bigass gun in her hand, too, but it’s not pointing at him just yet – and Cam’s going to credit the fact that it takes him a good few seconds to get to her face to that being one cool gun.

But he does get to her face eventually.

Cam comes to a skidding halt, blinks, and then says, somewhat stupidly, “Vala?”

But of course it’s not Vala. Vala is in the Milky Way, harassing Jackson and planning her next heist. Vala is very much not out here with him in Pegasus, wearing nothing but black leather and toting a pretty kickass gun. Not-Vala is looking at him with the same kind of bemused-but-wary expression he imagines he’s wearing, and she says something in a questioning tone that consists of clicks, glottal stops and “John”.

Cam’s brain is starting to understand. “I’m sorry,” he says, “but I don’t understand a word you’re saying. Have you got some sort of translator we can go through? I think there’s been a misunderstanding.”

At that, not-Vala’s hackles rise. Her gun comes up, and Cam immediately backpedals, holding up his hands. “Whoa, whoa. Easy there.”

More clicks and half-sung notes, and then “Crichton”.

Cam winces. “Sorry,” he says. “Not Crichton. I know where he is, though, so if we just head back to the planet we came from I’m sure we can work something out.”

Not-Vala takes a step towards him, so threatening she’s practically menacing, and presses the muzzle of her gun to Cam’s forehead. She says something short, sharp and unintelligible that even Cam can interpret as who the fuck are you?

“Colonel Cam Mitchell,” he says, hands held in a placating gesture, palms open and honest. “United States Air Force, Earth. And if you put that gun down I think I can probably explain something about what’s—”

Something heavy smacks him in the back of the head, and it’s only as he’s crashing to his knees and the world’s going dark around him that he realises the cast around his arm is gone.

John’s dealing well with this, he really is. He’s calm, really calm, perfectly level headed and sensible, and if he’s having to fight down the urge to go and beat the shit out of someone, anyone, whether they can help or not, well, at least he is fighting down the urge. A lesser man—or just someone with Ronon’s id—would be in there already, blood up to his knuckles and breaking bones like they’re twigs in winter.

Right now, John really wishes he was a lesser man.

“Sweeps of the city have come up empty,” Lorne’s saying. There are dark circles under his eyes that John knows aren’t just from interrupted sleep, and he says, “We’ve cleared up that weapons installation in the east lab section, too. It won’t be giving us any more trouble, and Doctor Zelenka reckons that he might even be able to salvage something to reverse engineer.”

“Good,” Woolsey says. “That’s good. Maybe we can salvage something from this situation.” John doesn’t let himself flinch at that, definitely doesn’t let himself think about Cam. “Doctor McKay,” Woolsey says. “Have you been able to track the ship?”

“No,” Rodney says shortly. “No, I haven’t, because it was a cloaked ship and as such did not appear on our scans at all.” He pauses, looks vaguely disgruntled, then says, “Long-range sensors picked up some kind of energy burst at the edge of the system, but the readings have been distorted by radiation from the nearby gravitational anomaly I warned you about this when Sheppard decided this would be a good planet to put the city down on—” John rolls his eyes at that, and sees a similar look of annoyance on Ronon’s face. “—so I can’t say much more than ‘something happened’.”

Woolsey has mustered that remarkable patience of his into a pretty impressive mask, and he says, “What about Colonel Mitchell’s subcutaneous transmitter? Anything from that?”

“For as long as it was in this system, its signal was masked by that cloak,” Rodney says, and his tone might still be drenched in that righteous defensiveness that John knows all too well but there’s concern there, too. An enemy that can get in and out of Atlantis barely detected and abduct one of their own is a concern for everyone, and Rodney says, “Look, the Hammond is due to arrive tonight. We can send them out to that energy spike at the edge of the system and maybe they can bring back some more useful readings if there’s anything left to take readings from. Maybe I’ll be able to figure out something about the ship’s trajectory from that, and the Hammond can go out, following the trail of breadcrumbs, looking for Mitchell’s transmitter. Maybe. But right now there’s nothing I can do, so can I please get back to the ZedPM that I’m pretty sure Zelenka’s trying to steal from my lab?”

John knows that there’s nothing Rodney can do without more data, more information, more numbers to peer at and analyse until he pulls some miraculous solution out of his ass, but right now that goddamn attitude just makes John want to shoot him. Doesn’t he realise that there are more important things at stake now than that ZPM? That Cam could be dead for all they know – and, fuck, John doesn’t know if he can handle that, not after everything they’ve lost, everyone they’ve lost. If Cam dies on his watch—

The fervour of John’s thoughts is halted by a touch on his wrist, light and fleeting under the table. Teyla’s at his side as she always is, and there’s a sympathetic twist to her lips that cuts straight through to John’s heart.

“Very well,” Woolsey’s saying. “But when the Hammond arrives, I expect you to work with Colonel Carter to rectify this situation.”

“Yes, yes, whatever,” Rodney says, and goes scuttling off back to his precious ZPM.

John focuses on his breathing. That’s something he can control, even if he can’t even stop Cam from leaving his goddamn quarters, can’t stop the actions and the consequences and all the things Cam was supposed to be avoiding by coming to Atlantis.

“Any ideas?” Woolsey asks quietly. “I have every confidence in Doctor McKay’s abilities, but I would welcome any more proactive lines of enquiry before I have to face Colonel Carter.” John almost snorts at that. Sam can be more than terrifying when anyone she considers her own is at risk, and John knows from experience that Cam is very much one of hers. The whole SG-1 thing. The whole life-on-the-line-together, live-and-die-together, save-the-world-and-the-galaxy-and-the-universe-together thing, because John might be something of a loner but Cam’s always been all about togetherness, about comradeships and companionship, about doing anything for his friends and basically guilting them into doing anything for him—

John sits up straight in his chair.

Woolsey notices, of course, because he notices everything. “Colonel Sheppard?”

Cam would die for his friends, and his friends would die for Cam. They come for him wherever he was in the universe, no matter how far away or how difficult to break into, and who’s to say that’s not the same in every universe?

“Crichton,” John says. “I’d bet you anything Crichton knows something about this.”

Woolsey’s forehead wrinkles in consternation. “Explain.”

It’s a gut feeling that John just knows is right, but that doesn’t tend to fly much with Woolsey. He thinks for a moment, trying to find the words. “Whoever those guys were that got in here, they knew what they wanted. They set a diversion with firepower that could have done way more damage than it did—” Out of the corner of his eye, John sees Lorne flinch, but he doesn’t have time to think about the man who died right now. Halliday. His name was Halliday. “—and the moment they had Mitchell they were out of here on what I’m guessing what a pre-planned exit strategy. He was what they wanted.”

“None of us have ever seen them before,” Teyla interjects, “and Colonel Mitchell has only been here a matter of hours. Why would they want to take him?” – but John sees the realisation budding in her eyes even as she’s saying it. “They did not want him,” she says. “They only thought he was who they wanted.”

“Makes sense,” John says. “That was a precision strike meant to get back their man. It was meant for Crichton, but things got messed up and they ran into Mitchell first. Security footage shows that Mitchell got hit by a stray blast and hit his head on the way down—” John feels sick just thinking about that footage, but he pushes through, keeps going. “—and then that guy with the tentacles picked him up and started back the way he’d come. They probably didn’t have a chance to talk to him and realise that he wasn’t the guy they were looking for. And I guess he doesn’t exactly look like we’ve been treating him particularly well.” The broken arm, the bruised face, the gash up to the hairline. The old scars, the old wounds. “It could have been a mistake,” John says, “and they’ll only be realising, well, now.”

Woolsey studies John for a long second, gaze narrowed. John knows what’s happening, knows the whole damn city knows where Mitchell was when he was taken, knows that he’s being assessed right now for ulterior motives and blind spots – but he also knows that he is right. So he meets Woolsey’s gaze, holds it, doesn’t go for obnoxious, just confident, and finally Woolsey sits back, says, “Alright. Okay.”

Teyla stirs. “I will go with you,” she says.

“You don’t have to,” John says, just as quick. “You’ve got the Travellers, I know Torren’s in the city right now—”

“John,” Teyla interrupts gently. “The Travellers do not need me right now, Keena has them under control. Perhaps I can be of use to you. Crichton may appreciate a gentler touch.”

He knows what she’s saying. She knows what’s going on at the back of his mind, the fantasy of violence and pain as a way of dealing, of coping, and she knows that he can slip right now, that if there’s anytime he can slip up it’s right now. She’s offering to help. She’s offering to keep him safe.

“Yeah,” John says. “Okay. Let’s go.”

When Cam waits for the second time, he’s back on that same scratchy, uncomfortable medical bed, but this time he’s tied down, straps around his wrists, his biceps, his ankles, his thighs – oh, and he’s basically naked. Again.

He lets his head fall back against the headrest with a thud, then says, “Great.”

Unlike last time, he’s alone, so he takes the opportunity to scope out his surroundings. He figures it must be some kind of medical bay: there’s a table a few metres away that’s neatly sorted into an array of what would look like medical instruments in any civilisation, and another off on the other side of his bed that’s stacked high with the remnants of his clothes. That gives him a flicker of hope for a moment—maybe he can get out of this with his dignity somewhat intact!—but then he realises that the undressing wasn’t exactly careful. His clothes have been cut to ribbons, torn apart and, by the looks of them, searched: even his boots have had the soles slit open and the tongues ripped out. At least he can still feel the itch of his subcutaneous transmitter. That’s something. All he’s been left with is boxers and dogtags, which is a great look for a frat party but not so good for escaping from an alien ship.

Which leads him to the ship. The ceiling above him is arched and softly lit, brushed in warm tones, earths and brighter highlights: the colour scheme’s almost reminiscent of Goa’uld ships, now that he thinks about it, but the decoration’s nowhere near gaudy enough. Plus, he’s pretty sure he’d’ve heard about it if the Goa’uld had made it to Pegasus.

Which brings him to his new alien friends, and not-Vala. She’d looked human enough, but then there are the others, hazy through the fog of being knocked on the head not once but twice, tentacles and monochrome skin and, yeah, none of that is familiar. He’d be perfectly happy to just file them away under ‘hostile’ and act accordingly, but there’s a whisper in his gut that won’t let him, because they’ve fixed him up, healed the broken arm that Lam had told him would take him off the duty roster for a month, wiped away the scratches and the bruises that littered his chest, and, now that he’s looking, he’s pretty sure that the scars dotted across his skin are looking fainter.

Even if they’d thought he was Crichton, they didn’t have to do any of that – and, hey, even if they’d put everything back to the way it should be by the time he pulled his whole running-scared act, well, there was nothing to stop them from putting some of those broken bones back in place.

No, Cam’s wondering if he’s been captured by the good guys – and if he has, what does that make him?

“Currently?” he mutters to himself, trying to twist his wrist in its leather cuff. “Naked.”

John’s going to kill him.

Cam spends a good ten minutes twisting his wrists back and forth, feeling for weaknesses in the leather, stress points that he can manipulate, but the whole thing would be a lot easier if he could actually get any weight behind the movement. As it is, the cuffs around his biceps are severely limiting the muscle power he can wield, and after a while he gives up with a disgusted noise, lies back and gathers himself for a second before starting the same trick with his ankles. No dice there, either, and he’s beginning to wonder what exactly he’s supposed to do when he needs to take a leak when the doors spin open and he’s not alone anymore.

It’s not-Vala, tentacle boy at her side, and they’ve brought a new friend, a girl with long red hair and pupils stained aquamarine, and, to be honest, they’re not really paying Cam any attention. Which is surprising, because usually when he’s been captured and trussed up and stripped of all his clothes, he tends to be the centre of attention. Also the centre of fists and boots and Goa’uld painsticks, so he can probably live with his reduced status.

Cam tries to make himself look as small as possible, and listens.

The listening would be easier if he could understand a word of what they’re saying, but, then again, that’s never stopped him before. He listens to tone of voice, observes body language, and even though he’s not sure he recognises all of the body parts he can get the basics without difficulty: something’s wrong, something’s very wrong, something that’s probably putting them all in danger right now, and they’re running out of ways to try to fix it.

Cam’s heart beats a little faster. This is definitely not what Lam meant when she approved him for light duty.

His sort-of captors are still bickering next to the door in a way that reminds Cam distinctly of the way Jackson bickers when he’s stressed when the shudder runs through the ship. It’s not the same shudder he felt before, that bone-crushing wrench that dragged him out of his sleep, no, this is something different. It’s slow and insidious, reaching into every corner of the ship’s corridors and probing, testing out defences, looking for weaknesses and stress points. It’s Cam, twisting his wrists in the cuffs that hold them down, looking for a way to escape and get away – only this isn’t something that wants to get away, no, this is something that wants to damage, to rip and tear and destroy and feed.

Cam’s gut has saved him enough over the years that he trusts it without a second thought.

“Hey,” he calls, trying for concerned rather than flat-out terrified. “Hey, you guys. Want to maybe explain what’s going on?”

They ignore him. He’s not entirely surprised.

“Hey. I’m not some goddamn weak-ass civilian here.” Civilian, definitely not. After everything he’s let through his guard recently, he’s not so sure about the weak-ass part, but they don’t need to know that. “I know you can understand me even if I can’t understand you, so listen. I know this part of space better than you do, so I can help you.” Mostly true. He’s read a lot of reports. “But only if you let me. You know, scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours.” He takes a breath, doesn’t think about the flare of agony that was Cybele breaking his arm in two. “I figure I owe you already. Medical bills. I don’t like not paying debts.”

Not-Vala and tentacle boy share a look. Tentacle boy says something that includes the word “Crichton”, and not-Vala’s eyes narrow in response.

“Yeah, yeah,” Cam says. “I’m not your boy even though I’ve got his face, you can’t trust me, yadda yadda. I get it. We had the same thought. But by the sound your ship is making, you guys need all the able bodies you can get, even if they’re just for cannon fodder.”

Not-Vala half turns towards him, another one of those pistols that Cam goddamn wants in her hand, and says something in clicks and hums that Cam reckons probably means are you volunteering?

“Anything I can do to help,” he says, and thanks his lucky fucking stars that military body language is apparently similar in every reality.

Not-Vala regards him for a moment longer, then turns back to her companions. They debate in hushed tones, but then another shudder ripples through the ship, richer than the last one, thicker with pain, and another voice adds itself to the mix, presumably coming over what Cam assumes are comm units, pinned to each of his new friends’ shoulders. That’s enough for not-Vala, and she comes over to Cam, boots smacking sharply on the floor, then says something to something over his shoulder, something he hasn’t noticed was there, and then there’s a weird tiny robot thing on the table behind his head with a goddamn needle coming towards him and—

The scratch-hiss is sharp and efficient in the side of his neck, and Cam yelps. He’s half expecting to start passing out any minute, and he snaps, “What the hell was that for? I’m trying to help you bunch of morons!”

“Translator microbes,” not-Vala says, and, whoa, when did she start speaking English? “So we can communicate. You have information about what’s happening to Moya. Tell me.”

Cam has his suspicions about what’s happening to Moya, but he’s not about to share them until he has a little more power on his side. “First things first,” he tries. “How about some new clothes?” Which is when another shudder rumbles through the ship, loud and fiercer, one that he can feel in his bones, and Cam readjusts his priorities. No sense in trying for clothes if he’s not going to live through the next ten minutes. “Okay, maybe later. What’s going on?”

Not-Vala’s eyes are narrow. She clearly likes looking at him about as much as he likes being here. “There’s something on board our ship,” she snaps. “We were damaged, drifting. Something like a prowler got in through the cargo bay, and now there is something growing inside our ship. There are… tendrils in the walls, in the floors. Moya is in pain, and the thing in cargo bay three defends itself. Violently.” That’ll explain the gash down one arm. Vala would be bitching like nothing else if this was actually her.

Cam’s guessing that ‘Moya’ is the ship, which is a nice name for a ship, as names go. He also thinks he might actually know something about this particular quirk of Pegasus, because he remembers a report from a few years back, something about Keller and a Wraith pathogen and a hive ship growing inside Atlantis. He remembers the end of the report particularly keenly because it ended with John taking one of those tendrils right through the stomach, which is something Cam is glad he never had to see because, fuck, he finds it difficult just coping with the scar. “Wraith,” he says, trying for jovial but well aware that he’s missing the mark. “Sounds like you’ve got a Wraith problem, ma’am. Need to get in the exterminators.” He sobers, thinks. “Similar thing happened back in Atlantis, I think. They can formulate something to get it to stop if you can—”

“We can’t starburst.”

“I don’t know what that is, but okay.” Cam’s thinking, now, not just about mission reports but about everything he knows about this universe, its logic and its consequences. “Let me guess: it’s going for power sources?” Not-Vala doesn’t make a move to agree or disagree. “I’ll take that as a yes. Shut down as much of the ship’s systems as you can, anything that’s not essential. That’ll slow it down, give you time to cut as much of it out as you can. Or to figure out a way to get back to Atlantis so we can—”

“We’re not going back to this Atlantis place,” not-Vala snaps. “We can’t. Getting there to get you practically overloaded Moya’s capacity for starburst. We’re staying where we are.”

Cam doesn’t miss the accusation in that ‘you’, but he has more important things to worry about right now. “Okay,” he says. “No Atlantis. Fine, whatever. But a power-down and then some kind of physical, frontal assault is your best plan. And I can help with that.” She’s not sold, he can see it in her eyes, and he says, “The Wraith, they’re insidious and tenacious and if they want this ship, which I’m guessing they do, they’re not going to stop until you’re all dead.” Damnit, John’s better at this stuff. This is his goddamn galaxy, why couldn’t he be the one practically naked and strapped to a bed? – but, of course, that would just be too easy. “I want to help,” Cam says, softer. “I really do. So can you please just untie me so I can—”

“These Wraith,” not-Vala interrupts. “They’re your enemy?”

Cam thinks about the footage he’s seen, about John with a Wraith feeding hand dug deep into his chest, withering and dying and screaming, always screaming, and he says, hard and bitter, “Yeah. They’re our enemy.”

Not-Vala’s eyes flash. “Then maybe they’ll prove to be our friend.”

Cam has to fight not to shout at her. “They won’t,” he snaps. “You goddamn know they won’t, otherwise you wouldn’t be here talking to me like this, so can you just get off your goddamn high horse and let me help—”

This time Cam’s interrupted by the sting of something being jabbed into the side of his neck, and he can feel his vision fuzzing even before the needle’s fully retracted. Drugs. Not-Vala has drugged him, and as his body starts to feel more and more like that blue jello Sam’s obsessed with, Cam husks between rubbery lips, “Not fair.”

Cam passes out, the chain of his dogtags cold against his chest.

Fortunately, Teyla doesn’t argue about John taking the lead, because he’s really not sure he could deal with arguing with her right now. She always fucking wins because she’s always fucking right, but fortunately this time she’s on his side. She shadows him to the medical isolation unit, then unclips the Wraith stunner from his leg holster and says, “I neglected to stop by the armoury this morning. You will forgive me if I borrow yours.”

“I know what you’re doing,” John says, and it’s as much of a thanks as he’s going to manage.

Teyla just looks at him with wide, innocent eyes.

Crichton’s leant up against the wall when John waves past the Marine on duty, Teyla alongside him, and he tips his chin up to them, says, “Howdy. What was all that shouting about last night?”

Now that John thinks about it, the isolation rooms really aren’t that far away from the east lab section. Well, good. That’ll get the conversation started, at least. “Had some visitors,” he says, and ignores the odd lilt in Crichton’s eyes. “Shot up the place, killed one of my men.”

“Sorry,” Crichton says, not sounding sorry at all.

“They also,” John says, “took one of my men. You saw him the other day.” Crichton stiffens, and the movement is just close enough to Cam’s oh shit, you’re kidding me stance that John can interpret it without even having to think. “Colonel Cam Mitchell,” John says. “He looks a lot like you.”

Crichton takes a step away from the wall, but he doesn’t say anything.

“Your buddies fucked up,” John says, and he’s finding it so goddamn hard not to sneer. “Tentacles, grey girl, military bitch. I guess they left you behind.”

Crichton takes another step, shakier this time. When he speaks, his voice is rough with emotion, tone hoarse and accent thicker. It’s a voice John knows all too fucking well. “What do you want with me?” he asks. “You’ve had me here for days, and you haven’t asked me anything about Moya or wormholes or anything. Why can’t you just let me go? I have people who need me, and if they’re willing to come here and go through your people to get to me, I’d imagine it’d make sense for you to just let me go.”

John thinks about Cam and thinks about Halliday, about the letter he has to write and the parents who have to grieve, and says, “Too late for that. Where did your people take Mitchell?”

Crichton spreads his hands. “I’ve been stuck in your frelling excuse for a cell for a week,” he says. “How should I know?”

“How can we track the cloaked ship that they took off in?”

“You can’t, it’s cloaked.” Now that’s a McKay sneer, right there. It’s unexpected, and John blinks, forces himself to remember that, no, this isn’t Cam. Sometimes it’s hard to remember that.

“There’s an energy disruption at the edge of this system,” he says. “Why?”

“Starburst,” Crichton says shortly, and leaves it at that.

“Which is?” John prompts.

“Starburst,” Crichton repeats, stubborn as a mule.

John can feel the anger mounting in his gut. He’s tired, right now, bone-tired because today was supposed to be simple. He’d wake up with Cam, they’d figure out this Crichton fuck-up and then they’d just go and be together like they should be. John was going to take Cam up in a jumper, zip around this new world of theirs, show him the icecaps and the jungles on the southern continent, and he was going to drink enough of Cam’s smile that it would keep him going for the next however many months they’re apart. That was the goddamn plan.

“Tell me what I want to know,” John says, low and calm, “or it’ll get a lot worse for you, I promise you that.”

Crichton snorts, wild and unrestrained, and says, “I’d like to see you try.”

John’s halfway to taking that as an invitation when he feels Teyla’s touch on his arm, light as a feather but loaded with meaning. He understands, of course he does: she’s saying wait; she’s saying let me. She doesn’t give him the stunner. Considering the adrenaline that’s currently frothing through his veins, that’s probably a good idea.

Teyla steps forward, booted feet silent on Atlantis’ smooth floor. “You seem very concerned to return to your ship,” she says, voice rich with that lilting confidence it gets when she knows she’s onto something. “To return to your people, to help them. May I ask why?”

Crichton’s expression is stony. “None of your damn business.”

“Of course,” Teyla demurs. “However, if you’ll allow me, I will make a guess.” She spares John a brief glance, eyes bright even if her lips are set in a firm line, and says, “You are from an alternate universe. We know this, and I presume that you do, too. This is why you bear such a striking resemblance to our Colonel Mitchell, which has now resulted in your friends failing in their rescue attempt.” Crichton’s expression doesn’t change, but John thinks he can almost see a little more tightness around the lips, a little more tension in the eyes. “I am assuming,” Teyla says, “that you have not come through to our universe on purpose. This was an accident, one which I imagine you are all keen to rectify. This would explain why you were engaging with the Travellers when their ship started to fail: you were looking for information, for someone who could help you.”

Crichton’s chin tilts forward defiantly. “You’re very observant for a grunt,” he says, but there’s less bite than there was before.

“Trust me,” John says. “She’s not a grunt.”

Teyla acknowledges him with a faint tilt of her head but nothing more. John’s not offended. “It is therefore perhaps ironic,” she says, “that you are now refusing to cooperate with the people who are most qualified in this galaxy to help you get home.”

John’s still angry, of course he is, still frustrated and boiling over inside, but damnit this is working. Teyla’s got him.

“The military,” Crichton says flatly. “The last time the Earth military tried to figure out alien tech, they couldn’t even take apart a damn pulse pistol without me holding their hand. That doesn’t fill me with confidence.”

John wants to roll his eyes. “Did you miss the part about the alternate universe?”

“Yeah,” Crichton says, “I’m still not entirely sure I believe that.” He pauses, and his lips twist. “Although your friend with my face helped.”

“From our point of view,” John corrects, “you’re the one with his face.”

Crichton’s eyes narrow. “I guess it all depends on your perspective.”

“I guess it does,” John snaps back.

Teyla intervenes before John starts thinking about throwing punches. “I assure you that the Lanteans are more than capable of assisting you,” she says. “I have seen them work many miracles before.”

Crichton eyes John with an expression that’s almost verging on interest. “Miracles?”

John bites his tongue, shrugs. “I have a good team.”

“If you help us,” Teyla says, firm enough that John subsides, “if you provide us with information that will allow us to locate your ship and thus our friend, then we can help you return home. We have scientists who will devote themselves exclusively to your problem.” If she’s talking about Rodney, that’s an exaggeration and a half. “We have no desire for further bloodshed,” Teyla says. “A peaceful solution would be best for us all.”

Crichton’s jaw is jumping, and he steps forward, arms folded, says, “Why should I trust you? Why won’t you just find my ship, kill my crew, take our tech and leave me locked up in here for the rest of my life?”

“I don’t know how your military does intergalactic relations,” John says, “but that’s not really standard operating procedure for us.” He’s calmer, now, blood still warm but not hot enough to burn, because there might be an end in sight, here. If anyone can get this guy to trust them, it’s Teyla. “We like to think that we’re the good guys,” he says.

Crichton’s lips quirk in a smile. “So do we,” he says, and that seems to loosen something in him. He relaxes, shoulders dipping and arms swinging to hang at his sides. He looks between them, John with his mussed hair and angry heart, Teyla’s calm and composure, and says, “One thing you missed, ma’am.”

John’s heart thuds loud in his ears.

Teyla tilts her head, says, “Yes?”

“My ship,” Crichton says. “I didn’t just leave to get general information about this fancy-ass galaxy. We’ve got a bit of an… infestation. Need to get the exterminators in. Know anyone?”

‘Infestation’ is gloriously non-specific. “Gonna need a bit more than that before we can break out the phone book,” John answers.

Crichton’s still not entirely sold on this whole cooperation thing, John can tell, but he wants to be – and that, more than anything, chills John’s heart. This guy’s a fighter. He’s tough, tougher than a lot of men and women John has served with, and he is desperate to get back to his people. To save them. Crichton straightens his shoulders, says, “When we got here. When we were dumped in this universe, we drifted for a few days. The ship was damaged, Pilot kicked off every time anyone even suggested that we try to starburst. We were doing repairs night and day, so we were distracted.” A muscle jumps in Crichton’s jaw. “We didn’t notice the ship until it was already in the docking bay.”

Oh, John can see where this is going. “A ship.”

“Yeah,” Crichton says. “Looked almost like a Peacekeeper prowler.” At John’s blank look, he clarifies: “You know, long, thin, pointed. Nippy in a fight.”

John is going to kill Cam. “A dart,” he says. “A Wraith dart.”

Crichton’s watching him intently. “Bad guys?”

“Pretty much.”

“Figures.” There’s fear in Crichton’s eyes, just for a moment, just for a fraction of a second, but it’s there. “There was this guy, weird guy, pale skin, long hair—”

“Wraith.”

“Right. He was messing around in the cargo bay when we got down there, had some kind of device, I don’t know. It looked organic. And he did something to it, and it started… sprouting.”

John and Teyla share a look. “Tentacles?” John suggests. “And webbing? Sort of reddish?”

“Yeah,” Crichton says slowly. “You come across it before?”

“Maybe,” John answers. “What was it doing?”

Crichton studies them for a moment longer, then probably realises that there’s no point in keeping anything back now. They’re his best chance. “Getting inside Moya,” he says. “In her walls, in her systems. When I left to go try find help, Pilot was predicting that it would only be a few solar days before he started losing control of ship’s systems. That’s—” He pointedly checks an imaginary watch. “—oh, about now?”

Teyla glances to John, says quietly, “How long until the Hammond arrives?”

“A few hours,” he answers, then looks back to Crichton. “ ‘Starburst’,” he says. “Whatever that is. How far away will that take your ship?”

Crichton pulls a face that, again, is strikingly reminiscent of a Rodney McKay whose intelligence has been insulted. “I have no idea,” he says. “And I can’t tell you how long it’ll take you to get there because I have no idea what your technology is like. If you don’t know what starburst is, I’m guessing you have some other form of FTL travel, but I don’t know how that squares with ours.”

John looks back to Teyla. “Rodney,” he says.

“Indeed,” Teyla agrees.

Crichton looks a little lost. “What’s going on?”

John’s heart is thudding in his chest, faster than it should be but still steady, steady. This will be okay. He will make this okay. “Here’s the plan,” he says. “We’re gonna take you to McKay. He’s a member of my team, and he can be a little difficult to work with, but you’ll suck it up and do it. You’re gonna tell him everything you know about ‘starburst’, square that with our hyperdrive technology, and you’re gonna look at the readings we’ve got from the disturbance at the edge of our system and figure out where your ship went. And then, when the Hammond gets here, we’re going to go and fix your ship. Our doctors should be able to whip something up. We’ll take Beckett along, just in case. And then we’re going to get you the hell out of this universe. Sound good?”

“Yeah,” Crichton says after a moment. “Yeah, it does.” He pauses, then grins and says, “I warn you, you kill me and you’re going to have hell to pay.”

John thinks about Cam, about Cam who’s never fought a Wrath, whose arm is broken and who managed to get himself captured when he wasn’t even supposed to be out of John’s room. He says, fire building in his voice, “That goes both ways, you know. Your people hurt Mitchell or even let him get hurt—”

“John,” Teyla interrupts. “We are short on time.”

Crichton’s looking at him oddly, Cam’s face without Cam’s mind – but John’s not going to think about that. “Yeah,” he says. “Sure. Take him to Rodney, stay with him. Get Ronon to join you. I’m gonna go talk to Woolsey, get Beckett onside.”

“John,” Teyla says again.

“I’m fine,” John says. “I just want this done.” He checks his watch, says, “The Hammond’ll be here in seven hours. We do this right, we’ll just turn her around and go.”

The third time Cam wakes, the lights are dim around him. He recognises emergency lighting when he sees it, which he guesses is a good thing: if the power’s off, they took his suggestion, killed the power. Hopefully slowed down whatever Wraith bullshit it is that’s made these people skittish as foals, and maybe they’ll finally decide to untie him.

Eyes still mostly closed, he tries a gentle tug at the cuffs around his wrists. Nope, they’re still there.

“Fuck,” he sighs, but it’s more resigned than angry. Honestly, there’s no point in being angry right now. All anger will do is tire him out from the yelling and the righteous frustration; he’s got a better chance of surviving all of this if he just takes his time, breathes through it all, rests and recuperates and makes sure that the moment he gets out of these goddamn cuffs he’s ready to fuck shit up.

So he lies back, watches the ceiling, and listens.

For starters, there’s no more of those bone-shaking rumbles wrenching through the ship—Moya?—which he figures is probably a good thing. Everything’s practically peaceful, the silence rich and deep and not pierced by shouting or running or screaming or any of the other things that tend to wake Cam in the middle of the night, sweaty and grabbing for the warm body that should be there but never is – so Cam lies there and tries not to think too much.

The air is cool against his bare skin, just the wrong side of warm enough, and goosebumps are pricked across his body. This isn’t cold, though, no, this is nothing like the cold that Cam has known before, so it’s okay, it’s fine. He can live with it. If he has to purposefully not-think a little harder to stave off the memories—the snow blasting past the broken windows, the waiting, Banks dead or dying behind him, he can’t even tell, the cold and the pain and the lack of pain everywhere below his waist—well, he’s good at not-thinking. Not-thinking is his speciality.

Something moves in the dimness.

Cam sees it out of the corner of his eye, a flicker of movement, a glide across the floor. He turns his head, some witty comment about bedside manner ready on his lips—

But no. This can’t be real, because that’s a Wraith, all pale skin and stringy hair, decked out in long, sweeping black leather, cat’s-eye pupils dilated and almost lusty. It’s looking at him, head tipped to one side, long-clawed hands already half-extended, and Cam’s never seen a Wraith before, not really, not in anything but photos clipped to old reports, but he knows it in his bones that this Wraith is hungry.

The Wraith steps forward, slowly, slowly, and Cam can see the gash in its palm, lips open and greedy on either side of the feeding slit.

Cam’s not afraid. Cam’s too scared to be afraid.

He struggles against the cuffs, pouring everything he has into kicking free, into getting the fuck away from this nightmare-monster that’s coming towards him, slow but inexorable, and fuck this is a nightmare, it has to be, he’s still asleep in John’s bed back on Atlantis, he’s in his bed on Earth and the call never came through, he never had to convince Lam to do anything, he’s fallen asleep on the couch watching the old football games he never has time to watch when he’s on-duty. He’s anywhere but here, and he’s grunting, now, muscles straining as he pulls at the cuffs that will not budge, and he can feel the slide of his dogtags and the pull of his boxers against his skin, and fuck that means this isn’t a dream, this is fucking real—

The Wraith touches his cheek, his hair, his chest, and says, “You are from Atlantis. You people are so easy to find. So helpful, broadcasting your little signals.”

Cam does the only thing he can think to, shoves forward in a vain attempt to get enough movement to headbutt the damn thing – but the cuffs hold him back. The Wraith just laughs, scratches its nails down his throat, hisses, “Lantean. You, I will savour.”, and settles its feeding hand on his chest palm-down.

Cam fucking loses it. He thrashes in his bonds, not caring if he looks more like a madman than a calm, composed Air Force Colonel, and he’s shouting, half words, half incoherent roars, shouting at the thing that’s leering down at him, hungry and eager and ready, swearing and cursing and somewhere in the middle of all that the roars turn into, “Help me! Someone fucking help! This thing is going to kill me, please—”

And then there’s pain.

It’s unlike any pain Cam’s ever felt before. It starts in his chest, in the pressure and the sharpness of that feeding slit opening and latching on to his skin, but then it spreads deeper, further, wider, and there is fire all through his body from his toes to his fingertips, fire that consumes everything in its path and then sucks it away, takes his life and pulls it out through that slit in his skin. His mind boils, and he’s screaming, he knows he is, but it’s like the sound is coming from far away. He is not who he is anymore.

It lasts for three seconds before there’s the snap-buzz of an energy weapon, over and over again, and the Wraith snarls, disengages, staggers back with Cam’s blood dripping from its palm. Cam’s dazed, phantom pain still gnarling through his flesh, and he slumps against the bed as those bolts of energy pummel into the Wraith, more and more every second, until the thing, the monster under the bed, the nightmare slides to its knees, jaw locked in a rictus of a snarl, and dies.

Silence floods the air, and all Cam can hear is his own breaths, hiccupping and panting and alive.

“Sorry about that,” not-Vala says from somewhere over towards the door, not sounding even the slightest bit sorry, “but we were having trouble catching him. Reasoned that if his people are enemies to yours, then eventually he’d come and make an attempt on your life.”

“Bait,” Cam croaks. “You used me as fucking bait.”

Not-Vala doesn’t look sorry. “Yes,” she says, and comes to stand beside him. “I expected that he would shoot you, maybe try to break your neck. What was he doing?”

Cam can feel the gash in his chest more than he’s ever felt anything in his life, feel the beads of blood running down towards his belly and the tug of flesh that is absolutely going to scar. “Bait,” he says, and laughs, bitter and more scared than he’d like to admit. “He was doing to me what you do to bait.” Not-Vala still doesn’t seem to understand, but there’s something in her eyes, now, confusion and consternation as she peers at his face. Cam doesn’t want to know. He doesn’t want to know what that thing took from him. “Now,” he says, tugging at the cuffs, “will you take these goddamn things off me? I think I’ve proved to you that—”

“Sure,” not-Vala interrupts, and starts to undo the cuffs. Cam’s so surprised his jaw practically snaps shut, and he just watches her untie him, fingers nimble against the thick leather. Cam just stares at his hands for a moment, studies the skin, the nails, looks for liver spots and wrinkles – but his hands are just his hands. They’re not old.

Cam can feel himself shaking, and it’s relief as much as it is adrenaline.

Not-Vala releases him quickly, quicker than he thought possible, and before she’s even finished unbuckling the last cuff he’s sliding off the bed, crashing to the floor, sitting with his legs stretched out in front of him and pressing his hand to the wound in his chest. His head is still spinning, his stomach feels like it wants to heave – and all he can think is John. John did this, over and over, watched himself grow old and felt that pain, shuddering through him, never stopping. “Fuck,” Cam says, and presses the heels of his hands against his eyes.

He’s still sitting there when a bundle of fabric hits him in the chest. He catches it on instinct, and not-Vala’s standing over him, that same intrigue in her eyes. “Get dressed,” she says. “You wanted to help? You’re going to help.”

Clothes. The bundle clutched to his chest is clothes. “Right,” Cam says. “Sure.” He pauses, takes a breath, then says, “I don’t even know your name.”

Not-Vala’s eyes are unreadable. “Aeryn,” she says. “Aeryn Sun.”

That’s not a human name, but that doesn’t mean she’s not human. “Cam Mitchell,” Cam says.

“I know.”

“I know you know,” Cam answers, forcing himself not to snap. “Just thought a proper introduction might be in order now that you guys have knocked me out three times and tried to feed me to a Wraith. It’s goddamn good manners.”

Aeryn’s expression doesn’t change. “Get dressed,” she says again.

“Fine.” Cam clambers to his feet, brings the clothes with him. “You gonna give me some privacy?”

“No.”

“Figures.”

Cam dresses quickly, tugging on the black t-shirt and pants—leather pants!—that he’s guessing must belong to their version of him. Crichton. Whatever. The pants fit well enough but the shirt is tight across the shoulders, and Cam quips, “Your boy’s smaller than I am. Needs to eat his greens.”

Aeryn doesn’t respond to that. By now, Cam’s not entirely surprised.

She leads him through the ship, up and down twisting corridors that don’t make any sense whatsoever in his mental map, and it’s only when he’s given up on trying to keep the t-shirt that’s not his away from the bloody gash in his chest that he notices the walls. The walls in the pseudo-infirmary were warm and smooth; these walls are laced through with green ropes, tendrils of red webbing out across the ceiling, the warmth being chased away in favour of sickly paleness that Cam reckons he’s probably going to be adding to his nightmares from now on. This is not good. This is very not good.

“Seventy percent of the ship is like this now,” Aeryn says. She looks back at him over her shoulder, says, “Your power-cutting suggestion slowed it down, but only marginally. It’s still gaining on us, and Pilot is losing control of Moya. Any more bright ideas?”

If Cam were John, maybe. If Cam were any of John’s team, maybe. He says, “Need to get the lay of the land first.” It’s a cop out, and the look in her eyes tells him that they both know it.

They end up in a tiny room crammed somewhere off one of the minor corridors. The walls are still clean of the spreading green, which Cam reckons is probably a plus, but the moment he comes in he’s greeted by all manner of suspicious stares, so he clearly can’t have everything. He ignores the glares, though, just waves with his now-good arm and says, “Thanks for the hospitality.”

Tentacle boy just grunts. That’s okay, Cam can deal with that: he’s just Teal’c, but more uncommunicative. Monochrome girl is practically sniffing at him which he’s going to choose to just ignore and he’s definitely not paying attention to the thing that looks like a hairy, eared slug that’s drifting around on some kind of a hover seat thing. It’s red and curly with aquamarine eyes who he really doesn’t like, though, because she squints at him, says, “He looks different.”

Cam doesn’t want to hear that. He does not want to hear that. “Long day,” he says, and smiles. “What’s the situation with your ship?”

And the ship herself apparently decides to answer. Another rumble, another groan, and they’re being shook around inside that tin can. Cam goes skidding back into the wall, ends up with tentacle boy half on top of him, and barely has time to dart out of the way before he gets skewed on the end of fake Teal’c massive sword thing – and then he doesn’t have a whole lot of time to think about that, either, because the walls are changing colour, warm and soft giving way to pale and green.

“Out! Get out!” It’s Aeryn, shouting in that voice that sounds so much like Vala but without any of her inflections or her softness – and yeah, Cam would quite like to obey her, to be honest, but there’s a small problem with that. Because there are tendrils coming out of the walls, coming right for him – and they’re coming fast. Cam swears, ducks out of the way of one that’s crashing straight for his head, dodges the two that are grabbing for his feet, and leaps out of that hole of a room in a diving forward roll that would make a goddamn Olympic gymnast proud. And that should be that because daring acrobatics tend to solve all Cam’s problems, but it doesn’t, of course, and now he’s running down the corridors of a ship he doesn’t know on the heels of a crew who don’t give a shit if he lives or dies, and he has no idea what he’s doing.

There’s a fork up ahead. Aeryn, tentacle boy and red girl go right, flying slug and grey girl go left. Cam follows the one person whose name he knows, trips over a tendril that forces itself out of the floor at his feet and goes skidding after tentacle boy. He barks his chin on the floor and yelps as he crash-lands all his weight on the gash in his chest, but tentacle boy’s hauling him to his feet and pushing him forward almost as soon as he lands.

If he had time to be grateful, he’d be grateful.

They dodge around another corner, just in time for the ship to groan again, louder this time. The walls are green-streaked here, too, thick and full, but the moment the ship starts to shake the tendrils stop coming for them – and Cam slams into the wall next to Aeryn, tries to catch his breath and gulps, “What the fuck. Is this normal?”

“Nothing about this frelling galaxy is normal,” tentacle boy spits. “Wormholes. Nothing but trouble.”

Cam doesn’t know what that means and isn’t going to push it.

Aeryn taps her comm, says, “Chiana, Rygel.” Those aren’t names. Isn’t Rigel a star? “Are you alright?”

“Yeah.” The raspy, sultry voice must be the grey girl. “Yeah, we’re fine. Those things aren’t after us anymore. They all went down your corridor. Are you alright?”

The ship’s still trembling, still groaning under their feet like it’s going to split apart any moment, and Cam figures that must have something to do with why those fucking tendril-tentacle things have stopped.

“Officer Sun!” That’s a different voice, cool and alien. “Moya is doing all she can to hold the entity back from you, but she cannot hold it for long. She can sense that it wants something, a signal. It is following a signal, and it will not stop until that signal has been destroyed.”

You don’t get to Colonel without having a brain in your head. Cam thinks about the Wraith saying broadcasting your little signals and so easy to find, and he knows exactly what’s going on. “I need a knife,” he snaps in his Colonel-voice, the one that even Jackson tends to listen to.

Aeryn looks at him like he’s mad. “What?”

The ship’s shaking is getting worse, and Cam doesn’t know if that’s good or bad. “A fucking knife!” he says. “There’s a goddamn transmitter in my arm, that’s what your new pet wants. I need to get it out.”

Tentacle boy surges forward. “I knew he couldn’t be trusted!” he bellows. “Give it him. He’s what it wants. Let it pull him apart before it destroys Moya.”

“Or,” aquamarine eyes chips in, “we could just give him a frelling knife.” And she produces a small blade from somewhere in her barely-there outfit.

Cam’s not got time for thanks. He snatches the knife, digs the point into the scar in his bicep and opens it up again, ignores the blood and the stab of pain, picks out the subcutaneous transmitter with sure fingers and drops it to the floor, crushes it beneath the heel of his boot – and then he stands there, blood running down his arm and dripping from the tiny knife in his hand, and waits.

After a long, fractured moment, the ship’s groaning stops, and silence floods back around them.

“Pilot?” Aeryn says.

There’s a pause, and then that same cool voice says, “The alien entity has subsided. The signal has been deactivated. I believe the entity has exerted too much energy and needs to recuperate: it has gone quiet. I believe it is dormant.”

And Cam’s knees give out. He’s still leant up against the wall which is probably the only thing that stops him from crumpling to the floor in a heap, but as it is he slides unceremoniously down onto his ass, thuds his head back against the wall and starts laughing. He pokes at the remnants of the transmitter chip, crushed circuitry and dusted connections, and says, “Guess I’m not getting beamed out any time soon.” – but that’s okay, that’s okay. He can wait. Sam’s coming in on the Hammond soon and they’ll find him, they will, because Sam doesn’t leave her people behind and John sure as hell isn’t any less of a tenacious, stubborn bastard. They’ll find him even if they have to search Pegasus from end to end, so all he has to do is keep safe. From the Wraith that wanted to eat him and the baby Wraith hive ship that’s growing inside the walls and the guy with tentacles who’s got murder in his eyes.

Hey, that’s what he signed up for.

“Hey.” Aeryn nudges him with her boot. “You okay?”

Cam tries for his most disarming smile and says, “Yeah, I’m fine. Not exactly the vacation I was planning, though.” To say the least. He’d been planning on dragging out his stay on Atlantis for as long as he possibly could even after they’d sorted whatever the whole Crichton situation was going to turn out to be. He was going to sweet-talk Woolsey and get John on his side, buddy along with Teyla and Ronon and even try to make it up to McKay, and then—

Never mind what then. Got to get through this, first.

“Okay,” Aeryn says, although she’s still looking at him like he’s about to start sprouting tendrils himself any second. “Let’s get to the bridge. We can regroup there.”

Cam hauls himself to his feet and follows where she leads.

The bridge is spacious and open, a world away from the cramped spaces of the Hammond, and Cam can’t help himself: he goes straight to the front viewport, stands in front of the expanse of alien glass and just looks. Space is black as pitch, as tar, as velvet, and distant stars sparkle and dance in the vast expanse. Everything is quiet, everything is still, and as Cam stands there and takes it all in, lets the quiet wash over his heart and his soul, just for a second he can forget all of this. He’s out here, in space, on a fucking spaceship. What does he have to complain about?

“Officer Sun. Moya is detecting a problem.”

On second thoughts, Cam would really quite like this whole day to just be over.

“What is it, Pilot?” Aeryn says, and Cam’s getting from the tone of her voice that she feels pretty much the same.

“There are lifesigns in the cargo bay, and they appear to be the same as the… Wraith that you only just managed to kill.”

More Wraith. Just great.

“How many, Pilot?”

“Many,” Pilot responds. “Sensors are not operating at full efficiency at the moment, but there are at least twenty, probably more.”

“Twenty,” tentacle boy says heavily. “Of those things.”

“Can we talk to them?” aquamarine eyes says. “Surely they can be reasoned with.”

Cam stirs at that. “Can you get a visual?” he asks.

All eyes turn to him, and he’d feel self-conscious if he wasn’t so used to common. “A visual,” he says again. “Can we see them?”

Aeryn’s watching him keenly, and she finally says, “Do it, Pilot.”

An oddly shell-shaped contraption on the other side of the bridge sparks into life and brings up a fuzzy image of what looks to Cam like a Wraith dart in the middle of a jungle. Surrounded by drones. And there are definitely more than twenty.

“Drenn,” Cam hears Aeryn spit, and he’s guessing that’s some kind of curse word.

He agrees with the sentiment. “Pretty much,” he says. “Those guys are drones. The Wraith, they’re like insects. They have a hive mind, and these guys? Have no mind. They just follow their orders, and I’m guessing that the guy who used to give them their orders is now kaput.” He thinks about the touch of that particular Wraith’s claws against his skin and hastens to add, “Not that I’m complaining. I’m very glad you killed that bastard when you did, ma’am. Only now we have a little problem.”

“D’Argo,” Aeryn says, and tentacle boy perks up. Fantastic, another name. Cam files that away for later. “We need weapons.”

“Nearest cache is tier three,” D’Argo replies.

“Pilot?”

“Tier three is currently clear,” Pilot replies. “If you hurry, I can make sure it stays that way.”

“Good,” Aeryn says. “Let’s go. Chiana, stay here. Watch him.”

Cam wants to say something about not being a kid and no needing watching, but he knows if their positions were reversed he wouldn’t be listening to a goddamn word. He holds his tongue and watches the Wraith, watches the way they move in perfect unison without ever speaking a word and thinks, Fuck, why couldn’t they just be Goa’uld? – but then he starts thinking about Cybele again, about the crack of his ribs and the burn of the painsticks, and, yeah, he’s so not ready to go there just yet. Pain and weakness, hand in hand.

“You look different.” That’s grey girl, and she’s slinking around behind him, gun in one hand and head cocked all the way to one side. “From before. Before you looked just like him. Now you look – older.”

Cam feels his heart thud in his chest, heavy and bitter. “That’s what these guys do,” he says, points at the fuzzy view of the jungle cargo bay and its plethora of Wraith. “They take life from you. It’s their version of food.” He glances at his hands again, at the lack of liver spots and unwrinkled nails, and says, “I’m just hopin’ they didn’t take too much.”

Grey girl who he’s presuming is ‘Chiana’ moves to his side. She leans far too far into his personal space, squints up at him with eyes that are far too knowing, and says, “You still look pretty, if that’s what you’re worrying about.”

Cam chuckles, almost manages a sincere smile.

“Besides,” Chiana chirps, “at least now we can tell you apart from Crichton. Won’t be accidentally kidnapping you anymore.”

Cam’s lips twist, and he thinks about John, warm and sleepy in the dark of the night. “That, I can get behind.”

Chiana seems to decide that that’s enough deep-and-meaningful chat. She peers at the image of the cargo bay, at the drones humming to and fro, and says, “You fought these guys before?”

“No,” Cam says, figures there’s no point in lying. “My people have, though. Even won a few battles. They fall, even if they don’t fall easy.”

“The other one,” Chiana says softly. “The one with the face. Sorry about the bait thing, but we needed to take him out. He was too fast for us to hit more than a couple of times, and that wasn’t enough to bring him down. We needed him distracted.”

Cam knows. Logically, he knows all of it, and if he was in their place he’d’ve probably done the same thing. “Your buddy Aeryn could’ve moved faster,” he says, and can’t quite keep the bitterness at bay.

Chiana shrugs. “You scare her,” she says, which is not a hugely helpful explanation. “She doesn’t like the fact that you’re not Crichton. She doesn’t know how to deal.” She huffs a gasp of what Cam guesses is supposed to be a laugh, and says, “She’s frelling awful at that kind of stuff. She doesn’t understand a Crichton that doesn’t flirt back.”

Which, now that Cam thinks about it, makes a lot of things make sense. The looks, the confusion. The hurt. “Oh,” is all he can think to say, because it’s been a long time since he even thought about thinking about a girl in that way. He figured himself out pretty quick after high school, and, well, then there was John. Then there is John.

Chiana laughs that hiccupping laugh again, but doesn’t offer anything by way of explanation.

Cam can live with that.

They’re in the lull, now, the quiet before the storm. Cam watches the drones buzz around the dart, puts the pieces together in his head about where they came from and why now—he’s figuring they were held in the dart’s buffer, waiting for some kind of dead man’s switch from their Wraith boss—and when Aeryn and D’Argo come back with a bag full of guns that would make Ronon cry, Cam just falls in line. He accepts the relatively small pistol he’s handed, feels its weight in his hand and figures out how to actually fire the damn thing – and then he says, “Got a plan?”

Aeryn’s eyes narrow as she looks at him. “Do you?”

Cam shrugs. “Not a complicated one,” he says. “My people are gonna turn up sooner or later. They’ll find a way to track me, they always do. And when they get here, they’ll fix this. Like I said, we’ve encountered similar things before.”

“So what? We just wait?” Aeryn’s expression is unimpressed. “We have no idea how long we’ll last. We are seriously outnumbered.”

“We set up barricades,” Cam says. “Block up the corridors, stop those guys moving around the ship. Hole up in a secure place. Keep your ship on as low a light as possible, keep the thing in the walls from growing anymore. Lay low.”

“And when,” Aeryn asks softly, icily, “did you get put in charge?”

“I didn’t,” Cam says, keeping his voice steady. “But I’m here and this is my universe. I know more about these guys than you do. And I want to help, because if those guys overrun this ship and capture us, I’m toast as much as you are.” He thinks about Michael and Todd, about all the Wraith the Atlantis expedition has destroyed and crippled and tried to wipe off the face of the galaxy, and says, “Maybe more so.”

Aeryn’s still watching him, keenly observant, and she says, “How long until your people come for you?”

“Don’t know,” Cam answers. “Could be ten minutes. Could be days. But your ship’s crippled and it won’t be long before those guys start getting hungry and coming to raid the kitchen. Which would be us, if you didn’t get the metaphor.” He holds Aeryn’s gaze, doesn’t think about weakness and pain, says, “I’m not your boy, and you have no reason to trust me, I know that. But if we want to survive, there’s a lot of work that needs to be done.”

Silence holds sway for a long, long time.

Cam doesn’t know why Aeryn agrees, in the end. Maybe she sees something earnest in his expression, maybe it’s the fact that he looks so like the guy who’s apparently something more than nothing to her, but eventually she nods, short and tight, says, “Okay.” – and that’s that. D’Argo produces plans of the ship on some kind of acetate that Cam squints at for three minutes before giving up on, and he and Aeryn mark out strategic hold-points and corridors that can be easily blocked up. No one’s going too far into the ship so they end up having to give at least half of Moya over to the Wraith that are still beavering away in the cargo hold, and for what feels like hours Cam sweats alongside them, shoving barriers into place that are made out of whatever loose furniture they have knocking around. The floating slug on a plate—Rygel?—doesn’t seem too enthused about their efforts, complaining more than actually helping, but that hoversled thing at least helps take the weight off some of the bulkier pieces. They build and build until they have passable defences, and then they head back down the corridor to the next hold-point and repeat the process.

Build and repeat. Build and repeat. It feels like preparing for war.

What Cam wouldn’t give right now to have his team alongside him and the weight of a P90 in his arms – but, then again, if wishes were fishes. No point in daydreaming.

Cam finds himself working alongside Aeryn, in the end, the others off fortifying the barriers further back along the winding corridors as they put the final touches to the front line: gun installation bolted to the floor, spare charge packets slapped along the barrier within easy reach, eyeslits prepared and signposted. They’re both working, Cam checking the bolt points on the floor, Aeryn testing the stress the barrier can take—the decision’s been made that she’ll be the one to decide when they fall back, and Cam’s not going to argue with that: he understands chain of command—and after a while Cam says, aiming for nonchalant, “Just so you know, if I don’t make it back, he’ll be alright.”

Aeryn’s shoulders tense, just a little, but she doesn’t reply.

“Your boy Crichton,” Cam clarifies. “My people, they won’t hurt him. And if you make it out of this mess, ask around for Atlantis. That’s where he’ll be.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Aeryn asks, and there’s a streak of emotion in her voice that he hasn’t heard before.

Cam shrugs. “Call it good faith,” he answers. “Plus, I don’t particularly want to end up naked in your infirmary again. Figure it’s best if you get your boy back before you do any more kidnapping.”

Aeryn’s lips twitch before falling, and not for the first time in these past few hours Cam wonders exactly how much of Crichton she sees in him. “You were hardly naked,” she says. Cam squints at her incredulously, and she qualifies, “I left you your underwear.”

“Yeah,” Cam says, dripping with sarcasm. “Thanks for that.”

Aeryn doesn’t speak for a moment, still crouched on her haunches even though she’s finished with the work in front of her. “I didn’t believe you at first,” she says finally. “Even when you didn’t understand what I was saying, when you told me your name the first time you woke up. I didn’t believe you. Crichton— John. He’s had enough mental breaks in the past that I figured this was just the same thing happening again, that we’d get through it like we always do. But then you wouldn’t stop saying it, and we took you back and Sikozu insisted on stripping your shirt to fix the wounds on your chest, and…” She trails off. “It was the scars,” she says. “Your scars are different. John has plenty, but his are nothing on yours.” Cam thinks about the stripes across his shoulders and the burn in his side, the old ropes down his thighs from injury and surgery and surgery again. “Your legs,” Aeryn asks, and there’s no hostility in her voice, now, only curiosity and the understanding of another officer. “What happened?”

Cam remembers ploughing into ice and snow, feeling the lack of pain and fighting so hard to not just give up and die right there and then. “I’m a pilot,” he says shortly. “I crashed. And we don’t exactly have your fancy medical technology back on Earth.”

Aeryn nods, and Cam almost thinks that might be respect in her eyes. After a moment she says, “I’m sorry about the Wraith. If it helps, the grey makes you look… distinguished.”

The grey. Cam winces. “No offence,” he says, “but I’m avoiding looking in the mirror right now so I’d appreciate it if you people didn’t bring it up. This ain’t exactly reversible, you know.”

Aeryn’s quiet for a second, and then, again, “I’m sorry.”

Cam flashes her a grin. “I know.” He slaps out at the barrier, feels it hold. “I think we’re done.”

“It’ll hold,” Aeryn agrees. “How long, I don’t know.” She taps her comm, says, “Pilot. Any news on enemy movement?”

“Their patterns have been different for the past few microts,” Pilot says, “and Moya senses some kind of stirring in the entity. She believes that we do not have long before they start to attack.”

Cam feels adrenaline zipping through his veins, into his heart, his gut, his lungs. He draws the pulse pistol from the holster he was helpfully supplied it, settles his fingers into place on the grip. He’d kill for a P90 right now or even just a damn zat, but this’ll have to do.

“Understood,” Aeryn says, and Cam can hear the anticipation in her voice, too. “D’Argo, Chiana, Sikozu. Are you in position?”

They identified three primary access routes, set up three stage of barricades along the open corridors and got Pilot to exert as much control as he has left over Moya’s infected bulk and close as many doors as possible. Sikozu and Chiana have one, D’Argo one, and Cam followed Aeryn to the third, mainly because she told him to. He’s beginning to think she just likes having Crichton’s face at her side even if it’s not his mind – but he doesn’t think about that right now, because affirmatives are piling in over the comms and Cam just listens to his heart, steady and only ratcheted a little faster than normal. It’s going to be okay. It’s going to be fine. He’s been in worse situations before and he’s still here.

“Officer Sun. They are moving!”

“Ready?” Aeryn asks.

Cam grins at her, says, “I’m still wishing you’d given me a bigger gun.”

Aeryn’s answering smile is more baring of teeth than expression of amusement, but Cam’ll take it. “Maybe next time.” She pauses, just for a moment, and when she looks back up at him there’s something thoughtful in her eyes. “If I don’t make it and you do,” she says, “you’ll tell John?”

“Sure,” Cam says, and then, with a twist to his lips that’s not quite humour, not quite bitterness, says, “You’ll do the same for me?”

Aeryn nods. “What’s her name?”

Cam does laugh at that, but now he can hear the thudding of running feet echoing down the corridor, and for a moment he’s on every mothership he’s ever fought his way out of, every secret bad guy lair and every lap around the Sodan’s village. He doesn’t answer, just readies his grip on his borrowed weapon. This is what he was born to do. He says, “Let’s light her up.”

Moya’s corridors fill with the sounds of war.

“How long?”

Rodney looks up from the calculations streaming across his tablet. “For the fifth time in as many minutes,” he says, “I don’t know! This isn’t like satnav, you know, we are following the trail of a completely alien system of engineering that you gave me six and a half hours to figure out. You are lucky that we are on the right track at all, and I’m still not entirely sure that we are. And I could figure it out with a much greater degree of certainty if you would stop asking me every minute!”

John pauses, thinks, then says, “So not long?”

For a second, he thinks Rodney wants to hit him. “Maybe,” Rodney finally comes out with. “Maybe not. Go away, Sheppard.”

John doesn’t go away, but does subside for a couple of minutes. They’re on the bridge of the Hammond, secreted away at the back where Sam won’t be tempted to throw things at Rodney, and Rodney’s obsessively monitoring the vector calculations that he and Crichton came up with, making sure that they don’t veer even slightly off course. It’s almost like he doesn’t trust Sam’s navigator, but that could possibly be true because Rodney? He’s the most trusting man in two galaxies.

The Hammond turned up an hour ahead of schedule, which John’s a big fan of because it means that they got to turn around and head out again an hour ahead of schedule. They’re currently in hyperspace, following the breadcrumb trail of ‘starburst energy’, whatever the hell that is, that Crichton mapped out across the next four systems, and both Sam and Rodney agree that it’s not going to take that long to get there.

But still.

It doesn’t help that Crichton’s haunting the bridge, too, with Ronon haunting him and Teyla along to make sure that no one starts a fight. Sam’s in her command chair, busy with a mug of coffee and the cobbled together data-collection-cum-report on the situation so far, and John can tell from the hunch of her shoulders that she’s not happy. One of her people is missing, so that’s not wholly surprising. John’s feeling it, too, and there’s nothing he wants more right now than to get his hands on Cam Mitchell again, to tie him down in the goddamn infirmary and lock him up until he stops being so fucking dutiful.

John’s nostrils flares, and he says, “Rodney. How long?”

“Sheppard!” Rodney squeaks.

Across the bridge, John can hear Ronon’s snort. “Rodney,” John counters calmly. “What’s our ETA?”

Rodney drops his tablet in pure exasperation, says, “Have you been listening to a word I’ve been saying?” He glares at John a moment longer, but when he gets no response he gathers up his tablet, says, “I don’t know why you’re so eager to rescue Colonel Mitchell, anyway. He’s probably just found some alien princess to hole up with. I bet he’s having a great time.”

From across the bridge, just in front of Ronon, Crichton makes a funny strangled sound. John’s going to file that one away for later. “Not the point, Rodney,” John says. “So. How long?”

“Sheppard.” Sam’s looking back at him, coffee in her hand. “Would you come up here for a minute?”

There’s amusement teasing around Sam’s eyes, yes, but there’s worry there as well. John says, “Sure.” and leaves Rodney to it.

Sam’s got a tablet on her knees, too, and with the light of hyperspace streaking across her features she says, “Provisional ETA’s about an hour. I want you and your team ready to deploy the moment we get there.”

“Expecting trouble?”

Sam glances over at Crichton, who just sort of looks like he doesn’t know what to do with himself, and says, “From what he’s been saying? Wraith on his ship? I don’t trust Cam not to get himself tangled up in that.” She gives John a sideways look, says, “You know what he’s like.”

John feels his cheeks flush. Sam has a spare key to Cam’s apartment in Colorado Springs, all the members of SG-1 do, and so it had only been a matter of time before one of them walked in on John and Cam in the middle of things. John’s just grateful it wasn’t Vala. “Yeah,” he says. “I do.” He pauses for a moment, then says, “You got any Marines to spare? Might be useful to have the option of backup.”

Sam thinks about it for a moment, then nods. “I’ll see what I can do. Go get ready, although I’ll need McKay. Take him with you instead.” She gestures back at Crichton, who perks up.

John’s not so keen on that plan. “Really? Him?”

Sam spares him a look that tells him exactly how little time she has for his shit right now. “Yes,” she says. “Him. It’s his ship, John. You’ll need him.” She pauses. “And try not to get him shot.”

Off to the side, Crichton coughs. “So you know,” he says, “it’s not my first rodeo.” Which is exactly what Cam would say. “I can handle myself in a firefight.”

Sam looks at Crichton for a long moment, clearly fighting with the echoes of Cam in those eyes, too, then says, “Give him a tac vest and a zat. You, take the heavy guns.”

John smirks. “Yes, ma’am.”

They suit up pretty quickly, Crichton settling the tac vest over his shoulders with a look of vague disgust at how bulky the whole thing is, and Teyla lightly touches John’s arm, says, “How are you doing, John?”

“Fine,” John says, and tucks ammo clips into his vest pockets. “Looking forward to a nice bath tonight.”

“A bath?” Ronon saunters over, pistol clipped to his hip, P90 loose in his hands. “Gonna bring Mitchell along?” His voice is still pitched at its usual semi-growl but there’s a lightness in his eyes, a friendly tilt to his head. “Might have to be careful with that arm.”

Teyla looks amused. “You told Ronon?”

“ ‘Told’ is a loose way of putting it,” John protests.

“Walked in on them,” Ronon explains, unrepentant. “I thought your military has rules against that kind of thing?”

“Never much been one for rules,” John says, and there’s a challenge in his voice, now, because he never told his team, never really planned to. This has always been his, his and Cam’s, and if his friends are going to start looking at him differently then, well, they’re going to have to change things up a bit. “Problem?”

Ronon just smirks. “No. Explains a lot.”

John’s not going to ask what that means, because at that point his radio buzzes in his ear with Sam’s voice. “Sheppard. We’ll be dropping out of hyperspace in ten minutes.”

He keys his radio, says, “On our way.”

On their way out of the Hammond’s armoury that they’ve thoroughly plundered, John catches Crichton looking at him oddly. Now that he thinks about it, the guy wasn’t that far away from them for the whole bath-with-Cam conversation – and John tries not to grimace, says, “Yeah?”

“Nothing,” Crichton says, far too quickly, and then, “I just never thought that I’d be, you know.” John just looks at him. Crichton’s apparently lost for words, and he says, “Not that it matters.”

“He’s not you,” John says. “Remember that.” And he gestures out of the armoury with the muzzle of his P90.

The atmosphere on the Hammond’s bridge is quiet but tense, and that helps John somewhat, slots him into the mindset that he needs: Colonel Sheppard, not John. He stops at Sam’s right shoulder, says, “Sorry about the lousy welcome.”

Sam shrugs. “I’ve had worse,” she says. “Besides, it’s not like this isn’t the first time he’s got himself captured. There’s a pool back at the SGC about how many times it’s going to happen a month. This month, twice so far.”

“Make that three times,” John says.

Sam twists to look up at him, genuinely thoughtful. “Do you think it counts if it’s in Pegasus?”

“Ma’am,” Lieutenant Barkhuizen at navigation says, crisp and sharp. “Dropping out of hyperspace in five, four, three, two—” John’s gut clenches. “—one.”

The shudder of the exit from hyperspace whispers through his limbs and John finds himself leaning forward, peering out into the blackness of space, searching, searching.

“Scan for Colonel Mitchell’s transmitter,” Sam says, all business, all Colonel Samantha Carter, USAF’s finest.

“Nothing,” Captain Alverez says after a moment, “but I’m picking up a ship, sir. The signature’s like nothing we’ve got on record.”

“Bring it up,” Sam says.

The viewscreen snaps to a ship, bulbous at the front but sweeping back to two elegant fins, all warm bronzes and golds – except that it’s not, it’s not, because there’s sickly green sweeping through it, already covering half the outside in growths and tendrils, and John sees Crichton take a shuddering step forward, hands clenched into fists. He recognises the fury in that expression, helpless and impotent. He’s seen it in Cam’s eyes enough times, sitting at the bedside of his injured teammates, grounded while others go off and fly his battles for him.

“Lifesigns?” Sam asks.

“Multiple,” Alverez answers. “Readings aren’t coming through clearly enough to determine species. We have at least… forty-five individual signs, though, possibly more. Some are clustered together too closely for the scanners to differentiate at this range.”

“Forty-five?” That’s Crichton. “There’s six of my people, one of yours.” His eyes are maddened. John wants to look away but can’t quite bring himself to actually do it. “Who are the others?”

“My guess would be Wraith,” John answers, and he’s calm, perfectly calm, because there’s nothing to worry about, no, not at all, there’s nothing wrong with Cam being trapped on board an alien ship with at least thirty-eight Wraith. “Colonel Carter. My team is ready to go.”

“So are my Marines,” Sam answers, “but I need you to wait a moment, Colonel.”

John’s not bristling. John’s definitely not bristling. “Colonel?” he says, slow and drawn out and ever so polite.

Sam shakes her head firmly. “Need more intel,” she says. “I can’t send you into a firefight unprepared.” She nods to Alverez. “Open a channel.”

Two seconds, a flick of fingers, and Alverez nods. “Broadcasting on all frequencies.”

“Alien vessel,” Sam says, lick of steel through her voice that John knows is shot through Sam’s bones. “This is the Earth ship Hammond. You have one of our people, and we have one of yours.” John sees Crichton’s lips thin. He’s probably not too keen on being a bargaining chip. Sam waits for a moment, then says again, “I repeat, this is the Earth ship George Hammond. Can anyone hear me?”

All John can hear is his heart, thudding loud in his ears. This is not a good sign, and almost unconsciously he hefts his P90, fits his finger to the trigger and drops his stance a little, lowering his centre of gravity. Out of the corner of his eye he can see that Ronon’s unholstered his pistol and now has a deadly weapon in either hand, and that Teyla’s got her head cocked to the side in the particular way she gets when she’s poised right on the edge of violence and beating the bad guys – and Ronon catches John’s gaze, then just nods to him once. He’s ready to go to war, they’re all ready to go to war to get Cam back – and something warm spreads through John’s chest at that. Comradeship and friendship. If Cam’s John’s, he’s theirs, too.

“Colonel Mitchell,” Sam says finally, voice tighter, then, “Cam. Do you copy?”

There’s silence, a long, interminable silence that eats at John’s mind and heart and sanity.

The connection crackles into life. “Sam!” Cam’s voice booms. “Good to hear your voice.”

John thinks he might pass out. He sags with relief, catching himself with a hand on the back of Sam’s chair.

“Cam,” Sam says, her voice shot through with the same relief that’s weakening John’s goddamn knees. “I was beginning to worry.”

“Don’t stop worrying yet,” Cam says, short and tight – and that’s when John hears the weapons fire, sizzling and bitter over the fuzzy connection. “Got ourselves a bit of a situation, here!”

“Extraction?”

“Negative,” Cam shouts, and John can feel the tension building in his limbs. He’s itching to get over there. “I had to scrap my transmitter. Might be a good idea for you guys to do the same.” Cam cuts off in favour of more gunfire, then all they can hear is breathing and swearing.

“Carter,” John snaps. “Ready to beam us over yet?”

“In a moment,” Sam says, just as firm, and then, “Cam? Are you still there?”

“Yeah.” Cam’s been running, John can tell from the pitch and heave of his voice. “Fuck. Need backup, guys, really really need backup. But cut out the sub qs before you come over. Don’t want any more tentacles coming outta the walls.”

“We may have something for the tentacles,” Sam says. “Do you have access—”

“Hate to interrupt, Sam,” Cam interrupts, voice tighter than John’s heard it in a long time, “but we are getting our asses handed to us. These energy weapons are fucking awful against the Wraith, and I promised my new friends over here that we only had to hold out until the Hammond got to us. That was seven goddamn hours ago, and I don’t think we can hold out much longer. Get rid of the sub qs, and please get me some backup! We can deal with the fucking bug problem when we’ve all made it out of this alive.” More weapons fire, heavier and sustained this time, and then Cam, faint and distant, yelling, “Fall back! Goddamnit, Aeryn, fall back!”

John doesn’t miss the fact that Crichton’s face goes white as a sheet.

“Understood,” Sam says. “Sheppard. You ready?”

John nods, says, “Ronon, Teyla.” even though he doesn’t need to – and then he looks over at Crichton, pale and furious, and says, “Are you with us?”

Crichton doesn’t say something snappy in reply, just comes and stands shoulder to shoulder with Ronon. John figures that’s probably not a good sign.

“If you’re doing this,” Sam says, stern and tough, “you’re doing everything he says. Transmitters out now. Ronon?” – but Ronon’s knife is already drawn, quick as spitting, and he carves out the bump under his skin in the time it takes John to find the short, black-hilted knife he’s got clipped to his tac vest. He sees Teyla doing the same out of the corner of his eye, and Sam’s comming down to the Marines standing ready in the ring room, ordering them to do the same. It’s a goddamn credit to her leadership that no one asks a single question.

“Alverez,” Sam says, finally. “Get them over there. Put them on that ship, as close to the non-Wraith lifesigns as you can get.”

Alverez doesn’t look particularly happy about all this. “Ma’am,” she says. “There’s no way to tell which are Wraith and which aren’t.”

For the first time, John notices that Sam’s hands are white-knuckled on the armrests of the command chair. She gives John a grim smile, and then says, “Guess.”

The world dissolves around John in a flash of bright light, and when he next blinks he’s in a warzone. The walls are a blur of warm bronze and cool green and every square foot is streaked with the footprints of energy weapons fire. The air stinks of ozone and blood, and John can see at least four dead Wraith dotted along the floor, all facing in the same direction: away from where they were beamed in. John’s putting the pieces together in his head even as he’s registering the not-quite-near-but-not-quite-distant sound of fighting, shouts and shots and screams, and he says, “Ronon, watch our six. Follow me.”

Crichton follows his shoulder, zat held clumsily in his hands, and he says, “We’re on tier twelve. I know where they’ve gone.”

“Where?” This is no time for a pissing contest.

“There’s a bolthole near here,” Crichton hisses. “A good place to retreat to. That’s where they’d hole up. That’s where Aeryn would go.”

There’s that name again, Aeryn, and Crichton says it like Cam says John when they’re alone together and there’s nothing but them and the stars. John knows what that voice means, and he trusts it. “Okay,” he says. “Where?”

Crichton leads them unerring forward, and as John hears the sounds of battle getting steadily louder he figures they’re heading in the right direction.

His arm stings where he dug out his transmitter chip. He still has bruises from the run back from the Traveller ship before all of this starts and they tug at his skin, at his clothes. His muscles ache from the tension, his vest is heavy on his shoulders. Everything is sharp and clear.

Crichton stops, looks back at John, mouths there, points around the corner – and the sound is loud, so loud, shooting and shouts and John’s pretty sure he can pick out Cam’s throaty roar, now. John motions for Crichton to get out of the way, takes his place at the apex of the corridor and peers around the corner: there’s a good dozen Wraith left, all concentrating their fire through a narrow doorway, moving forward, forward, slow but steady, and that doorway is filled with red streaks of energy fire, streaks going both ways. John can’t see into that room, there are too many Wraith in the way, but Cam’s close, he knows he is, he must be. He could try the comms, see if he can get through, set up some kind of pincer movement, but that doorway’s too narrow for a charge. It’d be a deathtrap, and John has no intention of losing Cam because of this fucked up situation.

The Wraith have Cam pinned down, but they don’t know John’s here. The solution’s not exactly complicated.

John gives orders with his hand, quick and fast, and he figures that Crichton’s not going to understand but is pretty likely to get the gist when people start running. He can feel his people grouped behind him, Ronon and Teyla and Sam’s Marines, Jeylani and Brownhouse and Marshall, and they’re all there, all ready.

John gestures, sharp and pointed, and they charge.

They take the Wraith from behind, quick and quiet. Ronon’s snapped a neck and put one down with his blaster within half a second, and then John opens up with his P90, severs one of those ugly, ugly heads at the neck and takes another square in the chest as it turns towards him. The air’s full of bullets and cordite, now, almost louder than John can bear in the confined space, but the Wraith are falling, falling like, well, dead Wraith, stumbling over one another and, most importantly, staying down. The red streaks are still flying from the other side, albeit with all the accuracy of a goddamn stormtrooper, but the Wraith barely seem to notice. No matter: they’re going down.

Marshall, a short, stocky brunette with a gun almost as big as she is, takes out the last one, and then all that’s left is stink and heat and the adrenaline flooding through John’s veins.

Crichton’s stood at his side, chest heaving, and the moment they’re drenched in that particular post-battle silence that John sometimes dreams about on his good days, Crichton looks up, goes forward, runs. “Aeryn!” he shouts.

John doesn’t entirely know what he’s expecting, but it’s definitely not Vala Mal Doran, erstwhile thief, current SG-1, coming running out of that bolthole and straight into Crichton’s arms. But that seems to be what’s happening, and so John lets the muzzle of his P90 dip, steps forward, over the semi-circle of dead Wraith and peers through that narrow, bronze-shaded doorway—

Cam’s smile is big and tired. He ducks out of the doorway, unfamiliar gun in one hand, unfamiliar clothes clinging to his body, damp with sweat and what John’s pretty sure is blood, and he says, “I was about ready to give up on you, Shep. Cut it pretty fine.” He gestures with the gun, then chucks it back over his shoulder. “This damn thing’s out of juice. What the hell? A phaser that runs out of battery?”

And that’s something new. “What happened to your arm?” John asks. “You forget your sling?”

“They fixed me up,” Cam says, picking his way through the bodies towards John. One of the Marines is down, a stray blast to his shoulder, and Teyla’s with him, soothing him as one of his colleagues patches him up as best he can, and Cam says, quieter, “Thanks. Really. That was a close one.”

There’s a darkness in Cam’s eyes and his pupils are still blown wide with adrenaline, and John says, “Any time.” – but even as he’s saying it, even as he’s quipping and pushing aside the urge to just grab him and kiss him like Crichton’s doing to his precious Aeryn right now, he’s seeing the signs. There are wrinkles around Cam’s eyes, silver-grey streaked through his hair, and John’s heart is beating faster than it ever was in the damn firefight, now, because John knows those signs. John dreams about them most every time he closes his eyes, of age that wasn’t there the night before, and he says, heavy and loaded with meaning, “Cam.”

Something spasms across Cam’s face that might almost be fear. “You didn’t get all of them,” he says, not addressing John’s unasked question. “There’s still a contingent down in the cargo bay. We figure they were the second wave. The entity in the walls hasn’t woken up yet, so if you get down there fast you can take out the soldiers and then get the scientists to work on—”

“Cam,” John practically spits, voice tight and angry, so angry. “Tell me.”

A muscle jumps in Cam’s jaw. “No,” he says, short and just as angry, just as bitter. “Not now, John. This isn’t over yet.”

“Mitchell—”

“Don’t pull that last-name bullshit with me,” Cam snaps. “No. I’m wiped out, so I’m going to hold this position with as many Marines as you can spare until every last goddamn Wraith is off this ship, and then I’ll go lock myself in the Hammond’s infirmary. Until then, stop it. Act like a goddamn officer.” – and there’s bile in his voice, bile and fire, and John knows it’s only because Cam’s starting to crash, coming down off the adrenaline high and nose-diving straight into the fear but that doesn’t stop the words from stinging.

He straightens, says, “Crichton. Cargo bay.”

Crichton looks up from where he’s moved on from his Aeryn to the grey girl that John remembers from Atlantis’ CCTV, although with less kissing and more all-limb hugging, and he says, “I’ll take you.”

Aeryn-Vala says something that John figures is supposed to mean something to him but is in fact just an elaborate collection of clicks and tics. John squints at her, confused, and is about to express that confusion in how he’s really not in the mood to be babysitting civilians right now when Cam says, “She’s telling you that she’s going with you, Sheppard. I’d say take her. She’s a better shot than I am.”

Sheppard. “Sure,” John says, “Mitchell. Don’t do anything stupid ‘til I get back.”

He doesn’t look at Cam again because he doesn’t think he can. Instead he spins on his heel, says, “Ronon, Marshall, Jenkins, Zhang, O’Reilly. You’re with me. Everyone else, hold this position and do not move until you hear otherwise from either me or Colonel Carter.”

Teyla looks up at him, blood all over her hands, and says, tight and tense, “Of course.”

John doesn’t really remember how they get to the cargo bay. He remembers walls, yeah, fucking miles of walls, bronze and grey-green and arching above his head with more beauty than any Earth ship he’s ever set foot on, but he’s not paying attention to the route they’re taking, no, not all at. He lets Crichton and Aeryn lead them, the pair of them moving in a perfect tandem that speaks of not just friends or allies or lovers but partners, partners in everything, and then he thinks about Cam and he just wants to throw up.

Ronon jogs alongside him, a wordless, dreadlocked shadow.

It doesn’t take them long to clear the cargo bay, even though that Wraith hive mind has been at work again and the drones are waiting for them. Without a leader, their tactics are basically limited to point and shoot, so it’s easy for John to split his team and catch them from both sides, and when they’re in the middle of the fight, P90s blazing and Ronon’s pistol going ten to the dozen, John lets the anger well up in his chest, bitter and lava-hot. He empties a clip into a drone’s faceplate, pulverises the armour enough that he can see the now-mangled face dripping out from the inside, and then instead of reloading he just uses his P90 as a goddamn battering ram and smashes the next one in the gut, in the face, takes it down and grabs for his knife, gets astride the thing’s chest and stabs, stabs the chest and the shoulders and the neck, as much as he can find, stabs until he’s covered in the fucking thing’s blood and then, only then does he finally grab for the feeding hand and he saws it clean off.

John comes out of the haze to find himself sitting astride the body of a dead Wraith, P90 gone, knife in his hand and blood that’s not entirely the Wraith’s fucking everywhere.

He takes a shaky breath, then another, then takes stock of his surroundings. The battle’s done, the war’s over, every last Wraith is dead, and yeah, there’s still the matter of the jungle-shrouded dart to deal with, but that’s for Beckett and Rodney, not for him. He’s done his bit, with the brute force and the tactical mind, because that’s what he does, he does daring rescues that always come just in the nick of time and always save the goddamn day.

John heaves himself off the Wraith and kicks the thing’s body away. He can feel eyes on him, the level, studiedly blank gaze of Sam’s Marines, the unsettled confusion on Crichton’s face, but he doesn’t care. Let them think what they want to think. He’s never given a shit about people’s opinions before, why should he start now? – even though he knows that’s a lie, of course it is, it’s as much of a lie as it is every time he says goodbye to Cam and tells himself that it’ll be easier, this time.

“Sheppard.” Ronon’s eyeing him with a wariness he usually reserves for food he doesn’t trust or Teyla when something’s standing between her and Torren. “What’s up with you?”

Adrenaline is buzzing in John’s veins. He wipes his knife off on the thigh of his BDUs, slots it back into its worn old sheath, says, “Mitchell’s been fed on.”

Every muscle in Ronon’s body tenses. “What?”

“Yeah,” is all John says, and then he taps his radio, says, “Hammond, do you read me?”

“Loud and clear,” Sam answers. “Sheppard, report.”

“I think we got most of them,” John answers. “There should be two clusters of lifesigns, one in the cargo bay, one on the twelfth level. Can you confirm that there are no other lifesigns on board?”

There’s quiet for a moment, and John can feel blood dripping from his fingertips. He needs to get off this fucking ship.

“I can confirm,” Sam answers. “Looks like you’re in the clear.”

John wants to sit down with a crate of beer and drink it all. Ronon’s still looking at him with a familiar anger in his eyes, an anger that John feels in his own gut, but he doesn’t want to think about that right now so he says, “We’ve got some for the Hammond’s infirmary, Sam, and you should probably get the geeks over here to get the plants out of the walls.” He peers upwards at the tendrils that have sunk their way into the ceiling and fights the urge to scratch at the scar in his belly. “Looks like we were right about the hive ship thing. This looks pretty similar, although I want Beckett to take a look before we just go injecting things into the walls.”

“Understood,” Sam says, sharp and crisp. “What about Mitchell?”

John can’t answer that question, but he doesn’t have to. Another comm crackles into life and Teyla says, “I have him here with me, Colonel Carter. He is in… acceptable health.”

John can practically feel Sam’s sigh of relief. “Good,” Sam says. “Acceptable is good.”

John wants to snarl. Acceptable is not good. Acceptable is pretty fucking far from good – but that’s something he’ll deal with later.

Like Cam said: act like a goddamn officer.

They clean up, stacking the Wraith bodies as neatly as they can be bothered in a corner and freeing up space for the veritable flood of nerds that’s Sam’s promised them. At Crichton’s suggestion, all relevant personnel get stabbed with the microbes that they picked up in Crichton’s own head, which suddenly makes communication a whole lot easier, even if John’s not entirely sure he actually needed to understand all the colourful abuse that the weird slug-thing is continually spewing.

Rodney and Beckett arrive right on time, complete with portable lab and about six different laptops, and they set up around the downed dart, taking samples and talking in long, unnecessarily complicated words. At Crichton’s suggestion, they liaise with something called ‘Pilot’ over comms, and John leaves them to it with Jeylani and Brownhouse on guard when Beckett starts muttering something about ‘tacky residue’. He comms Teyla, goes to find her and Ronon, who’d disappeared off the moment Rodney was ensconced in his nerdery: they’re up on what John’s guessing is the bridge, and when he steps up to meet them just for a moment he wonders what it must be like to fly this bird, send her soaring through the emptiness of space. She’s got an elegance that the Hammond—for all her firepower—is lacking, and John peers at the various consoles as he goes past, tries to figure out what might be navigation. The console with the joystick is probably the one, but he figures that it would probably be bad manners to start playing with the toys before they’ve properly made friends.

Which brings him to the cluster of decidedly alien lifeforms that Teyla is currently deep in conversation with.

Ronon spots John and jogs over before he reaches them, and says without preamble, “Mitchell and Jameson went back to the Hammond for medical checks.”

John nods, says, “Thanks.”, and doesn’t miss the intensity in Ronon’s eyes. John might hate the Wraith but Ronon loathes them, and he knows how hard it is for Ronon to see anyone he’s vaguely connected to touched in that way – but no, he’s not thinking about Cam, lines around the eyes and silver in his hair that wasn’t there when they fell asleep together, only last night but what feels like years ago. He lets out a breath, says, “What’s going on here?”

“Teyla’s doing her thing,” Ronon says. “They mostly seem okay with our help, and are willing to come back to Atlantis once we’ve got all of this stuff off their ship. That… thing is complaining a lot—” Ronon points to the grey, tufted slug-thing (still the best word) on a floating couch. “—but none of the others seem to be listening to it, so I figure we’re good.”

John nods. “She need my help?”

Ronon shrugs. “Don’t think she needs anyone’s help.”

And all of a sudden John is so very tired. “Okay,” he says. “I’m gonna go back to the Hammond, get a shower before this stuff won’t come off. You alright to stay here and keep an eye on Teyla and Rodney?”

“Sure,” Ronon says. “I’ll make sure they get back alive.”

John can see in Ronon’s eyes that he knows exactly what John’s thinking. He can’t let any more of his people get hurt, not now, not ever, because the lines around Cam’s eyes are almost too much for him to handle. “Thanks,” he says, softer now, and means it.

John picks up one of the temporary beacons Sam sent over with the scientists and radios the Hammond for a pick up. That takes all of two minutes, and when he arrives on the ship he goes to the armoury, strips off his tac vest and deposits his weapons, then goes straight to the showers, strips off his clothes and goes to stand under the lukewarm spray. He’s not the only one in there—there’s a couple of Marines off at the other end of the showers, joking around as they rinse off the day’s work, and a lieutenant John vaguely recognises showering near them—but he doesn’t pay any of the others any attention, just goes and dunks his head under the water. He scrubs the dark Wraith blood off his skin, watches it swirl down the drain, finds the liquid soap and washes blood out of his hair. His clothes are ruined, he knows that, but he’s got spares in a locker because he figured something like this might happen, and so he stays in the shower, head down, water whispering down the back of his neck, and tries not to think.

Cam, Wraith feeding hand dug into his chest. Cam, trying not to cry out, trying to resist the pain but failing because that pain is too much. Cam, a withered old husk in a hive ship’s corridors. Cam, dead and gone and all because John fucked up.

Without really realising what he’s doing, John punches the wall. It doesn’t help, and all it earns him is a funny look from the Marines and barked knuckles that feel like they might be broken. He hisses through the pain, watches the water wash his red blood away, and then goes to dry and dress.

He should go to the infirmary. He knows Cam will be there, and he should get his knuckles checked out, because that was a silly, childish thing to do and he is above that.

John goes to the bridge instead. Sam catches his eye the moment he comes through the door and she waves him over, says, “Congratulations, Colonel. Looks like we can count this one as a win.”

John smiles even though he knows it’s hollow, and says, “Yeah. I guess we can.” He looks out of the front viewport, squints at the smooth swell of the alien ship, and says, “Any idea how long this is going to take?”

“McKay reckons it’ll be a day or so before they’re ready to come back with us to Atlantis,” Sam says. “We’ve scanned the area and there don’t appear to be any Wraith ships nearby, but we’re staying on alert just in case. Measures are in place to get everyone off that ship and on board the Hammond, ready to run, in minutes if needs be.”

John nods. “And McKay definitely needs the computers back at Atlantis?”

“He says so,” Sam confirms. “I had a look at the data that Crichton sent over to us on the anomaly they encountered. I agree with McKay’s assessment: we need more processing power than we have on the Hammond.”

“Okay,” John says, and stares out at the stars.

After a moment of silence, Sam says, “He’s in the infirmary, by the way, getting a brief check up. The doctors will run more thorough tests when we get back to Atlantis: the Hammond doesn’t have the equipment on board. Doctor Keller says that all of the previous injuries she catalogued are perfectly healed, but that there have been… others.” Something twists across Sam’s face, and it’s something John recognises all too well.

“Yeah,” he says, doesn’t make her say it. “Yeah, I know. I saw it in his face.”

“I just came up from seeing him,” Sam says, and shakes her head, jaw tight. “He wouldn’t tell me what happened, just kept saying that he was fine, that there were bigger things for me to be worrying about.”

“Sounds like Mitchell.”

“Yeah,” Sam agrees, and then, “You can’t avoid him forever, John.”

John looks at her sideways. “What makes you think I’m avoiding him?”

“Because you’re here instead of in the infirmary?” Sam says, like it’s obvious.

John guesses it kinda is. “Yeah,” he says. “That’s true.”

Sam turns away, settles back into her command chair. She looks like she belongs there, and she says, “Go see him, John. That’s an order.”

John narrows his eyes at her. “You can’t order me around anymore, Carter.”

“My ship, my rules,” Sam says, and leaves it at that.

John goes it the infirmary. He figures that’s probably easier than arguing.

The Hammond’s infirmary isn’t exactly spacious, but even considering the cramped walls and the low ceilings it feels deserted. There are precisely two patients (three, including John, but he’s not yet submitted himself for Keller’s pointed looks): an airman with light burns down one arm, being treated by a nurse; and Cam, perched on one of the beds at the fair end, shrugging into a USAF-issue t-shirt as Keller makes notes on a tablet.

John’s not going to say anything, but he’s almost sorry for the loss of the leather pants.

Cam catches his eye the moment his head emerges from the t-shirt’s neck, and his lips thin, just a little, just enough that John almost doesn’t notice. Cam doesn’t say anything, which is more noticeable, just turns back to Keller and says something softly enough that John can’t hear.

Keller turns around, says, “Colonel Sheppard.” Her gaze does that usual once-over every doctor John’s ever met has down to an art, and then her eyes narrow. “What have you done to your hand?”

John had almost forgotten about his little run in with the wall. “It’s nothing.”

If Keller was prone to scoffing, she’d be scoffing right about now. “Come sit down,” she says, and indicates the bed next to Cam’s. John does as he’s told while studiously avoiding Cam’s gaze, and Keller takes his hand, twists it into the light, makes a noise of disapproval and says, “Say there. I’ll be right back.”

John sits and fights the urge to kick his legs. He can feel Cam still watching him, and it doesn’t take long before—

“What did you do this time?” Cam says, and there’s a warmth in that voice that John has missed.

John doesn’t really see the point in lying. “Had a fight with the shower wall.”

“Of course you did.” John sees Cam shuffle closer out of the corner of his eye, sees him lean forward, and then say, “Hey. John. Look at me.”

John does, and it hurts his goddamn heart.

Which is, of course, when Keller decides to come back, hands full of antiseptic and gauze. She doesn’t ask John how he managed to fuck up his knuckles this time, just cleans the wound, checks for broken bones, then wraps his hand and says, “Come see me tomorrow to get it cleaned and rewrapped, otherwise I will come and find you.”

Sometimes Keller can be scarier than any Wraith. “Yes, ma’am,” John says, not without a twist of humour.

Her gaze softens. “You’re okay,” she says. “Now, I’m going to hand Colonel Mitchell over to you. Get him quarters and make sure he rests.” She turns back to Cam, says, “Call me if you experience anything unusual, any pain, any odd sensations. I mean anything.”

Cam ducks his head, offers her his best southern smile. “Of course, doc,” he says. “I keel over, you’ll be the first to know.”

“Good,” Keller says, and leaves them to it.

John doesn’t want to think about Cam keeling over, about him sinking to his knees in the middle of a corridor, eyes wide, hands clutching at his chest, and never getting up again – but he needs to know. He has to know. He looks up at Cam, finds him watching him just as warily, and says, “Show me.” And then, softer, “I need to see.”

Something dark flickers in Cam’s eyes. “Okay,” he says after a moment, voice thick. “I will. But not here. You got quarters?”

Sam’s assigned them all temporary quarters for the duration of the trip. John’s supposed to be with Rodney, sharing a narrow room with two narrow bunks, but Rodney’s on the alien ship right now, bickering with Beckett, and he’s probably not going to be back for a good long while. “Yeah,” he says. “Come on.”

The crew of the Hammond have all spent enough time in the Stargate programme that Cam’s new crowsfeet only get a few funny looks, and, for that, John’s glad. He’s taken the lead, trusting Cam to follow him without being asked, and he still can’t quite bring himself to look at that face. He has an image of Cam in his mind, smiling and sultry and wicked, and that doesn’t square with what he sees in front of him anymore, at least not entirely – and what’s worse? It’s his fault. He knows it’s his fault.

They come to John’s temporary quarters, and Cam follows John in without a word, sits down on the bottom bunk—which Rodney has technically already shotgunned, but John’s not going to quibble—and says, “So, I’m guessing from your face it’s bad.”

John’s never been particularly good at hiding his emotions around Cam. “Wraith are always bad,” he tries, voice half-choked.

Cam looks at the ground, rubs at his eyes. He’s quiet for a moment, and then, “How much did it take? How many years?” He snorts a soft laugh, says, “I’m gonna need you to be honest with me here, John. I’ve been avoiding shiny surfaces all day.”

John feels his heart twist. “You haven’t seen?” he asks.

Cam’s lips are turned in a wry smile. “Couldn’t bring myself to,” he answers. “The look in Sam’s eyes wasn’t great, though.” He looks up, meets John’s gaze, and, fuck, his skin is wrinkled and his hair is greyer but those eyes are still bright and keen and Cam. “How bad is it?”

Which is when it hits John straight between the eyes. Cam needs him. Cam needs him quite possibly more than he’s ever needed him before, because injuries and torture are fine, yeah, whatever, but this is age. This is a creeping, insidious drain on Cam’s life, sapping the strength of his muscles and the speed of his reactions, and, fuck, they were supposed to grow old together or not at all. It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

Cam needs him.

John goes to Cam, sits next to him on the narrow bunk and says, honest and open, “I’ve seen worse. You’ve lost five years, maybe a few more. No more than ten, I reckon.” He reaches up, ignores the way his hands are shaking, touches his thumb to the creases around Cam’s eyes, brushes his fingers through the streaks of silver-white-grey hair. “Fuck.” The curse slips out before John’s even aware of it, but then has to qualify it so he says, “I shouldn’t’ve left you alone.”

Cam leans into John’s hand, says, “It’s not your fault. It’s no one’s fault.” He pauses, qualifies, “Except maybe the Wraith’s. But that asshole’s dead, so there’s no sense in gettin’ angry with him.”

Cam’s accent’s getting thicker. John knows full well what that means, and he brushes his thumb over Cam’s cheek again, says, “Can you talk about it?”

“If it’ll stop you giving me those sad eyes,” Cam says, “then yeah, sure.” He smiles a little, covers John’s hand with his own, presses a kiss into the palm. “I’m sorry about what I said,” he says after a moment. “On the ship. The officer thing.”

“Doesn’t matter,” John says.

Cam gives him a look. “Yeah, it does,” he says, then huffs out a breath. “Shouldn’t be talking to you like that in front of your subordinates. Unprofessional.” A muscle tics in his jaw, and John feels it through his fingers. He drops his hand, takes Cam’s instead. Cam breathes, squeezes John’s hand, says, “I guess I let it get to me. You know, the whole – Wraith thing.”

John doesn’t miss the pause, and it wrenches at his gut to hear it but he has to know. “Cam,” he says, and his fingers curl around the bottom of Cam’s t-shirt, not pulling but clearly wanting to. “Please, I need to see.”

Cam smiles a sad smile, then says, “You always did like to watch.” He releases John’s hand, leans forward and pulls his t-shirt over his head, folds it neatly and leaves it on the floor, close enough that he can grab it if they need to run and save the galaxy again – and then he sits back, leans against the bulkhead and lets out a long breath. “Go on,” he says, not unkindly. “Take a look. I’ll be here when you’re done.”

John looks. He can’t do anything else.

The bruises and the cuts, the burns and the contusions: they’re all gone, wiped away by the magic-cum-science of that alien ship and its crew. John remembers one particular dark star-burn, the memory of painstick and pain, but the skin is clear and smooth, now. He touches, remembers the purple-green bruises and squares that with the warm, tanned skin under his fingers – but this his fingers stutter over the circular scar in Cam’s side, the gift of a staff blast and a stint with some ninja Jaffa, and, fuck, it’s faded. It’s not gone, not by a long shot, but it’s smoother into the skin, less raised, less angry. It’s – older.

And then, of course, John can’t put it off any longer.

The narrow slit is off-centre, further to the left than the right and it’s blurred by Cam’s chest hair, half-hidden, lurking. Darker veins are threaded through the surrounding flesh—the path the enzyme took, keeping Cam alive long enough to steal his life—and they’re faded, yes, but they’re not gone yet. John knows from experience that they take a few days to fade completely. The skin is puckered around the wound, still traumatised, still recovering, and John can’t get the image out of his head: Wraith’s feeding hand, crushing into Cam’s chest, holding him down, eating him alive—

“Hey.” Cam’s hand lands on John’s shoulder, rubs into thumb into muscle. “I’m still here.”

John lets out a shaky breath that he wasn’t even aware he was holding. “Damnit,” he growls.

Cam doesn’t let go. “I’m okay,” he says. “I swear, I’m okay. A bit beat up, a few years older. Gonna be having some new, exciting nightmares, I’d imagine. But I’m okay. I’m safe.”

John doesn’t quite touch the wound in Cam’s chest, curls his fingers in the hair that surrounds it. “How?” he says, not meeting Cam’s gaze. “How did this happen? When we got there, you were fighting side by side with those people. They were protecting you as much as you were protecting them. So how did a Wraith get close enough in the middle of a firefight to do this?” His fingers dig into Cam’s chest and he only notices when Cam winces.

“It was an accident,” Cam says, and his voice is half accepting, half irrevocably bitter. “They didn’t mean it to happen.” John feels his hackles raise at that, but Cam’s hand is still on his shoulder, still kneading calm into his muscles. He listens to that. “There was a Wraith skulking around their ship,” Cam explains. “Screwing shit up, helping the transformation along. They needed to take him out, but they couldn’t catch him. So they herded him to near their infirmary and let him come for me.”

John’s breathing hitches. “What?”

“It’s okay,” Cam says. “I’m pretty used to being used as bait. Plus, the damn thing was tracking my transmitter signal. It would have found me eventually anyway.” He grimaces, and his fingers twist deeper into John’s shoulder. “Only thing was,” he says, “I was tied down. I’d tried to run before, so they tied me down – which is completely understandable. We did the same thing to Crichton, you know that.” John does. That doesn’t make it easier. Cam sighs, says, “They’ve never seen Wraith before, they don’t know their MO. Aeryn was waiting for the Wraith to show up, but when she saw the damn thing going for my chest, she didn’t know what it was doing. She was waiting for it to get comfortable, I guess, to pull a weapon – or for it to start trying to strangle me. Something like that. What she got was it – feeding. And me screaming.” He shrugs, and his hand rises subconsciously to his chest, half-covers the wound. “She acted pretty quick after that,” he says quietly. “Shot the thing off me. Took a dozen or so blasts before it went down.”

“She let it happen,” John says, voice cold and angry.

“She saved my life,” Cam corrects calmly. “It only fed for a few seconds. Any longer, and it’d be a whole lot harder to explain to my folks.”

There’s rage boiling in John’s gut, rage that’s been there ever since he shot out of the transporter and saw Cam’s blood smeared across the floor, and he needs someone to take it out on, needs someone to take the blame, because when bad things happen someone is responsible, and if it’s no one else, well, then it must be John’s fault, and John’s not entirely sure he can manage being responsible for this one. He knows he can’t.

“Hey,” Cam says again, and his hand is on John’s chin, tilting his head up and bringing him face to face with Cam’s earnest blue eyes. “Don’t. Stop blaming them, and definitely stop blaming yourself.” He searches John’s face for a moment, looking for something that John doesn’t know how to give him, and then says, “They’re good people, they’re just scared. Which I can get, seeing as they’re not in their universe and we kidnapped one of their guys.”

John pulls a face. “I think you’ve got that the wrong way round.”

“Not from their perspective,” Cam says. “We’re all the good guys, here. We just had some pretty poor communication going on. Like that kid I heard, back on Atlantis: he was running from them because he was scared and he’d been having a bad dream, and they were actually tryin’ to calm him down when I came running with a gun and startled the big guy into taking me out.”

John squints at him. “You’re being very calm about all this.”

Cam shrugs. “Spent a long time fighting alongside them. Tends to change my opinion.”

“Doesn’t do much for mine,” John says, and he knows he’s being difficult, of course he does, but he can’t stop because this has all been far too close to his nightmares for his liking. Except the part where Cam’s double turns up, of course, because that’s a pretty good dream by his standards, but that’s so not something he ought to be thinking about right now.

Cam’s hand is resting against John’s neck, fingertips buried in the hair at his nape. There’s a hesitation in his eyes that John doesn’t recognise, and after a moment of tense, awkward silence, Cam says, soft and full of pauses, “Is this, you know, going to be a problem? The – age thing.”

John doesn’t understand. “What?”

Cam’s cheeks are flushed. “I look different,” he clarifies. “My face, my – body. There’s less muscle mass, I can feel it. I’m not—” He cuts himself off, bites his lip. “I’m not the same as I was. I just want to know if that’s a gonna be problem for you. I guess it would be for some people, if their boyfriend walked back in the door not lookin’ like—”

“Wait.” John sits up straighter, peers at Cam like he’s lost his fucking mind. “Are you asking if I want to – break up with you?” That sounds like they’re teenagers necking in a mall, which is absurd. “Really?”

Cam shrugs, a little helplessly. “You’ve been acting crazy,” he says. “Even crazier than usual. I don’t know, I thought maybe—”

“No,” John snaps, maybe a little harsher than he meant to. He takes a breath, says again, “No, you goddamn idiot. I’ve been acting weird because I let you get fed on by a fucking Wraith, not because I care that you’re going grey. You haven’t even seen yourself, Cam: you don’t look that different.”

“It’s not just about the looks,” Cam argues, and there’s an edge to his voice, now, a cutting bitterness that John almost can’t take. “I’m not exactly – fighting fit. Guess I’m sorta broken now.”

“Broken,” John repeats flatly. “Are you kidding me?”

“Come on,” Cam suddenly snaps. “It’s not just fine. This isn’t going to heal, isn’t going to go away. I don’t have a pet Wraith to come along and give me back what it took.” He catches himself, closes his eyes. “Sorry,” he says, rich and thick. “Sorry, I didn’t mean that. I just—” He sighs, buries his face in his hands. “Guess this is going to take some getting used to.”

“Yeah,” John says slowly. “I guess it is.” – but he’s looking at Cam now, actually looking instead of the fearful glances he’s been stealing this far, and, yeah, there are deeper lines and his hair’s more grey than brown, but the line of his shoulders is still the same, the way he relaxes bonelessly into whatever couch-bed-bunk he’s chosen to sprawl in, the way his knee butts up against John’s like it’s the most natural thing in the world. It’s still Cam even though the packaging might be a little different, and it’s all hitting John, now, the relief and the fear and the ache that’s been lodged in his chest since Cam went out to play the hero, because Cam’s here and he’s alive and this could have been so much worse.

John’s hands are steady when he reaches out, pulls Cam’s hands away from his face and tugs him closer. He kisses him before Cam has a chance to freak out again, kisses him soft and gentle rather than hard and lusty, and says, “I love you, you ass.” The words are as awkward as they always are but he says them nonetheless. “It’d take more than a goddamn Wraith to stop that.”

Cam doesn’t quite smile—John thinks he might be too tired to smile properly like he knows Cam can—and he says, “You’re a damn softie, Sheppard.”

“Don’t tell McKay,” John says, and kisses him again.

It’s late by Hammond’s internal time, and the moment John pulls back and sees Cam’s eyelids fluttering with exhaustion he realises that he’s pretty wrecked, too. Cam pulls his t-shirt back on and they curl up together in the uncomfortable, narrow bed, and it’s far too small for either of them to get any decent amount of sleep but neither of them is willing to let go. John ends up with a mouthful of hair and Cam’s head curled into his chest and Cam’s feet are hanging off the end of the bed and John’s butted up against the headboard, but Cam’s there and he’s warm and alive and that’s all John needs, really.

They do sleep, heavy and sound, until John wakes in the middle of ship’s night to Cam’s breathing hitching and gasping and his hands clawing at John’s chest like he wants to pull him open and crawl inside. John knows those dreams, knows that fear, so he runs his fingers through Cam’s silvering hair, kisses his forehead, says, “It’s okay, I’ve got you.” over and over and over again until Cam quiets and even John starts to believe what he’s saying.

Cam calms without waking, goes back to his usual REM twitching, but John can’t sleep after that. He lies there, shirt rucked up around his ribs with Cam’s hands warm and needy around his stomach, and ignores the ache in his arm and his back that’s been brought on by too long in a really fucking uncomfortable position, because he won’t leave again. He won’t let this happen again.

Some time around two in the morning—John’s not exactly sure, because his watch is currently in a pile on the floor with his boots and his belt and Cam’s is tucked under his head—the door opens and Rodney comes stumbling in, bleary eyed and, as usual, not even bothering to keep the noise down. He’s got a power bar in one hand and a tablet in the other, flooding the darkness with electronic light, and his night vision is clearly shot because he comes up short, squints at the lower bunk, says loudly, “Sheppard! I shotgunned!”

Cam stirs but doesn’t wake. He’s always been good at sleeping through the end of the world.

John should probably care that this is the second time this has happened in as many days, but it’s the dark of the night and he’s had enough hurt these past few days to last a lifetime. He says quietly, “Keep it down, Rodney. He needs to sleep.”

“What? Who?” Rodney turns his tablet off and peers into the dark. “Is that—”

“Yeah,” John says, and curls his hand around the back of Cam’s neck.

“Why is he in bed with you?”

John sometimes forgets how dense Rodney can be when it comes to things that don’t involve quantum physics. “Really?”

Rodney’s quiet for a moment, and then he says, “Sorry. Stupid question.”

John can’t see his face in the darkness, but Cam’s breath is warm against his throat and he says, “Go to bed, Rodney.”

Rodney shuffles around in the darkness, shedding his boots and leaving a pile of electronics in the corner, and then clambers up onto the top bunk. “If I fall off and break my neck, it’s your fault, Sheppard.”

“Yeah, yeah,” John answers.

There’s quiet for a long moment. The loudest sound is Rodney trying not to breathe too much and it’s sort of awkward for a while, but John’s had his fair share of awkward over the years, though, so he just settles in for the long run.

The night passes.

It’s almost three when Cam starts to shift against John. John had been dozing, eyes closed but not really asleep, but he’s awake again the moment Cam’s hands start clenching on his hips, nails digging in hard enough that it’s painful. Cam’s still out, though, still trapped in the nightmares, and his breathing deepens, gets heavy and rough then slips over into mumbles, into moans, mouthed against John’s chest but shot through with fear.

Above them, Rodney’s breath hitches.

John noses through Cam’s hair, strokes the back of his neck and whispers, “You’re okay, you’re okay.” He ignores the fact that Rodney’s only feet away, kisses the top of Cam’s head. “I’ve got you.”

“John?” Cam’s not awake, not really, but he’s looking up at John, voice fogged by sleep. “John,” he breathes. “I was… It was going to…”

“Yeah,” John says. “Yeah, I know. Go back to sleep.”

Cam nods, nuzzles back into John’s neck. His hands are still warm against John’s skin, but they’re loose, relaxed. No nails. “Love you,” he mumbles.

John hears Rodney’s breath stutter, but he doesn’t care. They’ve been hiding this for too long – no, wait, he’s been hiding it, because Cam was all for telling their teams and doing the whole meet-the-parents schtick, but John panicked. John freaked out at the thought of other people having an opinion, other people knowing – and of course Cam was okay with that because Cam’s okay with pretty much everything, but now? Now Teyla knows and Ronon knows and, fuck, Rodney knows, and John feels freer than he has in years.

John kisses Cam’s forehead, says, “Love you, too.” and listens as Cam drifts back to sleep.

For a long moment, there’s nothing but breathing.

Darkness still absolute, John hears Rodney shift above him and say, quiet and subdued, “Is he okay?”

“Yeah,” John answers automatically, but then he remembers that this is Rodney, that this is his team and he doesn’t lie to his team unless he has to, and he readjusts. “No. He will be.”

Rodney’s quiet for a moment, mulling it over, and then says, “If I can do anything.”

John gets that funny little warmth in the pit of his stomach that he got when Ronon smiled and jostled and waded into a firefight to get Cam back. “Yeah,” he says. “Thanks.” He listens to Cam breathing for a moment, then says, “Don’t mention this in the morning? He wouldn’t want anyone else to know.”

He half expects Rodney to act offended, to be all high and mighty and spout I would never! and how dare you imply such a thing! That’s not what Rodney does. John hears him shift again, then say, honest and simple, “I won’t.”

John believes him.

It turns out that John drifts off at some point in the night, because the next thing he knows he’s been woken by Cam nearly falling out of bed and Rodney is nowhere to be seen. There’s a part of him that wonders if that whole nighttime encounter was just a weird dream, but then he sees the power bar wrapper left in the corner and almost smiles.

Cam frowns at him. “What you smiling at?”

“Nothing,” John says. “Let’s hit the showers.”

The science teams have been working through the night, and when John and Cam make it to the bridge the alien ship is still out of the front viewport but is looking significantly less green. Sam’s not on duty so her command chair is occupied by Major Wilson, her 2IC, a big, burly guy with a neck that looks thicker than John’s thigh. He swivels the moment they enter, stands and snaps a salute, says, “Sirs.”

Cam says, “At ease.” in that magnanimous voice of his, and then, “Report.”

Wilson relaxes. “Science teams report swift progress on the alien vessel,” he says. “The Wraith contagion is in the final stages of eradication.” He pauses, looks at John, says, “Doctor McKay has requested your presence, Colonel Sheppard.”

“Of course he has,” John says under his breath, and glances to Cam. “You gonna be alright without me? Or are you planning to get kidnapped again?”

Cam doesn’t quite smirk at him, but it’s close. “I’ll do my best to avoid kidnappers,” he says. He looks to Wilson, says, “When does Colonel Carter come on duty?”

“Oh nine hundred.”

John checks his watch: it’s still only eight in the morning, ship’s time. It feels later, and Cam says, “I’ll go catch Sam in the mess. Figure I’d probably better apologise for dragging her out into the wilds of Pegasus.”

“You do that,” John says. “I’ll bring you back a souvenir.”

The wrinkles around Cam’s eyes deepen as he smiles.

John goes and suits up, then beams over to the alien ship from the Hammond and wanders around until he finds Rodney, knee deep in machinery with Beckett leaning over him and shouting. It’s a scene that’s familiar enough that John’s more amused than concerned, and so he clips his P90 to his vest, lets it hang, and says, “Rodney? You called?”

Predictably, Rodney waves absently at him and says, “One moment.”

John figured that was going to happen, so he stands at ease and surveys the room. It’s a mess, as Rodney’s work places usually are, SGC tech wrapped up in Ancient with a lashing of unfamiliar devices here and there that John’s going to guess are probably from this alien ship itself, but there’s an order emerging from the chaos which suggests that things are going well. Now that he thinks about it, there was significantly less green in the walls on his way here, and he says, “Any idea how much longer we’re going to be hanging around here?”

Rodney’s bickering with Beckett again and seems not to hear. It’s entirely possible that he’s just not listening out of spite after that whole are we nearly there yet thing John pulled on the Hammond, but John would quite like an answer, so he’s already got his mouth open to yell an indignant “Rodney!” when—

“Running away so soon?” It’s Cam’s voice but not Cam’s drawl, and John’s steeling himself even before he’s turning. Cam’s face but without the new Wraith-given silver streaks, and that curdles something in John’s gut, makes his jaw clench and his fingers spasm closer to his P90. “Not sure I’m so keen to head back to your Atlantis,” Crichton says. “Still not a hundred percent sure you’re not going to throw me in that cell again.”

John smiles coolly. “I’m sure you’ll be fine.”

Crichton’s smile falls a little, and he nods to John, then goes past him and heads for Rodney. “McKay,” he says, waving a bunch of what look like dripping white cables. “I’ve got those connectors you wanted. These gonna be enough?”

Crichton Rodney responds to, and he looks up, snatches the cables, studies them and says, “Good. Good. Plug them in over there.” He gestures vaguely to the other side of the room but Crichton seems to know exactly where to go, and John watches, forehead furrowed, as the guy with Cam’s face hunkers down and starts messing with machinery. He’s even more surprised when Rodney, studying readouts on a dirty tablet, grunts in approval and says, “Yeah, that’s right. Power’s opening up again. Now we just need to get it properly flowing, and Moya can start cleaning out her own systems.”

Crichton looks back over his shoulder, says, “There are conduits Pilot can get open that’ll help out, ones that lead from the central nerve cluster to pretty much everywhere.”

“Yes,” Rodney says. “Do that.”

And Crichton does, talking on his comm while simultaneously replacing cables that are stained that particular shade of green John’s come to know and not so much love with clean, new ones. It’s odd, because Crichton’s moving with all the grace Rodney does when he’s elbow-deep in a scientific problem but he’s got Cam’s expression, intense and focused, that John remembers far more from the gun range than the laboratory. The combination jars.

“I got the feeling that Mitchell wasn’t much of a scientist.”

John should really stop letting these guys sneak up on him. The woman who’s not Vala Mal Doran and who Cam kept calling Aeryn is standing at his side, hand resting on the energy weapon at her hip as much as John’s hands are curled around his P90. Her face is studiedly neutral, the kind of neutral you only learn after, well, a lifetime in the military, and for some reason that sets John at ease. He says, “He’s not. He can fix up a car as well as anyone, but this? Not so much.”

Aeryn-Vala nods. “They look at things differently,” she says. “Can’t quite decide which I like better, yours or mine.”

John stiffens, but doesn’t respond.

Aeryn doesn’t say anything for a moment. They stand there, watching the nerds work—Crichton’s muscles aren’t as solid as Cam’s, but they’re still there and the leather pants certainly help—and Aeryn finally says, “I wanted to apologise.”

John glances at her sideways. “For what?”

She turns to face him, and John reluctantly follows suit. He’s not sure he wants to have this conversation here, right out in front of everyone, but Rodney’s Marine detail are on the other side of the room, Beckett’s definitely not listening, and Aeryn’s speaking low enough that no big secrets are going to get spilled – and she says, “What happened with the Wraith. If I’d’ve known, I wouldn’t have left him defenceless.”

“But you still would have done it,” John observes.

“If it was necessary,” Aeryn answers.

John should probably be grateful for the honesty, and, yeah, on some level he is, but he still hasn’t quite managed to get the image of Cam dying, slowly and painfully, out of his head. “Not sure that makes me feel better,” he says. “You wouldn’t have done it if it were Crichton, would you?”

Aeryn’s eyes narrow. “If he’d been Crichton,” she says, “we wouldn’t be in your universe and none of this would be happening at all. But if it had been Crichton, he probably would have volunteered.”

John’s lips twist. Not that he’s going to say as much, but he’s pretty sure Cam would have, too, but only because he didn’t really understand the risks, didn’t really know what he was getting himself into. The man needs a goddamn leash sometimes, and he says, “I thought this was supposed to be apology.”

Aeryn’s lips tighten. “I guess I need to work on that.” And she stalks away.

Well, that went well.

John hangs around a while longer, and when it looks like Rodney might finally be coming up for air, he saunters over, says, “Rodney? You going to tell me why you dragged me over here yet?”

“What?” Rodney looks confused. “Oh, yes, that. It’s not important. But I want to talk to you anyway.”

John has a worrying feeling he’s been played. “About what?”

Rodney tries and fails to look innocent. “Nothing. Teyla and Ronon will be here soon. I’ve got to finish this first. Did you know that this ship is alive? It’s called a Leviathan, and it’s a combination of mechanical parts and living tissue. Amazing. And that explains why the Wraith turned up, too: if they could combine this with their hive ships, I don’t want to think what—”

John’s definitely been played. “Rodney.”

Rodney ignores him and starts tapping furiously at his tablet. For a moment, John contemplates just turning around and beaming back to the Hammond, but then he realises that this is probably going to have to happen at some point, whatever happens, so he just finds a corner, wedges himself in, and decides he’ll catch up on sleep until Rodney’s done with whatever it is he’s doing. He’s got a lot of experience with getting by on very little to no sleep, but right now there’s a lull, a calm, and he figures he’s going to take full advantage of it until someone else gets kidnapped or tortured or blows up a sun. Or something.

John’s out in seconds.

He comes to to a foot nudging his thigh. “Hey. Sheppard. Wake up.”

John opens his eyes from a surprisingly restful nap and squints up at the dreadlocked walking smirk that’s currently still poking him with a hard boot. “I’m awake,” he objects, ignoring the fact that that’s patently not true, and clambers to his feet – which is when he notices that the room that was previous full of scientific equipment and people who aren’t members of his gate team is now significantly emptier. As in, completely. He frowns, says, “How long was I out?”

“Approximately two hours,” Teyla says. “You were sleeping so peacefully that we could not bring ourselves to wake you.”

John should be embarrassed, but honestly he feels much better than he did this morning and he’s not going to complain. Much. “Great,” he drawls, and then, “So, what’s the plan? Back to the Hammond? How quickly do we leave?”

“The plan,” Rodney says primly, “is that we keep you here until you explain to us why you didn’t explain to us.”

Which isn’t exactly the clearest sentence Rodney has ever come out with, but, then again, he’s probably not had much sleep lately. At least he appears to be clutching a travel mug that John’s willing to bet is brim-full of bad, Daedalus-class coffee. John thinks for a second about playing dumb, but then he gives up, sighs, says, “Really? Now?”

“It seemed opportune,” Teyla answers serenely.

“So,” Ronon says, and grins. “Mitchell.”

If John wasn’t literally backed into a corner right now, he would be running for the hills. He figures that they probably planned that, too, and he says, “What about him?”

“How long has this been going on?” Rodney asks.

See, it would easy for John to lie, for him to just throw out some random number that would placate Rodney and move onto the next excruciatingly awkward question, but it seems that at some point in the past forty-eight hours, John has made a decision: this is his life, and he really ought to stop hiding it from the people he gives a shit about. “We’ve been friends a long time,” he says finally. “Met at the Academy. Did… this on and off.” John can feel his cheeks flushing at the bad euphemisms. Ronon’s eyebrows are practically waggling. “More on than off. Never openly, because, you know, the military.”

“Ah, yes,” Rodney says, brandishing his coffee. “Your stupid military with its stupid rules.” Now’s not the time to point out that John has seen a fair few good men and women who’ve had careers destroyed by those ‘stupid rules’. Rodney’s frowning, and then he says, “I thought that particular stupid rule was scrapped, though.”

“Yeah,” John says, “it was.” He remembers that day, not that he was aware it was even happening at the time, mainly because got back from a particularly awful off-world mission which left Rodney and Ronon in the infirmary and Teyla limping pretty badly, and he got back to an email from Cam, sent over in the weekly databurst, that had a news article attached and simply said Christmas come early? – and John had said nothing and said nothing, and finally, three weeks later, he’d received another email from Cam that just talked about sports and Vala’s latest escapade and neither of them had mentioned it again. “Doesn’t change everything, though. Frat regs are still in place.”

“You live in another galaxy,” Rodney points out. “Doesn’t that bypass the whole ‘chain of command’ thing?”

John’s getting increasingly irritated with Rodney right now. “Yes,” he says. “Yes, I guess it does. I’m sorry I didn’t make sure to tell you specifically, McKay, but maybe you were a bit too busy running around after Doctor Brown and then Keller to notice! Goddamnit, Rodney, you walked in on us years ago!”

Rodney looks startled. “Did not!”

“Did too! When they came over here to block the Ori supergate, and there was that party afterwards and you came blundering out when we were out on the balcony?”

Rodney still looks nonplussed.

John sighs. “He had his hand down my pants, Rodney.”

Ronon snickers while Rodney blusters, “It was dark! I’d been drinking!”

“I think,” Teyla interrupts smoothly, “we are getting off topic here. John. Please. What are your intentions with this liaison?”

Rodney’s spluttering even as John’s saying, “Intentions, Teyla? Who are you, his father?”

“Hardly,” Teyla replies, apparently not even perturbed by the suggestion. “I simply admire Colonel Mitchell, and know you. You are stubborn and reluctant to reveal any of your personal feelings beyond what you absolutely must. Colonel Mitchell, on the other hand, is an open and honest man. I do not wish for your need to remain private to come into conflict with his more affectionate nature.”

John narrows his eyes at her. “And when exactly did this become about Cam’s feelings rather than mine?”

“It is not,” Teyla answers. “However, if anyone is likely to call an end to this relationship for… less than logical reasons, it is you. And that would cause you as much grief as it would Colonel Mitchell.”

Rodney looks tired. “This is essentially an intervention,” he says, “but with more aliens and less alcohol.”

John’s not impressed. So not impressed. “I’m leaving now,” he says. “I’m going to go back to the Hammond and we’re going to forget that this ever happened, okay?”

He even gets as far as moving forward before Ronon stops him, one hand to his chest, and says, “Sheppard. We’re with you, whatever you do, but we want you to be happy.”

“God knows that’s hard enough out here,” Rodney adds. “Look, we don’t need to know anything about you guys, how long you’ve been going out—” John cringes at the term, but of course Rodney doesn’t notice. “—whether you’ve met the parents, if you – love each other.” The stutter’s unplanned enough that it could just be Rodney stumbling over the idea of John being in love with anyone, but John knows better. Rodney meets his gaze for a moment, then drops it, his cheeks flushing red. “We just need to know that you’re not going to throw this away. Even if it is Mitchell.”

John’s having to fight pretty damn hard to stop a smile spreading across his face. “Would you let me if I tried?”

Ronon snorts again, and Teyla says, “We would not.”

“Well then,” John says, “I guess I’m going to have to stick with it.” It’s as much of a declaration of undying love as they’re ever going to get.

It seems to be enough. Ronon drops his hand and Teyla’s shoulders lose a little of their tension, and Rodney says, “Well, alright then. Can we get back to the Hammond now? I want some real food, not those weird cubes Crichton kept bringing me when I asked for something to eat.”

“Sounds good to me,” John says, and before Teyla can even try to protest he taps his radio and gets them all beamed back home again.

Cam’s not there when they rematerialise on the Hammond’s bridge, which John’s counting as a good thing because he’s not sure Rodney would be able to cope with being in the same room as the two of them again without doing something really pretty stupid. Sam is, though, and she looks away from her tablet, says, “McKay. Crichton just called, said that the repairs are working well and they should be ready to travel inside a few hours.”

“Of course they are,” Rodney says, like it’s obvious, and starts to leave in search of food and coffee.

John doesn’t move, though, and neither do Teyla and Ronon, because they can all hear it even if Rodney can’t: Sam’s voice is tense, tenser than it should be now that they’ve weathered the storm and come out the other side with nothing more than a few extra years to show for it. She’s not showing it enough for anyone to notice who’s not military, who’s not a leader. John catches Rodney’s arm, stops his leaving and ignores his squeak of protest, then steps forward, turns his back to block out Alverez and says, “Colonel?”

Sam’s eyes are too bright. “We have a situation,” she says softly, gaze darting between the four of the,. “I don’t want it to leave this bridge until we get back to Atlantis.”

“What is it?” Teyla asks.

Sam’s jaw is tight. “The whole thing with the subcutaneous transmitters,” she says. “Mitchell reported that the Wraith was able to find him because of his transmitter, which is corroborated by some of the equipment that’s been dug out of the wreck of the dart.”

“What equipment?” Rodney interrupts.

For once, the look Sam gives him isn’t acid. “A scanner,” she says, “specifically calibrated to track the Atlantis transmitter frequency.”

John feels adrenaline nip through his veins. “I thought that frequency was secure,” he says.

“It was,” Sam answers. “It isn’t anymore. And it gets worse.” Her hands are curled tight around the armrests of her command chair, and she says, “I sent a subspace transmission to Atlantis on the emergency frequency the moment Cam told me. We just received one back. One of the long-range transmitters has been activated, and has been broadcasting a signal to Pegasus at large for a good two days now. It wasn’t picked up by the control tower because it’s been broadcasting that specific transmitter signal—”

“And because of all the subcutaneous transmitters wandering around Atlantis,” Rodney interrupts, realisation dawning on his face, “the sensors in the control tower are specifically calibrated to not ping when transmissions on that frequency are particularly high.”

Sam nods, for once not glowering at being interrupted. “Woolsey’s message says that they only noticed it when they received our message and went about the process of shifting the frequency on all subcutaneous transmitters.” She pauses, and there’s a pallor to her cheeks that John does not like. “It’s been broadcasting for two days,” she says, “which is more than enough time for the Wraith to pick it up.” Shit. “Woolsey sent Lorne out in a cloaked jumper,” Sam says, “to do scans of the system. He found two hive ships, hanging back just out of sensor range. Just… waiting.”

“Waiting?” Rodney squeaks.

“Waiting for what?” Ronon supplies.

“We don’t know,” Sam says. “Woolsey left the signal broadcasting in the hope that they wouldn’t think anything was wrong, but limited its strength so that it would fade out just outside the system. They haven’t moved yet, but the last transmission from Atlantis was twenty minutes ago.”

“Plan?” John asks.

Sam’s gaze holds him steady. “They’ve found Atlantis,” she says, “and that’s unacceptable, I think we can all agree. The current plan—”

“The stardrive,” Rodney fills in without being asked. “Again? I’ve only just got used to the climate on this new world.”

“It’s the best option,” Sam says. “Woolsey agrees. Him and Lorne are currently looking through the list of possible worlds that was compiled when Atlantis returned to Pegasus. They’ll have found a new home by the time we get back, just in time—”

“For me to fly the city,” John says, then smiles wolfishly. “Sorry. Just wanted to beat you to it, McKay.” He looks back to Sam, says, “The Wraith aren’t just going to let us fly the city out of there. They’re going to come and try to mess things up.”

“Which is where the Hammond comes in,” Sam says. “We’ll run interference, with the 320s and a squadron of jumpers from the city. Crichton’s even offered to lend a hand: apparently they’ve got a couple of battle-ready ships in that ship.”

“Crichton knows?” John asks.

“I told him,” Sam clarifies. “His crew, too. We can help them, back in Atlantis, to get back to wherever they came from, but it’s not fair to drag them along into an ambush that we know is going to happen. Luckily, they offered to help.”

Teyla’s being unusually quiet. Finally she says, “Has Mr Woolsey had any success in discovering how this signal began? The timing is… suspect.”

Sam’s nodding. “Which is another reason Woolsey wants the Hammond back as soon as possible,” she says. “Fingers have been pointed at the Travellers, and that’s caused some tensions. Finding them a new planet is on the backburner until all of this is sorted out, and guards have been posted on their quarters. Keena is less than pleased, calls it ‘prejudice’. She wants you back, says that you’re the only one to actually treat them like humans.”

“That is unfair,” Teyla counters. “Major Lorne, Doctor Keller and many of the other expedition staff assisted me in my dealings with them.”

“I know,” Sam placates. “I’m just saying what Woolsey’s message said.” She glances around them, says, “There will be a bigger meeting once we get back to Atlantis, proving the Wraith haven’t made their move. Any strategy will be elaborated then. Until we get back, though—” And her lips are twisting wryly even as she’s saying it. “—I suggest you try to get some rest.”

To their credit, they do try. Teyla goes back to her and Ronon’s assigned quarters, presumably to try to meditate, and Ronon goes to the gym, presumably to try to find someone to beat up, which is pretty much his idea of relaxation. Rodney scuttles off to the mess and then John’s hoping he’ll go to their room and get some sleep, but he knows full well that he’s much more likely to find him in the engine room, fussing and fretting and definitely not resting. And John? Well, John goes to find Cam. It’s not hard, even though the Hammond has miles of corridors and hundreds of different rooms, because there’s a fight ahead, a fight that not all of them will come out of but that they can’t avoid, and John knows exactly where Cam goes when he needs to psych himself up for that kind of pressure. For John, it’s the jumper bay. For Cam, right here, right now, the Hammond’s 302 hangar.

Cam’s in one of the 302s when John finds him, focused and intent, running through pre-flight checks and sequences that John recognises for firing, manoeuvring, dive-bombing, everything John could possibly imagine and more. Cam’s so lost in the prep that he doesn’t even notice John’s standing right next to him, and John doesn’t disturb him, just watches, because John can fly 302s, yeah, of course he can, can fly them alongside the best, but Cam’s always played those birds like they were music. John’s seen the footage from Cam’s first test flight back on Earth, and the loops and spirals and low-atmosphere speed were a thing of beauty. These were the planes Cam was meant to fly and John knows that only made the crash so much worse, because not only did Cam nearly lose his legs but lost that—

“You just gonna stand there staring all day, Sheppard?”

So maybe Cam has noticed him.

John looks away from Cam’s hands, still flickering through the repetitions, and sees Cam grinning down at him. “Come on,” Cam says. “Hop in. I could use a co-pilot.”

“Can’t be your co-pilot, Mitchell,” John says, but even as he says it he’s climbing up and settling down behind Cam, settling his hands in position and feeling the thrill of combat flooding through his bones. “Gotta fly the city.”

Cam snorts, and John can only see the back of his head, now, but he knows that amusement. “Of course you do,” Cam says. “Never thought I’d be having that kind of conversation on a regular basis.”

“Sorry,” John says, not sorry at all.

“No, you’re not,” Cam says with a smile in his voice. He half-twists in his seat, glances back at John. “McKay get what he wanted?”

John feels his lips twist wryly. “Apparently,” he says. The way Cam’s sitting now means that those wide silver streaks are front and centre in John’s vision, and that doesn’t twist his stomach as much as it did. Same Cam, different packaging. “Carter’s told you about what’s happening on Atlantis? About the plan?”

“Yeah, she did,” Cam answers. “Sounds like this isn’t over yet.” He shifts again so he’s sitting more straight in his seat, and says, “I’ve got an idea about that, but it’s not all figured out yet. Need to talk to Aeryn.”

“Aeryn?”

“Yeah,” Cam says. “She’s got something I need.”

“I bet she does.”

Cam glances back over his shoulder again, a wicked little smile on his lips. “Jealous?”

“Not particularly,” John answers. “Mainly because I think you’d have a hell of a job getting past Crichton.”

“True,” Cam says, mock thoughtful. “I guess I’m not much competition for the younger model.”

John feels his gut tense. “That’s not—”

“I know,” Cam interrupts, laughs softly. “It was a joke. Sort of.” He’s quiet for a moment, face turned away, and then he says, forcibly jovial, “Turns out one of Sam’s 302 pilots has the ATA gene something strong. She’s a natural flyer and Sam figures she’d be put to better use flying one of Atlantis’ jumpers. Means you don’t have to put another civilian up there.”

“Beckett’ll be grateful,” John says.

Cam snorts. “Yeah. But that means there’s a 302 going spare.” He pauses, says slowly, “Sam’s asked me to help out.”

“Figured as much when I saw you in here,” John says, and it’s true. He knows when Cam’s just going through the memories, turning over decisions in his head, and he knows when he’s preparing, too, going forward, planning out the path ahead. “You think you can remember how to fly one of these things?”

Cam’s hands are broad and almost sensual on the 302’s controls. “Been a while,” he admits, “but I think I’ll manage.”

John watches those hands, sturdy and short-nailed and as nimble on a bird’s controls as they ever were, and he doesn’t quite realise he’s saying what he’s saying until he’s saying it. “My team know. About us.”

Cam’s hands still. They’re the only expressive part of him that John can see. “Yeah?”

“Even McKay,” John says. “He came bursting in when you were asleep last night. Didn’t stay.” Which is a lie, but only a white one. Cam might not guard his privacy as jealously as John does but that doesn’t mean he wants a man he only sort of knows knowing all about what wakes him screaming in the night. “They cornered me.”

“Cornered you?” Cam repeats, lick of careful amusement in his voice.

“Pretty much,” John says. “There was a corner involved.” He pauses, says, “Rodney phrased it as ‘an intervention’.”

“Not that you don’t need one,” Cam says slowly, “but why? I would’ve thought that I’d be the one getting the cornering.”

“Apparently,” John says drily, “they reckon that I’m more likely to fuck this up on purpose than you are. How did Teyla put it? For less than logical reasons.”

Cam snorts. “Sounds about right,” he says. “Did you tell them that you already did that, what, three times? And that I keep bouncing back?”

“Didn’t figure that would help,” John says.

“No,” Cam allows. “Probably not.” He pauses for a moment, hands still on the 302’s controls, and says softly, “Why are you telling me this, John?” There’s hope in that voice. Cam’s never been particularly good at hiding his hope.

John feels warmth spread its fingers through his chest, and he says, “I just figure that maybe we’ve done enough hiding. It’d be nice to not have to wait until the Hammond turns up or I’m reading reports three months later to find out that you spent two weeks holed up in the infirmary or something.” He sees Cam wince: John had not been particularly happy to find out about the whole IOA-Replicator incident. “If that’s what you want,” John finishes, a little lamely.

“You askin’ me for commitment?” Cam asks, and he’s teasing but there’s a thread of honesty and heart in his voice that John’s definitely not getting all choked up about. “You’re gonna have to give up the alien princesses, Sheppard.”

“That goes both ways, Mitchell.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Cam’s smiling, and John can’t see his face but he can hear it on his tongue. “Well, this is a surprise. Does this mean my guys can get in on the secret, too?”

John thinks about Vala and tries not to cringe. “Sure,” he says. “Although I’m not talking to Vala about it.”

“She’s not as bad as you’d think, actually,” Cam says, affection dancing in his tone. “Nothing worse than a couple of lewd comments, I’d think. I’m sure you can deal with that.” He pauses, clearly thinking, and then huffs a laugh, says, “I’m pretty sure Teal’c knows already. I’ve never said anything and Sam swears up and down that she’s kept schtum, but whenever anyone mentions Atlantis Teal’c gets this funny look in his eyes when he looks at me.” He shrugs, easy and languid against the 302’s seat. “I reckon I must have said something to him when we were stuck on the Odyssey for fifty years in a timeline that doesn’t exist anymore, not that he’ll ever admit it.” He pauses, thumps his head back against the seat’s headrest. “I don’t think I would’ve handled never seeing you again too well.”

There’s an unexpected jolt of emotion at the end there, and John doesn’t think about losing Cam, about Wraith and 302 crashes and the millions of lightyears between them. “Yeah,” he says. “It’s not fun. Six months was bad enough.”

They sit in silence for a moment, and John can feel his heart beating in his chest, beating fit to burst.

Finally, fogged with loss and need, John says, “You want to get out of here?”

“Yeah,” Cam says, voice dark and keen, full of the same pulse of want that John feels in his heart. “Yeah, I do.”

And John thinks about danger, about Pegasus and Wraith and all the peril the universe can throw at them, and then about his team, about Cam’s team, silent or not-so-silent but always there, always supportive, always there to pull them out of the fire, and he laughs. It’s a sharp laugh but it’s full of joy, and he says, “Let’s go, then. I’m sure we can find a cupboard or something.”

Cam twists in his seat, looks up at John, and his eyes are shining. He laughs, too, the wrinkles around his eyes contrasting with the lightness of his shoulders, and he says, “Just like Germany.”

John smiles, too, and agrees. “Just like Germany.”

Cam’s growing to like Atlantis, even if they are getting to know each other under the threat of pending Wraith attack. The city is open and airy, cool and warm in all the right places, with the ever-present tang of salt water and the cries of seabirds just outside the windows – and it’s a galaxy away from the SGC, austere and underground and so… military. Not that Cam has a problem with military, he’d’ve been doing pretty damn well to get this far if he had, but sometimes it’s nice to have something a bit less stark, and Atlantis is so far away from stark it’s laughable.

Cam pauses next to one of tall plants that he’s been spotting dotted around the city in the past few hours, tugs at one of the leaves and sniffs the flowers. It smells vaguely of vanilla which, considering it’s seven feet tall with bright orange blossoms is sort of leading him to conclude that it’s not vanilla, and is some kind of funky Pegasus plant that he probably shouldn’t be touching. It’ll probably take his head off if he looks at it the wrong way, or clone him or something which is exactly what they need right now. He takes a wary step back, wipes pollen off his fingers onto his BDUs, and keeps going down the corridor, giving the plant a wide berth.

They’ve been back on Atlantis for four hours and counting, and the Wraith ships, barely visible on the long-range sensors that McKay boosted with one of the ZPMs and a lot of muttering, haven’t moved. The general consensus is that they haven’t figured out they’ve been made yet, and that it makes more sense for them to be able to track the Lanteans’ movements all over the galaxy rather than risk a showdown that may or may not result in Wraith victory. What that means in practice, though, is that everyone’s scuttling around under constant fear that the Wraith are going to change their minds and they’re all going to be wiped of the face of the universe.

Atlantis is a little tense at the moment.

Atlantis is also pretty empty. Woolsey ordered all non-essential personnel to decamp to the Alpha Site and to take all the Travellers with them, and Cam’s glad he wasn’t the one doing all the logistics for that last-minute move. There are still bags of belongings in the gateroom that got left behind and no one seems to recognise, and everyone else is too busy to investigate where exactly they ought to be sent. Cam always forgets how many meetings go into defending the world against enemy attack.

Which brings him to the here and now.

Cam swings into Atlantis’ briefing room two minutes late and snags the last chair. It’s between Sam and Ronon, facing across the gentle arc to Teyla, Keller, McKay, and John, and John gives him that twist of a smile he only gets when he’s simultaneously very, very nervous and very, very content. “Sorry,” Cam says to Woolsey, who’s looking at him over the top of his glasses. “Just finalising some things.” And getting distracted by Atlantis’ flora, but he probably ought not to mention that.

Woolsey looks at him a moment longer, then turns to Teyla and says, “Have you and Keena found the person responsible for this signal yet?”

“Not yet,” Teyla says, “although I have my suspicions.” She then launches into a detailed list of her four main suspects, one of who turns out to be Keena’s husband, but Cam finds himself only half listening because John’s got a pen in his mouth and he’s definitely not doing it to be distracting, he’s too much of a professional to do that in this kind crisis meeting, but damn if it isn’t distracting nonetheless.

After a minute or two, John catches his eye, and Cam finds himself re-evaluating the whole not-doing-it-on-purpose thing.

Which is, of course, when Woolsey decides that he’s chatted enough to Teyla and says, “Colonel Mitchell. I understand that you have a suggestion to make.”

And all eyes are on Cam. If he were less confident in his new silver-grey hair, he might quail. “Yeah,” he says. “An idea for getting the city out of here with as little collateral damage as possible.” He leans forward, props his elbows on the edge of the desk and says, “The Hammond can’t take on two Wraith hive ships at once, and all the jumpers and 302s in the world are only going to be good for taking out darts. The city’s got drones, yeah, but most all the power we’ve got is going to be going into that stardrive – and, plus, why waste them if we don’t have to?”

“And we don’t have to?” Woolsey interjects.

“Possibly not,” Cam answers. “Moya. Crichton and Aeryn’s ship. She’s got a whole load of smaller ships in her docking bay: I had a look at them in between the whole running and fighting thing. One’s battle-ready and they’ve offered to help out in the fight, which is pretty nice. The others are mostly just transports, no weaponry, nothing we can use, but one of them could be something.” He takes a breath, says, “It’s called a prowler, apparently, and I reckon with a lick of paint and some fancy flying it could look pretty close to a Wraith dart.” Cam sees John sit up straighter and drop the pen. It’s remarkably satisfying. “Wouldn’t stand up to close inspection,” Cam clarifies, “but I reckon, in the middle of a space battle? No one’s going to be looking too closely. A few modifications, and that’s a pretty good delivery system for a bigass bomb.”

At his side, Sam’s nodding. She glances from Cam to the rest of the table before settling on Woolsey and saying, “It’d certainly be nice to only have one hive ship for the Hammond to keep from attacking the city.”

“And even with three ZPMs,” John adds, “power’s going to be stretched to keep up the full shield and the stardrive for long enough to get us to the new planet.” His gaze hones in on Cam, keen and thoughtful, and he says, “I assume you’ve cleared this with Crichton?”

Cam doesn’t like talking to Crichton for all the same reason he doesn’t like looking in the mirror. “I’ve cleared it with Aeryn,” he corrects. “The prowler’s hers, apparently, and her biggest worry was the paint not coming off. I promised her you’d take care of that, McKay.”

McKay starts. “What? Do I look like a painter?”

John’s smothering a smile. “You are head of science, McKay.”

“Sheppard!”

“Okay, Rodney, calm down. There’s plenty of green paint knocking around in the Marines’ storerooms. Lorne’ll rustle something up that won’t damage the paintjob too much.”

But McKay’s shaking his head, and not with the kind of petulance that Cam associates with the guy who’s undeniably brilliant but also sort of a dick sometimes. “No,” he says. “No, it’s a nice idea but it won’t work, Colonel. The Wraith might not be watching their sensors too closely if the Hammond’s shooting everywhere, but the energy signatures of these ships from another universe are vastly different to anything from this universe. They’d be waving a red flag at a bull. Wouldn’t get close.”

Cam’s almost proud of himself. “Thought of that,” he says, and is definitely not grinning. “Aeryn mentioned a little gizmo they’ve got on their ship, something that’ll let them mimic the energy signature of another ship, notionally any other ship. I’m guessing with a bit of rewiring, that could do the trick?”

McKay’s got a glassy look in his eyes that Cam recognises from Jackson and mouldering old temples, so he’s guessing that that’s a yes. He then starts spouting something that Cam vaguely recognises as English but is mostly full of words he’s pretty sure are invented, so Cam just puts on his Jackson-wrangling face and nods until—

“Rodney,” John interrupts, not unkindly. “You can play with your new toy soon. One question.” And he looks back at Cam, eyes keen and narrowed. “Who’s gonna fly it? That’s not exactly a risk-free mission there.”

“If the mission gets the go-ahead,” Cam says, “Aeryn’s agreed to do the flying. Makes sense: she’s the one who can fly it best. We don’t have much time to be training up a new pilot on an unfamiliar bird.” He pauses, just for a second, because this is where it gets interesting. “She says that there is space, though,” he says slowly, “for one other person in that cockpit, if you get nice and close. And she’d appreciate someone with her who actually knows how to work one of the Hammond’s Mark Nines.”

The meeting room is silent for a long moment. Cam can practically hear the wheels whirring in each and every one of those highly-intelligent heads, and then, to a man, they all turn to look at McKay, who, for his part, just goes a particularly unhealthy-looking shade of pale. “No,” he says. “No way. I’m not getting inside an untested alien ship with a bomb strapped to the belly and flying inside a Wraith hive ship. No. Not happening.”

Cam can see the razor-sharp focus in John’s eyes even from halfway across the room. “Military personnel will have their hands full, Rodney,” he says, and his body might be as languid as it ever is but his voice is tight, tense. This is the part Cam hadn’t wanted to say, because McKay might be an ass but he’s also John’s best friend in two galaxies, and now John is saying, “Zelenka has plenty of experience with the stardrive, he can handle that with me. We could send the ship in without a tech onboard, but then we’ve got no way of fixing it if the launch mechanism jams or something else goes wrong. And things have a tendency of going wrong in these kind of plans.”

Keller’s hands are white-knuckled around the edge of the table.

“I’m needed here,” McKay says, but his voice is weak. “What if—”

“Then Doctor Zelenka can handle it,” Woolsey chips in. His voice is almost sympathetic. “No one is going to force you to do this, Doctor McKay, but the future of the city is at stake. Nowhere will be safe.”

Cam fully anticipates McKay to keep bitching and moaning, for him to fulfil the stereotype that Sam and Daniel and Siler and General O’Neill have made practically a legend throughout the SGC, but all that happens is that colour spots high in McKay’s cheeks, he squares his jaw and he says, “Okay. Okay, I’ll do it. I’m designing that launch mechanism, though, because I am not getting stuck in an alien ship with a bomb that won’t detach.”

And, oddly enough, that’s basically that.

The meeting wraps up once they hash out the plan again, but that really doesn’t take long because everyone knows it by heart, now, and once everything starts to devolve into tight, worried faces Woolsey puts his tablet to sleep and says, “Alright then. You all know what to do.” – and they do.

Teyla and Ronon go to try to figure out who all the lost property lying all over Atlantis belongs to and then, failing identification, to dump it all in a storage room somewhere and deal with it when all of this is over. When the time comes, Cam knows, they’ll be with John in the chair room, watching over him while Zelenka interfaces with the city and Keller monitors his vitals, and that reassures Cam, sets his tumbling gut at ease, because he has every faith in John and his magical, ATA-given abilities – but flying a city? No matter the fact that John’s done it before, it makes Cam goddamn nervous, but he trusts Teyla almost as much as he trusts Sam. She’ll make sure John makes it through, and Cam’s pretty sure that Ronon would kill John before he let him die.

The moment the meeting’s over, McKay starts muttering something about risking his life for idiots who wouldn’t know what to do with a fully-charged ZPM if it smacked them in the face, but he drags John off in the general direction of the east pier—where Moya is parked—so Cam figures he’ll do his part. John gives Cam a long-suffering smile as he’s practically manhandled out of there: McKay had apparently point-blank refused to take the translator microbes that Crichton offered—something about allergies, apparently—so he now needs a translator. Cam’s well aware that there’s no one better qualified to be his translator right now than John. There’s that whole synergy that the two of them have going on. It works.

“They’re pretty weird, aren’t they?” Sam says, swinging in her chair.

They’re the only ones left, now, with Woolsey going back to his office and Keller heading back to the infirmary to stow everything as securely as possible before the big move, and Cam says, “Who are?”

“Sheppard and McKay,” Sam says, like it’s obvious. “Couldn’t get two more opposite personalities if you tried, but they work together like a dream.” Her lips twitch, and she says, “I guess they’re sort of like Daniel and General O’Neill.”

“Hey,” Cam says, and shrugs. “If it ain’t broke. Now, don’t you have serious, captain-y things to be doing? Got a battle to prepare for.”

“Yeah,” Sam says. “I do.” Her eyes gleam. “And so do you. There’s a pilots’ briefing up on the Hammond in an hour. Mandatory attendance for all flyboys, SG-1 or not.”

Cam pulls a face. “How many times do you have to save the world to get a little respect around here?”

Sam pats him on the knee. “Get back to me when you’ve done it as many times as me, and then we’ll talk. Until then, you’ve got a flight suit to get into.” She taps her comms, says, “Alverez. Two to beam up.”

Cam’s rolling his eyes even as the Asgard beam sweeps them away, and when they rematerialise on the Hammond’s bridge he says, “This isn’t Star Trek, Carter.”

Sam settles into her command chair and then makes a general, all-encompassing gesture around them, at the bridge and the bustling crew and, fuck, the jewel-blue planet looming large in the viewscreen. “It isn’t?” she says, smile twitching her lips.

Cam just narrows his eyes at her and goes to find a flight suit that’ll fit him. The Hammond’s quartermaster, a black-haired staff sergeant named Jones, helps him out and shows him to the men’s locker room to let him change, and then Cam finds himself in an unfamiliar tin can aboard Sam’s tin can, stripped down to his boxers with a borrowed flight suit in one hand, and he’s looking down at the gash in his chest and no matter how hard he tries, he can’t look away. It’s red and ugly against the tanned skin of his chest, edges puckered and almost angry, and he probably should have gone to Keller the moment they got back to Atlantis and got her to take a look, but she’s busy with worrying about her staff and now worrying about McKay and Cam’s got enough people worrying about him already. He’s not blind. He can see the quorl of fear in John’s eyes every time he looks at him, and the only reason he’s still ignoring it is because, yeah, he feels that fear, too, every time he catches a glimpse of himself in a mirror and his hair isn’t the colour it used to be. He doesn’t know what’s going to happen to him in the future but right now, he doesn’t have to think about that. Right now, all he has to think about is the plan and his borrowed 302, about keeping John’s city safe and, once this is done, getting Crichton’s people back where they belong.

Cam pulls on the flight suit and zips it up over his chest.

The pilots’ briefing is short and sweet and given by another Lieutenant Colonel named O’Connell who gives Cam a hard look and says, “Chain of command going to be an issue here?”

Cam has no intention of ruffling any feathers. “This is your show, Colonel,” he says. “I’m just a warm body to fill another cockpit.”

O’Connell’s expression relaxes ever so slightly, and she nods tightly, says, “Good. Take a seat, Colonel.”

Cam’s co-pilot is from Texas, accent broader than Cam’s gets on his worst days, and he introduces himself as Major Mac. As it turns out, they get along like a house on fire, and when Sam stops by to see how things are getting on and finds Cam mid-story and Mac mid-guffaw, she just smiles, shakes her head, and says, “Mitchell? A moment?”

Cam slaps Mac on the arm and jogs over to join Sam, says with a grin, “You sure know how to pick your pilots.”

Sam’s expression is amused but all she says is, “Woolsey just called. McKay and Crichton have made the necessary modifications to Aeryn’s ship. We scanned from here, and sensors were pretty convinced that there was a Wraith dart sitting on Atlantis’ east pier, so I figure it should work. The Mark Nine’s loading now.” Sam’s lips quirk upwards. “Apparently Lorne’s paintjob is pretty spectacular, too.”

Cam nods his approval, says, “We got an ETA for mission go?”

“Woolsey reckons another hour,” Sam says, and the amusement’s faded, now. She’s got her weight settled nice and even, hands loose and uncurled at her sides, and she says, “They’re going to keep broadcasting that signal to the Wraith as long as they can, but Zelenka’s best estimate is that it’ll take them fifteen minutes to break out of the atmosphere. The Wraith will probably be here in five.”

“So ten minutes of interference,” Cam says. “I’m sure we can swing that.”

“That’s the hope,” Sam says. “O’Connell’s briefed you on the strategy?”

Cam nods. “302s versus darts. A couple of minutes into the fight, a few of us will make it look like we’re chasing our fake-dart while you guys get some good-placed shots where it hurts, then fly cover around the dart bay, keep them distracted. When Aeryn and McKay get out, we get them to safety.”

Sam’s eyebrow quirks in surprise. “You’re on the protection detail?”

Cam shrugs. “Leading it. Crichton was pretty damn adamant about that. Something about wanting this universe’s attempt at him looking after his girl.” Sam’s eyebrow does its thing again at that, and Cam says, “I know. I was as surprised as you.” He pauses, feels his lips twist into something that might be half of a smile. “Plus, I think it makes John feel better about sending McKay out into harm’s way like that. He’s stuck flying the city, and Ronon and Teyla aren’t exactly qualified on the 302s. I’m as close to his team as he can get.”

Sam’s eyes are warm. “I think you’re a lot more than that.”

Cam gives her a look. “Now?”

“Sorry.” She doesn’t look sorry at all, and she says, “Woolsey also said that that the alien ship—”

“Moya,” Cam supplies.

“—is going to be sticking with us,” Sam finishes, giving him a dirty look for interrupting. “She’s got no weapons so she won’t be taking part in the fighting, but the crew apparently point-blank refused to leave one of their own behind and ride along with Atlantis.”

Cam cocks his head to one side. “I thought they had a ship that could help? One of the smaller ones.”

“They do,” Sam says, “but Woolsey pointed out that if we’re sending people onto enemy territory we don’t want the Wraith thinking that anything is out of the ordinary. The ship—Moya—is going to stay around the dark side of the planet, and we’ll comm her when it’s over. And apparently two of her crew are going to be riding shotgun on my bridge.”

Cam can hear the irritation in Sam’s voice. “Not a fan of that idea?”

Sam sighs. “Crichton might have your face but he’s not got your temperament, Cam. I don’t trust him not to do something stupid if he sees something he doesn’t like.”

Cam reaches out to squeeze her shoulder, says, “Hey, don’t worry about it. I’ll make sure that he hasn’t got anything not to like.”

“You do that,” Sam says, firm and brave, but Cam can see the thanks in her eyes. He knows she’s grateful to have him here, to have someone who’s not just a colleague but a friend, as well. Cam understands that feeling all too well. Sam smiles at him, fierce and beautiful, and says, “Better get back to my bridge, Mitchell. You should see what happens to this place without me.” Her gaze softens, just a little, and she says, quieter, “Fly safe.”

Cam tosses her a loose salute, says, “Yes, ma’am.”, and watches her jog out of the 302 bay like she’s got a world to save. He guesses she does.

Cam goes back to Mac, and at O’Connell’s command they load up into their bird and run through pre-flight checks. It doesn’t take long for them to be moving in perfect synchrony like they’ve known each other for years, and once Sam’s voice has come echoing through the ship, giving them half an hour before things kick off, Mac leans forward, says, “Hey, Mitchell. If the SG-1 thing ever falls through, you should come join us. Even O’Connell’d admit that we could use a guy like you.”

Cam tosses him a grin, says, “Flattery will get you everywhere, Major. Now run those comm checks again: we don’t want to be dropping off the grid in the middle of a space battle.”

“Sir, yes, sir!” Mac barks, purposefully overwrought, and Cam has to fight to hide a smile.

It’s three minutes to go time and Cam’s already strapped into his helmet when the comm crackles in his ear. “Colonel Mitchell,” Sam’s voice says, tinged with equal measures of apprehension and amusement. “Got a call coming in for you from Atlantis. It’s Colonel Sheppard.”

Cam can’t quite stop a smile from twitching his lips. Looks like John really wasn’t kidding about the whole no more secrets thing, because even though the channel’s not going to be a secure one so they won’t be making declarations of undying love it’s not exactly normal for one Colonel to be making a private call to another moments before they launch into the fray. “Patch him through,” he says.

There’s a moment of silence as comm channels are spliced together and transferred where they need to be, and then: “Mitchell? You read me?”

“Loud and clear, Sheppard,” Cam says, easy as pie. “Ready for take-off?”

“So Zelenka tells me,” John says, and his voice is that thick blend of edge and sardonic mockery that assures Cam that, yes, this is all going to be okay. “We just sent McKay and Aeryn up in that souped-up dart of hers. They’re lying low in the darkside until the fight’s underway, then they’ll comm you the secure channel.” Cam knows all of this, and John knows he knows, but Cam knows better than to interrupt him. “And Mitchell?”

“Sheppard?”

“Try not to let McKay get blown up. I’ll never hear the end of how I made him take those microbe for nothing.”

Cam snorts. “Copy that. Any more requests, Shep?”

“No, I’m good. Fly safe.”

“Same to you,” Cam says. “See you on the other side.”

“Will do. Sheppard out.” And John’s gone.

The airwaves don’t stay quiet for long, though. Thirty-seven seconds later, Sam comes booming over ship’s intercom: “All hands, battle stations. City lift-off in two minutes. All 302s, launch and take up positions.”

O’Connell’s on the air the moment Sam cuts off, on the private 302 channel. “You heard the captain. Wheels up, boys and girls. Let’s give ‘em hell.”

Cam’s heart is thudding in his chest, louder, louder. Mac’s quiet behind him, and as they wait for their turn to take off Cam can hear their breathing blend into one, hearts beating together, hands moving in unison. The fighter pilot hive mind at work, and when they get the go ahead—“Blue One, you have a go.”—they rip out into the blackness and it’s all Cam can do to stop himself from whooping. That’s the adrenaline, he knows, the heady throb that’s pulsing through his veins, tightening his vision, sharpening his senses, and he grins a fierce, terrible grin, says, “You ready for some fun, Major?”

“Always down for fun,” Mac drawls back. “The flying city’s just the cherry on top.”

“All hands,” Sam’s tone crackles into his ear. “City lift-off in five, four, three, two—” Cam’s gut clenches, and he thinks about John, loose-limbed in that chair like it’s where he was born to be. “—one.”

The 302’s angled with the planet overhead, and the city’s still too small to see in that vast expanse of blue, blue water but Cam half-imagines that he sees something stir down there, something small and bright and vastly more powerful than anything Cam’s ever dreamt of flying. For a good long moment it feels like Cam’s world is frozen, caught in stasis in a coterie of 302s and jumpers and a goddamn spaceship, and the 302’s internal dampeners might be operating at 100% capacity but there’s this strange pressure on him nonetheless, twisting into his skull and tightening his chest. John’s flying Atlantis. John’s flying a goddamn city, and there’s just something so goddamn incredible about that that Cam just doesn’t know what to think. A city. John is flying a whole freaking city—

“The Wraith are moving!” Sam snaps, tight and controlled. “Repeat, the Wraith are on the move. Prepare to defend the city.”

“Alright,” Mac says in Cam’s earpiece. “Let’s get this show on the road.”

The Wraith hive ships come jolting out of hyperspace only seconds later, and they’re lumbering and ugly and, fuck, so much bigger than Cam ever imagined. One slides only a few hundred metres over his and Mac’s 302, and Cam finds himself staring up at that underbelly, reamed through with scars and newly-healed wounds. Just for a second all he can think about is pain, pain lancing through his chest, tearing him apart from the inside out, taking things from him that no one can give back – but it only lasts a fraction of a moment, because that’s when beams of light start streaking from the Wraith ship down towards where Atlantis is still a tiny, rising dot, and, oh, hell no.

“Strafing runs,” Cam snaps. “Target fresh scars.”

“Sir,” Mac answers, and then Cam’s bringing them up under the hive ship as close as they can and Mac’s pouring gunfire into the thing’s carapace. The rest of the squadron is alongside them and Cam can see the blast of the Hammond’s Asgard weapon out of the corner of his eye, but it looks like the Wraith have had an armour upgrade since the last time they tussled because the Asgard weapon hits and does damage but it doesn’t take the ship out, no, far from it. One hive ship keeps up its fire on Atlantis but the other, the one whose heels Cam is currently nipping, turns its weapons on the Hammond, opens fire – but the shields hold even if they won’t last forever, and Sam’s safe and it’s going to be okay and then—

“Darts!” That’s O’Connell. “Darts are coming from both ships. Red and Blue teams, close quarters. Take them down!”

And that’s what they do.

Cam’s will never forget what it’s like to properly dogfight, to dart and dash and dance around another ship that’s trying to dart and dash and dance around you, to snipe with weapons and dare close-runs all in the name of disabling and destroying – but, fuck, he’d forgotten how much fun it can be. He and Mac work together like they’ve always worked together, Cam taking the 302 into a sharp loop to get Mac the perfect firing position for the dart that’s on their tail then bringing her around again into a quick left to go to the aid of another 302 that can’t shake its unwanted passenger, and it works, it works so well – but there are so many of them, and it’s not long before Cam sees the first flash of fire in his peripheral vision and the call comes over the comms. “Blue Three is gone. Repeat, Blue Three is gone.”

A chill races through Cam’s stomach. It’s been less than ninety seconds since the hive ships dropped out of hyperspace, only six minutes since Atlantis started take-off procedures.

“Mitchell.” A woman’s voice, cool and calm. Aeryn. “We’re coming in to join you.”

“Copy,” Cam says and twists into a screechingly-fast dive. “Mac, you got them?”

“I got them,” Mac answers. “Just coming round from the darkside.”

“I see them,” Cam says, then looks up from the blips on his sensors to peer out into the darkness. “Gotcha, Aeryn. Now, ma’am, I’m not gonna make this easy for you. Tell McKay to hang on tight.”

There’s a short laugh on the other end of the line. “What makes you think I’m going to make it easy for you?”

Fuck, the woman could almost be Vala right now.

“Blue group,” Cam calls. “On me. We’ve got a dart to chase.”

And, as it turns out, ‘chase’ is the operative word. Cam fully intends to live up to his word, to chase Aeryn down until she’s got no choice but to turn tail and run for the dart bay, but, fuck, that ship is fast and her pilot is even faster. Aeryn skims the hive ship’s carapace, darting between outcroppings with all the speed and grace of Luke fucking Skywalker nipping around the Death Star, pulling sharper manoeuvres than even the 302s’ inertial dampeners can cope with. Cam hangs on, though, following the twists and turns will all his skill as Mac sends out careful swipes of fire that only just don’t connect, and, well, they must be doing something right because before long another two darts come swooping in to cover their ‘comrade’, separating off Blue Six and getting so close to Cam’s tail that he has to pull a double-time three-sixty loop to get behind them and give Mac a chance to blow them to hell.

Mac does, of course, and as the debris sweeps over them, Mac says, “Some nice moves there, Colonel.”

“I try,” Cam answers, and guns the engines so they catch up to Aeryn and McKay’s tail once more.

The darts seem to have really swallowed the hook, though, so it gets harder and harder for Cam to actually see the bird he’s supposed to be escorting through the swarm of aggressive enemy fire. Mac’s going at double speed in the back, clipping darts and taking out propulsion systems as fast as he can, but even that’s not enough to keep the path clear to their not-dart. Cam grits his teeth, rolls past two darts to avoid their fire, and snaps on the secure comm link. “Aeryn, McKay. Can’t cover you anymore. Looks like they bought it.”

“Looks like,” Aeryn answers, and there’s a fierce joy in her voice that Cam feels burning in his own heart. “I’ll take it from here, Mitchell.”

Cam watches as the not-dart goes racing through the other darts uncontested and makes straight for the hive ship’s hulking dart bay. He lets out a tight breath, then says, “Blue group, break off pursuit.” A glance at sensors is enough to see that O’Connell’s squadron is getting into some serious trouble around the other hive ship, and Cam weighs up the options in his head. “Blue Five, Six, Seven, Eight, go pull Red group’s asses out of the fire. Two and Four, stay with me. Run interference until Aeryn and McKay make it out.”

A chorus of “Copy”s comes back to him over the comms, and Mac says, “Three of us going to be enough, sir?”

“More than enough,” Cam answers. “It’s three of us and a Mark Nine. Piece of cake.”

Mac chuckles. “If you say so, sir. On your left.”

There’s a dart coming in on what looks suspiciously like a collision course. Cam flips the 302 underneath it, lets the dart crash into one of its own, and says, “Good call, Mac. Now, let’s see how much damage we can do.”

It’s four minutes since the Wraith ships dropped out of hyperspace, eight and half since Atlantis took off, and now the city is easily visible to the naked eye, atmosphere burning up around the shield in streaks of bright-coloured light. Cam doesn’t focus on that, though, just takes it on board and factors it into every other calculation he’s making in his head right now. The two hive ships are far enough apart that the first one exploding won’t take the second out, which is a shame but was always a long shot. The Hammond’s currently splitting its fire between the two, which is keeping them both at bay for the moment but won’t last long: Cam can already see the angry burns along the Hammond’s hull where Wraith shots have managed to get past the shielding. The hive ships are focusing on the Hammond for now, though, which Cam guesses is a good thing, but the occasional shot still goes streaking down to the still-rising Atlantis: the city’s shields are holding better than the Hammond’s, so they’re fine, they’re all fine, and there’s nothing Cam would like better to do right now than hang in space and watch Atlantis’ rise, but there’s a cloud of darts and debris around both the hive ships that needs dealing with.

They deal with it, Cam flying, Mac firing, and when they’ve got three darts chasing after them and it’s taking all Cam’s focus to not get blown up, of course that’s when the comm crackles into life. “Mitchell. The bomb has been delivered and we are coming out.” It’s Aeryn’s voice, as calm and fierce as ever, and Cam’s pretty sure he can hear McKay in the background, voice pitched higher than normal and talking a mile a minute. “McKay says thirty – seconds ‘til detonation.”

“Copy that,” Cam says and veers right to avoid certain death. “Blue Two, Four, you hear that? I’ve got a bit of a situation here, so I need you guys to get that ship to safety.” The acknowledgements stream in, and then as Cam’s plunging down away from the hive ship, engines as hot as he can get them, he switches over to the open channel, says, “All hands, this is Mitchell. Detonation imminent. Repeat, detonation imminent. Get as clear as you can!”

The next twenty-three seconds pass by in a fingersnap. Cam gets vague flashes off running from those darts, of Mac getting off a couple of good shots and taking two of the three out, and with Mac’s whoop still sounding in his ears Cam remembers flipping the 302 as fast as he can but not what happens to the third dart before it blows up – and then something else blows up, bigger, so much bigger.

The explosion starts in the hive ship’s cargo bay, pulses energy out through the gap in the hull, and for a moment that’s all that happens, just a puff of smoke out into the vastness of space – but then Cam sees veins of light racing through the ship’s hull, broadening and thickening, spreading everywhere. The heat and bile is tearing the ship apart from the inside out, and it only takes a handful of seconds before the ship erupts, plumes of heat ripping outwards, tearing into nearby darts. The shockwave roils outwards half a heartbeat later, and it breaks seamlessly over the Hammond and Atlantis, their shields protecting them from the heat and the shock, but the 302 has none of that protection and so Cam can only hang on as his bird goes tumbling end over end.

When Cam finally manages to get them stabilised again, they’re half a hundred miles away and the battlefield is strewn out in front of them like leaves blown across the surface of a pond. The first hive ship is gone, destroyed, blown out into a million tiny pieces, taking half of its darts with it, and its red-green fragments hang against the planet’s bright blue, baubles on a tree. The second hive ship is momentarily still in the space behind, stunned by the explosion, and the Hammond is alongside it, holes blown in its hull but still there, still in one piece – and then there’s Atlantis. There’s Atlantis, towers pearly against the blackness of space, silhouetted half by stars, half by the bright blue of the planet’s oceans, and she’s hanging there, perfect and beautiful, engines flaring bright, three minutes away from stardrive.

John’s flying her. John’s flying the city.

Cam still can’t quite get his head around that particular fact, and he laughs, shakes his head, says, “Holy shit, Mac, will you look at that.”

“Quite a sight.”

Which is when O’Connell’s voice crackles over the airwaves. “One down. Let’s get number two, boys and girls.”

Cam hears the acknowledgements, hears the calls and the summons, but he’s got his eyes on his sensors and he’s looking for—

“There. I got them. Ahead, twenty-seven degrees.”

“I see them,” Cam says, and swings the 302 into a dive towards Blue Two, Four, and the not-dart that holds both of his other halves’ other halves. “Aeryn, McKay. How you guys doing in there?”

“We’re fine,” Aeryn answers tightly, “although I’m not sure how much longer I can put up with this… scientist.”

Cam chuckles. “Just try not to leave any bruises,” he says, and imagines he can hear McKay’s squawk in the background. He brings his 302 into line with Two and Four, says, “Just keep on my tail, ma’am, and we’ll make sure you get back in one piece.”

“I can hold my own, I don’t need you holding my hand.”

Cam thinks about Aeryn in the corridors of her own ship, moving with all the grace of a panther and leaving a trail of death in her wake, and he says, “I know that, ma’am, but I don’t think I’ll be getting a pay rise at the end of the month if I let you get blown up because one of ours mistakes you for a Wraith.”

There’s a grudging silence for a moment, and then, “Understood.”

Cam imagines McKay’s probably happy about that, but he doesn’t have time to articulate that thought because Mac’s voice is buzzing in his ear again. “Colonel, we’ve got incoming. Ten, maybe twelve darts, coming from behind.”

“Rude,” Cam quips, and spins his 302 on a dime so they’re facing the onslaught head on.

The fighting is heavy and bitter. They lose Blue Four to a well-placed couple of dart blasts and only just manage to get out of the way before a hive ship blast comes streaking through on its way to glance harmlessly off Atlantis’ shields. The good thing is that Atlantis is in the fray, now, too, so there are drones dancing through the black along with the Hammond’s railguns—Cam’s guessing that the Asgard weapons are offline, because he hasn’t seen any of those bright, gleaming streaks of light for a good few minutes now, which doesn’t exactly bode well for the Hammond’s safety—but that only really helps with the hive ship because the drones don’t tend to fuss themselves with the darts – and the darts are still fucking dangerous.

Red Five, Six, and Eight are gone. Cam hears it happen over the open channel that’s chattering away in his ears, but it happens fast: there are no screams, no cries for help, only the snap and crackle of static before the comm unit disintegrates entirely. Mac gets quieter with every dead comm signal, less ready with a quip, more ready with a weapon, and Cam doesn’t blame him, because yeah, he’ll be mourning these guys later but they’re not his guys, not his people, his team. They’re O’Connell’s. They’re Mac’s.

At least they die quickly.

Cam fights long and hard, and when there are only a handful of darts left, already outnumbered by the 302s and the jumpers, he hears Woolsey’s sharp voice in his earpiece. “We are ready to activate the stardrive! All personnel, stand clear!”

Relief floods through Cam’s heart, because it’s going to be okay, everything’s going to be okay. Atlantis will be safe, John will be safe, and the hive ship’s on its last legs, now, venting atmosphere and struck open in half a dozen places. This fight is nearly over, even if Sam’s beloved Hammond has got a few more dings in the bumper than it did before, and Atlantis’ stardrive is glowing hot, now, ready to blast her halfway across the galaxy to her new home—

It all happens so fast.

Mac’s voice. “Incoming!”

Two darts, bearing down on their little group, aiming straight for Aeryn and McKay.

Cam’s bringing their 302 round, blasting forward ‘til they’re sat square in the way, and Mac’s firing, pouring rounds into the lead dart until its nose twists off to the left, propulsion damaged beyond repair, and it crashes into its friend.

A blossom of fire, hot and raging and racing straight towards the nose of Cam’s bird, and the whole world is tumbling around them, tumbling and shaking and tearing, and the vibration is so much and so loud that for a moment, Cam blacks—

When Cam opens his eyes again, everything is dark.

Actually, no, that’s not true. The view outside isn’t dark at all, no, it’s a whirling, spinning mishmash of cerulean planet and starspangled sky which would be beautiful if it wasn’t moving so fast and if the planet’s bright blue wasn’t so goddamn close it’s making Cam’s head hurt, but inside Cam’s cockpit? In there, everything’s gone dark: no lights, no switches, no readouts. The 302’s systems are dead, and Cam forces himself to shake off the fuzz in his head, to try the panels, to flip the switches and try to figure out what he’s got left. Life support and comms are surviving on emergency backup power, with inertial dampeners operating at forty-eight percent and dropping which explains why Cam can feel the spin as much as he can see it, but propulsion? Weapons? Nothing.

“Fuck,” Cam spits. “Major, are you seeing this? We’re dead in the water.”

And there’s no response.

Cam’s heart thuds so loud in his chest for a moment that he can’t hear anything else. “Major?” he tries again, practically spitting the rank into his mouthpiece, and then: “Mac?”

Still nothing.

Cam twists in his chair as much as his straps will allow, and he can’t see much but what he can see isn’t good: Mac, slumped against his harness, mask hanging off his face and blood streaming from a cut above one eye.

Cam’s mind is going at a mile a minute. They got caught in the blast of two exploding darts and hit with enough force to rattle Cam’s brain around inside his skull and smack Mac’s head hard enough that it sent him out even with a helmet in place. They were close, too close, and that explains the dead controls, too, because Cam recognises the work of an EMP when he sees one, even if it’s one as involuntary as that produced by exploding spaceships.

“Okay,” he says to himself, forcing himself to breathe. “Okay. Visual check for damage.” The inside of the cockpit seems okay apart from the spatter of blood across the windshield and the lack of blinky lights, but then Cam looks outside, squints against the planet-space spin and sees—

Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck.

Cam toggles on his comms, says, “This is Blue One, requesting assistance. Hammond, can you hear me?” Nothing for a long second, but Cam doesn’t panic, won’t panic. He’s been in worse scrapes than this before even if he can’t really think of any right now, and he tries again: “This is Blue One, requesting assistance. Hammond, if you can hear me, come in please—”

“Cam.” Sam’s voice is tight, and Cam can hear the hiss of fire extinguishers and, well, fire in the background. “What’s your situation?”

“All systems down except life support, comms and inertial dampeners,” Cam reports. “Major Macintyre is unconscious. We’ve sustained major structural damage.”

“How major is major?”

Cam takes a breath. “I’ve lost a wing,” he says. “Repeat, one wing is gone, and we are spinning hard enough that I can feel it through the dampeners. Requesting emergency beam-out. This 302 is a write-off, and I’d prefer not to be written off along with it.” He’s desperately going for jovial. This will all be okay. Everything’s going to be fine.

“Negative,” Sam’s voice comes back, sharp but not snapping. “The Asgard beam is down. Beam-out’s not an option, Cam. Sit tight until we can get to you. Still got a hive ship to deal with here.”

A cold hand closes around Cam’s gut, because the blackness of space and the blueness of the planet might still be spinning around him but it’s the blueness of the planet that’s taking up most of his vision – and is getting bigger by the second. He’s not stupid. He knows what’s happening. “Sam,” he says, and forces his voice not to shake. “I’m caught in the planet’s gravity, being pulled in pretty damn fast.”

“Eject once you get into the planet’s atmosphere,” Sam says, and Cam can hear the note of worry that’s crept into her voice, now, a worry separate from a captain’s duty. That’s the worry of a friend, and Sam says, “Once we’ve dealt with this bastard I’ll get Lorne to come pick you two up in one of the jumpers.”

Cam flickers to the inertial dampeners. Thirty-three percent and still falling – and the spin is showing no signs of stopping or even slowing down. He can feel the pressure building in his skull, and his vision is already spotty around the edges. “Negative,” he grits out. “Inertial dampeners are failing, and the rate we’re spinning I’m going to be—” Pain’s creeping through him, brighter and louder every moment. “—ah!—unconscious from the G-forces long before we get to atmosphere I can eject into.” He feels sick, and he’s not entirely sure whether that’s from the spin or from the chill certainty that’s building in his gut. “Got a tractor beam hidden somewhere in the Hammond’s schematics that I missed?”

“Cam—” Sam’s voice is full of grief.

“Thought not,” Cam husks, and he presses his hands to his forehead underneath the rim of his helmet as if that’ll help. “Fuck. Blow that bastard to hell for me, won’t you?”

“Cam, don’t give up,” Sam says grimly. “Just hang on. We’ll figure something out.”

What Cam’s figured out is that he’s got seconds before he blacks out. The planet is all he can see now, enormous and blue all around him, and the broken 302’s spinning faster than ever, piling the pressure onto his body and his mind even as he sees the numbers flick lower on the dampeners: thirty-one, thirty, twenty-nine. Oddly enough, he’s not afraid, not like he was when he looked up and saw that Wraith there, waiting, waiting, because this? This he’s done before. And at least this time, physical therapy’s not going to be waiting for him at the other end.

At least it’ll be quick.

“Sam,” he says, soft and weak as the blackness eats at his mind. “Atlantis. Did they—”

“They’ve gone to hyperspace,” Sam answers. “The city’s safe. They’re all safe.”

John’s safe. That’s what she means, and that’s what Cam hears. John’s safe.

“Good,” Cam says, and lets the darkness take him.

The crippled 302 slides further into the planet’s embrace.

John hears it all.

He’s in the control chair, Atlantis’ presence closed around him like a glove, like a lover’s touch, and he can hear every system humming at his fingertips, shields and weapons and stardrive all begging to obey his every thought. The city responds to him like the jumpers do, quick, instinctive, and they’re halfway out of the atmosphere before John has to do anything really taxing like, oh, dodging Wraith missiles. Not that he does much dodging, because the shield is flooded with the power of an entire dedicated ZPM so it’s not coming down for anything short than another Big Bang, so he just powers up, listens to the city’s whisperings telling him that they’re getting closer and closer to the altitude required for a safe hyperspace window.

He listens to other things, too, to the hum of voices on the radiowaves that he can pluck out of the air like they’re physical things. He listens to Sam’s orders to her crew, bellowed over the Hammond’s internal comms, to the jumper pilots relaying data between themselves, to the chatter between the 302s, even to McKay bickering with an increasingly frustrated Aeryn Sun, picked up by some of the city’s more sensitive scanners. And of course, he listens to every damn word that Cam says.

—“Now, ma’am, I’m not going to make this easy on you.”

The city’s breaching the atmosphere, now, the cool of space finally taking over from the inexorable pull of gravity, and John whispers to Atlantis to activate the stardrive. He feels it buzz into life at the back of his mind, a well of power and energy that his conscious mind could never hope to understand. More distance, the city urges. More distance.

—“All hands, this is Mitchell. Detonation imminent. Repeat, detonation imminent.”

John feels the exploding hive ship wash over his shields like the sea lapping at a tropical beach. It doesn’t bother Atlantis any more than it bothers him, and she keeps up her preparations, strengthening the shield, starting the eternally complex calculations for the stardrive. He can feel Zelenka’s input from the outside, cajoling the numbers along far slower than Atlantis can manage but with an instinct that only a human mind has, and he reaches out, feeds Zelenka more power, lets the power build at his fingertips.

Stardrive is imminent. Stardrive is coming.

—“I know that, ma’am, but I don’t think I’ll be getting a pay rise at the end of the month if I let you get blown up because one of ours mistakes you for a Wraith.”

“Zelenka,” John says, his human voice sounding foreign to his ears. “Tell Woolsey we’re ready to go.”

Zelenka answers in the affirmative even though John’s not paying enough attention to actually register the words. Stardrive crackles under his skin, and the city whispers, Almost. Almost.

John can’t tell where he stops and the city begins, now, and it takes a moment to register when he feels a touch on what was once his arm. “John.”

He knows that voice. He drags his eyes open, looks away from the majesty of space to the cramped interior of the chair room, and Teyla’s there, bent over him, and she brushes his hair back from his forehead, says, “Mr Woolsey has broadcasted his warning. Whenever you are ready, activate the stardrive.”

“Yeah,” John says, and then, “Almost.”

The city is nothing more than an extension of his body. He is everywhere, he is everything, and the city takes him exactly as he is—

—“This is Blue One, requesting assistance. Hammond, can you hear me?”

John’s eyes fly open, and he barely has time to register the shock in Teyla’s eyes before his body is spasming upwards. The city feels his shock, his fear, and responds in kind: a shudder runs through her infrastructure, shaking windows in their frames, sending cracks spidering through the corridors in the outer sections – and, fuck, no, that can’t be happening. He has to save the city, has to save everyone in it, because that’s his job and his feelings aren’t important, and he closes his eyes again, delves deeper, reaches for the stardrive—

—“Got a tractor beam hidden somewhere in the Hammond’s schematics that I missed?”

John’s going to be sick.

“A hyperspace window is opening!” he hears Zelenka cry, and he focuses on that, on that joy, on that relief instead of the rip in his heart and the grief he can hear in Sam Carter’s voice. Keep them safe. Keep them safe, and he feels the hyperspace window as much as he sees it, feels it open to embrace him and he dives instead, takes the city with him, pulls them all to safety and the last thing he hears before the window snaps shut behind them is—

—“Good.”

In the command chair, John chokes out something that might almost be a sob, but that’s only because his mind is too far woven into the city’s systems to care what his body is doing. Teyla and Ronon stand on either side of him even though he has no idea that they’re there anymore, and Teyla keeps brushing his hair back and Ronon keeps his hand on his shoulder, and when the tears come, wiping clean streaks down John’s cheeks, neither of them says a word. They heard everything, too, on the common channel, and they’ve both felt that lost before, wrenching at their hearts and their minds, but they know there’s nothing they can say and even less that they can do.

John flies Atlantis through the vastness of the galaxy, and the tears slowly dry on his cheeks.

The journey to their new home will take an estimated twenty-one hours in hyperspace, and so shifts have been planned in. Seven hours in, John will hand over to Beckett, then go and eat and sleep and come back in another seven hours to take over for the landing, because Beckett’s good enough at hyperspace but really tends to suck at take-off and landing. There’s a countdown clock running throughout the ship’s systems, loud enough that however deep John goes he’ll still be able to hear it, feel it in his bones – but when that countdown starts ringing, telling John to get out, to pull back, to eat, to sleep, he ignores it. He delves deeper, feels the hyperspace washing over the very edges of the shield, takes comfort in the groan of the city’s understructure, the solidity of the towers, the sweep of the skyline, because he can save this, he can keep it safe, but only if he keeps going, if he never rests. If he stays in the city, stays deep in her warmth, in her embrace, because this, he can do. He might not be able to keep his people safe, to keep those he cares for—those he loves—from harm, but he can save the city. He can save Atlantis.

The alarm keeps ringing in his ears, and he ignores it. Seven hours turn into eight, into nine, and he can hear voices around him—“Sheppard, come out of there. It’s my turn.”; “Colonel Sheppard, can you hear me? Please relinquish control to Doctor Beckett.”—but he doesn’t listen to them. They can’t do this like he can. They can’t keep the city safe.

“Doctor Zelenka, can you pull him out?”

“I can disconnect him from the system, yes, but I do not know what that will do to the city. We are in hyperspace. He needs to drop us out of hyperspace before Doctor Beckett can take over.”

“Which he seems to have no inclination to do.”

“That, I can do nothing about. But someone needs to. Doctor Keller says he is not doing his body any favours by this lengthy stay in the chair. He has gone too deep, poured too much of himself into this connection with the city. It is exhausting him, killing him.”

“So please, doctor, give me options.”

“I want to, Mr Woolsey. But that is not within my power. He has to bring himself out. I cannot make him do that.”

John’s not exhausted. John’s the furthest from exhausted he’s ever been. He’s full of starlight and the fire of the universe, every neuron in his mind sparking off in every direction a chopper can fly in, and there’s nothing he can’t do, nothing. He knows what the mystery machines in Lab 27A/9 do, the one that’s been roped off for two years now because McKay accidentally did something to a MALP that they still haven’t found. He can turn the ovens in the kitchen on or off, up or down, with the flick of a thought, spoil the kitchens’ lunch or make it better than its ever been. He can feel the foot traffic through his halls, less than it usually is but still there like ants crawling over his skin, and the city sings with him as he loses himself in its embrace.

“John.”

The voice comes to him through the haze of the city, through power flow and stardrive statistics and the constant, ever-present hum of the shield.

“John, you must listen to me.”

John doesn’t have to do anything. This is where he belongs, here, deep in the city, shepherding her along until she gets to where she is supposed to be. Maybe there was somewhere else he once felt like this, someone else who made his heart sing, but he doesn’t remember anymore. The city’s hum hides that memory from him. He wants it to hide the memory from him.

“You are hurting yourself more than your body can bear, John, and I cannot stand by and let you do this to yourself. I understand that you are hurting, you know I understand that, but you cannot hide in the city forever. That is not what he would want.”

John spasms away. No, there’s no ‘he’, there’s no one, just the empty space where a forgotten memory used to be.

“Do not pull away from me, John. And if you will not think of yourself, then please think of the city. You cannot function effectively as the city’s pilot if you hurt yourself, and if you cannot pilot the city then the whole city is at risk. You can be as self-destructive as you like, John, I will allow that because that, I can fix. What I cannot fix is this city in ruins.”

The city, abandoned and deserted, filled with the dust of a million years of time. John’s seen that future once before. It can’t happen again. It can’t happen because of him.

“John,” Teyla says. “John, come back to us. Please.”

And John opens his eyes.

He’s hustled out of the chair by two of Keller’s burliest medics the moment the city’s out of hyperspace, and they’ve got him on gurney before he’s had a chance to protest that no, he’s fine this is all overkill – but then he tries to sit up and his body screams and he figures, oh, okay, maybe they’ve got a point. That’s when his stomach roils up inside him, too, and he rolls onto his side and vomits onto the floor.

He’s vaguely aware of Beckett making an alarmed noise, but then the good doctor’s being hustled into the chair by Zelenka and Woolsey and John feels the hum of hyperspace whispering through his bones. He left the stardrive active. Figured that would be easier on Beckett’s limited connection with the city.

“Come on, Colonel,” Keller’s saying as she and her guys roll him back onto the gurney. “Let’s get you to medical. You’re getting at least six hours sleep before I let you plug yourself back in, okay? And I’d prefer it if that sleep was natural and not drug-induced, but so help me I will dope you to the eyeballs if you even think about pulling another stunt like that. Eleven hours. Eleven hours, Colonel. That is not what we agreed.”

John wants to say something about him not agreeing to Cam dying, either, but he figures that wouldn’t really help the situation and would only really come across as self-pity, so he doesn’t.

Keller’s expression softens anyway, and she takes his hand, squeezes and says, “There’s no word from the Hammond yet, but Zelenka thinks that their subspace transmitter was damaged in the battle. No word on—”

“Don’t,” John croaks, and, wow, his throat is dry. “Don’t say his name.”

Keller looks like her heart is about to break. “Okay,” she says. “I won’t.”

John sleeps in the infirmary for seven and a half hours, then, when Keller’s cleared him with that goddamn sympathy still in her eyes, he goes back to the chair room and takes over. Beckett looks at him suspiciously for a moment, but the dark shadows under his eyes mean that he doesn’t argue, and John settles back, feels the city hum at his fingertips, feels it welcome him back. He doesn’t sink into it this time, though, because he can feel Teyla at his elbow and Ronon at his back, watching in case he does something stupid again, and so he stays at the edges, listening to the song but not joining in.

John lands Atlantis on her new planet, her new home, and when relief sweeps through the city like a wave, John doesn’t feel it.

This new planet is colder than the last, a good ten degrees colder on average, and so when John’s still in the chair he cranks the city’s heating up a few notches, just enough so that when Rodney gets here he’ll only spend some of his time bitching about it. They expected the cold, though—that was part of the file on the planet, which also said that it had no natural predators, was out at the edge of the galaxy and was generally a whole lot better suited to their needs than anywhere else they could find at short notice—so when John gets out of the chair Teyla’s waiting with a big fluffy Athosian coat that she tugs around his shoulders, ignoring his protests. The rest of the personnel left on the city are decked out in similarly-thick winter gear, and everyone knows what they have to do: teams are dispatched to the outer edges of the city to visually check for damage; the gateroom techs busy themselves with scans and reports, assessing whether it’s safe to get in touch with the Alpha Site and get the rest of the expedition back to the city; and everyone else starts picking up everything that fell of the shelves in the landing, which wasn’t exactly bumpy but was far from smooth.

And John? John goes to the jumper bay.

They sent five jumpers up to assist the Hammond in the fight because five was the maximum number they calculated could fit into the Hammond’s 302 bays for the flight to join Atlantis, and what that means is that Jumper Six is still sitting in its corner at the back of the jumper bay, lights dulled and ramp raised. At the touch of John’s mind, though, it lights up like Christmas, bright and inviting, and John slips inside, seats himself at the controls, and then says, “Control, this is Sheppard. I’m taking a jumper out to have a look around the planet. I’ll radio when I’m headed back.” – and then he takes off his earpiece, tosses it onto the co-pilot’s seat, and takes off.

He rationalises it to himself by reasoning that, actually, this was his role in the operation: he was always meant to go out and fly aerial sweeps of the planet, check for psychic whales or whatever else this new marble had to offer. If that was only supposed to happen after everything was secure in the city, well, John’s just going to gloss over that part.

His earpiece is probably ringing right about now, but John doesn’t care.

He flies sweeps around the planet for three hours, taking readings of the glaciers at the poles and the hardy, coniferous forests on the mainland in the northern hemisphere, the icy deserts and the vast tracts of ocean further south, and for a moment he gets so lost in discovery and newness that he almost forgets what he’s lost.

Almost.

John returns to Atlantis when it’s already dark, and he checks the jumper back into the bay and goes to find Woolsey, who is, predictably, in his office. He reports on everything he’s seen, on the deserts and the glaciers and the sweep of the snowy mountains, and when he’s done Woolsey looks at him with hard eyes and says, “Please, Colonel Sheppard, sit down.”

“I’ll stand, if that’s okay.”

Woolsey’s eyes flash, and, wow, that’s something John’s never had directed at him before. “Sit.”

John sits, feeling vaguely like he’s twelve years old again and in the principal’s office.

Woolsey perches on the edge of his desk and laces his fingers over his stomach. “Colonel Sheppard,” he says, voice as carefully controlled as it always is. “This is a stressful situation for all of us, but even so, your behaviour is highly erratic and needs to be brought under control. We still don’t know if the threat is over, if the Hammond made it out of that fight in one piece—” John flinches. He knows Woolsey notices. “—and so the people of this city need you to stop acting like a spoilt child. Refusing to hand over control to Doctor Beckett, flying off in a jumper without prior authorisation: these are not the actions of the John Sheppard I know.”

John wants to say, The John Sheppard you know didn’t just lose everything. John wants to say, Cam is dead and you think I give a shit about what you want? What John says is, “Understood. It won’t be a problem anymore.”

Woolsey frowns, says, “Colonel, I don’t want to reprimand you. I want to know what’s happened to elicit this response. It’s not like you.”

John thinks, Cam is dead. John just repeats, “It won’t happen again. May I leave, sir? There are things to be done.”

Woolsey looks away for a moment, jaw tight. “Of course,” he says. “I’ll see you at the briefing tomorrow morning.”

John goes, does his job, and is the model of the perfect officer.

Twenty-six hours after landing, the gate opens from the Alpha Site and all the support staff come flooding through. They scuttle about to check their quarters and their workspaces—there’s a scuffle in the science labs over whose equipment broke and whose survived, but that’s sorted out without much trouble—and then, when the mess hall is opened up again once the kitchen staff have had a chance to work their magic, the city falls to eating. A buzz of chatter of life reignites the hallways.

Thirty-seven hours after landing, John sits in the meeting room with all the senior staff minus Lorne and Rodney, and listens to reports of the state of the city. Apart from the cracks in the floor of some of the Marines’ quarters, everything’s fine, everything’s getting back to normal, and they leave on a note of optimism. Even Woolsey cracks a smile.

On the way out, Teyla catches John’s arm, says, “One moment, Colonel.”

He stops, looks at her blankly. “Teyla?”

Ronon stays behind, too, and once everyone else has filed out, off to play with ZPMs or interview Travellers or find something to patch over the cracks in the floor, Teyla says, “John. Will you talk to us?”

“What about?”

Ronon comes over, his usual swagger a shadow of its former self. “You know what about, Sheppard. We all heard the transmission.”

“Yes,” Teyla says, and her voice is buoyant with optimism. “Yes, we all heard the transmission, but none of us heard its end. The city went to hyperspace before a rescue could be attempted. There is still a chance, John, a chance—”

“What, that he survived?” John snorts, and his hands would be shaking if they weren’t clenched into fists. “That the Hammond pulled off a last minute, miraculous rescue, in between the Wraith ship and the broken Asgard beam? That the 302 somehow regrew a wing and its engine fixed itself all by itself? That he’s alive?!” – and, oh, that’s the first time he’s said it. That’s the first time, and it hurts like a knife in the gut.

Teyla’s jaw is set. “There is a chance,” she says, stubborn as ever.

“If you believe that,” John says, “you’re a fucking idiot.”

“Sheppard,” Ronon growls.

“No,” John snaps back. “No, Ronon, I won’t just sit and listen while you two sympathise. He’s dead, you know he’s dead. There was no way out of that, and even if we didn’t quite catch the end of the game we still know who won.” His heart is racing, faster than it does in the middle of battle, and he says, “I brought him here, to Pegasus, into all of this shit. And now he’s dead, and that’s on me.”

“John—”

“Shut up, Teyla. Go and figure out who brought the Wraith here. I have things to do.” And John leaves, shoving past Ronon and storming out into the city.

Neither of them stop him. Neither of them knows how.

Thirty-nine hours after landing, John goes to the gym and beats the shit out of a punching bag.

Sixty-three hours after landing, John gets word that the Marines have arrested two of the Travellers on suspicion of leading the Wraith right to Atlantis’ doorstep. One of them is Keena’s husband, and Teyla meets John on the way to the holding cells, says, as calm as if nothing is wrong in the slightest, “The evidence is overwhelming, but Keena is not happy. I am afraid for the future of our friendship with the Travellers.”

“They’ll get over it,” John says. “We’ve lost more than they have.”

Teyla’s quiet for a long, protracted moment, and then she stops dead in the middle of the corridor. John stops with her out of instinct more than anything else, and Teyla’s voice is tight and so controlled. “We have not lost more than they,” she says. “We saved eighty, and those eighty are very grateful, but there were so many more that we were forced to leave behind. Families. Children. Our allies.” John thinks of Larrin, of her quicksilver temperament and loyalty to her people. “They lost their ships, John. Their homes, and, yes, they are grateful to us but they also need someone to blame, someone closer than a Wraith. Now they have found that someone, and it turns out to be one of their own, who sabotaged their ship to get us there and then called the Wraith to destroy them. It is easier to turn on us than to admit that they failed to see the cancer among their own people.” Teyla pauses, takes a shuddering breath. She’s angry, even John can see that, and she says, “You are not the only one who has lost someone. Remember that.”

She stalks away down towards the holding cells, and John lets her go.

Seventy hours after landing, John puts his tray at his team’s usual table in the mess, sits down beside Teyla and across from Ronon, and says, “I’m sorry I’ve been acting like an asshole.”

Teyla’s smile is tired. “It is alright, John,” she says. “We grieve with you.”

Eighty-four hours after landing, John goes to the guest quarters that Woolsey arranged for Cam, all that time ago.

Everything’s exactly the way he remembers it—the Athosian furs, the elaborately-woven rugs, the Pegasus trinkets, Cam’s bag unzipped on the bed—and John goes and sits on the bed and pulls one of the furs across his knees. This is what he does when he loses people: he’s the one who packs up their rooms, who puts all of their possessions in neatly labelled boxes and sends them back to the ones who love them, and there’s something half-sacred in the touch of their clothes and books and cherished objects. It’s his way of saying goodbye, he supposes. Of apologising for all the things he couldn’t do for them.

John sits on the bed, fur heavy across his knees, and goes through Cam’s things.

They’re nothing special. SGC-issued clothes: black t-shirts; two pairs of pants, one green, one blue; matching overshirts. Socks and underwear, all non-SGC. A dog-eared copy of The History of the Peloponnesian War with a bookmark in page one hundred and thirty-five. A couple of SGC mission reports. A pair of alien-looking earrings in a box with a label on the underside: Sam, Happy Birthday! Cam. Four more loose bottles of beer.

That’s everything. That’s all that’s left of Cam Mitchell – and John knows that’s not strictly true, knows that Cam has an apartment back in Colorado Springs that’s full of sports memorabilia and souvenirs from his jaunts all over the world (and the universe), but someone else will clean out that apartment, someone else will run their hands over those possessions before boxing them all up and sending them back to Kansas, to Wendy and Frank, to the parents who will grieve and never really know why Cam died.

John sits there, The History of the Peloponnesian War in one hand, and tries not to think about the pain in his chest.

He repacks everything, slowly and carefully, folding the t-shirts with corners so sharp they could draw blood, and when he’s done he zips the bag up again, aligns it to the corners of the bed—

There’s a bulge in the front pocket that he missed, and he knows he should leave it, should quit this morbid ritual and go back to the city that needs him, that will always need him, but he can’t. This is all he has left of Cam, all he has left to treasure, and so he opens the front pocket, dips his fingers inside and comes up with a soft, age-worn leather pouch. It’s nothing fancy, tied at the top by a rawhide thong, and, oh, John should stop. John should put this back and send Cam’s things back to the SGC and not look. He shouldn’t look.

John pulls the pouch open and shakes two gold rings out into the palm of his hand.

He doesn’t really remember what happens after that.

One hundred and forty-six hours after landing, John takes a team of Marines out on a supply run to the mainland. There’s a lot of decent, edible stuff out there, wild vegetables and even some game, and they spend most of a day setting traps for the vaguely deer-like creatures and digging up plants that look like pineapples but taste like carrot. They load the jumper to the roof by the time they’re done, and John’s sitting in the cockpit running through pre-flight checks, waiting for Corporal Holmes to wind up the rest of the traps, when the call comes, Chuck’s voice sounding loud and proud through his headset. “Jumper Six, this is Atlantis. Colonel Sheppard, do you read me?”

John opens the channel, half his attention still on the checks, says, “This is Sheppard. We’re just preparing to head back to the city, won’t be long. Got some new things for the kitchen to experiment with.”

“I’ll pass that on. Colonel, we’ve had word from the Hammond.”

John’s hands don’t stutter in their task. His heart doesn’t beat faster. “Yeah?”

“They just dropped out of hyperspace,” Chuck explains. “Colonel Carter’s transmission said that they took heavy damage in the fight and couldn’t get the hyperdrive online for a few days. The Asgard beam is still broken and they’re too damaged to land, so personnel are being ferried down to Atlantis in the jumpers.”

“Let me guess,” John says. “You need us back to join the taxi service.”

“Pretty much,” Chuck answers.

“We’ll be back ASAP,” John says. “Just waiting for Holmes to stop dicking around and get back on board.” Someone makes a mock-offended noise at that in the back of the jumper, so he’s figuring Holmes is on board now. A quick check to the sensors is enough to confirm, and he’s closing up the rear hatch and lifting the jumper off the ground even as he says, “Anything else?”

“One more thing. Colonel Carter asked that I pass on to you that both Doctor McKay and Colonel Mitchell are alive and well, and that they’re going to be on the first transport down once the wounded have all been transferred to the infirmary.”

John nearly crashes the jumper into a tree.

By the time they get back to the city, there’s no space in the jumper bay for them to land. Chuck directs them to the west pier and says that the kitchen staff will be with them the moment they touch down, and so by the time John’s got the rear hatch down he has to fight past what feels like half of Atlantis and three deer carcasses to get out. He wins, though, and makes a beeline for the nearest transporter, because, oh, his heart is beating out of his chest right now. He goes to the control tower – and it wasn’t a dream, it wasn’t some fantasy because he can see Sam up in Woolsey’s office, looking tired and worn-out but safe.

John taps on Woolsey’s door, goes in without being invited, and says, “Colonel. Good to see you made it back in one piece.”

Sam smiles at him. “Sheppard. I hear the landing was as smooth as ever.” She takes two steps towards him, pulls him into a hug that’s pleasant but not entirely expected, and then says in his ear, soft enough that Woolsey can’t hear, “He’s in the mess hall. They’re all having a bit of a party.”

John can’t make his excuses to Woolsey fast enough.

The mess hall is in all the throes of ‘a bit of a party’, except for the fact that it’s much more than ‘a bit’. It’s clearly impromptu because there’s none of the usual elaborate decoration that usually gets thrown up but there are enough people here that the atmosphere is positively festive – and, from the smell and the silly grins on the faces of some of the younger personnel, John reckons that the chemists have broken out the prized contents of their still. Not that he’s complaining, because he spots Lorne within ten seconds and suddenly there’s a flood of warmth through his belly that he thinks if probably relief.

Lorne spots him, too, heads over and smacks him on the back. There’s a redness to his cheeks that John recognises all too well, and he says, “Sir. Nice flying.”

“You, too, Major,” John answers, because he remembers feeling the buzz of Lorne’s jumper against Atlantis’ sensors in the middle of that battle, dancing and flying and raising hell. “Good to have you guys back. You seen—?”

“Sheppard.” And that’s Rodney, whose cheeks are just as flushed as Lorne’s. “Where were you? I had to sit in a jumper with Beckett. Beckett. He still hasn’t figured out how to properly stabilise the inertial dampeners. I was nearly sick. Twice.”

Ignoring Lorne’s smirk, John says, “Good to see you, too, Rodney. Congratulations on taking out another hive ship. What’s the total to now?”

“Twelve,” Rodney says immediately, then flushes again. “Not that anyone’s counting.”

“Course not,” John says – and, fuck, he can feel the smile spreading across his face. This is right. This is how it should be, because they’re all here, they’re all alive, and he says, “Seen Mitchell?”

Rodney takes another gulp from the plastic cup in his hand and says, “Really? I get back from near-certain death and you’re not even interested. No, you just want to go running after your boyfriend.” He huffs in disgust, then seems to actually remember that they’re not alone and Lorne is standing right there, and he turns, says awkwardly, “And by ‘boyfriend’ I don’t mean ‘boyfriend’, I mean boy friend, as in, male, uh, companion—”

“McKay,” John interrupts, because Lorne’s looking at him with a knowing expression in his eyes and he finds that—you know what?—he doesn’t care, not anymore, not after all this. “Calm down, you’re going to hurt yourself. Mitchell. My boyfriend. Where is he?”

Rodney’s face is bright red and Lorne’s chuckling in the background. “I saw him out on the balcony,” Rodney fumbles.

“Thanks,” John says, and leaves Rodney to Lorne’s teasing.

It’s quieter out on the balcony than it would have been back on their old planet, but that’s because this planet is fucking freezing and there’s already two inches of snow over all the outside tables. Icicles hang off the overhanging roof, black ice slips underfoot in places and the chill wind bites at every inch of exposed skin, but John doesn’t care, because there are two shapes out at the end of the balcony away from everyone else, and he might not recognise one but the other?

Cam turns to face him as if he senses his presence and the smile that spreads across his face is big enough to drown in. “Mac,” he says to his companion. “Give us a minute, would you?” – and John doesn’t even notice the guy leaving because, fuck, Cam was dead, Cam was so, so dead and there was nothing John could do about it, and now—

John’s kissing Cam, and he doesn’t remember covering the space between them or making any kind of conscious decision at all, but here he is and here Cam is, and Cam’s lips are warm and smiling and alive.

There’s snow in Cam’s hair when John winds his fingers through it, and Cam says, easy and laughing, “Hey there, Sheppard. Pleased to see me?”

John can’t. “I thought you were dead. Your 302, I saw it—”

Cam cuts him off by kissing him again. “I’m here,” he says, breath hot against John’s lips. “I’m fine, not even banged up that much. Yeah, it was pretty hairy for a moment but I’m okay. I’m fine.” He is, even though the lines are still around his eyes and his hair is still silver-grey underneath the snow’s dusting of white – and suddenly everything just makes sense. Everything makes so much more sense than it ever has before.

John takes half a step back and goes down on one knee.

Cam’s looking very rabbit-in-headlights right now. “John? What are you doing?”

John’s fumbling in the pockets of the tac vest he hasn’t yet managed to take off, because he thought that Cam was dead and there was no way in hell he was sending two goddamn wedding rings back to Cam’s parents in Kansas, and when he pulls out that worn old leather pouch he sees Cam’s face do the funny twisty not-quite hurty thing it does when he really, really doesn’t know what to say. “I went through your stuff,” John says, sort of lamely now that he thinks about it, and adds as an explanation, “Because you were dead. And I found these.”

The rings gleam bright in his hand.

“John,” Cam says. “You don’t have to. I’ve been carrying those things around for years, and I don’t want to rush you into anything. I can wait—”

“You were dead,” John barks before he can stop himself. “We all thought you were dead, and no one knew why I was acting like such a goddamn asshole and I couldn’t tell them because – that would make it real.” His tongue is thick in his mouth. “I can’t do that again, so will you just goddamn say yes and marry me?”

Cam’s smile is so wide it might split the stars. “Like I’d ever say no to that,” he says, hauls John to his feet, and kisses him until all the hurt is nothing but a distant murmur at the back of his mind.

They go back inside when the cold gets so deep inside their bones they can’t speak for chattering teeth, and they rub shoulders with the rest of Atlantis and drink until they’re warm again. For a long time, no one notices the rings because that’s a tiny thing and everyone’s more concerned with celebrating that fact that, oh, they’re still here and the Wraith are very much elsewhere, but then Cam’s dragged off somewhere by Lorne and John finds himself sitting with a very tipsy Jennifer Keller, bitching affectionately about Rodney’s foibles. Keller’s halfway through what must be her sixth or seventh cup of moonshine and saying something about toothpaste when she just – stops.

John blinks aside the haze of his own eight or nine doses of medicinal alcohol and says, “Doc?”

Keller’s staring between John’s face and his left hand with her mouth gaped inelegantly open. “Your hand,” she squeaks. “Is that— Are you— Colonel Mitchell—”

John just grins at her.

Keller squeaks again and dives off into the crowd, John’s guessing to find Rodney, and he figures that that should really be his cue to leave if he doesn’t want to get cornered by half the city’s population, which he really doesn’t. He finds Lorne and Cam gushing over the 302 upgrades that Lorne apparently had an opportunity to try out while the Hammond was limping halfway across the galaxy, and he says, “Major. Cam, want to get out of here?”

Cam’s eyes are bright. “Hell yeah.”

Lorne waves cheerily after them and calls down the corridor, “Remember! Debriefing in the morning, sirs!”

They don’t get a lot of sleep.

John’s alarm goes at six in the morning, when it always does, and when he rolls over and smacks it off the new ring on his finger cracks so hard into the plastic the ding! makes him blink himself awake. There’s a tightness in his head that speaks to too much moonshine, but he feels immeasurably better when he rolls back into bed and nearly headbutts Cam in the process. Cam’s eyes are sleepy and hooded and his smile is lazy when he says, “Mornin’, Shep.”

John’s still not quite over the whole Cam-being-dead thing. “What time’s the Hammond’s debrief?” he asks.

“Oh-eight-hundred.”

John smiles, and from the spark of interest in Cam’s eyes he knows it’s wicked. “Good.”

They arrive at the meeting room at two minutes past eight, but they’re not even really late because Rodney hasn’t turned up yet and the Asgard beam is still on the fritz so Sam’s in a jumper on her way down. Cam sits down next to Sam when she turns up and John takes his usual chair, off on the other side next to Rodney’s empty space, and once everyone’s there things get started at about quarter past. Rodney’s still deep in his coffee and mostly unresponsive.

Zelenka gives the science team’s report on the city’s stint in hyperspace, carefully phrased to avoid the fact that John freaked out and nearly broke the city, and then on the ongoing adjustments to the city’s systems to acclimatise it to this brave new world, followed by Teyla’s brief rundown of the situation with the Travellers: the two saboteurs have been caught, undercover Wraith worshippers, and Keena’s not happy but she’s more angry at herself than at the Lanteans. They’re going to be okay. Lorne takes over, then, gives a quick summary of what the search teams have managed to find on the new mainland: roots, berries, and deer that taste like bacon. Everyone’s happy about that one.

Woolsey leans forward, hands neatly linked on his notepad, and says, “Colonel Carter. If you would, please outline the events of the battle with the Wraith after Atlantis jumped to hyperspace.”

There’s a rapidly-healing cut scabbed across Sam’s forehead that’s just further testament to the fact that Daedalus-class spaceships really need more by way of seatbelts. “Of course,” she says, tired but still far more alert than Rodney’s looking right now. “The explosion that took out the first hive ship crippled a good number of darts and knocked the confidence of the other hive, so it didn’t take long. The Asgard weapon was damaged in the same hit that took out the beam technology and the hyperdrive, but it remained active long enough to do critical damage to the second hive ship. It only lasted a few more minutes after the city escaped, but we were left incapable of hyperspace and in desperate need of repairs. It took four days for enough repairs to be completed to make the journey back here.” She pauses, shares a glance with Cam that John doesn’t quite understand, and says, “The damage was bad, Mr Woolsey. We lost six 302s, five of their crews and one jumper, and we wouldn’t have got here as quickly as we did without the help of Moya and her crew.”

“The alien ship?” Woolsey asks. “Crichton’s ship?”

“Yes,” Sam says, back ramrod straight. “They helped with the repairs to the Hammond and even cannibalised spare parts from their own ship to help us get up and running again. They sent runs down to the planet’s surface to forage for supplies when the Hammond’s food stores started running low: we hadn’t had time to restock before everything kicked off. Also, a number of 302s were damaged in the fighting—” John’s gut goes cold. “—and we only managed to get them back onboard before life support ran out with Moya’s help.”

“Speaking of,” Woolsey says delicately. “We all heard your last transmission, Colonel Mitchell. We assumed the worst.”

Cam snorts. “So I hear,” he says dryly, and then, “Well, don’t look at me. I just woke up in the Hammond’s infirmary, which was a surprise. A nice surprise, but I hadn’t exactly been expecting to wake up at all, if you catch my drift.”

The thought turns John’s stomach to ice. He thumbs the ring on his finger under the desk, catches Cam’s eye across the tables and knows that he’s doing the same.

“It was Crichton,” Sam says. “When Colonel Mitchell radioed for assistance, the Hammond wasn’t doing so well and, as you all heard, there was very little we could do under the circumstances. I’d had Crichton and one of his crew on the Hammond’s bridge the whole way through, and they mostly kept to themselves – but then Cam said something about a tractor beam—”

“Aeryn was the same,” Rodney chimes in, both hands cupped around his coffee. “We were listening on the common channel and she started muttering something about a ‘docking web’. I thought she was losing it, which wasn’t hugely reassuring considering she was in sole command of that very small, very cramped excuse for a ship, and then I thought that maybe those translator bugs had malfunctioned, but before I could stop her she was zooming off back round the planet’s darkside, calling over the radio for her ship to come and help. Turns out the bugs in her head had translated ‘tractor beam’ as ‘docking web’, which is their universe’s version of a tractor beam, and they were all very surprised when we didn’t have anything like that. Apparently it’s standard issue in their universe, and it would have been helpful if they’d told us that—”

“They scooped me up,” Cam interrupts, a little too brightly. “No harm done.” That’s for John’s benefit as much as anyone else’s, but John also knows it’s not entirely true.

“That’s not quite true,” Sam corrects. “You were subjected to some pretty serious Gs in the fall, Major Macintyre as well. You were both out for over twenty-four hours.”

Cam shrugs. “I’ve had worse,” he says, almost flippantly, and then, tone deepening, “I’m just glad Moya was there. No point in dying if there’s a way out.”

John’s got a lot of thoughts about this, not all of them entirely positive, but now’s not the place to be voicing them.

“Very well,” Woolsey says, and John swears there’s relief in that voice. “I will report all of this to Stargate Command. Colonel Carter, if you’d care to join me? I think General Landry will be keen to hear your voice.” Sam nods her agreement, and Woolsey turns to Rodney, says, “And as helpful as these people have been, I think it’s time that we set about returning them to their universe. Doctor McKay?”

Rodney’s doing his whole I’m-affronted-that-you’d-question-my-abilities-like-this face on, so John figures he’ll step in and say, “He’ll figure something out.”

Woolsey’s quietly amused. “Of course he will,” he says, and stands up. He says his goodbyes, drags Sam along with him to the control tower – and, wait, why is no one else leaving? Teyla and Ronon, Lorne and Zelenka, Rodney and Keller, they’re all just sitting there, watching John – and, yeah, Cam’s not moving either, but he just looks as confused as John feels.

No one says anything, either. They all just seem to be… waiting.

John clears his throat, says, “Is there something I should know about, or should we not be leaving?”

“We are waiting,” Teyla says, smooth and wicked, “for an announcement.”

And John sees Cam’s cheeks go bright red across the room.

John’s not going to be played like that, though. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Teyla,” he says, tries to sneer with the insolence he mastered at the age of nine.

Rodney makes a strangled noise next to him, and then, whoa, he’s grabbing John’s left hand from under the table and waving it in the air, pointing at the ring on John’s finger and saying, “Really?”

Ronon’s snorting with laughter. John’s going to kill him.

“That,” John says coolly, “is none of your business.” – but he’s not blind, of course he’s not, and he sees the way Cam’s shoulders straighten almost imperceptibly from across the room, sees the tightening of the jaw that means Cam was so very hopeful and is now veering far too close to disappointment for John’s liking, and so John snaps his mouth shut, takes a breath. “By which I mean,” he says, “that if I catch anyone running pools to do with any of this, whether it’s fruitcake versus chocolate or who’s going to be my best man, I will make sure that you never take a hot shower ever, ever again.” He pushes away from the table, gets to his feet, stalks towards the door – and it’s only when he can feel Cam at his shoulder that he pauses, turns around, says, “And yes, you’re all invited.”

Cam’s grinning. That’s all that matters.

The day passes much as most Atlantis days do, in paperwork and a meeting about the Travellers and a brief sparring session with Teyla in the early afternoon, during which Teyla wears this sly little smile and John does his best to wipe it off her face with his sticks. He fails, of course, and when he’s headed to the showers, Teyla calls, “John.”

John pauses, looks back. “Yeah?”

There’s still amusement in her eyes, yes, but it’s tempered with affection and joy, too. “I must ask,” she says. “Did he ask? Or did you?”

John’s cheeks are burning. “He bought the rings,” he says, gruffer than he expected. “I asked.”

Teyla’s not even bothering to suppress her smile now. “At Athosian joining ceremonies,” she says, “it is customary for a close female relative to watch over the proceedings. I would be—”

“I am not,” John says firmly, “talking to you about my wedding.” My wedding. Fuck. Fuck.

Teyla nods, apparently unperturbed. “That is understandable,” she says thoughtfully. “I will talk to Cameron instead.”

John’s not entirely sure when Teyla started calling Cam by his first name. The thought simultaneously terrifies and delights him, and because he doesn’t like confusing combinations of emotion like that, he turns on his heel and goes to get a shower.

He’s still in the communal shower in the gym with his hair full of suds when he feels the rush of cold air and—

“Sheppard, stop preening. I need you in my lab.”

John’s got half a mind to tell Rodney quite how inappropriate it is to come and drag a guy out of the shower to tell him I need you in my lab, but instead he just rolls his eyes and dunks his head under the spray.

Rodney’s lab, as it turns out, is pretty crowded by the time John gets there. Rodney’s there, of course, with Zelenka next to him, both of them hunched over his laptop and some vaguely cylindrical object that looks like it’s been dredged up from the back of an Ancient supply closets, and Woolsey’s off to one side, furrow creasing his forehead – and then there’s Cam. But, of course, it’s not Cam because there’s no grey in his hair and no lines around his eyes—and, most importantly, no ring on his finger—and John frowns, readjusts: Crichton’s there, Aeryn at one shoulder and the big tentacled guy that Sam called D’Argo at the other, and they’ve all got that look of simultaneous frustration and resignation that seems to accompany Rodney wherever he goes. The rest of John’s team is there, too, Teyla perched on one of the high stools while Ronon stands behind her and faintly glowers – and, oh, there’s Cam, grey hair and wrinkles and ring, leaning against the back wall with his arms crossed.

Cam and Crichton are both clearly trying so hard not to stare at each other that they’re hurting themselves. If it wasn’t so weird it would be funny.

“Finally!” Rodney exclaims and waves John over. “What took you so long?”

“I was in the shower, Rodney,” John protests. “I got here as fast as I could.”

“Next time, make it faster,” Rodney says distractedly, and then, “Well, never mind that. I figured it out.”

“We figured it out,” Crichton chips in. “You wouldn’t have got anywhere if it wasn’t for—”

“Don’t bother,” Cam drawls. John’s pretty sure being around Crichton is making his accent thicker, which makes no discernable sense but John’s not complaining about.

Rodney doesn’t even seem to notice. “The readings that Moya and the Hammond took from the space around the ship indicate that Moya strayed into some kind of spatial disruption—”

“A wormhole,” D’Argo says, almost as gruff as Ronon on a bad day.

Rodney pulls a face. “No, not a wormhole, a spatial disruption. Are you even listening to me? Totally different things—”

“Basically a wormhole,” Crichton says.

John smirks at the look of outrage on Rodney’s face. He figures he’d probably better keep the peace, so he says, “Rodney. Continue.”

Rodney clearly wants to say something, but Zelenka clear his throat not-so-subtly next to him and he crumples. “Fine. Whatever. The spatial disruption that wasn’t a wormhole left some pretty significant readings—exotic particles, weird wavelengths, that kind of thing—and I thought I’d seen them somewhere before—”

Zelenka raises his hand. “I thought I’d seen them somewhere before.”

“—so we ran them through Atlantis’ database and found a match. This.” Rodney smacks the top of the cylinder. “It’s a multiverse device,” he announces proudly. “It’s sort of like the quantum mirror that SG-1 found in the Milky Way, but it’s designed to create spatial tears that are big enough for ships to pass through. Now, the tears are obviously supposed to reseal to keep the balance and to stop exotic particles leaking into the wrong universe and causing all kinds of problems, but it looks like the one that Moya stumbled across didn’t seal correctly.”

“We also picked up trace fragments of metal on the other side,” Crichton takes over. “We reckon that was one of these doodads that got run over on the way back this way. It couldn’t seal up the hole it made because it got broke and no one stuck around to fix it.”

“Sounds like the Ancients,” Cam mutters, and John knows what he’s thinking about. He’s read the reports on the Ori, seen what the nightmares do. One more reason he doesn’t trust the Ancients as far as he can throw them.

“And,” Crichton says, looking at Cam with an odd expression in his eyes that John guesses is probably recognition, “it explains some things about our galaxy, too. We’ve got Ancients, too.”

“Yes, yes, yes, all very interesting,” Rodney handwaves. “The most important part is that we think we can reprogram this device to reopen and then reseal the breach, once Moya is through.”

“As easy as that?” John asks.

“As easy as that,” Rodney beams. “Except for the fact that we need a ship to take us back to the tear, and the Hammond’s not going to be able to fly safely for a few days yet.”

“And we’re eager to get back to our universe,” Aeryn interjects. “We have… responsibilities there.”

John frowns, thinking, then steps forward to Rodney’s workbench, spins around his laptop and pulls up access to the city’s starmaps, ignoring Rodney’s offended “Sheppard!”. He flips through until he finds the data uploaded from the Hammond’s sensor logs, plots the tear’s location on a galaxy-wide map, and then—

“There,” he says, stabbing the screen. “There’s a planet with a gate roughly seven hours’ jumper-flight away.” He looks over at Crichton, finds look at him too weird so looks at Aeryn instead, which only marginally helps. “We load a jumper onto your ship,” he explains. “Fit all the equipment we need into it, then McKay works his magic, you guys head on home, and we take a nice cosy trip to the nearest Stargate. Be back here in no time.”

“Easy,” Cam says, and, “Easy,” Crichton agrees a fraction of a second later.

The two of them look at each other with equally-narrowed eyes, and John smothers a smile. “Woolsey,” he says. “What d’you think? Worth a shot?”

Woolsey’s quiet for a moment, thinking it over, and then he says, “From Colonel Carter’s report, it sounds like we are in your crew’s debt, Mr Crichton. As such, we will render whatever assistance you need.” He turns to Rodney, says, “Doctor McKay, how long do you need?”

“A couple of hours,” Rodney says. “I need to run some tests on this thing, then I need to find my equipment from wherever Zelenka’s hidden it all and pack up. Then we can go.”

“Colonel Sheppard,” Woolsey says. “Have your team ready to go in three hours.”

“Might if I tag along?” Cam asks. “Thinking I’d quite like to make sure you guys get the hell out of this universe. Plus, I owe you one.”

“Colonel Sheppard?”

John has to keep his lips from twitching as he says, “No argument here.”

“I bet there isn’t,” Rodney mutters, but Woolsey just looks at him strangely so John figures maybe the news hasn’t filtered quite that high up the chain of command yet. It’s not that surprising: Woolsey is many fine things, but observant about his subordinates’ private lives is not one that high on his priority list.

Nonetheless John figures he’d probably step in before Rodney puts his foot in it and John has to fill out a mountain of paperwork. “I’ll get Jumper One prepped and we’ll dock with Moya in three hours,” he says. “Get to it, Rodney.”

Rodney does, and, yeah, John trusts him with his life but he definitely doesn’t trust him to get anything done on time if the universe isn’t about to explode – so John cajoles Rodney through his preparations, smoothing over the rough edges that Rodney insists will destroy the universe if they’re left untouched and finally getting everything they need wrapped in a nice neat box that he gives to a couple of Marines to lug to Jumper One. He then drags Rodney basically by the scruff of his neck to get suited up, and they find Ronon and Cam already there, Cam just pulling on his pants and Ronon already doing up his boots. Ronon nods a hello and Cam grins, says, “Get everything you need, McKay?”

Rodney mutters something about Cam so not being grateful for him saving his life and goes to his locker.

Cam’s smile doesn’t dip when John comes over to join him. “Looks like this trip to Pegasus might be over for me pretty soon,” he says mildly. “Not sure I can swing staying out here now that Landry knows I’m not all banged up anymore. And I think he wants me to jump through all the hoops Lam can throw at me before he puts me back on active duty. The whole Wraith thing.”

“You’re mixing your metaphors there, Mitchell,” John says, purely because he doesn’t want to think about the truth in any of what Cam just said.

“True,” Cam says, and sits down to pull on his boots. “Although I’m mostly worried that Teal’c is going to think I’m trying to start some kind of competition with him in the distinguished grey-hair stakes, and even though he is over a hundred now I still don’t think I can take him.”

John snorts, but doesn’t say anything.

Cam doesn’t look up at John for a moment longer, just keeps lacing up his boots until he finally says, “You’re not getting’ cold feet on me, are you? ‘Cause I’m pretty sure that’s only supposed to happen on the big day itself.”

John almost rolls his eyes. “You need to stop worrying about me running away.”

Cam glances at him sideways, a smile in his eyes. “Maybe stop running away, then.”

“You’re the one who nosedived a planet in a crippled 302.”

“Details,” Cam handwaves, but John doesn’t miss the flicker of darkness in his eyes.

He lets it slide even though he knows that Cam already has far too many nightmares about falling and crashing and never walking again, but only because he also knows that, when Cam’s ready to talk about it, John’ll be the one he talks to. He can wait, especially if it means putting off the touchy-feely stuff for another few days.

They gear up side-by-side in silence, and John can’t help but smile at the SG-1 patch on Cam’s arm that mirrors the Atlantis one on his own.

Cam notices, of course. “What are you grinning about?”

“Nothing,” John says, and then qualifies: “It’s just funny is all. You and me, saving galaxies.”

Cam grins. “The universe is a crazy place,” he says. “So come on. Let’s get these guys back to their universe before Vala finds out she’s got a duplicate.”

A slow smile starts curling at John’s lips. “You do know,” he says, “that Vala’s going to be able to read the report on all this? And that it’s probably not going to get glossed over by everyone that your friend Aeryn looks pretty much identical to her?”

Cam pulls a face. “It’s crossed my mind,” he says.

“And,” John keeps going, “that it’s probably also not going to get glossed over that alternate you and alternate Vala are, y’know – close?”

“I’ve been trying not to think about that,” Cam grumbles. “Don’t suppose that could be downplayed at all?”

John shakes his head, the image of the dutiful soldier. “No, sir,” he says. “Reports have got to reflect the truth, otherwise all of law and order’s going to fall apart on us.”

“I’ve never liked you.”

“I know.”

Cam’s nose wrinkles. “Not sure I appreciate being Leia again.”

John shrugs and determinedly doesn’t smile. “I can live with Han Solo.”

They meet Teyla on the way to the jumper bay and, true to her promise, she immediately engages Cam in conversation, pulling him to the back of the group so John can’t hear whatever evil she’s spreading. John decides it’s probably the better part of valour to just ignore what’s going on quite literally behind his back, and he drops himself into Jumper One’s pilot’s seat, with Rodney next to him and Ronon behind Rodney, and tries not to think about Cam and Teyla, relegated to the back, heads bent and laughing every few sentences.

Moya’s FTL is completely different to anything even Rodney knows about hyperdrive, and so there’s no interminable time spent cruising through hyperspace to deal with. That’s not to say that the trip is instantaneous: the ship can only travel in jumps, and those jumps can only go so far without the ship having to stop and recharge. What that means in practice is that they jump half of the way, leaving Atlantis as a glimmering jewel in the waters of its new home, and reemerge in the middle of nowhere, a nebula to their left and an empty starfield to their right.

And as John rapidly discovers, ‘starburst’, as Crichton’s crew keeps calling their FTL, is really fucking nasty.

When they exit the first starburst-jump-thing, Rodney spends forty minutes in a state of virtual shock, and even John can’t quite get the sick feeling out of his stomach. It’s like being rapidly decelerated a thousand times worse than anything John’s ever experienced then being smashed into a brick wall at the end of it, sending mortar flying and ending up in a six-foot hole of your own making. Even Ronon looks a little queasy – but Cam, only the other hand, only staggers a little and then says, “So that’s what that is.”

John ignores that. He needs to sit down.

There’s a version of a mess hall in one of the irregular, oddly-shaped rooms that looks out at the reds and pinks of the nebula, and John goes and sits there while Ronon guards Rodney as he tinkers with the Ancient multiverse device and Teyla probably drags Cam off somewhere to interrogate him about place settings. John’s alright with the silence—they won’t be starbursting again for a good couple of hours, so he’s got time to relax—and so he unclips his P90, sets it on the table in front of him and kicks back, back to one wall, legs extended along one of the benches. He doesn’t nap, just watches the nebula’s trails and thinks about nothing in particular. He reckons he probably needs the rest, although he’d never tell anyone else that. He doesn’t need any more worried looks from Keller.

He thinks about Cam, sometimes, and when he does his mental image comes complete with silvering hair and laugh lines etched deep around the eyes. John vaguely wonders if they can still be called ‘laugh lines’ if they were caused by the Wraith, but that’s a path he’d rather not go down so he turns off before he gets to the end.

“Mind if I join you?”

John twists around. Aeryn’s stood in the doorway almost awkwardly, weapon still clipped to her thigh but her hands nowhere near its hilt. “It’s your ship,” he says, and then, as she’s making herself comfortable, “How long ‘til we’re doing that nasty burst thing again?”

“A little under two ahns,” Aeryn replies, and then catches herself, corrects: “Hours. I think that’s what you call them.”

John just nods, doesn’t feel the need to reply to that. Aeryn’s apparently not offended by his silence, which is a character trait that Vala Mal Doran could probably do with learning, and for a while they just sit together and watch the stars.

In the end, John’s the one who breaks the silence, and that surprises even him. “So,” he says. “You making sure I don’t go anywhere I’m not supposed to?”

Aeryn stirs, glances over at him. “Not especially,” she says, voice smooth and neutral. “Just thought that you might appreciate the company. The rest of your team has paired off.”

John’s lips crook into a smile despite himself at the idea of Cam being a part of his team. “I’m alright with the solitude,” he says. “Rodney needs someone to talk at, and I think Teyla’s plotting something. But you don’t have to be here if you don’t want to be. I figure I can find my way back to the jumper from here.”

“Do you want me to leave?”

It’s a genuine question, and John thinks about it for a moment. “No,” he says finally. “No, I don’t think I do.” He pauses, and then qualifies, “I’m not the best talker, though. If you’re after sparkling conversation, you might want to look elsewhere.”

Aeryn shrugs, and it’s a remarkably close echo of Teyla’s fluid grace. “Quiet is often underappreciated on this ship.”

John thinks about what he knows about this ship’s crew, about Crichton and the loud-mouthed grey not-slug that Cam tells him is apparently named after a star cluster, and says, “I can imagine.”

Aeryn just smiles.

The truth is, John doesn’t want her to leave, but it’s not because he particularly wants to spend any time with her, either. She’s essentially a stranger to him, a stranger wearing the face of a woman who’s not quite a stranger but still pretty strange, and, besides the military that he can feel seeping from her every pore and an unhealthy attraction to certain features in a specific order, they probably don’t have much in common. In a few hours, they’ll never see each other again – but still. Still. John wants her to stay because he has something to say to her, and it’s going to take him a little while to actually work up to saying it.

Outside, the nebula looms large.

“I wanted,” John says finally, “to thank you.”

Aeryn shifts but he doesn’t look at her. “What for?”

“For saving Mitchell’s life,” John says after a moment, and the words are thick and sticky on his tongue. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“No one else could,” Aeryn says. “Your ship didn’t have the means. We did. It’s what anyone would have done.”

John does look at her at that, with an expression that’s not quite schoolmarm but certainly has its moments. “You brought an unarmed ship into a combat zone,” he says. “That’s a risky move, even with the hive ship on its last legs. Those remaining darts could have done plenty of damage.” He pauses, says, “You didn’t have to save him, but you did. So thanks.”

Aeryn’s quiet for a moment. “You didn’t have to strip Moya of all that – Wraith tech,” she says. “You could’ve just left us drifting. For that matter, you don’t have to be helping us out right now. You could just forget about us. Or just keep us in your cells for the rest of our lives. Study us.”

John pulls a face at that, says, “No, we couldn’t.”

“Exactly,” Aeryn says. She looks straight ahead for a moment, out at the stars, then says, “Before you showed up, when those Wraith we still in control of half of Moya. Mitchell helped us fight back. I’d just let him get hurt, really hurt, and he just turned around and said what can I do to help. He pulled me out of their line of fire at least three times, took one down with a slab of metal that we’d been using as a barrier just before it – attacked Chiana.” John knows that pause before attacked. Before it fed. “What I’m saying,” Aeryn says, “is that we fought together. You’re a soldier. You know what that means.” John does. Bonds forged under fire and all that. “I couldn’t have not saved him as much as you couldn’t have just left Moya to the Wraith infection.”

John’s quiet for a moment, thinking that over. “Okay,” he says. “Okay.”

“And,” Aeryn says, softer now, so soft it’s like she’s only really admitting it to herself, “I don’t think I could have let him die even without that. He’s not Crichton and I know he’s not, but that doesn’t help, not when I look at him.”

And that’s it, really. That’s what’s been going through John’s head this whole time, because every time he looks at Crichton he sees how Cam could be, in another world, how he could be happy and content and without John. “I know,” he says. “Weird, isn’t it?” Weird as in really fucked up. Weird as in so not okay.

Aeryn smiles a crooked-lipped smile and says, “At least it’s over soon.” She’s quiet a moment longer, looking out at the stars like she can find answers there, and finally she says, almost hesitantly, “I didn’t just come here because I thought you might like the company.”

“Yeah?” John asks. “What did you come here for?”

Aeryn looks her hands. “When we infiltrated your city,” she says, “to get Crichton back, someone died. One of your people.”

Halliday. “Yeah,” John says. “Yeah, that’s true.”

“I need you to know that we never meant for that to happen,” Aeryn says. “I know what it’s like, to lose a soldier. No matter how often it happens, it’s never easy – and you lost that soldier because of us.”

John’s been trying not to think about Halliday, about loss, about people who will never see their loved ones again.

“There’s nothing I can do that will make that right,” Aeryn says softly. “Nothing any of us can do. Whoever they were, did they—” She stops herself, stares out at the stars again. “Did they have family?”

“His name was Lieutenant Alec Halliday,” John says, because he hates to think about it but he knows that she needs to know, one soldier to another. War is never easy, and it’s the friendly fire that’s always the hardest to bear. “He had a wife, back on Earth, but no kids. Her family’s military, apparently, so they’ll take care of her.” What he doesn’t say is that Halliday was nearing his last tour out in Atlantis, that he was supposed to be shipping out with the Hammond, supposed to be heading back to the Milky Way to go on milk runs with Stargate Command or maybe go back into the regular Air Force and not put himself at so much risk anymore, because he wanted a family, wanted a life outside of the Pegasus freakshow.

John wrote the letter that’ll get sent to Mrs Halliday. The worst part was that it just blurred into all the others.

“We never meant for that to happen,” Aeryn repeats, and he knows that she means it.

Loss and regret, pain and grief. This is all getting a bit too much for John to handle right now. “Yeah,” he says, twisting the conversation onto another track. “What are you guys hurrying back to, anyway? What’s waiting for you in your universe?”

Aeryn smiles, and its tinged with joy and regret. “Family.”

John thinks about that, about his dead father and his estranged brother, about the wife he tried to keep and the kids he’ll probably never have, and then about Atlantis, about Teyla and Ronon, Rodney and Keller and Beckett, fuck, even Woolsey – and then, of course, he thinks about Cam, about the ring on his finger and the promise that he voluntarily made, and he says, “Good reason to get back.”

They sit there in silence and watch the stars.

The next jump goes without incident, unless Rodney nearly vomiting counts but that’s a common enough occurrence that John’s not fazed by it anymore, and when they reach the area of space they found Moya in to begin with, Rodney and Crichton start getting excited about unusual readings. Before John really knows what’s happening the Ancient device has been launched and they’re watching from the jumper as that tiny almost-cylinder opens a blindingly-bright gap in the starscape, flooding the emptiness of space with a light that Rodney assures John is completely not harmless and in fact just a by-product of the particles from the other universe interacting with the particles from ours and definitely won’t cause world-ending explosions and/or radioactive monsters. Probably.

A light flashes on the jumper’s console, and John knows what it is without even needing to look. “Incoming transmission,” he says, and brings the visual up on the HUD.

Crichton’s beaming face floods the screen. “We’re about ready to head through. McKay, if this doesn’t work, I am going to kick your ass.”

From the back of the jumper, Cam practically chortles. Rodney just looks deeply offended but not particularly worried. “Of course it’ll work,” he says dismissively. “Just do exactly what I told you to, and you’ll be fine and we can get back some unparalleled data about your universe that I’m pretty sure—”

“Have a safe journey,” Teyla says, speaking over Rodney with the firm calm that she usually uses for difficult visiting dignitaries.

“We’ll try,” Crichton says. “Hey, Mitchell?”

John feels Cam take a couple of steps closer and come to lean lightly on the back of his chair. “Yeah?”

“The grey suits us,” Crichton says, and there’s a wicked little smile twisting his lips. “Although I really hope the next time I see it is in the mirror in ten years time.”

Cam huffs a laugh. “Get out of my universe, Crichton,” he says lightly, “and don’t let the door hit you on the way out.”

“Or the spatial disruption.”

“Or that.”

Crichton laughs an identical laugh, smiles an identical smile, and says, “Guess it’s time for us to boldly go.”

Cam perks up, and even Rodney looks up from the precious readings that the multiverse cylinder is streaming back from the other universe. “You guys have Star Trek?” Cam asks.

“Yeah, we have Star Trek,” Crichton answers like that’s the most idiotic question anyone’s ever asked him. “I defy you to find a universe that doesn’t have Star Trek.”

And those are his final, auspicious words before the comm link cuts off and that strange, alien ship slides into the brightness. They knew that there would be no communication possible from the other side, so they have to rely on Rodney and his readings, and when the brightness flares one last time and then dissipates to nothing, Rodney gives a pleased little sigh and says, “No one is allowed to tell Zelenka anything about this.”

They bring the multiverse device back on board with a combination of grapplers and nifty flying (if John does say so himself), and then John sets course for the nearest planet with a Stargate and says, “Rodney, Ronon, Teyla. Give us a minute?”

“Of course,” Teyla says, gracious as always, and then shepherds Ronon into the jumper’s back section. For once Rodney doesn’t need to be shepherded, since that’s where the multiverse cylinder is and so he’s not going to be moving from there for a while – but for good measure John closes and locks the hatch behind them, anyway. He trusts his team with his life, but not his privacy.

Cam’s staring out of the viewscreen with a faint frown creasing his forehead. “Did that all seem too easy to you?” he asks. “Back in the Milky Way, everything would have exploded by now.”

John thinks about Cam’s blood on Atlantis’ floors, about Cam spiralling towards a quick death in a 302 with only one wing, about the age that resonates through Cam’s voice, and he says, “Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth.”

Cam’s gaze is on him, soft and gentle, and he sits in the co-pilot’s chair, says, “Hey, Sheppard. What are you running away from now?”

“Not running,” John says quickly. “Just thinking.” He looks out of the viewscreen at the stars mainly because he doesn’t want to meet Cam’s searching gaze, then says, “Thinking about them. Crichton and Aeryn. Living together, working together. Don’t exactly know what that work is—”

Cam chuckles. “I reckon we probably don’t want to know.”

“—but it works for them,” John completes. “And they live like that.” He looks back at Cam, at the lines and the silver and the eyes, still undimmed, and says carefully, “You ever think about any of that?”

Cam’s eyes sparkle. “Why Colonel Sheppard,” he drawls, arms crossed across his chest and knees sprawled wide. “I was surprised when you proposed. You askin’ me to come join you on Atlantis, now?”

John gives him a dirty look. “If it stops you dive-bombing in broken jets,” he says, “then yeah, sure, whatever.”

“It’s not like I make a habit of it,” Cam protests.

“I don’t know what you get up to in the Milky Way,” John says, despite the fact that that’s a massive lie and he really, really does because SG-1’s reports are almost as absurd as his own, “but both times you’ve been out in Pegasus you’ve got yourself mixed up in space battles. Not a great track record.”

“Must be something about Pegasus.”

“Or it’s something about you.”

Cam smiles his best shit-eating grin. “What you love about me?”

“I never used that word.”

“Yes, you did.”

“You can’t prove it.”

“I bet Teyla can make you confess, though,” Cam responds.

John narrows his eyes at Cam. “Yeah,” he says, “about that. What are you two planning?”

“Nothing,” Cam answers, and then, at John’s continued suspicion, “Honestly! Nothing!” He looks vaguely sheepish, and then says, “I like makin’ friends with your friends, John, mainly because I know it makes you happy.”

John watches him for a moment longer until he figures that he’s probably not lying, then says, “Teyla wants to conduct our wedding.”

“Yeah, she mentioned that,” Cam says. “I mean, stranger things have happened. Although,” he continues, gaze slipping, “I think, if we’re actually going to go and do this thing at some point, I’d like it to be on Earth. Not because there’s anything bad about Pegasus or anything, except for the Wraith and the space battles and the horrible, mind-wrenching danger—” John shrugs. He’s not wrong. “—but I think my mom would kill me if I eloped,” Cam finishes. He looks back at John, almost shyly. “Think you’d be okay with that? Meeting my folks?”

The idea’s actually pretty fucking terrifying, but John says, “Can’t be worse than the Wraith.”

Cam takes it in the spirit it’s intended, and beams. “Also,” he says, “speaking of the livin’ together question which we seem to have somehow got away from, I may have something to tell you about that.”

John’s really not sure where Cam’s going with this. “Yeah?”

“I mean, I’m not moving to Atlantis,” Cam clarifies. “You’d’ve noticed the paperwork if I were. But things are quiet in the Milky Way at the moment, Cybele and her mind-controlled goons aside: Goa’uld are mostly quiet, Ori long gone, Lucian Alliance pretty much fighting over scraps. And you know how much Jackson’s been wanting to get out here and nerd out again, even after the fuck-up that happened last time.”

John winces. “Yeah. Sorry about that.”

Cam shrugs. “Don’t worry about it,” he says easily. “I’m making a career out of picking up after that damn archaeologist at the moment. Point is that Jackson’s wrangled a two month field trip out to Atlantis. I reckon he’s trying to turn it into a longer posting, but we’ll burn that bridge when we come to it. Or don’t, as the case may be. Not sure General O’Neill’s too keen about the idea of losing two of his favourite people to Pegasus for most of the year—”

“Cam,” John interrupts. “There’s a point to all this?”

“Yeah.” Cam’s cheeks are flushed a pale, nervous pink. “Well, Vala got wind of this and wasn’t about to lose Jackson to Pegasus so easily considering that whole flirting not-relationship they’ve got going on, so she bullied Landry until he caved and persuaded O’Neill to let her tag along. And then Teal’c expressed some idea about coming out to—” He airquotes. “—‘experience the richness of culture the Pegasus galaxy has to offer’, and, well, maybe it looks like SG-1 might be heading out to your end of the universe for a little while. Landry’s calling it a cultural exchange.” Cam shrugs. “I’m more going for field trip.”

“Two months?”

“That’s the idea,” Cam says. “And I was wonderin’ if maybe you wanted to file some papers and shit before we shipped over here that would mean you could get a bigger bed and I wouldn’t have to schlep my stuff between two sets of quarters the whole time. I mean, you don’t have to if you don’t want to. I’m perfectly happy with separate bunks, that’s fine, but I thought maybe—”

“Yes.”

Cam blinks. “Really?”

“Yeah,” John says. “Plus, then Jackson can get the fancy quarters. He’ll spend a week analysing the relics there and won’t be able to cause any trouble off-world or in the labs.”

There’s a slow, deep smile spreading across Cam’s lips. “You sure?”

“Pretty sure,” John says. “I asked you to marry me, didn’t I?”

“Yeah,” Cam says. “Yeah, you did, but I’m still not entirely sure that wasn’t just relief-based delirium and you’ll regret it the moment I step back through to the SGC and you can’t go chasin’ the Pegasus ladies anymore.” His voice is thick with laughter, with the joke, with the joy of just being here and being able to tell jokes that aren’t mediated through emails and databursts and Air Force servers.

“You’re an ass,” John says, and can’t stop the smile.

“You like ass.”

“I like your ass.”

Cam beams. “I know you do,” he says. “So, two months of leave in Pegasus it is.”

John snorts. “Leave?” he says. “You really think so? Have you not been paying attention this past week? Pegasus isn’t a holiday resort, you know.”

Cam’s all innocent eyes. “Was that not just a particularly bad week?”

“About average, actually,” John says dryly. “No one died and came back. That’s how we tend to class the really bad weeks.”

Cam grins. “In that case,” he says, reaches out, takes John’s hand, “it sounds just like home.”

SG-1’s Pegasus field trip ends up lasting for three months, one week and four days.

Teal’c and Ronon team up in a stoic double act that communicates mainly in eyebrow movements, Jackson practically kidnaps Teyla, Vala spends half her time stealing Rodney’s power bars and the other half pestering him to teach her about all the “silly science stuff” he possibly can, Sam drops in whenever the Hammond is in Pegasus, mainly to shake her head and laugh, and, well, John’s left with Cam. He shows him Atlantis, all the secret little places he’s found over the years, flies him out to the new mainland and takes him climbing in the mountains. They file the paperwork before SG-1 steps through from Midway, but Requisitions fuck up and John doesn’t get his double bed until a week into the stay: John tends to wake up on the floor, because Cam Mitchell might be many things, but a graceful sleeper is not one of them.

Vala throws them an engagement party in the second week, with Rodney reluctantly supplying indoor fireworks and a holographic ice sculpture of a swan. Woolsey makes a goddamn speech about love in the face of adversity that John’s pretty sure was calculated to make him run and hide—Woolsey does have a sense of humour, sometimes—and then Sam calls for a toast to ‘the happy couple’ and that’s far too much, so John does go and hide out on one of the balconies until Ronon—a surprise romantic—comes and drags him back in. The whole thing is fucking ridiculous but when Cam smiles, it’s almost perfect.

The peace doesn’t last, of course, because Jackson finds some coded mystic message in the bowels of one of Atlantis’ databanks that talks about something called Elysium, something that’s full of power and knowledge and all the other buzzwords that the Ancients tended to use to cover up their big honking weapons. John’s team ends up heading out side-by-side with SG-1 to the planet that Jackson is one hundred percent sure is the location of Elysium, and that turns into a sprawling, even epic hunt across half of Pegasus and a third of the Milky Way that’s so goddamn stressful that by the end John’s pretty sure his hair that his hair is as grey as Cam’s.

But, then again, John’s pretty sure that there’s nowhere he’d rather be.