Archive of Our Own

"How much space did you say I was gonna have again?"

John pretended to eye the box critically.  "Not that much."  Of course, that was John's answer every time Rodney asked, no matter what Rodney was packing at any given moment. 

Maybe one of these days, Rodney would figure that out.

Packing was John's new favorite spectator sport.  Just to emphasize his lack of participation, he took a swig of his beer.  Predictably, Rodney's wide shoulders twitched in reaction, like he wanted to lob the tape gun at John's head, or maybe just yell at him to get off his lazy ass and help. 

He didn't, though.  Rodney was trying to behave.

They'd already sat down and had the conversation about how Rodney was staring the rest of his life in the face -- and about how much of the rest of his life was potentially going to be spent at the mercy of arrogant, condescending, petty, or just plain spiteful officers.  "You won't be able to intimidate them, or reason with them, or even ignore them," he'd warned.  "Resistance just makes them go for the throat."

Rodney's eyebrows had pulled together in a thoughtful frown.  "So I'm supposed to... what?"

"Lie back and think of Canada?" John had suggested slyly.  Then, for his trouble, he'd been chased around the living room by an irate, cardboard-tube-wielding astrophysicist.

It was far too easy to drive McKay apeshit.  Worse, everything from the short-lived journey to the inevitable explosion was far too entertaining for John to ever consider stopping.

"Wait, lemme see that one."  He pointed at the pulp sci-fi paperback in Rodney's hand, which was about to join its peers in the box Rodney was filling.  Two similar boxes -- archival quality, mildew resistant polypropylene -- were already sealed and waiting against the wall.

Rodney groused, "Why don't you just take my whole collection at this rate?" but chucked the book at him anyway.

"I'd be embarrassed to be seen in public reading most of your collection.  I mean, the covers with the flying saucers and Martians are bad enough.  But that one with the octopus attacking the naked slave girl?"

"That," Rodney settled back on his heels, "was an early classic of the genre."  He splayed his hands across his chest to demonstrate.  "The tentacles hid all the naughty bits.  And I bought it when I was, like, twelve!"

"You're still twelve," John assured him.  This book didn't look so bad.  Not at all lurid, just a couple of guys -- one wearing a fishbowl spacesuit helmet and one with a spear -- standing next to a robot with a shiny gold cranium.  It looked just cheesy enough to belong with John's pile of similarly confiscated titles.  He tossed it aside.  "I still don't understand why you're packing everything away.  If you're going to find someone to watch the place for you, why not just leave all this stuff out?"

Rodney wrestled the lid over the box, snapped it in place, then attacked it with packing tape for good measure.  "Um, because it's mine?"

"And...?"

"Some of it is personal?  You know, sentimental value?"

"Oh my god, McKay.  If tentacle slave girl has sentimental value, I do not want to hear about it!"

"I'll tentacle your slave girl," Rodney threatened, looking around for something to throw at John.  Fortunately, he'd already expended all the non-lethal ammunition within easy reach.

John drained the rest of his beer in a hurry, just in case.  If war did break out, he didn't want it -- and the carpet -- to be casualties.  Again.  "What you're saying is, it'd be weird."

"What, don't you think so?  It's bad enough that whoever it is will be sleeping in my bed, eating off my dishes..."

"I dunno," John shrugged.  "Sentimental value's different when you're in the service.  The things you attach it to tend to be a lot more portable."  And often times a lot less tangible.  "I haven't had a place that was entirely my own since I was seventeen.  I could have," he continued carefully, upon seeing Rodney's aghast expression.  "But I moved around so much -- nine months here, eighteen months there -- that it never seemed worth the effort."  It would have required that he amass possessions to fill the space.  That was why, after he outstayed his welcome at a new base's transient housing, he generally made a beeline for the closest apartment complex that offered modest furnished units.

Even cheap, outdated pastel decor was better than staring at blank walls.

Rodney scribbled a complicated call number on the box with a sharpie, and pretended not to be madly processing this newly-acquired piece of John Sheppard trivia.  He did that, latched on to something that wasn't important until he made it important.  It was unsettling scrutiny for a man who was accustomed to the anonymity, if not privacy, of military life.  John sometimes wished that he could retract entire conversations.  Not only did Rodney remember everything, but he had no compunctions about later "helping" John recall things he'd rather forget.

(Like that time he'd let slip that while he liked coffee, he sometimes preferred a nice cup of tea?  McKay, scandalized, had promised not to let him live it down for the rest of his life.  And oh yeah, if John hadn't believed him then, he sure did now.)

"Well, uh."  Typically articulate, Rodney drummed his hands on the box lid, then rose from his crouch.  "I think this is the last of them. I just need to drag it to the spare room along with the others," he jerked his chin at the boxes against the wall, "and I think I'm done."

"Cool.  Are you going to call it quits for today, or take a break and come back later so I can watch you work some more?"  John was still sitting cross-legged on the floor, so he had to look up, up, a long way up to smirk at him.  It wasn't that Rodney was so tall, just that the angle was... interesting.

"No, I mean I'm done.  This was the last thing I wanted to pack."

John was fairly certain that wasn't true.  McKay's to-do list was maintained verbally and updated frequently; there had been mention of at least five other things he'd intended to put in boxes for storage in the spare room.  "Wow, that's-  Forget what I said.  You shouldn't let it influence you."

"I'm not," Rodney snapped.

John graciously didn't point out that Rodney only sounded so testy when he was vehemently denying the truth.  But he did refuse to move when Rodney walked over and offered to pull him to his feet.

"Okay," Rodney conceded, "I am, but not how you think."  He was still holding out his hand, and shook it once, impatient.

A partial victory was acceptable, especially as this one had been quick and painless.  He relented, reaching up for Rodney's hand, and was surprised when the grip twisted to close around his wrist.  Rodney yanked him upright with more force than was strictly necessary, causing John to almost stumble before finding his balance.  He no longer thought of Rodney as soft.  Undisciplined, yes.  But McKay was one of those men built for natural strength, no matter how hard he'd tried to beat it into submission with a desk job all those years.

That was a shame, in John's opinion.  Damn right he was looking forward to being in a position to do something about it.

He retrieved his empty from the floor.  Rodney retreated a step, brushing his palms on his thighs, and explained, "I might have, in the interest of procrastination, exaggerated the amount of packing I had left to do."

"I know," John lied.  It looked like plans were stepping up a few days.  He hoped Steve was ready.  It had been more than a week since he'd placed the order -- surely ample time, even given the difficulty of the request.

"On the one hand, I don't want to go.  But on the other, the sooner I go, the sooner I could be standing on an alien planet.  You have no idea how conflicted this conundrum has left me."

This time it wasn't a lie.  "I get it, Rodney.  Really, I do."  It was the same cocktail of apprehension and excitement he felt before a mission; before every flight in the jumper; before every trip through the gate.  "I'm afraid it's not going to go away, but you get used to living with it."

"Lie back and think of Canada, huh?" Rodney intoned.  "I can't help but notice that that's your advice for dealing with all manner of unpleasantries."

"Nah, screw Canada.  Do it for the glory."

That sounded a bit less imminently terrifying than: Do it for the continued freedom and survival of the human race.

In John's opinion, there were few truly great pleasures in life: fast aircraft, good sex, cold beer, sad songs... and rudely waking someone out of a sound sleep.

Okay, so he could probably list more, if he thought about it.  But he was interested in one particular pleasure, as he loomed over Rodney's bed at precisely O dark thirty.

It sure as hell wasn't the good sex.

He'd left the lights off -- it wouldn't have done to wake his target early -- and his eyes had long since adjusted to the pre-dawn gloom.  He could discern a Rodney-sized lump beneath the snoring, snuffling pile of blankets.  His opponent was cunning and well defended; the only visible part of McKay was a patch of badly slept-on hair, poking out of the appropriate end of the covers.

John still wasn't sure how he was going to wake McKay.  It had to be something creative, something that would stir Rodney's admiration even as it propelled him to near homicidal rage.  (Assuming he survived the initial heart attack.)  The traditional loud noise or ice cube in the ear simply wouldn't cut it.

If it had been one of the guys, one of his crew, John would have just ripped back the covers and dropped a big, wet, sloppy kiss smack on him.  For shock value, that was always a winner.  In fact, he could still picture Abrams, sputtering and wiping his mouth on his arm and howling, "What the fuck, Shep!" while the witnesses all clutched at each other and tried not to fall over from laughing so hard.

John had won twenty bucks on that bet, but hell, he would have done it for free.

Briefly, he even considered doing the same to Rodney.  And he wasn't deterred by the chance that Rodney might mistake the kiss for more than it was.  No, he was afraid that Rodney would mistake it for something it wasn't: a nasty prank at his expense. 

So the lip-lock idea was out.  As was the cat bomb.  Even if John knew where she was, it wouldn't be fair to expose the animal to cursing of the volume and ferocity that would comprise Rodney's reaction. 

Too bad he'd left all the flash grenades in the chopper.

Wait.  Oh yes, that could work.  Since Rodney was so fond of numbers and experimentation, it was time to determine the slope which would allow gravity to release a body from its inertial state.

The side of the bed he was on was free of dangerous obstacles, so John crept around to the other side.  He leaned over, feeling with his fingers until he discovered the crack between the mattress and the box-spring.  Then he squirmed his hands in, securing a nice, solid grip.  His last thought before he heaved was that he was about to know for certain whether or not his ribs had fully healed...

Rodney's monster of an orthopedic mattress weighed a lot.  John had to really throw his legs into the action; his back alone might have given out.  The first few inches were murder, but then he got beneath it a little better, and there was a gratifying shriek as Rodney started to roll.

Then came a dull thud, and suddenly the mattress was much lighter. 

John dropped it back in place.  His arms and the front of his thighs were tingling from the exertion, but ribs were a go.  And oh yeah, totally worth it.  Rodney's curses had a stunned, muffled quality, but they were sure to improve once he got his head clear of the tangled covers.

"Rise and shine, princess!" John barked.  He flipped on the light, then strode around the bed to peer down at his victim.  "I hope you got enough beauty sleep.  Today's your big day, and you have to look pretty for the ball!"

"Oh my god, I'm broken," Rodney moaned.  He wrestled an arm free and swung feebly in John's direction.  "I hate you.  You are such an asshole.  I demand a new fairy godmother."

"Sorry, I'm non-refundable."  John crouched and started peeling blankets away until Rodney emerged, disheveled and murderous and, yeah, just a little awed.  His hair was standing up in downy-looking tufts; John absolutely wasn't going to reach out and pat them down.  Any part of his body he put near McKay was liable to get bitten.

"Seriously, you must have no idea how creative a vengeful engineer can be.  I'm going to make you regret being conceived."

John grinned and countered, "There's fresh coffee in the kitchen."

Rodney gaped at him, contempt openly warring with adoration.

John didn't hang around to see the outcome.  But he did pause at the door to warn, "We're on a schedule.  Chopper leaves in sixty.  Anything not on board at that time gets left behind."

There really was coffee.  John wasn't stupid, and he knew that after the stunt with the mattress, it was going to take a little ass-kissing to get back in McKay's good graces.

Can't be much left to pack, he mused over a cup.  He was leaning over the kitchen counter, listening to Rodney thump around in another part of the house.  Everything of John's -- save a small overnight bag -- had been loaded on the chopper the day before.  As had most of Rodney's things, though the "contested" pile still sprawled near the front door.  John was hoping that the... urgency of their schedule would finally convince Rodney that he didn't need to bring two spare laptops and a stack of scientific journals that nearly reached John's waist.

"Forty minutes!" he shouted down the hall.

Rodney's voice called back, high and tinged with worry.  "Have you seen the cat?"

John snagged his mug and headed for the unofficial staging area.  Rodney was there, shifting things around, and... whoa.  The contested pile seemed to have grown.  "She's already in her carrier.  Rodney, is this a printer?" he asked, nudging the huge beige thing with his boot.

Dropping to his hands and knees, Rodney peered into the cat carrier.  "Huh.  So she is.  Why isn't she crying?  She always cries when I put her in her crate."

"Guess she likes me better than she likes you."  John didn't mention that the sleeves of his flight suit had protected him from the scratches he'd almost earned trying to stuff her through the little door.  "And you can't bring this.  The SGC has plenty of printers you can use.  You don't need your own."

"I know that."  Rodney stood and dusted himself off, but he seemed distracted, and kept shooting surreptitious glances at John.

Oh.  Right.  The flight suit.  He felt strange wearing it after being grounded for more than a month, but it fit again the way it was supposed to, so he figured the vacation had done him good.

He hadn't considered what seeing it on him might to do Rodney.  Sage green was an unflattering color on just about everybody, and the garment itself was so utilitarian that John couldn't reconcile-  Yeah, that was just crazy.  Mess dress -- now that was sexy.  Flight suit?  Not so sexy.  It was far more likely that seeing John in full uniform was giving Rodney an unwelcome dose of reality.

"You won't have room for this stuff," John tried again, and succeeded in jerking Rodney's attention back to the issue at hand.

"All right.  I'll concede on the journals."

John lifted an eyebrow at him.

"And one of the laptops.  But that," he pointed, "isn't a printer, and I need it."

"Rodney.  I might not be as technically inclined as you, but I know what a paper handling tray looks like.  Also, it says 'laser printer' on the side."

Rodney smirked and clasped his hands behind his back -- always a bad sign.  "Oh, I might have salvaged the case from an old printer," he explained airily, "but that is actually a custom-built, state-of-the-art network attached storage device.  Four terabytes of RAID 6 goodness."

That... sounded bizarrely enough like Rodney that he might be telling the truth.  "You keep your data in an old laser printer," he repeated though, just for confirmation.

He was rewarded with one of Rodney's "duh" expressions -- the one John recognized as being stuck somewhere between exasperation and fondness.  "Think about it.  This building isn't very secure, and I have a lot of extremely valuable equipment to tempt potential thieves.  The machines can all be replaced.  The data can't.  But what thief is going to walk off with an ugly, twenty year old laser printer that doesn't even work?"

He had a point.  "Just when I think I've seen the end of it, I discover impossible new depths to your paranoia," John sighed.  It seemed the printer was going in the chopper.

"Please," Rodney preened.  "The printer is amateur-level work at best.  Wait until you see what I can do with an night vision camera and a motion detector."

"I don't think I want a demonstration.  It's probably against regs."

Rodney straightened from arranging the cat things on top of the cat carrier.  "Actually... you've already had a demonstration.  You just didn't know it at the time."

"McKay..."  John was somewhat confident that he hadn't, that it was just teasing, payback for the wake-up call.  But even if Rodney had, it wasn't like John gave a damn.  The SGC shared a locker room, and eventually you got an eyeful of everyone's ass, whether you wanted it or not. 

"Okay, kidding, geeze."  Rodney held up his hands defensively.

John lifted the not-printer with a grunt.  Figured that in addition to being unwieldy, the damned thing would weigh a ton.  "Just... get those journals out of here and let's get the rest of this stuff loaded," he said.  He had to rest the printer on his hip to free a hand enough to scrabble open the front door.

After wrestling the thing into the chopper, John met Rodney on his return trip to the house.  Rodney's arms were full, and he tried to sidestep John when John blocked his path.  "Nuh un," John said, hijacking the load and making a one-eighty back the way he'd come.

"I could have gotten that!" Rodney called after him.

"No you couldn't.  I've seen your idea of packing!  And, uh... load distribution is very important, best left to the professional."  Oh, what a lie.  Well, load distribution was important, but not when you were throwing a couple hundred pounds worth of luggage in a bird with a useful load of over two tons.  He just wanted to make sure that everything that went on board went through his hands, in case Rodney tried to slip something by him.

That handing-off procedure was repeated several times -- a cat, three suitcases, a laptop case, some boxes ominously labeled "misc" -- until the front hallway was empty.  John peeled back his cuff and checked his watch: twenty minutes.  Then Rodney dragged him from room to room, double and triple checking to make sure nothing important had been left behind.

"Stove is off," Rodney verified for the billionth time.  "Furnace is on.  Coffee machine is-"  He stuck his head into the kitchen again.  "-off."

"Rodney, come on.  If you've forgotten something you can call Steve and he can take care of it for you."

Rodney was growing very adept at resting his eyes not quite on John.  (John could almost feel sorry for him, thinking of the first formal event they would have to attend together.)  "I still have five minutes, right?  I feel like I have to use them.  I can't waste them."  He twined his fingers into an interesting knot.

John took him by the elbow and towed him for the door.  "Think of it as five extra minutes you can spend saying goodbye to Steve.  C'mon."

"I think I might have left the bathroom light on," Rodney balked on the front steps, and tried to duck beneath John's arm to get back inside. 

A brief tug of war ensued, with John pulling while Rodney pushed; there was some jostling too, and John eventually stamped on Rodney's toes to get the extra leverage he needed to yank the door closed.  The lock engaged with a resounding click.

"Ow," complained Rodney, throwing John a hot, unhappy glare.

"Just get your ass in the helicopter, McKay," John growled, marching away across the parking lot.  "You do not want to do this the hard way."  He regretted acting like such a dick.  Rodney deserved gentler handling.  But then, it was a scary, momentous day, and Rodney needed someone to kick his ass and take his mind off his larger worries.  Unfortunately, the only someone available to do that was John.

When they reached base, there would be plenty of other bastards to keep Rodney's anger engaged and his anxieties occupied, and John could return to being his friend.

[Tower, this is Huey six six one three, requesting permission to land... anywhere I damned well feel like.]

John already knew there wasn't going to be a response.  Steve was outside next to the hangar, jumping up and down and waving his arms. 

"Think he's happy to see us?" Rodney remarked dryly.

Choosing a site that was free of obstacles, John touched down gently and cut the rotor, but left the engines idling.  It didn't eliminate the noise and the downwash, but it did reduce them significantly.  He swung his door out just as Steve reached the chopper, and Steve's mouth fell open even more.

"Wow.  I mean-  John, this is... whoa.  Can I?" he pleaded.

John jerked his thumb at the rear compartment.  "Sure, hop in.  I can't let you have the stick, but I can take you around a few times."

He circled the little airfield at low altitude, which made Steve ecstatic ("Whoa.  Look at that!  I think I can see my house!") before they landed again in the same spot.  This time he killed the engines, and the blades spun down to a lazy crawl.

"Rat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat!" shouted Steve.  Sure enough, when John peeled off his helmet and poked his head into the passenger compartment, Steve was crouched over the door gun.

John didn't have the heart to tell him it wasn't loaded.

"Sometimes I'm embarrassed to share a nationality with that man," Rodney said under his breath.

"Admit it -- you're just jealous because you wanted to do the same, but your dignity wouldn't allow it," John smirked at him.

Rodney just huffed, "Seriously, I know I've told you this before, but it bears repeating: Your hair defies explanation."

The cat chose that moment to yowl again.  She'd probably been doing it since they'd left the house; they just hadn't been able to hear her.  Which was probably a good thing, as the sound immediately made Rodney look crestfallen.  And yeah, it was a shame that Rodney couldn't take the cat with him, but a flight half way across the continent with those two feeding off each other's misery would have been more than a match for John's nerves.  He was relieved to be leaving her behind.

"Let's get moving.  We're still on a schedule."

They retrieved the cat and the cat things and Steve from the back of the chopper, and made their way to the hangar.  Steve insisted on carrying the crate, and crooned, "Shh, shh, there's a good pussy cat," which worked, to Rodney's obvious astonishment.

"What's his name?" Steve asked, installing the crate in a quiet corner of the building.

"Her name; Cat," Rodney said.  John thought he seemed a touch less miserable now that Steve and Cat were successfully bonding.

Steve frowned faintly and said, "I know she's a cat.  I just didn't know she's a girl.  What's her name?"

"Cat," Rodney repeated, "her name is Cat."  The way he was flexing his hands at his sides did not bode well.

John stepped in and explained, "Rodney never got around to naming her, and says she wouldn't recognize a name even if he gave her one."  He added slyly, "I've been calling her Meredith."

Rodney made a gurgling sound, and he was certainly now envisioning choking the shit out of John.  His hands had stopped flexing in favor of making tight fists.

"Meredith," Steve tried it.  "I like that."

"Great, that's settled," John said.  "Here's her food, and her toys, and her papers.  And Rodney typed up this list of instructions for you."

Steve scuttled off to deposit those things with the cat carrier, giving Rodney the opportunity to lean in and hiss, "Sheppard.  You will die for this betrayal."

Whatever.  Pissy Rodney was far preferable to morose Rodney, as far as John was concerned.  "You got my fuel?" he asked upon Steve's return.

"Oh, yeah.  It's right over there."  Steve indicated a huge industrial container sitting against the far wall, away from the workbench and other possible sources of ignition.  "Sorry it was so expensive, but I had to get it trucked in special.  Everything that flies out of here uses avgas."

"Don't worry, my employer's footing the bill."

Now Steve looked at him, really looked at him, and seemed to notice the flight suit for the first time.  "Hey, Air Force.  Cool."  He pointed.  "Major.  Cool."  Then, quizzically, "Rodney said you were a scientist."

"You get to explain this one," John said to Rodney, and went over to examine the fuel container.  It was the requested jet fuel, in sufficient quantity to get them as far as Ketchikan.  Way to go, Steve.  Now he just had to figure out how to get it into the chopper, which he had no experience doing because he was a pilot, not ground crew.  But he'd seen the procedure performed hundreds of times, and he'd read the official Air Force publication on refueling the UH-1N, and really, how hard could it be?

Rodney must have escaped from Steve, because he slipped up behind John and inquired testily, "And just how do you intend to get the highly flammable jet fuel from the container to the helicopter?"

John rounded on him and discovered Rodney quite close.  He didn't bother to put any more distance between them, and fired up a winning smile.  "I was working on that.  But since I'm just a dumb flyboy and you're the one with a doctorate in engineering, you can probably figure out how to do it much faster and safer than I could."

Rodney rolled his eyes.  "If you're going to issue a challenge in the hope that I'll do your job for you, you could at least be subtle about it.  And maybe throw in some ego-stroking for incentive."  Nevertheless, he went straight to work.  He stripped the hose and some other vital-looking components off the avgas pump ("I'll put it back the way I found it.  Promise.") and had the chopper fueled in just over half an hour.

John could tell that he was going to be insufferably smug about his triumph for days.  Not only that, but he was justified too, damn it.

While Rodney played gas station attendant, Steve crawled all over the Huey, inside and out.  Later, when it was nearly departure time, John found him in the cockpit, wistfully (and a bit enviously) stroking the controls. 

"Hey," he said, climbing into the seat next to him.

"Uh," answered Steve.  He gnawed on his bottom lip.

John tried gently, "C'mon.  Rodney's got some things for you, and he'll want to give you a proper goodbye."  But he only got Steve moving by tugging on his plaid flannel sleeve.  Then he had to keep tugging, when Steve's reluctance and dragging feet slowed their progress to a crawl.

They found Rodney loitering awkwardly near the chopper's tail.  "So, um..." he began when he saw them approach.  His expression was tinged with dread.

Steve shuffled in place and stared at his toes, and John might have considered the whole scene hilarious if it hadn't also been tangibly painful.

Eventually Steve mumbled, "I hate that you're leaving.  You just moved to town.  And you still owe me a date."

Rodney turned an alarming shade of scarlet.  "Yes, well.  About that...  The people J- Major Sheppard works for made me an offer I just can't turn down."

"The Air Force?"  Steve asked, suspicious, "But what about your aliens?"

"Aliens.  Right."  If possible, Rodney's shade of scarlet deepened, and he threw a desperate look at John as if to say, I've got nothing.

John gave his best, reassuring wink and promised, "We'll send you pictures when we catch one." 

"I'm glad that you're going with John," Steve decided.  "He's a good pilot and a good guy.  Stick with him and you'll be okay."

"I, um-"  Rodney jerked a quick step closer to Steve, and pulled his hand out of his pocket.  "Here are the house keys, and the car keys, and I really, really appreciate you watching the place for me until I can find a more long-term solution.  You don't have to worry about utilities or anything, I'm taking care of all that.  Well, within reason.  Don't leave the lights on when you're not there...  Oh, but help yourself to anything you want in the fridge or pantry.  You can use the game systems too, borrow my movies..."  Nervous, he fiddled with the key ring, not quite willing to relinquish his old, safe life.

John politely turned away and feigned interested in something near the nose of the chopper.  Just kiss him already, dumbass. 

He heard Steve say, "Hey-" before being cut off.  Then, awestruck, "What was that for?"

"It's for goodbye.  And, well, thanks."

"Oh.  'kay."

"You can let go of me now."

John finished his "inspection" and strolled back.  Rodney's eyes tracked his approach warily, like he'd just exposed some grave secret that -- yeah right -- John hadn't known about, and was now anticipating John's response with trepidation.

So you like cock, so what? he longed to say, and get this fucking pussyfoot nonsense over with.  God, it was right there on the tip of his tongue.  But the last thing in the world John wanted to do was provide Rodney with an excuse to freak out.  So he retreated behind a bland, uninterested mask.

Steve's face screwed up like he was threatening to get all emotional.  "You two take care."  If he started bawling, John was out of there.  Seriously -- he would have to abandon Rodney.  He wouldn't be able to deal with it. 

"Hey, you too," John offered hastily, hoping to head off the waterworks.  "Safe flying.  Oh, and get that rudder fixed for real.  Duct tape's no substitute for a good, solid weld."

Nodding and sniffling, Steve spread his arms and advanced on John.

And okay, that was... worrying.  But John wasn't about to ruin the moment by-

Oh, hey, no.

Steve's mouth closed in on him.  Thank god the man's eyes were shut, and his aim off.  And okay, John's hand might have gotten in the way of the kiss a little, too.  He used the leverage to keep Steve's goodbye warm, rather than shockingly intimate.  Then, after the minimum acceptable duration for a full-body hug (with bonus ass-grab), he squirmed free.  "That's... quite enough of that."

He caught Rodney gaping at the tableau, jaw hanging slack, blue eyes comically wide.  If John had ever wondered what it would take to stupefy McKay... well, now he knew.  Taking shameless advantage of the distraction, he herded Rodney into the chopper, "Up, in, now!" before giving Steve a final, chaste handshake and climbing into the aircraft himself.

Buckling in, Rodney shook his head, quick and violent, as if trying to clear his vision.  He seemed to need to say something -- likely concerning John's failure to mete out appropriate requital.  After all, Steve had attempted to do queer things to him.  Didn't John know it was within his right to reassert his manly honor by separating Steve from Steve's testicles?

Rodney might want to marvel over John's leniency, but John did not.  He half-assed it through a cursory preflight -- he'd done the real thing before leaving Rodney's house --  powered up, and let the engines' deafening whine render conversation blissfully impossible.

There was something about flying.

It didn't relax him.  He was wound more tightly than he had been in months: elevated heart rate, adrenaline kicking, flirting with a hard-on that never quite materialized.  Flying... focused him, honed his attention down to a vicious edge.  He required that intensity to reach the plateau where he could carry multiple computations in his head, use the results to make minute adjustments to the controls, and still have the faculty left over to monitor a dozen readouts.  All while remaining acutely aware of the space his aircraft occupied.

He might be coasting over BFC -- bum fuck Canada -- but he couldn't ignore the habits ingrained from over 300 combat flight hours.

It had been fifteen minutes into the trip before he'd bothered to show Rodney where to find a headset and how to access the internal radio.  By then, Rodney had subsided into a pensive, foreboding silence that John was content, for the most part, not to break.

He did turn to grin at Rodney at one point, and say, "Welcome to the United States."  It was probably cruel to remind Rodney of all the things he'd left behind, and all the terrors awaiting him, but John felt that the welcome part was important.  And no one else was going to say it.

The trip could have been accomplished faster, but John wasn't inclined to push the chopper at all.  It wasn't reluctance, he told himself, to prolong the journey out of enjoyment of the journey.  Still, it ended too soon; in just under two hours they were on their final approach to Ketchikan, and John thought it might be prudent to explain what was going to happen there, and why.

"We're going to land," he said.  He'd been using the radio to advise certain interested parties of their progress ever since they'd hit Alaskan air space, and Rodney didn't seem to immediately recognize that the words were intended for present company.

Eventually McKay's chin jerked up, and he turned questioning eyes on John.  "We need fuel again already?  Also, I may be just the engineer with the doctorate, and you're the hotshot pilot, but you do realize that we've been traveling west, not south... right?"

"It's fifteen hundred miles to Colorado Springs, McKay."  John was taking perverse delight in forcing Rodney to abandon the metric system, even though it was a bit disgusting how easily he could make the conversions in his head.  "Fully fueled, the range on this thing is under three hundred miles, so... well, you do the math.  Besides," he added truthfully, "my ass doesn't relish the thought of twelve hours in the pilot's seat.  No, we're going to land at a small commercial airport and catch a lift."

"A lift," Rodney repeated, not comprehending.

"The SGC's got everything under control," John assured him.  For a non-scheduled, international military flight, that must have taken a lot of wrangling.  He had no idea what cover story had been told to NAV CANADA or the FAA, so he was being friendly but deliberately obscure in his radio transmissions.  "Remember, we're carrying alien tech.  It's not like we can toss that shit in a carry-on and take it through customs.  In fact, this flight itself is suspicious, which is why we're being met by a transport plane returning from Clear." 

Rodney snorted.  "I don't know whether to find it vindicative or disturbing that my favorite conspiracies are playing out as true."

"How's this for an orchestrated coincidence?  Clear's a little radar station a ways northwest of here.  It's a part of the Air Force Space Command, which is headquartered... where?"

"What, you're asking me?  How the hell should I know?"

"Peterson, Rodney.  Peterson is the base in Colorado Springs, next to Cheyenne Mountain, that ostensibly administers the SGC's personnel."  The guys out of Peterson were used to dealing with weird, secretive shit; they were good at averting their eyes and not asking awkward questions.  Still, "I'd appreciate it if you'd try to... act normal."

"Normal."

Okay, he probably deserved that snippy tone.  "Low profile," John amended.  "Try to pretend that this is all normal and boring and completely ordinary."  Three-quarters of a good lie was attitude.  He knew Rodney could pull it off; he just wanted to make sure that Rodney knew to try.

Rodney considered this.  "So... being so unaccountably nervous that I puke is inadvisable?"

John said sharply, "Are you going to?"

"No.  I thought about it for a while, though," he admitted.

"Jesus, you should have said warned me.  I would have found you a bag or something."

"I'm fine," Rodney insisted, his irritation suggesting that he was telling the truth.  "No need to worry about your precious hel- chopper."

John would argue with that.  He'd seen the aftermath of someone losing their lunch in the cockpit, and the splash damage alone...  But he said, "Forget the chopper.  I'm allowed to worry about you."  Which was true.

Rodney's response was lost in a transmission from the tower, informing John that he had permission to land.  He signaled for silence while he listened to the instructions, then relayed his thanks and gratitude. 

"What?" Rodney demanded.  "What's happening?"  At least he'd waited for John's all-clear before speaking.

John pointed.  "See that?"  It was hard to miss; far below them, one end of the airport's lone runway was dominated by a large, gray aircraft.  "Our ride just finished taxiing into position.  We're clear to land and board, but we're tying up their runway for the duration, so we can't dick around."  He circled the chopper for the final approach, and saw there was crew on the ground, next to the cargo plane, to help guide him in.

"We're going to stick this into that?"  Rodney pointed at the chopper, then the plane.  He sounded uneasy, as if he was describing a complicated sexual act, the technicalities of which made him squeamish. 

If he finished with It'll never fit! John was seriously going to break something trying not to crack the fuck up. 

"Can't explain now -- busy flying."  He zoned Rodney out, concentrating instead on putting down in an ideal location just behind the Herc's open cargo door.  The skids touched asphalt with barely a jolt, and while John was still powering down all systems, the two men on the ground started dragging equipment out to meet them.

Wait... two?

"Wonderful," he sighed, pulling off his helmet.

Rodney followed his example and got rid of his headset.  "What's wrong?"

"Oh, just the fact that they didn't send us a loadmaster."  Of course the SGC's idea of keeping a low profile would be to involve as few personnel as possible.  "Pay attention.  You're going to need to know these things.  That man-"  He pointed.  "-the captain, is the pilot.  The lieutenant is his co-pilot."

"I read up on insignia the first time I worked for the Air Force.  I can recognize rank, Major."

"Maybe, but you're not recognizing the significance of rank in the context of this scenario."  He wasn't going to bail Rodney out on this one.  McKay really was going to have to learn these things.  Too many of the SGC's civilian scientists didn't, and in John's opinion that placed them at a large cultural disadvantage when working closely with their military peers. 

"Hmph."  Rodney glanced at him.  "For starters, you get to order them around, if you want, though I get the feeling that would be rude as we're going to be guests on their plane.  And honestly?  I wouldn't believe your hair could do that if I hadn't witnessed it myself.  It's like... crush-resistant or something."  Intrigued, he lifted a hand like he wanted to poke at John's head.

John growled, "McKay..." and the hand dropped with gratifying haste.  The hard way it was, then.  Unbuckling, he said, "Come on.  If you haven't figured it out by the time we're done loading the chopper, you're dumber'n I thought."  He left Rodney sputtering in the cockpit, and hopped down to greet the other crew.  "Captain, Lieutenant," he said, returning salutes.

"Sir."

"Major.  Nice touchdown, by the way."

John grinned.  "Could have been a little straighter.  I give it a 9.8.  So, I'm thinking that since you guys look comfortable with the wheels, I'll handle the tie-down, and then we'll take it from there.  Sound good?"  He basically reinforced what they were already doing, with an order that was more like a suggestion.

See?  John could be everyone's friend. 

"Yes sir." 

He returned to his aircraft, pounded on Rodney's door, said, "Out," when it opened, and more or less yanked Rodney down onto the runway.  "Move it.  There's only four of us, so everyone works.  Help me get the tie-down cables on these blades."

Aligning the blades was the simple part.  When John climbed up on the chopper itself and walked down the tail to fasten the hardware, Rodney squawked and made comments about reckless stunts and avoidable accidents.  He shut up fast, though, when John pointed out that he had nothing else to stand on, unless Rodney wanted to volunteer his shoulders for the task?

Then, instead of helping John with the tie points like he was supposed to, Rodney decided to watch the other pilots -- Captain... Alexander, and Lieutenant Summers -- struggle with attaching the temporary wheels to the skids.

John clamped cables and cursed under his breath.  The experienced ground crews made the process look a lot easier than it really was.

Intrigued, Rodney moved in closer, and was soon offering pointers over the other men's shoulders.  "If you would just-  No, see that coupling there?  I think it should go-  Left.  Your other left." 

John hid a smile.  Oh yeah, the lesson was progressing nicely.  Any minute now, Rodney was going to reach his epiphany.

Finally, McKay thew his hands in the air and exploded with, "Oh my god, are all pilots mechanically inept?  You-"  He pointed at Summers.  "-out of the way.  Get... out of my way, both of you."  He went down on his knees next to the skids, and John had to feel sorry for Alexander and Summers, who dropped back, looking helpless.  They didn't know who Rodney was, and they couldn't identify his place in the hierarchy, but surely the ranking officer -- namely, John -- would step in if the strange civilian's behavior got out of hand.

Right?

They exchanged worried glances.  John ignored them.  "McKay, hurry up with those wheels, then get to work on the tow bar.  The nice people of Ketchikan International want their runway back."

"It never occurred to me to hurry, Major," Rodney snapped.  "I enjoy kneeling in the dirt so much that I thought I'd just loiter down here a while, wasting everyone's time.  Of course I'm hurrying!"

"Civilian contractor," John explained with a shrug.  "Engineer."

Alexander and Summers suddenly looked absurdly grateful to be out of Rodney's way.  And god, but McKay was like a bull in a china shop, throwing his weight around without regard for social or professional niceties.  John couldn't quite work up the proper horror, thinking about the amount of work it was going to take to refine the man.  He was too busy being envious of the effortless way Rodney knocked people off balance.

If he studied the technique long enough, maybe one of these days John would discover a defense against it, and prevent Rodney from doing it to him.

"Finished," Rodney said, rising.  "Now what?"  He had, John noticed idly, new dirt stains on the knees of his pants, like a kid who'd been roughhousing outside.

"Now we attach the tow bar, engage the winch, and drag it up inside."  John would have helpfully illustrated the process with an obscene hand gesture, but the two junior pilots were still watching him expectantly.

Loading and securing the Huey was duly accomplished, with Rodney supervising, and John and the other poor bastards providing the manpower.  Rodney didn't yell at anyone, not even when he asked for the slack to be taken out of the line, and instead someone fed out more. 

John was a little proud of him for that.

There was no other cargo on the plane.  And yeah, John could have gone up to sit on the flight deck, but Rodney would have wanted to come with him, and their pilots deserved a break.  Instead, he picked a place in the row of web seats against the wall of the hold, buckled in, and instructed Rodney to do the same.  Then he crossed his arms and rested his eyes until they were airborne.

Rodney fidgeted.  John couldn't see him, but he could feel the little shifts of movement, the occasional bump of an elbow or a knee.  Finally he asked, "You had your choice of any seat in here.  Any reason why you had to pick the one right next to mine?"

"Um, no reason," Rodney mumbled.  He did squirm over and give John a few more inches of space.  After a while, he inquired in a small voice, "Can you tell me what's going to happen when we get there?  I mean... I agreed to come with you without even seeing a job description.  I have no idea what's expected of me."

John cracked an eye and looked sideways.  Rodney was leaning into his space again, like John confused his equilibrium.  "I don't know either.  I'm sorry."  And, because he genuinely was, he added, "Whatever it is, you'll be good at it.  That was nicely done, with the chopper.  I was hoping you'd notice that none of us had experience loading cargo, and take the situation in hand."

"Oh, very smart," Rodney snorted.  He was still frustrated, but no longer toeing the precipice of being downright pitiful.  "Of all the inexperienced guys, expect the guy with the least experience to take charge."

"I've got news for you, McKay.  We deal with alien races, alien cultures.  Alien threats.  We encounter new ones every day.  No one has any experience.  So we have to rely on the guy who thinks a little faster on his feet, the guy who's better at seeing solutions to the complex problems."

"You think I'm that guy."

No, John knew he was.  But he refused to say it.  Instead, he unbuckled and got up to stretch.  The flight had been smooth, and they were maintaining a steady altitude.  It was safe to move around.  He opened the chopper's side door, climbed in, and retrieved an item from one of his bags.  Returning, he dropped the thing square in Rodney's lap.

"Ow," Rodney complained.  "Thanks for almost crushing my balls."  He picked it up, read the spine.  "The Air Force Handbook?  What is this?"

"You want to know what's going to be expected of you?  For starters, everyone you'll be working with knows that information inside and out, and they're going to assume that you do, too.  We've got a long flight ahead of us.  Start reading."

It was possible that Rodney had read the publication cover to cover by the time they arrived in Colorado Springs late that afternoon.  He'd certainly been quiet and engrossed the entire flight.  Even when John had disappeared for a while to hang out on the flight deck, Rodney hadn't seemed to notice, and had greeted John's return as if John had been absent minutes, rather than an hour.

Upon landing, they took what they could carry from the helicopter -- the rest was destined for storage, to Rodney's dismay -- and were escorted to Peterson's temporary housing.  John hadn't heard from anyone at the SGC, or run into anyone on base he recognized.  Still, his orders were clear enough.  Rather than separate quarters, they'd been put in a single unit intended for a family.  Sharing meant babysitting.  John spent the rest of the evening dancing around McKay's questions, and making sure the man was never more than a few minutes out of his sight.

In the morning, Rodney played with his coffee until it got cold and ignored his cereal until it was soggy (there was coffee and cereal only because John's early morning run had accidentally taken him past the commissary) and asked, "So what happens now?"

John had to shrug and admit, "Your guess is as good as mine."

"I bet I can answer that for you," said a voice from the front hallway, and jesus but John just about crawled out of his skin.  Reflexes had him on his feet, groping for his sidearm, long before it occurred to him that he knew the speaker.

"Front door was open, so I thought I'd let myself in."  Colonel O'Neill paused for effect in the kitchen doorway.  "Major, I believe your hackles are showing."

John sank slowly back into his seat.  "You could give a guy some warning.  Sir."  Anyone else, he would have heard enter.  But O'Neill's background was special ops; with proper incentive, the bastard could move without a whisper.

Also?  John was fairly sure that the front door had, in fact, been locked.

"Mm," O'Neill agreed.  Though his smile clearly said: Where would be the fun in that?  "This the scientist who's gonna give Carter a run for her money?" he asked, helping himself to coffee.

"Colonel O'Neill, allow me to introduce Dr Rodney McKay."

"Astrophysics, engineering," Rodney said faintly.  He was... god, he was studying O'Neill like he was sizing up a new challenge.

Oh no, no no no.  No, Rodney wasn't considering antagonizing the leader of SG-1.  That would be unforgivably stupid.  It was also, unfortunately, the sort of thing that O'Neill would encourage; he would be eager to satisfy his curiosity concerning Rodney.

"We've met before," O'Neill said.  "Briefly."  After a pause, he offered, "I was wearing a hat," as if that would explain why Rodney failed to recognize him.

"Rodney," John warned, gritting out the name, "Colonel O'Neill is the leader of the SGC's flagship gate team."

O'Neill flopped himself down at the little kitchen table across from Rodney.  "Look.  What Sheppard here is trying to say is that he likes me, and he'd appreciate it if you didn't do anything dumb to make him look bad, since I've made him responsible for your good behavior.  That about right, Major?" 

John choked, tried to disguise it as a cough.  "Like is a strong word, sir.  I would have gone with... respect."  God, in that moment he adored O'Neill, for laying out the situation with blunt-force efficiency, in a way that even Rodney couldn't mistake.

Indeed, there was the barest hint comprehension seeping through Rodney's astonished expression.

"Respect's good too.  I can live with respect."

"No offense sir, but... why are you here?"

O'Neill fished around in his pocket, and dropped a visitor pass on the cheap, scarred tabletop.  "You're gonna need this to get McKay inside the Mountain."  

John could tell that Rodney had gone very very still, in addition to being very very quiet.  He seemed to believe that drawing attention to himself would interrupt the precious flow of information.  "Thanks.  But, uh..."

"Oh!  You mean, why me personally?"

"It does occur to me that you probably have better things to do with your morning.  Sir."

O'Neill stuck his nose in his mug and muttered something that sounded suspiciously like, "I'm hiding from Daniel."

"Excuse me?  I didn't quite catch that."

Nearly shouting this time, O'Neill said, "Dr Jackson's been on the warpath ever since I told him I was finished fondling Ancient tech the minute you set foot back on base!"  And fuck, but John must have grown soft during his vacation.  He didn't notice the trap until O'Neill's smile turned suddenly gleeful.  "Which reminds me, Dr Jackson would like a word with you at your earliest convenience."

"You know, respect might be too strong a word..."

Jack laughed, and John had to laugh with him, because damn -- it had been a long time since someone had nailed him good like that.

Rodney's eyes swung back and forth between the two obviously insane Air Force officers.  The poor guy looked like he couldn't decide if he should humor them by joining in, or if joining in would be an indication that their insanity had spread to him.

O'Neill chugged the rest of his coffee and dropped his cup on the table.  "As for McKay's question... you'll both be spending an informative day with Major Davis.  That's all I know."

Oh shit.  It got worse?  "Paul Davis?  The Pentagon liaison?"

"Yeah, can you believe it?"  Sprawling, O'Neill draped an arm over the back of his chair.  "I didn't even know he was back from Washington.  Someone must be expecting a ma-"

"Please," John groaned, "don't say it.  I'm begging you."

"Don't say what?" Rodney finally broke.  "Expecting what?  Who's Major Davis?  If you're done exchanging secret club handshakes and catching up on gossip, maybe one of you would like to let me know what the hell is going on?"

"Sheppard can explain in the car.  It's waiting out front for you.  Level four, room twenty-eight.  You're expected at oh nine hundred, which is-"  O'Neill made a grand display of checking his watch.  "-whoo, thirty from now.  Better get moving."

John suspected that O'Neill hadn't checked his watch for the time, but had instead been timing Rodney to see how long he could uphold his self-imposed silence.  He wondered if the result confirmed or alleviated the colonel's misgivings.  "It'll take almost that long to cross town.  C'mon Rodney, grab your wallet.  Everything else stays."

O'Neill didn't move from the table when the other two men rose to their feet, but he did overhand a set of keys at John.  "You're back home tonight, Major.  I'll make sure your stuff follows you over."

"Thank you, sir."  John started herding Rodney for the door.

"Wait-"

"You have everything you need?" John asked.

"Yes, but-"

"Good.  So move.  You heard the man.  We have an appointment to keep."

The drab service car parked against the curb was conspicuously free of an airman chauffeur.  For that, John had reason to adore O'Neill all over again.  He could speak to Rodney candidly, without fear of being overheard.

It was probably the last chance he would have to do so for a very, very long time.

Rodney was sullen as he climbed in and buckled up.  John couldn't blame him -- it was the first day of the rest of Rodney's life, and so far it had offered him confusion, frustration, and a sense of futility.

Breakfast hadn't been too hot, either.

"Look, I know this sucks," he said, trying to remember which street would let him escape the residential section of the base.  Oh sure, it was easy when he was on foot, and could cut between buildings, but rows and rows of identical housing units made for shitty landmarks.  "And I promise that I will sit and let you bitch my ear off later, when there's time.  For now, just listen.  Okay?"

"Okay," Rodney grudgingly agreed.  "But I'll only fall for that offer once if you don't make good on your end of it.  Also, I expect sympathy and your full attention while I rant."

"Fair enough.  First off, Colonel O'Neill's right -- I do respect him and I do like him.  More than that, I trust him to exhibit common sense, which is a rare commodity to find in a CO.  He didn't have to come himself, this morning.  He did it as a courtesy, because he is responsible for putting me in this position.  Also, he used the opportunity to deliver a warning."

"Wait -- let me see if I've got this right.  Colonel O'Neill is on John Sheppard's nice-boy Christmas list.  I'm not allowed to fuck with him, even if he's a bastard."

"Especially when he's a bastard.  Which is... almost always."  John finally found a street he recognized, and headed for Peterson's west gate.  "The warning concerns Major Davis.  I know him mostly by reputation.  Ever hear the phrase 'don't shoot the messenger'?  Well, Davis is the Pentagon's messenger, and there's a reason no one's ever happy to see him.  O'Neill was referring to his nickname: Major Disaster."  He didn't cause them; they just had a nasty habit of blowing into town on his heels.

"Great.  And this is the guy we're going to see?"

John picked up the pace once they cleared the gate.  It was a lot easier to get a speeding ticket on base than off.  "I'm guessing that Davis is going to brief you, maybe get you squared away with the necessary paperwork.  You know, make everything official.  He's a diplomat and a PR man, so it's not too far-fetched that he would be chosen as your... caseworker."

"Except that it obviously is, or you wouldn't mention it.  And you're about to tell me why."

John thought of Rodney as having two states: off, on.  Listless, engaged.  The transition from the first to the second was often as abrupt and startling as a lightning strike.  "He's based in DC," John confirmed, "and you're pretty far beneath his jurisdiction.  If he's on your case, he was called in by special request.  I'd like to know whose."

"Ask him," Rodney snorted.  "Or better yet, I will.  I bet I can shake it out of him before he even knows what's happening."

"Were you not listening when I said he's a diplomat?  He deals with politicians all day long.  You won't be able to shake shit out of him, but you will make yourself look foolish trying, so go ahead -- be my guest."

"God, you don't have to be so pissy about it.  It was only a suggestion.  I was trying to help."

John wiped a hand over his face.  They might reach the Mountain before he was done explaining everything.  He might have to circle the block a few times, like a scene straight out of a bad espionage movie.  "Sorry, I'm sorry.  I hate dealing with this shit.  If I'd been interested in power games, I would have signed on with the family company." 

Rodney was quiet, as if gathering scattered thoughts for a reply, and John thought, uncharitably, Wasting time, we're wasting time.  Finally Rodney ventured, "You're good at them."

"It comes with the surname," John said, voice carefully moderated and flat.  That particular bitterness was well buried, and tended to remain buried, provided he acknowledged it by taking the necessary precautions.  "Patrick Sheppard didn't raise no fools."

"Neither did my father, but not for lack of trying, on his part."  And what the hell was that?  Rodney McKay, attempting to offer support?  Comfort?  Solidarity in the face of-  Hell, John didn't know what.  It was too absurd a notion; too bizarre.

It didn't work, he expressly told himself.  He was not feeling a slight bit... less alone.

"John, are you sure you know where we're going?  I think we've passed that building before.  More than once."

John resisted the urge to slam his forehead into the steering wheel.  Repeatedly.  (With his luck, he'd probably do it just right -- or wrong -- and make the airbag deploy.)  "Fuck, I'm screwing this up.  No more interruptions, okay?  If Davis was assigned by someone from the SGC, it just means they're trying to cover their ass.  When you expect trouble, you send one of two people to deal with it: either the fuck-up you don't care what happens to, or the guy with the impeccable record.  Davis is the latter.  Whatever happens, he'll hold up under scrutiny.

"If Davis was assigned by someone in Washington, it's a lot worse.  Means someone has taken an unhealthy interest in you.  And not many people in Washington even know about the Stargate Program.  They certainly don't keep tabs on every civilian we recruit."

"So they... might not be interested in me personally.  Rather, they might be exploring how I could be used as leverage point against someone else.  Erm... sorry for the interruption.  I couldn't help it."

John loved the moments when Rodney overtook him and turned the tables, leading him along previously unrecognized twists of logic.  "Don't be," he assured.  "You're right -- that's absolutely right.  And shit, we're nearly to the security checkpoint.  Once we're inside... the entire complex is wired.  Bugged.  Electronic surveillance.  You can guarantee that our meeting will be recorded.  Hell, you're paranoid enough -- just assume that it's never safe to speak freely.  If Davis is working someone else's agenda, he might try to trip you up, get information out of you he's not supposed to have.  Don't let him.  Be polite, but don't give away more than you absolutely have to.  Got it?"

Rodney barely had time for a strangled but fervent, "Yeah, got it."

Then they were pulling up at the guard house, and John was handing over their identification.

John didn't know how it was possible for two men sharing a small bench to so pointedly ignore each other, but he and Davis hadn't exchanged more than three words since they'd sat down.

The waiting area -- actually more of a clear spot against the hallway wall -- was spartan and lacking in opportunities for diversion.  But John hadn't spent his entire adult life in the service without learning the knack of entertaining himself, mentally, for long stretches of time.  His new favorite game was: What Would McKay Say?  It was played by predicting Rodney's responses to the base regulations that John was going to have to introduce him to in the near future.

So far, John was partial to:

Where I come from, they teach that in kindergarten.  Don't talk to strangers.  Look both ways before crossing the street.  Wash your hands after touching anything you find lying on an alien planet, because you have no fucking idea what it is or where it's been.

And:

I don't know, if I was going to sneak a cigarette, I might argue that the armory would be the perfect place to do it.  Think about it -- no one would look for you there.

John was working up to the one about inappropriate relations with alien species when Rodney stuck his head out of the door.  "I'm done.  You two can get your-"  Almost certainly, the original end to that sentence had included a crude anatomical reference, but Rodney was behaving, so he amended, "Er, you can join me again."

It was the forth time they'd left the conference room to give Rodney some "privacy" with a bundle of "confidential" paperwork.  John was wondering why he'd been invited to Rodney's briefing in the first place, considering that he'd spent the vast majority of his morning -- and now part of his afternoon -- staring at blank walls, creeping steadily closer to ennui.  He and Davis rose in unison, and there was a brief, awkward moment at the door, when they both vied to be the most deferential, and let the other through first.

John won, in part because he was wearing his garrison uniform, while Davis was in his more formal service blues.  Davis also had seniority of rank; the compulsion to set a good example in the face of childishness and recalcitrance was strong, John knew.  So he hung back, victorious, and reminded himself that he got to fly alien spaceships; and thought, It's probably been years since Davis flew anything more exciting than a desk, which was spiteful but fit his mood.

The funny part was, Davis himself was a decent guy.  He couldn't help that his tendency to operate by the book left him susceptible to exploitation. 

There had been one really nasty spot, before lunch, when Davis had been outlining Rodney's renewed security clearance.  And yeah, that word renewed should have triggered alarms.  But John had been studying -- and possibly mimicking, though if he'd been caught he would have denied it -- Rodney's body language out of sheer boredom.  He hadn't noticed what was happening until he'd heard Davis say, "-the changes stipulated in sections 9.b through 12.d deal primarily with your transfer from a private testing facility to a full-fledged Air Force installation-"

He'd been watching Rodney, so he'd seen the instant Rodney had gotten it, a full heartbeat before John.  "Yes, of course," McKay had dismissed with an impatient wave of his hand.  "Where do I sign?"

It was the sort of rote response Rodney gave regardless of whether or not he was actually paying attention to you.  Davis must have sensed that; he'd turned to John and said, conversationally, "I understand you were the SGC's on-site liaison with Dr McKay for several months.  Since you're doubtless familiar with the differences in protocol between the two locations, perhaps you can address any questions or issues that Dr McKay may encounter in the future?"

"Sure thing," John had said.  Followed by, Holy shit.  Because that was the first indication he'd had that the SGC was staging an internal cover-up of Rodney's security breach, and was claiming that Rodney had been working for them all along.  If John was reading the euphemisms correctly, the "private testing facility" was Rodney's house.  And those weeks John had spent with the crashed puddle jumper in the middle of the woods?  He hadn't been stranded, he'd been liaising.

John was still unclear on a few points, like why O'Neill would warn him about Davis' involvement but not the cover-up; and whether Davis was working a friendly agenda to establish a strong alibi, or a hostile one to uncover sensitive information.  One thing was certain, though: Davis was living up to his nickname.

Back in the conference room, John became reacquainted with the chair he'd claimed, the one closest the door.

Rodney was two chairs down on John's right.  Massaging his wrist, he complained, "That last form had five carbonless copies.  Five.  Do you have any idea how hard you have to press down to write through five of those sheets?"

Davis had the form in question, and was sealing it in a tamper-proof document envelope.  "You can relax, Dr McKay.  This was the last of the paperwork I needed from you."

Rodney had the look of a man granted an unexpected reprieve on the executioner's block.  "You mean I'm done?  I can leave?"

John sat up straighter and held his breath.  He wouldn't have been so tactless in asking, but damned right he was desperate for the answer.

"Not quite, I'm afraid," Davis said.  "You'll need your permanent security card to access the facility's lower levels.  I would like to take your paperwork up the hall and begin the process to acquire that for you.  In the meantime-"  He picked up a remote and pressed a button; a video projector descended from the ceiling.  "-I've prepared this presentation.  Doubtless you'll be familiar with some of the material, but it should nevertheless serve as a concise overview of the Stargate Program.  I hope you find it informative."

The projector finished warming up, and the presentation appeared faintly on the far wall, larger than life.  Davis cut the lights on his way out of the room.

Rodney waited for the sound of the door snicking closed behind Davis.  Then he slid out of his chair and into the one immediately next to John.  "Lame.  He didn't even ask if I wanted popcorn," he leaned in to grumble.

John's mouth twitched in a tentative smile.  The motion felt rickety, like he he was long out of practice.  "Hang in there, you're doing great."  Translation: Good job not fucking up, and I'll talk to you about it later.

"How many levels are there?  How far down can I go on my visitor pass?"

Against the wall, an enormous copy of the SGC's emblem turned stately revolutions, while a pleasant female voiceover began presenting pleasant, sanitized facts.

"You might find out if you watch the presentation," John mock-whispered, close against Rodney's ear.  It was funny -- they were the only two people in the room, but the precedent of not speaking aloud during a movie was too ingrained to ignore.  It reminded John of the way people always faced front in an elevator.  "He's right, you know.  You might learn something."

After that, Rodney leaned away again, but didn't return to his original seat.  Instead, he scooted a few inches to the outside, so that John could have an unobstructed view.

The pleasant narrator shifted to describing the science of the Stargate, in terms the average eighth-grader -- or political appointee -- would have no trouble understanding.

Rodney groaned, "Please, that is so-  I mean, it didn't even touch on, let alone begin to explain-"

"Quiet, McKay.  We're getting to the good part.  You can tell by the music."  It was swelling to a patriotic crescendo, and sure enough... the next topic was the SG teams.  There were "candid" images of confident, competent-looking men and women, engaged in vague but serious tasks, against backdrops that could have been a local park as easily as other planets.

For such a slick, polished presentation, it was remarkably devoid of actual substance.  It must be what Davis used when he had to initiate new members to the inner circle in Washington.

John wondered if Davis knew that three members of SG-9 -- depicted returning a MALP through the Stargate, thereby saving taxpayers thousands of dollars in reusable equipment -- had been killed offworld several months ago.

"This isn't helping," Rodney complained, as the subject of aliens was glossed over with a few shots of benign, humanoid allies, like the Tok'ra.  "It's like trying to learn from a commercial."

John had to agree.  However, he was oddly heartened that the Asgard hadn't put in an appearance.  He was anticipating Rodney's introduction to those little buggers with glee, and if it could be orchestrated to take place in person... well, so much the better.  "Remember that thing I said about lying back and thinking of Canada?"

Rodney answered to the affirmative by cuffing John on the arm.  "Grow up, Sheppard."

"Make me," John challenged, the presentation all but forgotten.

He was swiveling his chair around to position himself better defensively when the door opened, flooding the room with light.  John blinked.  The silhouette in the doorway didn't belong to Davis.  He reached for the remote to turn off the projector.

"Major Sheppard," the airman said, "I'm sorry to interrupt, but there's a call for you.  If you'll follow me?"

Ha -- escape!  John rose and pretended to hand the remote to Rodney.  It was actually an excuse to lean in over him and smirk, "Tell me how it ends."

He could feel Rodney's baleful gaze follow him as he nearly skipped to freedom.

The airman led him to one of the intercom phones, tucked into a niche at the end of the hallway.  "Sir," he said, and retreated.

John lifted the receiver, tucked it into his shoulder.  "Major Sheppard," he identified himself.

Without preamble, the speaker on the other end of the line informed, "Major, there's been a change of plans."  It was... god, it was General Hammond, sounding more urgent than John had ever heard him.  "I need Dr McKay in the gateroom as soon as you can get him here."

Conditioning jerked John to full combat readiness; he could feel his heart rate surge accordingly.  "General, he hasn't been issued a permanent identification badge yet.  He won't have access-"

"Security knows to clear him.  Prepare him as much as you can along the way.  He's going offworld."

The first time Rodney saw the Stargate, he was being forcibly yanked into John's uniform blouse.

He stalled out in the gateroom doorway, gaze lifting up and up and up.  "Wow.  That's... bigger than I expected."

John wished he could be sympathetic.  He'd laid eyes on the gate for the first time less than a year ago, and he still didn't get close to the thing without experiencing an echo of the initial knife-twist-in-the-gut sensation.  Like the upheaval and rearrangement of John's entire life was a part of some elaborate cosmic joke, only nobody wanted to let him in on the punchline.

"McKay, we don't have time for this."  He pushed Rodney forward and spun him around at the same time, snagging his other arm to shove it in the opposite sleeve.  It wasn't even field camo, but it was a far cry less visible than the sky blue shirt Rodney was wearing.  It would have to do.

Rodney continued to crane his head around, trying to get a better look at the towering ring that was etched with weird, alien symbols.  "Vest," John said, and SG-5 had a spare tac vest ready.  Harper handed it over; John struggled Rodney into it with only a little more grace than he'd managed with the blouse.  "This is your radio," he demonstrated.  "Rodney, are you listening to me?  This is important."

Rodney wasn't.  "Hey, do I get one of those?"  He pointed at the P90 submachine guns SG-5 held at the ready.

"Major Sheppard, Dr McKay, what's the holdup?" General Hammond radioed down from the control room, where he was overlooking the scene.

"Just a minute, sir."  John hesitated, thought fuck it, and unfastened his belt.  He ripped it out of the belt loops as fast as he could.

"Dr McKay, do you have any questions regarding the mission?"  Hammond's inquiry was directed at Rodney, but his curiosity was doubtless on John.  Stripping in the gateroom was customarily reserved for after the mission, when one could blame the impulse on the myriad chemical and alcoholic influences encountered on alien worlds.

Christ, how could he not have questions? John didn't say.  Hammond had spared exactly ten seconds to give John a terse, acronym-laden explanation of why Rodney was going through the gate.  Then John had had an entire three minute elevator ride to translate it into civilian-ese.

"I think I've got it," Rodney shouted up, with a hint of the impatience they were going to have to work very, very hard on burying -- at least when Rodney addressed the base commander.  "These guys-"  He motioned at SG-5.  "-triggered some kind of alien homing beacon, and you want it shut off."  And shit, he sounded ecstatic about the prospect.

"Sooner rather than later," Hammond suggested.  "The signal is weak, but the longer it stays active, the greater the chance an unfriendly ship will wander into range and investigate."

"To clarify, does the device-"

That was when John ripped apart the velcro straps securing his holster to his thigh.  He crowded in close to McKay.  Very close.  Close enough to wrap his arms all the way around Rodney's waist, and pass the belt tail from one hand to the other.  Perplexed, Rodney lifted his own arms up out of the way.

"Major, he isn't qualified to carry a weapon," Hammond reminded, but he hadn't ordered John to stop, yet.

"With all due respect, sir, he isn't qualified for offworld missions, either.  And I instructed him myself in basic firearms safety."  Of course John's wasn't certified to teach any more than Rodney was to carry, but in light of the situation John was pretty sure this little infraction was going to slide.

"-the device need to, um-"  Rodney was mesmerized by the progress of John's hands, first as they fastened the borrowed belt around his waist, then as they dropped to adjust the holster straps around Rodney's leg.

The angle was bad.  John dropped too; just before his his knees hit the concrete floor, it occurred to him that maybe this hadn't been his best idea ever.  Unfortunately, it was too late to do anything but see it through to the end.

"Does the device need to what, Doctor?" Hammond snapped, dragging Rodney's attention away from the fact that an attractive Air Force officer was groping the inside of his thigh.  Oh yeah -- and there was that whole face in the groin thing too.

John could use something to distract himself from that fact, come to think.  Sorry, buddy.  Finishing as quickly as he could, he gave Rodney's leg a final pat and stood.

"Does the device need to b-be intact?" Rodney stammered at last.  Once John had moved away to a safe distance, the rest of the words poured out in a flood.  "Because I can't read alien, and I might not be able to find the off switch or figure out how to disconnect it from the power supply, but good old-fashioned brute force is always an option.  I could use a rock or a hammer or-  Hey, you guys have grenades or something, right?" he asked SG-5.

"Dr McKay, I just want it off.  I don't care if it ever works again.  Think you can handle that?"

"Of course."  Rodney's confidence returned, in all its typically excessive glory.  John could almost hear him thinking: How hard can it be to break something?

"Good.  The ruins are approximately two and a half miles from the gate.  SG-5 will have plenty of time to bring you up to speed on the attempts they've already made to disable the device, and how those attempts have failed."  Hammond called to his team, "Gentlemen, are you ready?"

"Yes sir."

"Walter, dial the gate!" 

Rodney was clearly fascinated by the dialing process, and John couldn't blame him.  It was quite impressive.  The inner ring gave off metallic shrieks and groans as it ponderously spun around its track.  Each chevron locked with a clash, and the whole contraption shuddered in its mountings while friction-generated steam rolled off of it.

Not for the first time, John doubted the sanity of anyone willing to be in the same room with the damned thing while it was being activated.  It seemed to him that there were too many things that could go horribly, tragically wrong.  Hammond had the right idea, sitting up in the control room behind a viewing window made of eight inch thick transparent armor.

Despite the light show, John had only to move into Rodney's space again to attract his notice.  It reminded John of a magnetic field -- the strength of his influence over Rodney increased proportionate to proximity.  "Rodney, listen to me.  Don't pull out the gun unless you absolutely need it.  You won't need it.  You shouldn't need it.  SG-5 is going to be there to protect you, and they're very good at what they do.  Let them do their job."

Rodney's gaze darted to the control room as Harriman, the gate technician, announced, "Seventh chevron locked."

The vortex of the forming wormhole blasted out over the ramp.

"Oh my god," Rodney breathed.

When the vortex subsided, the event horizon was left, shimmering and rippling, in its place.  Dappled light bathed the occupants of the gateroom.

As if not entirely moving under his own volition, Rodney swayed forward.  "Oh my god.  It's all really real, and I'm-"  He swallowed hard, and his eyes were solemn and fierce as they latched onto John's.

It stole John's breath, to see him laid open like that.  Rodney was obviously scared out of his fucking mind, and it was the coolest, the most amazing, wondrous thing that had ever happened to him.  He was beautiful in that moment.

John took him by the shoulders and shook him.  "Stay behind SG-5.  Do exactly what they say, no hesitation, no arguments.  Do not wander away, do not touch anything unless you're told.  Absolutely do not draw that weapon unless your life depends on it.  Rodney, do you understand?"

"John.  I-"  Countless potential responses were considered and discarded while John waited; while SG-5 and Hammond and even the Stargate waited.  It was impossible to tell if Rodney wanted to offer reassurance, or confide his fears, or exert normalcy on the whole situation by cracking a sarcastic remark.  Perhaps he wanted none of those things, because in the end he just smiled a hazy, dreamy smile and said, "I'm about to travel through a wormhole to an alien planet."

Hammond ordered, "SG-5, you have a go.  Good luck, and move out!"

John watched until Rodney disappeared into the puddle.  Those who were new to gate travel usually hesitated before their final step, gathering up sufficient courage to make the plunge.  Rodney didn't.  He walked straight up the ramp, stride never faltering, and let the event horizon swallow him whole.

A second later, it wicked out of existence as if it had been absorbed back into the gate.

He realized after a moment that he was the only stationary piece in a smoothly-running machine that was resetting for the next departure; the next arrival; the next emergency.  The alarms warning of an active wormhole quieted.  Guards and technicians returned to their normal duty posts. 

Hammond must have descended from the control room, because he materialized beside John at the bottom of the ramp.  Hands clasped in the small of his back, he regarded the now-lifeless Stargate.

John caught himself slouching, an unconscious response to the difference in their heights.  The general was mythically large in SGC lore.  It was always odd to stand next to the man, and be reminded that the physical reality didn't equate.

"Major Sheppard.  Glad to be home?"

"Yes sir."  Though in truth?  John had grown accustomed to the unprecedented luxury of ice-cold beer, available on demand.  He lamented having to give up Rodney's refrigerator.

"Nice job bringing in McKay.  But Major... firearms safety?"

The faintest of smiles touched John's lips, thinking of Rodney's abysmal first attempts with the shotgun.  "Yes sir.  He can't hit the side of a barn, but I trust him not to be a danger to himself or others.  And thank you.  My mission report will be on your desk tomorrow afternoon."  He'd already written parts of it; the task was less painful with events still fresh in his mind.

"Good," Hammond agreed to the time frame.

John hadn't moved.  Neither, he realized, had Hammond.  The scenery through the inactive Stargate was as unremarkable as ever.

"Major, was there something you needed?"

"No.  I just-"  John cut himself off, fast, and turned to face his commander.  "No.  Sir."

But Hammond finished for him anyway, completed the thought John had been unable to settle in his own head.  "You would have liked to have gone with them."  The them was more diplomatic than what John would have used, and Hammond's entire demeanor was oddly indulgent.

John didn't have to agree; they both know the assessment was bang-on.  "He doesn't even know how to dial home if something goes wrong."  Rodney didn't have a GDO either, and oh fuck, had John's Gate Travel 101 lecture mentioned the defensive iris?  He couldn't remember.

"SG-5 will handle it.  They're aware it's Dr McKay's first trip through the gate.  They have even more experience minding civilians than you do, Major."

If it wasn't Rodney-specific experience, John was pretty sure it didn't count.  He held his ground in silence.

"This isn't a trial by fire.  At least, not intentionally.  If SG-1 hadn't already been offworld, Major Carter would have gone."

Yeah, well if SG-1 hadn't been offworld -- or rather, if Colonel O'Neill and his ATA wondergene hadn't been offworld -- John might have been allowed to go. 

"Drs Lee and Novak have been assigned to work on Prometheus."  The X-303, nearing completion, had finally been given a name.  "As unbelievable as it sounds, Dr McKay was the closest thing we had on base to an expert in interstellar radio transmissions."  When that too was met with silence, Hammond paused a moment, as if plotting out a new strategy.  "John..." he tried, gruff yet kindly.

Crap.

"I know I said he's your responsibility, but there have to be reasonable limits."

John would argue that there weren't, in this case.  Rodney would still be ignorant on a hilltop in northern British Columbia if not for him.  Whether they were separated by fifteen feet, or fifteen thousand light years, John was responsible.

Christ, how could he be so dense?  That was exactly what Hammond was trying to tell him.  Hammond watched his teams depart through the gate every day, with the same burden.  "You're right, sir."  John didn't have to force a smile, and he poured every ounce of gratitude he felt into it besides.

"Of course I am," Hammond snorted.  "That's why I'm in charge.  You're in your old quarters, Major.  Dr. McKay is bunking with you, for the time being.  Why don't you take this opportunity to visit the supply officer and pick up whatever you think he'll need?" 

John correctly interpreted that as suggestion that he stop hanging around like a lost thing and get the hell out of the general's gateroom.  "Yes sir!"

John was closing in on his anniversary: one year with the SGC. 

Between Area 51, crashing the jumper, and recruiting Rodney, he'd spent maybe half of those months -- non-consecutively -- in the Mountain.  Therefore, it struck him as... well, odd to be recognized in the hallways, and welcomed home, and waylaid to exchange gossip and generally just shoot the shit. 

His homecoming after the rescue had been similarly warm, but at the time he'd attributed it to the fact that he'd basically returned from the dead.  Now, as the third person he didn't recognize inquired about his recovery from his recent injuries, he wasn't so sure.

The SGC was unlike anywhere else John had ever been stationed -- and it wasn't entirely due to the whole living two-thousand feet beneath a mountain with a portal to other planets in the basement deal.

Most often, it was the small things that tripped him.  Like the supply officer.  The SGC's supply officer was the antithesis of every other individual holding the same post that John had encountered in his entire career.  Which was to say, the man had been pleasant, lenient, and generous when John had presented him with a very suspect, hand-written requisition list.

John hadn't been told to return with the official form, filled out in triplicate, and sporting the authorizing signature of a senior officer.  He had been pressured into taking extra socks, as a precaution, because apparently SGC personnel lost (ie, destroyed) theirs at an above-average rate.

Then, as John had been standing there, one of the Marines from SG-19 had slunk up and requested something to clothe the naked alien woman they'd discovered on P2A-463.

So yeah, John could see how the supply officer might be unfazed by a little thing like a missing form.

Then there were the Marines.

John had drawled something to the effect of, "Some teams have all the luck."

The Marine had groaned, "Not unless you like your women mature, sir."

Grinning at the plight of SG-19, John had said, "Well... there's mature and then there's experienced."

"She reminds me of my grandma," the young lieutenant had shuddered.

Just like that, John and the kid had shared a joke.  It was the first time John could recall sharing anything with a Marine that hadn't involved swagger or posturing or less than generous remarks about the other service branches.

Everything pertaining to the SGC was exceptional.  With the possible, erm, exception of John himself.  But then, he was sort of on the periphery, like that second cousin you saw at reunions and weddings and funerals, and sometimes remembered to send a card to on Christmas.

He might not have minded, except that the SGC was already home to him in a way his previous posts, despite their normalcy, hadn't been.  It struck him again as he slid his key card through the electronic lock on the door to his quarters and pushed inside.

Funny how he'd told Rodney that he didn't have a private space, when, glancing around, it was obvious no one else had used this room in the months John had been off base.  The meager furniture was arranged exactly as he'd left it; the little table was still garnished with a yellowed paperback copy of Le Comte de Monte-Cristo.

If Rodney's gonna be staying with me, I'm gonna need another chair, he thought idly.  And, I wonder how long it will take him to earn quarters of his own.

Most of the civilians had rooms one level below, on fifteen, while the gate teams and senior officers had quarters much farther down.  John rather enjoyed the solitude of his own little twilight zone; there was space on level fourteen to house all of the "critical" SGC staff, but most were of sufficient rank to have the choice of living off base, and only crashed here when necessary.

Maybe, if John was still staring at the same bare concrete walls six months from now, he'd consider moving off base as well.  In the meantime, settling in took precedence.  He dressed the beds with fresh sheets -- the officer quarters were built to accommodate two, even though John had never had to share before -- and started sorting gear.  As promised, his and Rodney's luggage had made the trip from Peterson.  He'd found it waiting for him in the middle of the floor.

The sudden whoop of the base-wide alarm -- followed by the announcement, Unscheduled offworld activation! -- was so... homey that John initially missed its significance.

Then he was bolting for the elevator as quickly as he could while still maintaining a modicum of dignity.

It could be anything: another gate team, a message from an ally, an enemy attack.  It was perhaps slightly too soon to expect Rodney's return.  The planet they'd gated to was home to some interesting ruins; if Rodney disabled the communication device before it attracted unwanted attention, SG-5 would probably stay and explore a while.

If.  John had never much cared for that word.

John had been intending to head to the control room and ask, casually, what the news was -- right up until one of Fraiser's medical teams blew past him in the hallway with a gurney.  Pulse hammering uncomfortably, he picked up his pace and tailed them right into the gateroom.

The tenor of the scene inside was familiar.  The orderly chaos -- if there was such a thing -- was indicative of the rare bad times John had had to call ahead to base, informing that his chopper was inbound with wounded on board.

It was SG-5 straggling down the metal ramp; John arrived just in time to see the wormhole pop out of existence behind them.  Harper had Ramirez by the waist, with Ramirez's arm over his shoulder.  Between the two of them, they were managing to keep a field bandage pressed to Ramirez's side.  It was already soaked through, and the uniform around the area was scorched, like he'd been winged by a staff blast.

If that was the case, he was damned lucky to be on his feet at all, much less alive.

The last two members of SG-5 brought up the rear.

Rodney was-  Oh thank god.

John hugged the edge of the room, letting Fraiser's team direct traffic and load their patient on the gurney.  He wasn't sure Rodney had seen him; as shellshocked McKay looked, he probably wasn't processing all that he was taking in, and taking in far less than his sharp senses usually did.  So John was surprised when Rodney stumbled down the steps at the end of the ramp and walked straight to him.

Distantly, he heard Harper explain, "It was too late.  We had some company, but we took care of them."

Rodney's mouth was set in a hard line.

"Was it an advanced scout?"  Hammond asking.  John could see him in the control room window, arms crossed with concern.

"I don't think so.  The ship -- it was a Tel'tak -- arrived too soon to be anything but a fluke.  I think they were in the neighborhood and happened to pick up the signal.  But we'll know in a couple of days if more show up."

Rodney lifted his arms and offered the charred remains of some alien device, like he expected John to know what to do with it.  John accepted it gingerly.  It was slightly oily to the touch, and had an acrid, burned-plastic stink.

Hammond called down, "Good work, everyone.  Get that man to the infirmary."

Rodney's clothes were splattered with dirt and dust.  The pattern was radial, John cataloged, and had probably been laid down by an explosion of some kind.  His hair was dusted too, but his face was clear enough to have been protected from the worst of it.  Either that or Rodney had wiped it clean on something already.

John stepped away to transfer the dead alien device to one of the airmen guarding the door.  "See that this makes it to the lab following proper procedures."  His eyes stayed on McKay the whole time, and it was only that extra distance, those few steps, that allowed him to notice at all.

Christ, it wasn't like he was looking down there.  He had no reason to.  But once his peripheral vision caught the inkling, the suspicion, he couldn't avoid staring at the holster strapped to Rodney's thigh.

The release buckle, the one that was supposed to hold the weapon securely in place, was unfastened.

Rodney still hadn't said a word to anyone.

Ramirez was wheeled out; the rest of SG-5 followed to the infirmary.  They would need to hear Dr Fraiser's pronouncement on the injury before they could begin to relax.

John sidled up next to the trailing med tech and murmured, "I'll take care of Dr McKay, see that he makes it down for his post-mission check up," and was given an absent nod that he took for assent. 

Then he collected Rodney and led him straight to the showers.

Ordinarily, after a mission they would unload their gear at the armory before heading straight to the infirmary.  But Rodney only had the one weapon -- John's personal sidearm, which he preferred to keep with him.  Besides, the infirmary would be clogged with people, and John wanted to take Rodney someplace quiet to wind down. 

He should have explained all this, but didn't.  He was still waiting for Rodney to speak first.  He wondered how far the shock extended, wondered if he was going to have to strip McKay forcibly and shove him under the hot water.  But Rodney started dropping clothes as soon as they reached the locker room.  The tac vest hit the floor.  A few steps later, John's blouse, dirty beyond hope.  Then everything else -- shoes, pants, boxers, holster -- all shucked in one neat heap.

Rodney stepped out of the pile, nude and not self-conscious about it in the least.  Even more than the silence, John guessed that was the biggest indication of how shaken he was.

"Climb in."  He indicated one of the showers.  "I have a locker but it's empty right now.  All our stuff is upstairs.  I'm gonna bring down everything you'll need, okay?  Just soak in the meantime."  He was glad he'd developed the knack of conversing with naked men without dwelling on the naked part -- or in this case, with Rodney's eyes throwing sparks of displeasure, without letting his curiosity stray below Rodney's neck.

For a moment, the already grim slant of Rodney's mouth hardened even more, but he snapped, "Fine.  Just hurry.  You'd better not keep me waiting," and stepped inside.

John didn't run... quite.

It was easy to collect his toiletries, because he'd already set them aside to take down.  Rodney's proved harder to locate, and John didn't know which clothes to bring, so he threw a couple of things in with one of the new uniforms he'd acquired, figuring he would give Rodney a choice.

McKay was still under the shower when he returned.  The rest of the room was empty; teams mostly didn't leave so late in the day, and no alarms had indicated additional arrivals since SG-5.  John handed him soap and shampoo and a washcloth, then retreated to neaten up while Rodney scrubbed himself raw under billows of steam, and water that was perhaps a touch too close to scalding.

He picked up the tac vest first and went through its pockets, the motions mechanical out of long practice.  Rodney's clothes were next, all destined for a good cleaning, along with John's blouse.

It wasn't an afterthought.  He'd saved it for last because he really, really didn't want to know.  John un-holstered the Beretta, checked the safety -- good, on -- and ejected the clip.

Sure enough, it was empty.

The details of what went wrong during that first mission turned out to be the one thing Rodney refused to discuss with John.  Ever.

In the end, John decided that Rodney's day had gone far enough to shit that a few more steps in the wrong direction couldn't worsen his mood.  So he hid the civvies in the locker and presented McKay with the uniform as his only option.

He was going to have to get used to wearing it sometime.

Rodney glared askance at it for all of three seconds before shimmying into it.  He grumbled a thanks that sounded... less than sincere.

"Welcome," John shrugged.  For what it's worth.  "You wanna-"

"No."  The jutting chin spoke volumes, if the curt tone hadn't been enough.

"Hey, let me finish.  I was asking if you were ready to head to the infirmary for your check-up.  Well, I guess asking isn't the right word.  Check-ups are mandatory every time anyone returns from offworld."  He motioned for the door.

Rodney's shoulders slumped in defeat, but he did fall into step beside John.  "I suppose there is some comfort in the fact that you lunatics take cursory precautions against... oh, I don't know, infecting the population of Earth with some killer alien super-virus."

"We're all up on our shots," John agreed.  "Oh, which reminds me -- if Fraiser gives you a choice, tell her that you want yours in the ass."

That had the desired effect.  Rodney slammed on the brakes, misery momentarily abandoned, and squealed, "You can't be serious!  There is no way I'm telling this Fraiser person that I'd prefer she stick her big, nasty needle in my-  In my behind," he finished, when he realized the hallway wasn't deserted and his voice was pitched loud enough to carry.

John started walking again.  "Suit yourself.  Naturally, I picked my arm my first time too.  Whatever she stuck me with made it sore for days.  O'Neill swears the trick is to take it in the butt.  Less soreness, goes away faster."

Of course, O'Neill hadn't phrased it like that, when he'd noticed John favoring his arm.  The bastard had proudly declared: I'm an ass man, myself.  Then, ignoring John's traumatized expression, he'd gone on to explain why.

John used to keep this list of the top three things he never, ever wanted to hear his commanding officer say.  His time with the SGC had made him revise the list.  Now, it was a top ten, and he thought of it simply as Colonel O'Neill's Greatest Hits.

Rodney scurried to catch up.  He was muttering under his breath, and radiating a sort of righteous indignation, which John found far preferable to the... hollowness of the locker room.  Some guys needed quiet to sort through the difficult crap.  John had figured out a long time ago that Rodney was more the type to fester if left alone.

They ran into three-quarters of SG-5 just outside the infirmary.  The team members looked bedraggled and wan, but their smiles suggested there was only good news.

"How's Ramirez?" John slowed to ask.  If the smiles hadn't been present, he would have approached the topic with a lot more caution.

"Expected to make a full recovery."  Harper paused, but waved the other two ahead.  "Of course, we're grounded in the meantime, unless we can find a replacement...  What d'ya say, Sheppard?  Interested?"

It was a joke.  John knew he was considered competent and tolerable, but everyone was aware how difficult it was to get him cleared for offworld missions.  "I'll make you a deal.  If you can make the necessary arrangements with Hammond, I am all yours."

They traded a laugh.  Rodney looked on with curiosity, until Harper suddenly rounded on him.  "Hey, Doc.  I didn't get a chance to say it earlier, what with the shooting and the running for our lives, but good work out there."

"I-  Well, um... about that..."

John's grin was fond, and he bumped Rodney with his elbow.  "He's not usually this modest."

Harper chuckled again.  "By the way, love the new threads."  He waved and jogged tiredly after his team.

Rodney was also not usually so slow to recover.  After several false starts, he managed, "Modest?"

"Yes, Rodney.  The nice man was paying you a compliment."  John followed the progress of a blush that began on Rodney's neck and crawled all the way up his face.  "I see we'll have to work on handling those." 

"Yes, but-" Rodney stammered.

Was there something else happening here?  Rodney wasn't-  Could he be...  To Harper?  John glanced at the retreating officer and decided quickly against the idea.  After all, John was Rodney's type.  Harper wasn't-  Yeah, if there was something else going on?  It wasn't that.  "Forget it.  C'mon." 

Leading into the infirmary, he noticed he'd timed the trip exactly right.  Ramirez was resting in a corner, but the surrounding flurry of activity had dispersed -- some of it to the showers John and Rodney had just vacated.  Crowds would be rough on Rodney's nerves.  John recalled his first days under the Mountain, and the raw, abraded feeling he'd gotten from trying to spread his attention across too many strange ideas and strange people.

At their approach, Dr Fraiser looked up from some task involving a scary medical apparatus John didn't recognize, and hoped to hell he never had reason to become acquainted with.  "Ah, just the people I wanted to see.  Major Sheppard... and Dr McKay, I presume?"

"Yes, well... presume all you like..."  Rodney waved a hand, but John could tell his firing order was off, from the way the response fell flat on its face.  He finished lamely, "Because... you'd be right."

He's usually a lot more sarcastic, John wanted to say.  It struck him that he was like the kid who brought his pet hamster in for show and tell, and the whole class wanted to see the hamster run on its wheel or do tricks for food -- as advertised -- while the hamster was content to nap in a thoroughly unexciting manner.

It shouldn't have been funny, but at that moment, John found it damned near fucking hysterical.

"Janet," he greeted, biting down on a smile.

She studied him, then returned, "John."

"See, I knew you'd come around eventually."  Now he let himself beam.  "Change your mind about dinner yet?"

"A date?" she asked, arching an eyebrow; at the same time she managed to accentuate the question with an ominous snap as she pulled on a surgical glove.

"As friends," John defended, feigning disappointment at having his motives called into question.  Fraiser... well, there wasn't a member of the SGC who didn't respect her immensely, if not count her as a good friend.  Better, she was immune to the old Sheppard charm.  John shamelessly enjoyed throwing everything he had at her, just to watch it bounce, harmless, off her invisible defenses.  "Remember, I still owe you for wrangling me a couple days of peace and quiet after they hauled me out of the woods."

"I can think of other ways you can repay me.  Care to start by swinging by the mess to grab me a drink?"  She tugged on her other glove and turned to Rodney with intent.  "It's been a long day, and I could use a pick me up," she addressed McKay, as if striking up a new conversation, even though she was still speaking to John.  "Nothing sweet, please."

John smirked, "Oh, I see how it is.  You want some time alone with your... subject."  Rodney might have blanched at the word, or it might have just been the way Fraiser was flexing her hands, working each glove finger by finger until it was adjusted to her liking.

"It would be appreciated, Major."

She was right, of course.  Rodney was due more than a post-mission check up; the physical exam you got when you joined the SGC was a little more... intense.  He was sure Rodney would be grateful for the lack of an audience.

On his way out, he did pause long enough to make sure he'd snagged Rodney's attention before mouthing silently, Remember, in the ass!  He displayed his own posterior, and mimed jabbing himself with a needle.

Rodney's eyes widened to the size of small planets.

Fraiser, noticing, turned to glare over her shoulder, but the only evidence she caught was John's shadow as he escaped into the hall.

An airman cornered him just outside the mess, with the news that General Hammond wanted a word.  In his office.  Unspoken emphasis now.

General Hammond took one look at the styrofoam cup in his hand and inquired, "Is that coffee?"

"It's for Dr Fraiser, sir."  John resisted the urge to shield the cup with his body.

"Any sugar in it?"

"Cream only."

"Just the way I like it," Hammond said, and John deposited the coffee on his desk with a sigh.  "Major, if the good doctor sees fit to clear you, I'm placing you back on active duty as of tomorrow.  I'll notify the science department.  You're at their disposal mornings, and upon special request.  Afternoons, I want you bringing Dr McKay up to speed.  Start by going over some of SG-1's mission reports -- you could use a refresher yourself.  Get him weapons certified, let him train with the Marines... I don't care how you do it, but I need to be able to put him in the field with the confidence that he won't endanger himself or others."

That was... well, more than reasonable; it might be doable.  "Understood, sir."

"SG-1 is at your disposal, if you have any questions regarding their mission reports.  Major Carter is overseeing Dr McKay's mornings, developing a curriculum to get him caught up on technical matters.  Oh, and here is SG-5's preliminary report from this afternoon."

John retrieved the folder Hammond slid across the desk to him.  While he was extremely curious about what had happened, he would prefer to hear Rodney's version of events first, if possible.  He tucked the report under his arm.  "Thank you.  Ah... anything else, sir?"

"That will be all, Major," Hammond assured, reaching for his purloined coffee.

In other words, dismissed.

John didn't want to retrieve Rodney while waving around a folder that was another glaring reminder of how much his day had sucked.  Besides, he might open up more if he thought John was completely ignorant about the mission.  So John dumped the report back in his quarters, out of sight; as an afterthought he grabbed Monte-Cristo for Ramirez.  John had inherited the book when he'd been confined to the infirmary.  He might as well perpetuate the tradition.

On his way back, he swung by the mess again and fixed Fraiser a nice, boring cup of tea -- because there were some notorious coffee bandits on base, but he'd never heard of a tea bandit before.

Then he was cornered again, by a pack of scientists who'd probably tapped into the closed-circuit cameras to locate him as soon as they'd heard he was going back on active duty.  The gist of their overture was: We have some alien stuff we'd like you to touch, while we watch from a safe distance.  Only with more condescension and bigger words.  He tossed out some vague promises to get right on that and escaped.

When he finally made it to the infirmary, he gave Fraiser her cup and an apologetic shrug.  "It was hot fifteen minutes ago."

"I was done twenty minutes ago," Rodney called.  He was perched on one of the beds, arms crossed tightly, with a peevish tilt to his mouth.  And oh yeah, he'd been reunited with his sarcastic streak.

"I'd planned to go home an hour ago," Fraiser fired back.  She didn't look harried.  Not exactly.  More like... she'd been dipping into the reserves of her patience.

Oh hell.  "He didn't-  Rodney, you didn't do that rant where you equate practitioners of modern medicine to witch doctors, did you?"

"She took like two gallons of my blood!  Why does she need so much of it if she's not going to use it for some... ritual?  Also, you sort of forgot to mention that the post-mission scan is to check for alien parasites."

"Goa'uld," Fraiser corrected.

"Whatever.  It's disgusting!"

John offered, "If you change your mind about dinner, I'll throw in drinks."

Fraiser gestured with her tepid tea.  "Thanks, but... I think I'll pass."  She gulped down half of it anyway before setting aside the cup.  "Now, Major, if you would be so kind?"

John hopped up where she pointed, on the bed opposite Rodney's.  "General Hammond said something about you clearing me for duty.  I feel great.  No lie.  All healed up."

"Shirt off," Fraiser said brusquely.

"Isn't it McKay's turn to leave the room?"  Nevertheless, John was hurrying to peel his shirt over his head.  He figured Rodney had given her a hard enough time for one day; she deserved a nice, compliant patient.

"Dr McKay is fine where he is.  I only need you stripped to the waist."  And damned if Rodney was going to leave after she'd said that.

There was an unfortunate development.  John attempted to strangle himself when he somehow got his tags caught up in the fabric of his shirt.  It wouldn't have happened if he'd vacated it in the proper fashion -- one sleeve at a time, then the head -- instead of shucking it all in one go.  So much for trying to save time.  He wrenched free, swallowing a curse, and felt his tags swing and settle against his chest.

Rodney's eyes followed the motion, as entranced as if he'd been watching a hypnotist's pendulum.  John could tell the second he caught himself, by the way he blinked and ripped his gaze away.

Which reminded him, Rodney was going to need a set of tags.  Patches for his sleeves, too.  Everyone wore the SGC emblem, but John wore the generic Air Force wings in the place where the gate teams had special emblems designating their team number.  Hell, since NORAD was right above their heads, there had to be a bunch of Canadians around.  Maybe he could find Rodney a maple leaf.  But none of that red and white shit.  It would have to be done in field-friendly colors...

"Oh, w-  Ow."  So much for Fraiser's deft and gentle touch.  Apparently gentle went out the window when she was probing an old injury, searching for residual tenderness.

"Did that really hurt, Major, or did I catch you by surprise?"

Hell... probing?  Try gouging.  "Surprised."  John clamped down on his lip and tried not to squirm. 

At least it was over quickly.  Then John had to pass some range-of-motion tests, and just as he was reaching for his shirt Fraiser said, "Ah ah, not yet," and returned to his side with a butterfly needle.

Still obedient, he held out his arm for the rubber tourniquet, made a fist, and didn't wince when she tapped a vein.  "I guess you're running my blood work as a precaution...?"

"Yes.  Also, I didn't want Dr McKay to think I was picking on him in particular."

Rodney grumbled, "She's an equal opportunity sadist."  But he was thoroughly distracted by something in the vicinity of John's navel, and there wasn't any heat in the comment.

Fraiser produced a band-aid, and John let her stick it on his arm.  This time when he reached for his shirt, she didn't stop him.  "This mean we're done?"

"Mmhm.  Unless anything unusual turns up in your blood work -- and I don't expect it to -- you're officially cleared for duty.  Dr McKay, you're cautiously cleared.  I want you back in a couple weeks to follow up on those... issues we discussed.  And remember, everyone comes straight here after missions.  No detours, no exceptions."

"Hey, I was watching him," John protested.

She ignored that.  "Otherwise, I don't want to see either of you in my infirmary unless it's for something routine.  Got it?"

"Yes sir."

"Yes," Rodney drew out the syllable, almost a hiss, and rolled his eyes.

Ramirez was asleep, so John left the book on the equipment stand next to his bed.  Then he grabbed McKay and got the hell out.

Given the events of the day, John figured he was facing one of two possibilities -- either Rodney was bizarrely adept at coping, or he was holding his freak-out invitation only.  And John wasn't on the guest list.

On the surface, the two were impossible to distinguish.  But John couldn't just say, Are you freaking the fuck out?  I mean, don't worry about it if you are.  Considering what you've been through, you're kinda entitled.  Besides, even if he did just say it, he wouldn't expect Rodney to tell the truth.

So he started keeping a scorecard.

The SGC's main mess never closed, but it did serve a simplified menu during off-hours.  By the time they'd gone in search of supper, there wasn't much to be had besides sandwiches.

Rodney ate two.  Plus a bag of chips, plus a pudding cup.

Plus John's pudding cup.

John added a mental tick in the Rodney is okay column.

On the way to his-  their quarters, Rodney had to be the one to hit the elevator call button, despite not yet being in possession of his own security key card to make the elevator obey him and take him where he wanted to go.

After five seconds, when the elevator hadn't arrived, he hit the button again.  And again, rapidly, until he was hammering the thing with his finger.  He didn't stop until the elevator doors opened more than a minute later.

John had been timing it.  One tick went in the Rodney is freaking the fuck out column.

There was a bottle of Jack Daniel's waiting for them on the floor just outside their room.  There was no note with it, but it was wearing a red ribbon; anyway, John knew who it was for, and could guess who it was from.  He bent and snagged it by the neck, then swiped his key card and pushed inside.

"What is that?" Rodney asked, crowding behind on his heels, like he was afraid John might leave him behind in the empty concrete hallway.

John read off the label, "Old number seven brand, quality Tennessee sour mash whiskey."

"Urgh, sounds disgusting.  No wonder someone just left it by the door and didn't worry about it getting stolen."

"Nah, it's good stuff."  Well... decent, he amended.  "And no one in the SGC would take something that doesn't belong to them."

"Oh, so you're assuming that everyone who works here is inherently honest just because they've passed a few stringent background checks.  What about the sabotage to the puddle jumper?  That was an inside job."

John grinned at him, slow and evil, and held up his response the few extra seconds he knew drove McKay crazy.  "I was thinking more of those closed-circuit cameras.  They're everywhere.  Can't scratch your ass around here without getting caught on film -- from three different angles."

"What, even in the private rooms?"  Rodney spun in a half circle, eyes scouring the walls for potential intrusive surveillance technology.  Then he must have actually noticed the room itself, because he clutched his head and wailed, "Oh my god, what is this?  Penitentiary chic?  Did the Air Force hire Martha Stewart as their interior designer?  I'd heard that institutional aesthetics is her new thing..."

John debated, then added a tick in both the okay and freaking the fuck out columns.  The derision was one-hundred percent classic Rodney McKay, but the dismay was real enough.  "Hey, don't knock the bunker-style accommodations.  When the rest of the world succumbs to the zombie apocalypse, we'll survive." 

"Wonderful.  I've always wanted to experience the Earth as a post-apocalyptic wasteland.  Oh, and in the meantime, I have to sleep on a cot.  In a cell.  That I have to share with-"

Normally, John could puzzle out whatever it was that McKay had barely avoided blurting when he snapped his mouth shut like that.  This time John hadn't a clue.  "Hey, I'm not the one who snores," he teased.

The tips of Rodney's ears turned tellingly pink.  "I-  No, it's just-"

That's when John noticed.  It was a short distance for his gaze to travel -- ears to shoulder -- and he realized why he hadn't noticed before.  The edge was peeking out from beneath the collar of Rodney's shirt.  If he'd been standing differently -- if the fabric hadn't bunched and pulled unevenly in just the right spot -- it wouldn't have been visible at all.

John surged close and reached out in the same fascinated motion.  "What is that?"

Rodney didn't yelp when John touched him, but he twitched like he'd thought about it.  "What's-  Oh, that?  It's... ah... n-nothing.  A scratch."

"A scratch."  His fingertips traced the line where the bandage met Rodney's skin.  Christ, a bandage, not one of those cute self-adhesive numbers.  This was gauze and tape, broad and serious and damning.  "You didn't tell me you were hurt," he accused.

"I didn't-"  Rodney's hand scrabbled over John's, perhaps seeking to dislodge it from his shoulder, or maybe just trying to hide the evidence.  "It's nothing.  Fraiser asked me how I got it and I couldn't tell her.  I couldn't remember."  He finally backpedaled, until John had no choice but to follow or let the touch fall away.

John held his ground, leashing Rodney's retreat to the other side of the room with his eyes.  "It doesn't matter.  You don't not mention something like that.  If I'd known, I would have taken you straight to the infirmary from the gateroom.  Damn it, Rodney!"

Huh.  Maybe McKay wasn't the only one due for a freak-out.

Rodney had his own hand up over the injury now, the opposite one, so that he was half hugging himself.  "I know," he said, an odd mixture of misery and belligerence.  "Fraiser already chewed me out for it.  I don't need to hear it again from you."

"Rodney..."  It was the start of an apology, only John didn't know how to admit that he shouldn't have missed it.  Wouldn't have, in the showers, if he hadn't been so concerned with avoiding the nudity issue.

"No.  Shut up.  I can't do this."

Can't what? John wondered.  "Don't say can't until you've tried."  There was a hot, unhappy sensation pooling in his stomach.  Shame, he knew.  Frustration and worry... oh, he knew.  This bore a passing resemblance to all of the above, but eluded his attempts to attach a name to it.

"I don't have to," Rodney snapped.  "This time, I know."  His fingers dipped under his collar, rubbing at the bandage, the skin, everywhere John had touched.  It was an absent motion; John could easily imagine it developing into a tic.  "I don't know what I was expecting.  Maybe something more like last night, with separate rooms.  And, you know, the illusion of privacy."

Wait... what?

"Let me get this straight.  This afternoon, I had to send you, alone and completely unprepared, to an alien planet.  Where you were injured.  Oh yeah, and let's not forget that you unloaded a fifteen round clip at something I can only surmise posed an immediate threat to your life!  But after all that, your primary objection is not getting your own room?"

Rodney countered, "What about SG-5?"

"What about SG-5!  Do they get their own rooms?  Fuck if I know!  I'm not on a gate team, and I haven't bothered to ask.  I have no idea what their quarters are like."

"You said, and I quote: SG-5 will be there to protect you.  You didn't quite send me alone to a dangerous alien planet, did you?"  The question was oddly intent, and felt significant in ways John couldn't begin to fathom.

He didn't know what else to do, so he left the bottle of Jack on the table and dropped down on the edge of his bed.  In the absence of more than one chair, it would suffice.  "I didn't send you anywhere," he evaded.  "Hammond calls the shots.  When he says 'jump'... well, if you know what's good for you, you're already in the air by the time you get around to asking 'how high'."

Rodney had put more or less the entire length of the room between John and himself.  John's repositioning forced him to shift too, if he wanted to maintain that buffer.  He drifted over by the second bed.  "You know that's not what I meant.  Fuck, I hate it when you do that."

"I know," John agreed, without sympathy.  Rodney could hate it all he liked; he couldn't afford to know the truth.  I lied.  It doesn't matter who walks through that gate with you.  No one else owes you what I do.  No one else is going to protect you the way I would.  "Look, about the room... it's because you're new here, and new to military life in general.  They want to make sure someone stays close to you, to help you and answer your questions.  It's temporary, just until you find your feet.  But if it bothers you so much, I can... see about getting you transferred.  Tomorrow," he added, because there was no way he was leaving Rodney alone his first night.

"It's not that it bothers me..."  And that was strange, because the emphasis was definitely on me.  "I mean, it does, but mostly when I start thinking in terms of consequences, which range from uncomfortable to mortifying to physically painful, not that I'm so worried about the latter, you don't seem like the type, but believe me the former are plenty awful, and god I think I should have stopped talking about five sentences ago."

"The type to what?" John asked.

Rodney paled, and didn't answer right away.  Instead, he looked at the single chair, then bed behind him.  John could almost see the dilemma play out in his brain: if he picked the chair, he'd be that much closer to John; but if he picked the bed, it would be like a claim of ownership.  His bed.

Distance won.  He plopped down on the corner of bed, and if his hands started fidgeting in his lap, at least he was no longer fussing with the bandage.  "I've just-  At first I thought it would get better.  I dunno, wear off or become bearable or something.  But the longer it goes, the harder it gets, and I know one day -- soon -- I'm gonna fuck up so bad you won't be able to ignore it any longer.  I'd like to postpone that day for as long as possible," he said bitterly.

Oh.

No wonder Rodney found the room intolerable.  To him, it was probably cramped as hell, with Rodney and Rodney's affection and the object of Rodney's affection all jumbled up on top of each other.  He probably felt that he had no breathing space, no margin for error. 

John drawled, "If that's what you're worried about, you really are an idiot."  He was careful to choose just the right blithe, insulting tone, and sure enough -- Rodney's attention snapped to him like an enraged bull targeting a matador's cape. 

That's when John stood and marched across the room, until he was standing toe to toe with Rodney; McKay might have risen also, to put them on equal ground, but John was too close to allow it.  "Listen up, because I'm going to say this once, and only once, and I am never going to repeat it.  I don't appreciate the insinuation that my chosen career automatically makes me a bigot.  I don't give a fuck what you do with your dick, or anyone else's for that matter.  I'd go so far as to say it's none of my goddamned business.  It's definitely not an issue unless you choose to make it one, which you have been doing constantly.  It's been driving me crazy.  Everything would be fine between us if you'd just cut it the hell out."

"But, um..." Rodney stammered, and went from pale to flushed in the space of two heartbeats.  His mouth opened and closed a couple times, while his expression suggested he was still trying to decide whether or not to vehemently deny the very existence of the Big Gay Crush.

God, they were going to have to do this the hard way.  John sat on the bed next to him, thigh pressed to thigh.  Then he reached over, no fanfare, and put his hand right on Rodney's crotch.

Rodney let out a yelp, but subsided as John applied more pressure, hooked his fingers around Rodney's balls and tightened his grip.  He had to be firm, in order to say what needed saying.  Firm and impersonal.  "See?  Really not a big deal."

"Not a big deal," Rodney repeated, sounding breathless and unfocused.

"Hey, stay with me."  John relented, and lifted his hand instead to smack Rodney's cheek, with perhaps a touch more force than was warranted.

"I'm with you."  His voice was stronger this time.

John pressed, "So we're cool?  Everything's okay between us?"

"I-"  John could sense the exact moment relief overtook Rodney's astonishment.  "Yeah," he agreed, "everything's okay.  If you-"  He shivered once, but apparently John's argument had been so convincing that he wasn't even going to attempt a rebuttal.  "Since you're fine with it... okay, maybe not fine, but I think you've demonstrated that you're not squeamish or violently homophobic.  That was what you were trying to demonstrate, right?  It wasn't a come on?  Because I haven't been getting that vibe off you, but I've never been in the military and I don't know how these things work... you might think you were being perfectly obvious, but I'm-  Frankly, I think the words dense and stupid are interchangeable when it comes to describing my romantic instincts -- not that I would call this romantic.  I understand urges, impulses, needs... I totally wouldn't make it into-"

"Jesus... breathe, McKay," John suggested.

Rodney nodded and gulped down air.

"You had it right the first time.  It's not a come on.  Believe me, if I was propositioning you, you'd know."

"I knew that," he replied weakly. 

"So we've established that I'm fine.  How about you?"  Shit, this was sounding too much like the title of a self-help book, which was an indication that John needed the conversation to die before Rodney could ask how he felt about something. 

"I-  Fine... I guess.  Since you are, I guess I sort of have to be."

Good enough.  "Then the room?"

Rodney hesitated while his gaze swept over the uninspiring walls once again.  "I'll want my own eventually."  He hurried on, "But in the meantime, I get the feeling sharing quarters with you is going to be the least of my worries."

John couldn't help being a tiny bit smug when he said, "That's what I wanted to hear.  I've... um... sort of gotten used to you, over the past month.  Months.  Shit, I can't believe I'm saying this.  I think I would miss you."

"John, it's a new experience for me to like someone enough that I would notice if they went away.  Well, with the exception of Zelenka, but he doesn't count because, erm...  What I'm trying to say is, I promise not to-  I would never-"  He gestured helplessly.

"Yeah, I know.  That's part of why I trust you."

Rodney coughed into his fist.  "I hope you don't mind if-  That is, I've been trying not to, but you're just-  God, look at you!  I haven't been able to help it.  I was hoping you hadn't noticed, but obviously you have."

"You are kind of hard to ignore when your attention is focused."  It might have been flattering, if Rodney's intensity didn't ring warning alarms in John's head, every time.  "I'll make you a deal.  When I catch you staring, I'll tell you so you can stop.  That work for you?"

"That'd be great.  You wouldn't even have to use the word.   Maybe we could come up with some sort of code phrase, in case you ever had to say it in public..."

"Or I could growl your name menacingly," John offered, bumping Rodney's shoulder.  "C'mon, let's practice."  He got up, arching his back in a luxurious stretch.  Sure enough, he could feel McKay's eyes crawling all over him.  But he didn't say a thing.  Hell, why would he, when it was entirely possible that -- just this once -- he was preening?

After a moment, Rodney sputtered, "Oh, you... that was on purpose!"  And John was finally allowed to laugh. 

John had forgotten how much more difficult it was to hide from perverse thoughts in the dark.

They'd put a respectable dent in the whiskey before bed.  Rodney had protested, but had been overruled with a reminder that it was practically tradition for new members of the SGC to get plastered their first night.  And most recruits only had to cope with was the aliens-are-real-and-no-the-Asgard-don't-wear-pants spiel.  As far as John knew, Rodney was the first person the SGC had tossed through the Stargate straight into a firefight by way of initiation.

It was now well past lights out.  Rodney had long ago given up tossing and turning on his side of the room, leaving John to assume he was the only one strung out on the soft haze of alcohol and his own apprehensions.

The compound was never silent, even if the night sounds were all wrong -- instead of crickets, the rumble and hiss of pipes and vents, the thrum of machinery.  John fell back into the habit of pushing the sounds away, until they receded in his awareness.  He must have gone too far, blotting out all noise, because by the time he recognized Rodney's voice, it was still faint, but faintly irritated.

Rodney did hate having to repeat himself.

"Yeah, I'm awake," John confirmed.  He rolled up on an elbow, peering blindly at the dark shape against the opposite wall.  "Question is, why are you?"

"Can't sleep," Rodney grumbled.  "It's too strange here."

"You should be exhausted.  I bet you'd be gone in five seconds if you could shut down your brain for that long."

A soft snort was all John got in the way of agreement.

"Try."

"I have been.  It's just-"  There was some rustling, the thud of a pillow being punched into the desired shape.  "Maybe if I said it, I could stop thinking about it."

John winced.  He was either too tired or not drunk enough to deal with McKay's neuroses on top of his own.  "I know, okay?  I should have been there.  Don't think I-"

Rodney ignored him.  "The thing is, you were so obvious, and I never saw it."

Wait... what?  Obvious how?  I've been so careful!

"I mean, target practice in the woods?  And those marathon Halo 2 sessions?  It was all fun, so I... I never once thought: Hey, John is preparing me for the eventuality of being shot at by hostile aliens."

"Ah.  That."  John flopped on his back again, and scrubbed a hand over his face.  Apparently, he and Rodney were so far from being on the same page that they weren't even reading from the same book.

"Yes, that.  When I finally saw what you'd been doing, with the manipulation and the ulterior motives, I wanted to be angry."

That was fair.  Hell, even expected.  Rodney thought of John as a friend, but in light of recent revelations, he was needing to re-examine much of the time they'd spent together -- searching for the hidden agenda in everything John had said and done and promised.  And in everything he hadn't.  "Rodney, it wasn't like that.  Okay, it was, but not how-"

"Let me finish," Rodney insisted, sounding grim but determined.  John wished he could see if he was wearing the matching expression.  "I was all set to be angry.  Furious.  But I couldn't let go of what you said, the part about sending me through the Stargate alone and unprepared.  The truth is, I... if you hadn't taught me to handle a gun -- if you hadn't given me yours, and stood up to Hammond in the gateroom when he said I shouldn't have it -- I wouldn't be here."

An agonizing silence lengthened, until it became clear that Rodney, having nothing further to confess, expected some form of acknowledgment.  John wet his lips, unsure of his voice.

He knew the proper response was, You're welcome.  So he replied, "Oh," which meant the same thing, only he could get it out without sounding wrecked.

Rodney said... he was forgiven, exonerated.  Rodney said he'd done enough.

All John could hear was the same warning that had been looping in his head ever since the lights had gone down: It had been enough this time. 

Barely.

Next time, it might not be.

The next morning, Rodney was given his security key card, a maple leaf patch embroidered in black and olive drab, a set of dog tags, and breakfast -- in roughly that order.

Rodney, in turn, complained that John's priorities were wrong wrong wrong, as the entire civilized world understood that caffeine was requisite before delivering rude surprises so early in the day.

John didn't see what was rude about a cool necklace and a bit of plastic that would open doors and make the elevators obey him.  Besides, it wasn't early, as Rodney had been allowed to sleep in a generous two hours in deference to it being his first real day and all.  (Don't expect it to happen ever again.)

Between bites of scrambled eggs, Rodney pointed out that the quote "cool necklace" was actually a means to identify his remains after the alien death ray reduced him to a little pile of ash.  He'd seen that episode of Star Trek.  He knew how it worked, dammit.

Actually, no he didn't, John corrected, as the SGC had yet to encounter any alien death rays that left behind any evidence whatsoever.  Never mind an orderly little heap of dust.

Rodney pushed his plate away, deciding that maybe he was finished with breakfast after all.  But he was a morbidly curious about the science behind these so-called alien disintegration rays.  Oh sure, matter could be sent somewhere else or transformed in a chemical reaction, but it didn't just go away.  There were physics laws to explain why this was impossible, which he was going to expound upon right now unless John intervened with a potent distraction.

Had Rodney heard about the time a freak solar flare impacted a forming wormhole and sent SG-1 to the year 1969?  Because that mission report, and dozens of fabulously embarrassing ones like it, were available now for their perusal in a nice, quiet office three floors up.

Would Rodney be allowed to test out his new security card?

Rodney was welcome to stick that sucker in any slot that would fit it.

Sold.

So they spent the day lounging in a pair of high-backed executive chairs -- John with his feet kicked up on the desk -- reading aloud to each other choice phrases from the mission files. 

Rodney was partial to "the remains appeared to have been gnawed on".

While John liked "in the seconds before the self destruct engaged".

Because they were SG-1's reports, and SG-1 had uncanny survival instincts -- well, except for Dr Jackson -- none of the files were of the truly horrific, everyone dies, there's-no-such-thing-as-a-happy-ending variety John knew existed elsewhere in the SGC's archives.  He'd also managed to weed out all but the vaguest mention of the Asgard.  Because really, it was a special moment in a man's life when he discovered that the child-like Roswell Greys of popular UFO culture were actually bitchy, arrogant, naked, and (at least the one John had met) seemed to have lost their sense of humor along with their genitalia.

Oh yeah, John had looked.  And he wished to god he'd resisted the impulse, because that which has been seen cannot be unseen.  Or should that be... that which has not been seen?  Fuck it.  At any rate, it was a life lesson that Rodney needed to learn for himself, firsthand.

As the day wore on, Rodney would forget for a while that he was wearing dog tags.  Then he would remember, and pull them out again, bouncing them in his palm, or letting them swing and twist on their chain.

John figured it was a step up, as obsessive behaviors went, from rubbing at that damned bandage, so he didn't say anything.

By the afternoon, Rodney had developed a rating system for the missions, based on several key criteria: dangerousness, ludicrousness- (Of course that's a word!  According to whose dictionary, Canada-boy?) -and the actual probability that the insane solution applied should have resulted in success.

SG-1 was running under twenty-five percent for that one, by Rodney's reckoning.  He kept complaining that they all should have died a dozen times over, and taken the entire planet with them on at least half of those occasions.  Then, to support his claim, he started keeping a running list of all the new, exciting methods of dying he had to look forward to as a member of the SGC -- not counting the myriad ways his body could be abused that wouldn't result in his immediate demise.

It was funny how the ammunition of nighttime fears became the fuel for ridicule and mockery by daylight. 

John didn't know why it worked that way, but he was damned glad it did.

On the first day John had been handed over to the scientists as Colonel O'Neill's replacement, and Rodney had been turned over to Major Carter, they'd agreed to break and meet for lunch.  But only John turned up at the mess at the appointed time.  He waited ten minutes, got food, waited five more, thought hell with him, and ate alone.

Rodney was a no-show on the rifle range that afternoon, so John took his place, figuring he could always use the practice.  Then, Teal'c caught him partner-less while hanging around the gym, waiting for Rodney to arrive for his introductory introduction to beginning unarmed combat for beginners.  (Also known as Learning to Fall Without Breaking Your Neck.)

Around about the fourth -- or possibly the fifth or sixth, but when it was so much fun who was counting? -- time Teal'c walloped him and sent him sprawling, John reflected that he really, really needed to work on saying no thanks when nice, heavily muscled alien super-warriors asked if he would like to spar.

By the end of the pummeling session, Teal'c insisted there was improvement, and offered to make it a semi-regular occurrence, seeing as how the Marines seldom had time to practice with him anymore.  Horrified, John heard himself blurt something suicidal like, "Sure, that'd be great," and beat a hasty retreat to the showers.

Back in their quarters, there was still no Rodney, and no evidence he'd been there since morning.  So John hopped the elevator down to level nineteen and started searching.

The only reason he found Rodney, half an hour later, was the errant silver foil wrapper sitting next to a bank of monitors in the rear of one of the science labs.  John picked it up, scattering crumbs, and crumpled it.  "Where did you get pop tarts, McKay?"

"Hm?"  Rodney's voice didn't come from the expected location.  John turned and found him perched on a stool behind another trio of monitors.  He appeared to be typing on two different keyboards simultaneously.  "I had so many boxes left over at home that I threw a couple in my luggage.  Oh!  I was supposed to meet you for lunch, wasn't I?  Sorry I'm late, but you didn't need to come looking for me."

"Lunch was six hours ago.  Try supper."

Rodney dragged his eyes away from the equipment for the first time.  "Shit, really?"

John crossed his arms and tried to look stern.  It was difficult, with Rodney so obviously entranced by whatever he was doing; it took too much effort to argue against that much enthusiasm.  "Really.  You're done here.  Pack up and let's go.  Anything you haven't finished will still be here tomorrow."

"But-"  Rodney protested.  The words wouldn't come fast enough to describe how incredibly fascinating his studies were, so he resorted to fluttering his hands.  "The Stargate's physical structure dictates... and the wormhole stabilization...  John, this isn't just cutting edge physics.  This is the place cutting edge physics will be five thousand years from now, if humanity doesn't manage to destroy itself getting there.  The technology, the knowledge the SGC has acquired from other cultures..."

"Pretty cool?" John offered, deliberately bland.  He shoved his hands in his pockets and rocked on his heels.

Rodney blinked, but none of the brightness dimmed from his eyes.  "Well, yes.  God, of course.  But also dangerous as hell.  Before seeing some of this, I would have argued that the Air Force had an obligation to share its good toys with the rest of the world.  Now... I won't say that the SGC is right, but they are smart and cautious, two qualities I strongly endorse."

"Endorse them in the mess, over food.  I'm pretty sure two pop tarts isn't gonna cut it, Mr Hypoglycemia."

Rodney hesitated, like he might have been considering lifting his hands off the keyboards.  Then he resumed typing.  "You're probably right.  Just let me-"

"You save your data regularly, right?"  Without waiting for the answer -- he knew Rodney and Rodney's paranoia and figured it was safe enough -- he wandered over and "accidentally" kicked the button on the power supply.

Rodney squawked when his two of his monitors went blank.  The third was still scrolling a very boring list of numbers in a console window.  He gave a halfhearted tap to a few more keys, then an enormous sigh.  "Geeze, okay Mom, I'll come to supper," he grumbled... just as his stomach gave a timely and embarrassing rumble.

John just raised an eyebrow at him.  He didn't dare say anything, because he knew he would only burst into laughter if he opened his mouth.  Hell, it was hard enough clamping down on the grin that threatened to destroy his otherwise exemplary facade of cool amusement.

It was a good thing he already had a tacky flyboy nickname -- one he'd been trying his damnedest to grandfather in for usage at the SGC.  Because Shep wasn't all that smarmy or mortifying.  But a moniker like Mother... now that would stick to a guy for eternity.  Then of course John would have to kill the first son of a bitch who turned up in the locker room sporting a magic-marker heart tattoo on his biceps, and John was pretty sure that son of a bitch would be O'Neill, and killing a colonel might turn out to be... sort of bad for John's career.

Blackmail or bribery -- there was no helping it.  John was going to have to resort to one or the other, to ensure Rodney never, ever called him that again.

In public.

John made sure to be up and showered early the next day, so that he could dig through Rodney's things and confiscate all the pop tarts he found.  Rodney didn't seem to notice, and agreed to the same lunch plans before nearly skipping off to scientist school.

He wondered if Rodney had been like this as a kid, racing out the door every morning to eagerly await the school bus.  Then, he wondered if hanging around Rodney so much was beginning to have a negative impact on his brain -- not to mention his chances of getting laid, which he would like to do again sometime in the future.

Preferably before sex became like cards; John could never remember the rules for games involving more than one player, but that was okay seeing as how he sucked at everything that wasn't solitaire.

His appointment with the nerd brigade didn't help matters.  John spent the morning playing faith-healer to a box of decrepit, probably broken devices of unidentified but possible Ancient origin.  The scientists checked on him occasionally, shaking their heads in disappointment that his laying on of hands hadn't produced any viable miracles.  But mostly they gossiped among themselves about the latest inter-departmental romantic scandal.

As he tried to activate what looked like a triple-pronged alien vibrator with his mind -- and god, he'd never been more relieved to fail at anything in his life! -- he mused that if a fuckwit like Friesen could have a love life, there was no reason John shouldn't be able to.

Well, apart from the inconvenience of being military.  The regs were a pain in the ass when it came to fraternization and that sort of thing.  But hell, even if John stuck to civilian prospects -- and the pickings around base were damned slim -- there was still the problem of not officially existing to contend with.

Sure, I'd like to introduce you to my family.  Oh wait... they all think I'm dead!

Yeah, just... no.

When freedom -- better known as lunchtime -- arrived, John only waited alone in the mess for ten minutes before going in search of Rodney.

As the days wore on, not only did Rodney miss every single lunch date they made, but he got better at hiding when John went to track him down.  Either that or his education was progressing at such a rate as to warrant his admittance to some of the more secluded, esoteric laboratories.

John had learned early on that the one person who might have a clue about Rodney's whereabouts at any given moment was Major Carter.  As she was much easier to locate, he started going to her first, on the days she wasn't offworld.

Today, as he knocked on the doorjamb of the lab he'd been told she was using, he was surprised to discover Rodney inside as well.  He was ensconced behind a work bench, with three different binders spread out in front of him, and a smoking soldering iron propped near his elbow.

John didn't see evidence of anything anywhere near the bench that might need soldering.

Carter was the only one to glance up at his knock.  "Sheppard," she greeted, then went back to fiddling with the settings on a large and no doubt fabulously expensive machine. 

"Carter," he returned with a nod.  There was no point in breaking out the charm for her.  Not only was she immune, like Fraiser, but the few times he'd tried she'd adopted a pained, put-out expression that had killed all his fun.  He squeezed between the machine and another like it and headed for Rodney.

"Yo, McKay.  They so hard up for techs that they've got you melting circuit boards, or are you just trying to set your sleeve on fire?"

Now Rodney looked up, blinking.  When he registered John's presence, a smile transformed his face.  "Oh, shit.  Yes.  I thought I'd turned that off."  He hopped up and yanked the plug.  "Lunch already?"

"Same time every day," John confirmed, tapping the face of his watch.  The bench was the perfect height to prop an elbow on and lounge against, so he took advantage of it.  "Which was it?"

Rodney was wrapping the cord and arranging the soldering iron where it wasn't likely to burn anyone while it was cooling off.  "Hm?  Neither.  One of the rings on that binder was loose.  I tacked it down."

"You took a soldering iron to a three-ring binder?"

"Yeah, so?" Rodney challenged.  "It was bothering me!"

"The thing's made of plastic and cardboard, probably cost a buck fifty."

Rodney mock glowered.  "Then that's a buck fifty I just saved the SGC, so they can reinvest it in something useful."

"Or... they can cover the cost of the electricity you wasted running the iron for... how long was it?"

"I dunno.  Couple hours.  Three, tops."

"Only you, McKay."  John laughed and nudged him.  "So... lunch?"

Rodney dragged one of the binders closer and started flipping pages.  "Wait.  There was something I wanted to show you first.  It's fascinating.  Well, I thought it was, but since it deals with hyperdrives and spaceships I thought you might rate it at least an interesting..."  And with no further warning, he was off.

The strangest thing was, John did find it interesting, despite losing the thread of the explanation fairly often.  It was high level stuff, and extremely theoretical; it took John a few minutes to realize that Rodney's exposition was as much for his own benefit as John's.  It was his way of solidifying the ideas in his head, making sure he really grasped them the way he thought he did.

It was much easier to listen, after that.  John gave up trying to follow Rodney and just nodded his head at what he gathered were the appropriate pauses.  He even slipped in a few basic questions; Rodney was delighted to answer those, voice warm and indulgent and... happy, John understood suddenly.

Sure, the job was dangerous, thankless, and miserable.  But it was also astounding, satisfying... incredible.  Perhaps Rodney hadn't caught on yet, but he was definitely caught.  John could stop worrying that he'd been dragged against his will into a situation he despised.

He wished he could convey this revelation, his relief.  Of course, just as he was trying to figure out how to translate it into words, Rodney had to ruin the moment by leaning back and sticking his hand square on Carter's tits.

In Rodney's defense, he'd been aiming for the wall.  And yeah, Carter could have warned him that she was trying to squeeze through behind him, instead of just squeezing through.  It didn't change the fact that Rodney McKay had his hand smack on Major Carter's rack, and was too stunned to remove it.

No, not stunned.  Perplexed.  He still hadn't looked over his shoulder; he had no idea what he was touching, just that it wasn't a concrete wall.

Carter, on the other hand, was stunned.  She was frozen to the spot, except for her eyes, which were huge and blink-blink-blinked as they latched desperately on to John's.  Well, like hell John was getting involved!  Carter was a big girl.  She could defend herself.

Oh, fuck.  She could... and would, when the initial shock wore off in about three seconds.  And probably break McKay's arm in the process.

John was just about to explain, in the steady voice he reserved for working around explosives and high-strung animals, that Rodney might want to drop his hand and move away from the not-wall.  That's when Rodney decided that instead of turning around to look behind him, he'd rather embrace the scientific method and deduce the identity of the soft, plump thing beneath his hand by experimenting.  His fingers shifted right, then left, feeling the object's shape; he gave a curious squeeze.

Carter roared, "McKAY!" about the same time Rodney figured it out.

It wasn't restraint that prevented Carter from choking the shit out of Rodney.  Indeed, it looked like reflexes got the better of her, and she tried.  But if possible, Rodney was faster as he yelped and twisted away.  He was nearly hiding behind John while he started stumbling through an apology.  "Oh god, I am so sorry, I didn't mean to touch your-"

And that's where he stalled.

John could guess what the holdup was.  Rodney was doubtless racking his brain for an inoffensive term to use.  Chest, John thought at him.  Breasts -- that's nice and clinical.  Bosom.  C'mon Rodney, hurry up and finish this before we all die of acute discomfort.  Pick a damned word already!

Carter was glaring at Rodney like she still wouldn't mind choking the shit out of him.  But John made it sort of obvious that she'd have to go through him to do it; she wasn't prepared to go that far over an accidental groping.

"-your, um, hooters," Rodney babbled. 

Even John had to turn around and gape at him then, because jesus christ, all that thinking and that was the best McKay could come up with?

The worst part was that Rodney couldn't stop staring at Carter's chest.  "So yes-  I mean no!  That is... it was a complete accident, I totally didn't mean to touch your... um..."  He grew less timid as it became increasingly clear that he was going to escape physical retribution.  "Of course, it was hardly my fault!  It's not like I could miss them, not when they're-"  He made incriminating motions with his hands.

"Large?" Carter supplied with a dangerous edge to her voice.  "Impressive?  Epic?  Don't hold back -- I've heard them all."

"Perky?" John drawled.

Rodney moaned, "I was going to say in my way.  Oh my god, I apologized.  Can we please please just leave it at that?"

"Sounds good to me," John said brightly, clapping his hands.  Rodney owed him for what he was about to do, oh so much...  "I don't know about you guys, but I'm famished.  Carter, would you and the twins care to join us for lunch?"

Carter transferred her glare to John.  It was every bit as uncomfortable as having a laser sight trained in the middle of his forehead.  Shit, she does look kinda pissed.  He was going to have to return later, without Rodney in tow to botch things up, and grovel for forgiveness.

Rodney must have been holding his breath, to go so long without talking.

Finally, Carter surrendered to the absurdity of John's offer.  She didn't crack a smile, but her scowl did soften into something more like chagrin.  "Thanks, but I think I'll pass.  You two... get lost.  I've got a lot of work left to do."

Rodney bolted, but she halted him at the door.  "Oh, and McKay?"

"Yeees...?"  He turned back with great reluctance.

"Same time tomorrow morning," Carter said, and went back to fiddling with her machines.

John hauled Rodney away before he could make some egregious response and ruin the accord.

The thing was, John hadn't intended to avoid Dr Jackson.  It just sort of happened that way, with the alien tech guys clamoring for his attention, and all the Rodney-herding he had to do.

O'Neill had said that Jackson wanted a word at John's "earliest convenience".  Well, John could argue that so far it hadn't been.  Besides, Jackson hadn't bothered to call him -- or e-mail him, or send a flunky to issue a summons -- which sort of implied that he was still getting his ATA gene fix from O'Neill, despite the colonel's protests.

O'Neill was stubborn.  Jackson probably had to bitch and complain and wear him down, and that was beautiful, beautiful revenge as far as John was concerned.

He couldn't even be disappointed when Jackson eventually caught him, just shy of a month after John had returned to the SGC. 

It happened in one of the labs.  John was waiting for one of the scientists to finish tampering with a device so they could call him over and make him touch it and think on at it.  And they would want to know, was he thinking on at it hard enough?  Yes he was, he was thinking on on on! so hard that he was giving himself an aneurysm, and could it be possible that whatever the hell the thing was -- the best part was, nobody knew! -- was still fucking broken, just like the last six times they'd made him touch it?

Not that he was keeping count.  Because if he was, he'd also be keeping track of the number of times he'd been asked to stop his "distracting" pacing.  And if he really wanted to drive himself mad, he'd have a running tally of the number of times Stiegler had twittered his awful laugh, the one that reminded John of that movie with the witches and munchkins.  No, not Wizard of Oz -- the other one.

The answer, by the way, was eleven.

Jackson blazed into the room shortly before lunch.  When his gaze fell on John he slowed, as if wondering why an officer was tucked away in such a strange nook.  Or perhaps he was trying to remember John's name.  No matter -- he got it right the first time anyway.  "Major Sheppard."  He made an abrupt change of direction and headed over.

"Dr Jackson," John nodded.  He noticed idly that he and Jackson were the only two people in the room wearing the standard SGC uniform.  He'd chosen green today; Jackson, and you could bet the rest of SG-1, had opted for blue.   

"I was surprised to see you here, until I remembered that you were taking over the ATA thing from Jack.  How's that going for you?  They keeping you busy?"

"Oh, very," John assured.  If busy was some sort of euphemism for crazy.  "We've made good, um, progress."

Both of Jackson's eyebrows hopped up, and he said, "Really..." in such a way that John was afraid he was going to be asked to produce these mythical results.

"Uh, well, actually... what I mean is that we've made good progress through the inventory of potentially repairable devices.  We can now say for certain that more than half the list is depleted or damaged beyond hope.  So that's something... I guess."

Jackson didn't seem disheartened, or even all that surprised, that there wasn't better news.  "Interesting," he lied.  "Since you're not tied up with anything vital, how would you like to help me with a project?"

"What, like... now?"  John was aware that the rest of the lab had gone very, very still.  

"No, let me think.  Jack will be off base a few days starting tomorrow, so I should have plenty of time.  So let's say the day after tomorrow, in the morning?"

If anyone in the SGC was entitled to make demands, apart from Hammond, it was SG-1.  But Jackson asked for John's help -- unlike Friesen, who thought he deserved it.  So John put on one of his most charming smiles and purred, "I'd be delighted to assist you.  It won't be any trouble to free up my schedule."

"I thought you might say that," Jackson replied knowingly.  And he had to be aware that Friesen was shooting daggers at them from across the room, but if Jackson wasn't going to acknowledge the huffing, fuming scientist, neither was John.

On P2X-787, Rodney disassembled, "improved", and then melted a portable defibrillator in a successful bid to coax open a recalcitrant Ancient door.  It had been a triumph, he explained to John that night while undressing for bed, because his method had not only worked, but it had precluded damage to the surrounding ruins, and to the priceless alien artifacts inside the sealed room.

The actual absence of priceless alien artifacts inside the sealed room in no way lessened his achievement.  Oh, and also?  The Marines were only pissy because they'd lost out on a chance to play with their C-4.

On P36-230, Rodney patched together a wireless telegraph key from twigs, twine, the non-edible contents of one MRE, one belt buckle -- and oh yeah, and old walkman -- after a freak atmospheric electro-magnetic charge knocked out every electronic device that was powered on at the time.  Including their radios and GDOs.  So SG-16 had to wait for a second team to arrive and relieve them of their weapons and escort them back to the SGC under guard, where they were put into quarantine until they could be tested and prodded and bled -- Fraiser wasn't a sadist, she was a leech! -- to determine that they were exactly who they claimed to be.

It could have been much worse, Rodney expounded in the quarantine room, when John came to deliver moral support in the form of blue jello.  At least they had been able to alert the SGC, rather than wait sixteen hours until they missed their scheduled check-in.  Also, who the fuck owns a walkman these days?  Not that he was complaining, mind, because a digital music player would have lacked the necessary parts.

Meanwhile, John fixated on the discovery that Rodney knew Morse code.  He now had reason to anticipate the next hideously dull meeting, during which he planned to tap out filthy limericks on Rodney's knee beneath the conference table.  It would be a contest to see which of them broke first.

On P3X-298, Rodney unwittingly stepped into a hive of stinging ant-like creatures, and SG-18 had to take turns carrying him through the three miles of dense underbrush separating them and the gate.  Of course this was after Rodney had indulged in a grandiloquent panic attack concerning allergic reactions and anaphylactic shock -- although Fraiser later assured him that his supposed shortness of breath had been triggered by the very same panic attack.  The only real damage he suffered as a result of the twenty or so stings was his left foot swelling to twice normal size, so that it no longer fit into his shoe.

Fraiser was only too happy to release Rodney that evening to John's care.  And SG-18 -- who'd had three close, personal miles of McKay's whining and bitching and flamboyant suffering -- thought it fitting punishment that the guy responsible for bringing McKay into the SGC should be the one to have to wait on him hand and foot until he recovered.

Oh sure, they didn't say it.  But John could tell from the open schadenfreude they exhibited when he passed them leaving the infirmary, with a limp and piteous Rodney draped over his shoulder.  

Rodney didn't make John wait on him, but only because John anticipated all of Rodney's needs -- a drink, a snack, extra pillows, some of that soothing ointment, entertainment -- before Rodney could ask for a thing.  In John's experience, nothing defeated Rodney's griping faster than the application of comfort and distraction.  Also, John was sort of hoping that the next time he was stuck in bed with some debilitating injury, Rodney would do the same for him out of guilt.

The end result of these adventures -- and other fabulous missions like them -- was that Rodney was developing a reputation for himself around the SGC.

This wasn't, in John's opinion, a good thing.

At first, Rodney had only been sent into the field as a last resort, and the teams who took him out held their grumbling to a minimum only because any problem-solving engineer type was better than no problem-solving engineer type.  Everyone knew how often Major Carter saved SG-1's ass, and McKay was sort of like her protege, right?

Unlike Carter, there weren't many people in the SCG who would consider Rodney easy on the eyes, and fewer still who would consider him easy on the nerves.  The trouble was, he kept performing startling feats under pressure, and word was getting around that there was a new fixer on base -- one that wasn't attached to SG-1's apron strings.  The savvy teams started requesting him by name whenever they had some technological hurdle to overcome. 

So Rodney had a burgeoning reputation as an asshole who could Get Things Done.  And John resented like hell watching him gear up -- Rodney wore the standard uniform by choice now -- and head down to the gateroom on mission days.

Just because Rodney got to traipse off and do interesting things on alien planets was no reason to be jealous, John told himself.  It shouldn't matter that other people were out there protecting him in John's place.  John got to hear the unedited accounts firsthand; he didn't need to be there to watch Rodney make discoveries and mistakes and learn and flourish.

But if he was bitter?  It was because he hate-hate-hated being left behind.  It had nothing to do with the fact that Rodney was no longer exclusively his.

"You know, you really are better at this than Jack."

"I don't see how I could be.  I mean, he spoke the language fluently when he had that whole Ancient database stuffed in his head."

"No, better at transcribing."  A brief smile.  "You can sit still for more than three minutes."

"Oh."

"And... done."

"Okay, next section.  On.  Na.  Mat-to."

"Mat-ta?"

"Mat-ta," John corrected, squinting at the translucent text.  "Ne-ta-  Damn, I always forget that one."

Daniel supplied, without glancing up, "Net-ta-ri-o."

"Ri-o.  Ri-o."  John scribbled a note on his pad -- U with a hat, broken I, spider -- and repeated it a few more times.  "Ri-o.  Net-ta-ri-o."  Then he turned the page with his mind.

That part was so cool that it just never got old.

The first thing he'd been invited to work on had been a trial of sorts, to make sure that Dr Daniel Jackson and Major John Sheppard could co-exist peacefully in the same room for hours at a stretch.  Then had come the real project, the translation of an Ancient journal, or diary.  It was holographic in nature, and displayed text when John held it and asked it nicely.  The tricky part was that whoever had created it had been paranoid; John couldn't just initialize the little cone-shaped base and stand back.  Someone with the ATA gene had to continue to hold it -- touch it, whatever -- or the image would flicker and disappear.

So for several hours each morning John touched, and flipped to new portions when Daniel said "done", and didn't realize at first when Daniel began trying to educate him.

The man would have made an excellent professor, John decided, if he didn't already have tenure as a galactic explorer and the world's foremost anthropologist specializing in non-terrestrial cultures.  All of Jackson's lessons were anecdotal, and that shouldn't have made such a difference but somehow did.  Oh sure, John had read the mission reports, and suffered through mandatory briefing after mandatory briefing.  But he was trained to ingest information in the form of military intel: goals to achieve, dangers to avoid, enemies to overcome. 

Jackson could describe the ruins at Vis Uban and instill in them a grandeur fitting the capital city of a galactic empire.  He could turn P4X-639 into the cautionary tale of an arrogant and scientifically advanced world brought to ruin by a simple illness.   He could explain the concept of ascension with the insight only available to one who'd achieved it -- an existence unbound by physical form.  It was as if he was saying to John, These were the Ancients.  This is your history.

John had never given thought before to where his ATA gene had come from, outside of random genetics.  He was intrigued enough that he didn't even balk when Daniel decided he should start learning the language.  (Although he was pretty sure his prep-school teachers hadn't had this in mind when they'd assured him that Latin classes would benefit him later in life.)

"Next section," John began.  "Um..."  Headless guy sitting in a chair, raising his arm.  Spider.  Upside-down backward L.  Damn, I've gotta come up with better mnemonics for these stupid characters.  "Sorry, 'um' wasn't part of the text.  It starts: No-u-"

That was when O'Neill burst through the office door, spread his arms open wide, and said, "Honey, I'm home!"  He did a double-take when he noticed John sitting at Daniel's desk, in a small, clear space besieged by clutter.  "You and the kids miss me?"

Daniel looked up with one of his tight smiles.  "Oh, right.  I'd heard something about you being back from Washington.  Sorry I didn't meet you at the door with your smoking jacket and slippers, but some of us were busy with actual work-"  He thumped his pencil against his notebook a few times for emphasis.  "-while you were enjoying expensive brunches on the taxpayer dollar."

O'Neill was still in his service blues, an unusual sight.  He pulled his cap out from under his elbow, where it had been clamped to his side, and tossed it over a stone bust.  "I'll have you know the food was terrible.  And the company even less appetizing." 

"Senator Kinsey say what he wanted?" Daniel asked.

"Oh, you know.  Same old, same old."  O'Neill was circling the office, touching this or poking that, as if needing to catalog everything that had changed in the days he'd been away.  "Control of the Stargate Program.  Hammond's retirement.  My head on a platter.  Your head-  Oh, that's right -- he didn't mention you."

Now this was interesting, taken in the context of Major Davis and his involvement with Rodney.  John stayed still and unobtrusive, hoping for more details.  Senator Kinsey could well be the State Representative Kinsey he recalled from social events of years past; the man was a shark who swam in the same circles as John's father.

"Small favors," Daniel muttered.

"I mean, who does that bastard think he is?"

"Just your average politician," Daniel offered dryly.  "I will give him this: He thinks big."

O'Neill grumbled, "That was rhetorical... or something."  His meandering inspection of the room took him behind John's chair, out of view, and John resisted the urge to turn around to look for him, but only barely.  Then O'Neill's arm descended over his shoulder and snatched away his notepad.  "Sheppard, what's Daniel got you-  Oh no, no way."

Now John had to turn.  "Sir...?"

"Daniel?"  O'Neill raised the notepad like evidence in a court.  "I need this one.  You can't have him."

"Jack, think about it," Daniel argued swiftly.  "Most of the artifacts in storage were collected before we even knew the ATA gene existed.  You're asking him to interact with unidentified, potentially lethal devices.  He should be able to read the labels, or warnings, or... or instructions, although god forbid we should find anything as useful as that."

"The puddle jumper...?" John reminded.

"Yes, the gateship!  He's going to be flying it, if they ever get it fixed.  Wouldn't it be useful if he could read the instruments?"

"You're not trying to turn him into a lab monkey?" O'Neill asked skeptically.

"No, I'm not."

O'Neill's concern was... well, John supposed he appreciated it, even if it was a little misguided.  So he fired up a disappointed expression and asked, "Does this mean I won't be getting that honorary pocket protector after all?"

Daniel stuck out his hand in O'Neill's direction and cleared his throat meaningfully.

"Oh, for the love of-"  After searching through all of his pockets, twice, the colonel eventually produced a five dollar bill.  He snapped the wrinkles out of it and laid it across Jackson's palm.

"We had a bet," Daniel explained.  "Jack here said that there was no way you could be as bad as he was when he first started with the SGC.  Oh, and he owes me another five."

"No way.  I gotta hear this one first.  What did McKay do?"

They'd made bets?  About him... and Rodney?  Oh shit.  "Please tell me he didn't give you the social-sciences-are-not-real-sciences rant.  I warned him about that."

O'Neill seemed surprised.  "You did?"

"Well... yeah.  I mean, I told him to exercise some discretion, considering that Dr Jackson's seen more close combat than I have, and he can ridicule a man's parentage in thirty languages."

O'Neill turned to Daniel and repeated, "You did?"

Daniel mumbled, "I might have told him in Aztec that he's descended from goats.  But that's not what I was talking about!  I was referring in particular to his sexually harassing Sam."

"I bet Daniel that there was no way McKay could be worse than he was when he first started at the SGC," O'Neill said, patting down his pockets for more money.  "Ouch, was I wrong."

"It wasn't-" John began.  "It was an accident.  Look, I was there, I saw the whole thing.  She was walking behind him, he was trying to lean against the wall and just happened to put his hand right on her..."

"Bazookas?" O'Neill supplied a little too quickly.

Daniel's eyebrows rose.  "Actually... I was referring to another incident, one that happened yesterday morning."

"He did it again?  And he didn't tell me?  Wait... that sounded... awkward."

O'Neill smirked, "Just a tad."

"Apparently, she was bending over to retrieve something she'd dropped.  McKay insists he was groping for the tool cart behind her, and purely by accident grabbed her... hrm-hrm... instead."

"Shit," John moaned, digging his fingers through his hair.  "Tell me he didn't use the excuse this time that he couldn't help it because her, ah, asset was so large and prominently in his way."  Though Rodney had returned to their room last night -- it was their room now, not just John's -- whole and unharmed, so that was something.  Still, John really ought to spare the time to finally deliver that apology to Carter.  It would go something like: Thank you for not maiming my scientist.  I've grown accustomed to having him around and I'd really like to keep him in one piece.  Also, I swear he's not harassing you on purpose, as I can attest that you're absolutely, positively not his type.

O'Neill was frowning at the only other bill he'd managed to recover from his pockets.  After some deliberation, he creased it lengthwise and handed it to Daniel.  "Ten's all I've got left.  Keep the change."

"Buy you lunch."  Daniel closed his notebook and carefully positioned his pencil on the cover.  "Because I can tell we won't be getting any more work done before then.  John, I'll e-mail you as soon as SG-1's mission schedule is sorted out for the next week.  In the meantime, practice.  Do the exercises in that Latin book I gave you, write out flash cards... whatever works for you.  I'll want to pick right back up where we left off."

"Sounds good," John agreed, resisting the more formal and completely inappropriate "yes sir" that wanted to slip out.  It was O'Neill's fault, in that damned uniform.  Just being in the room with so much chest-candy was making him want to sit up a little straighter.  If he'd been on his feet he probably would have fallen into parade rest without realizing.

O'Neill hung back, retrieving his cap while he let Daniel leave the office first first.  "Lock up on your way out," he told John.  He was shaking his head as he moved for the door, and John could swear he heard him grumble, "Asset.  Dammit, I was gonna use that one."

That afternoon, John left Rodney to the tender mercies of the firearms instructor and went in search of Major Carter.

He finally ran her to ground in one of the smaller labs, off the beaten path.  There wasn't much in it -- a few workstations, what looked like some older equipment, a huge whiteboard -- and it occurred to him that she might come here when she was looking for some peace and quiet.

Oops.  Off to a bad start already.

Still, he rapped on the open door, and was encouraged when she didn't jump up to slam it in his face.  "Major Carter?"

"Major Sheppard."  Only because he'd been watching her before she'd registered his presence did he notice how tense and wary she'd gone.  Damn.

He smiled in what he hoped was a reassuring fashion and slid inside.  "May I have a moment?"

Her eyes flicked around the room, as if noting that they were alone in a secluded lab; he could almost see her weighing the wisdom of the decision before she said, "Yes, of course," and motioned to another chair.

"Oh."  John detoured to set a cup by her elbow.  "That's for you.  It's tea.  I hope you like tea."  Shit, he hadn't considered that.  "It always surprises people to hear that I enjoy a nice Darjeeling now and then."  When she didn't immediately react he explained, "It would have been coffee, but General Hammond commandeered the last cup I was bringing for someone, so I thought tea would be safer."  At least this tea was still hot.

Carter looked at the tea like she might a live serpent.  "Thanks.  That's-  That's a nice thought."

She hates tea, John groaned inwardly.  He pulled out the chair and slipped into it, across the stainless steel table from her.  "Look... I can't think of a way to say this without just saying it."

Oh, great.  Now she looked like she was braced for the executioner's axe to fall, and John really, really, really should have realized before now that this was sounding like a really bad come-on. 

"I wanted to apologize for the other day, with Rodney," he blurted, and was rewarded when she blinked.  So yeah, not the direction she'd been expecting the conversation to take.  "It occurred to me, after the fact, that... I might have come across as a bit of a..."

"Bastard?" she suggested.

"Okay... I guess that word fits.  The point is... when I tried the charming act on you, I think all you noticed was my insincerity."  That much he'd guessed.  Carter had one helluva bullshit detector; it probably set her teeth on edge just being in the same room with John when he was at his flirtatious worst.  He should have figured out sooner that, as a woman in what was still a male-dominated field, she probably had to deal with condescension on a regular basis. 

He'd at least caught her attention.  And maybe her bullshit detector wasn't screaming at her anymore, because she was regarding him with puzzlement.  "Go on."

John clasped his hands in front of him on the table.  "Let me offer you my sincere apology.  I realize that your poor impression of me is entirely my fault, but I assure you that I'm not the asshole I can admittedly sometimes resemble.  It's a... defense mechanism of sorts, and I think you have a pretty good idea of what I mean by that."

Her whole demeanor changed, not all at once, but subtly.  A little loosening here, the ghost of a smile there.  She even reached out with one hand and grazed a finger against the styrofoam cup.  "Yeah, actually... I think I do," she said, not quite meeting his eyes.

"Also," John continued, "I apologize profusely for Rodney's behavior.  All I can say in his defense is that I know him well enough to know he wouldn't do it on purpose, but that he might compound an already bad situation by saying or doing exactly the wrong thing.  He's terrible with people that way."

"But you like him," she pointed out, as if surprised by the revelation.

"Yeah, I do."  Now it was John's turn to duck out of eye contact.  "He's obnoxious and neurotic, but there's something about him that's so..."

"Endearing," Carter finished for him.

Yes, that was it.  That was it exactly.  Bemused, John gave a slight shake of his head.

"It's okay," Carter assured with what could have passed for humor.  "If I honestly thought he'd done it on purpose, I would have strangled him days ago.  He watches my every move like he thinks I still might."

"He's probably terrified of you."  For anyone else, that might have sounded like an admission of guilt.  For Rodney, that was just... Rodney.  "You should use that to your advantage while you can.  And speaking of McKay, I should probably collect him from the rifle range, if his instructor has left anything for me to collect.  So, um..."  He stood and held out his hand.  "Truce?"

Her hand was slim and firm in his, and if he wasn't mistaken, she might have worn the faintest of blushes.  "Truce."

A routine visit to P4X-650 made it official: Rodney had been through the Stargate more times than John had.

So it was true what they said.  Spend enough time with a person and you started to adopt their habits and routines.

Or maybe they didn't say that at all, and John just had a weird knack for social camouflage.  Because in this case, it didn't seem to be working in both directions.  While John found himself staying in their quarters at night to read and study and mock shitty old television shows, Rodney didn't seem any more inclined to crawl out of bed in the morning without bitter complaint, or take up jogging, or develop an appreciation of Johnny Cash.

Strangely, the inequality didn't bother John at all.  It was comforting to know that Rodney was immutable; that the transition to military life hadn't fundamentally altered him; that John could fit himself to Rodney's contours and depend on them not to warp or -- god, please -- disappear.

It was the vital... companionship, or intimacy, exclusive to groups of people who lived in each other's pockets, day in and day out.  John hadn't had anything like it since losing his crew.  The day they put Rodney on his very own gate team would be the day John resumed hating the SGC for taking that away from him.  Again.

In the meantime, he tried his damnedest not to dwell on the future, when the present was so beguiling.

They never had procured a second chair, and never used the one they had except to stack yet more books on, when they ran out of room on the table.  The quiet night sessions had commenced with Rodney on Rodney's bed and John on John's, the distance between them often filled with conversation and the occasional harmless missile.  Then Rodney had begun grumbling about the supposedly poor quality of his mattress, and harping on the theory that John had taken the superior mattress for himself.

It had taken John days to realize that Rodney's bitching was in fact a carefully constructed argument with a definite goal.  One night he'd finally groaned, "Jesus, fine, get your tender, precious ass over here already," which was how John's bed had become their de facto sofa as well.

Tonight was Latin homework, because he'd promised Daniel.  Also, he'd burned through the stash of pulp sci-fi paperbacks he'd stolen from Rodney, and it seemed expedient to hold at least a few titles in reserve for some emergency of boredom.  Rodney was to his left, cross-legged, back propped against the wall.  They weren't touching, not quite, but close enough to do so without shifting far, if the inclination struck.

Lately, it was striking more often than it should.

He wasn't a damned cock tease.  Really, he wasn't.  He simply didn't know a better way to stall one of Rodney's fierce diatribes, or express his condolences at the end of a miserable day, or just... remind Rodney that he was there, when Rodney became so engrossed in something that he drifted off and forgot.

John tried it now.

When he did it wrong -- and he hadn't misjudged more than a few times -- the jolt was enough to give Rodney a frisson and send him scrambling to a respectable, safe distance.  On those rare occasions, John... well, he didn't wonder because he knew what would happen if he were to reach out and snag Rodney's wrist, foiling his escape.  Instead, he wondered if perhaps he was mistaken -- if the consequences might not be so dire and damaging as they appeared every time he played them out with a more rational mindset.

This time he did it right, the press of his index finger drawing Rodney's attention back as it inched up his thigh.  "What?"

"Nothing," John answered, because that drove Rodney crazy.  Interruptions should have a purpose, dammit.  Then John relented, "What are you working on?  You seem really absorbed."

"Oh, this?"  Rodney switched windows on his laptop, scrolled through a list of planetary designations, and picked one at random.  "Stellar drift."  When John didn't make immediate signs of recognition he pressed, "The expanding universe theory.  Big Bang... ever hear of it?"

"Yeah, I think I saw them in concert," John teased.

It earned him a swat on the arm and a grumbled, yet affectionate, "Asshole.  The reason the SGC originally thought the Stargate only connected to Abydos was that they didn't have a DHD to automatically correct for stellar drift.  Abydos is the planet closest to Earth in the gate network.  Its position relative to Earth hasn't changed much since the gate network was created -- god only knows how many tens of thousands of years ago that was."

"So..."  Geeze, ask Rodney a dumb question, get a hideously complex answer.

"So it was the only address that would make a lock, until Dr Jackson figured out stellar drift and Major Carter made the calculations to account for it and applied the patch to the dialing computer.  It really was remarkable work... which is to say that I probably would have found a solution sooner if I'd been with the SGC at the time, but I wasn't, and, well..."  He dismissively waved a hand.  "At any rate, something about Carter's calculation troubles me.  No, not troubles -- bothers.  It's like, I dunno, there's an extra step involved.  I keep wanting to shorten the process, and I keep coming up with the same results, but maybe I'm just intuiting that step and failing to show all my work."

"Hey, can I ask you something?" John said almost desperately.

"Sure."

"This has been bothering me, too."  He squirmed around until his shoulder was against the wall and he was more or less facing Rodney.  "Okay, so Anubis is out there playing galactic Risk with the other System Lords.  He's still got to wear down that bastard who's holed up in Australia-"

"Urgh," Rodney groaned.  "Someone always did that, because it's got just that one tiny invasion point-"

"-and you could hold it forever, I mean fucking forever, if you piled all your armies on Indonesia-"

"Not that I would resort to such cheap tactics," Rodney sniffed.

John agreed, "No, of course not.  Uh... me neither."

"Um, you were saying?"

"Right, galactic Risk.  Everyone assumes that once Anubis wins and solidifies his power, he'll make a beeline for Earth to wipe out his favorite enemy aliens, the Tau'ri."

"Us."

"Meanwhile, we've got fuck-all in the way of allies, one spaceship to his armada, defensive capabilities that amount to cardboard, and offensive capabilities that amount to sharpened sticks.  So the SGC has everyone searching desperately for this Ancient 'lost city' in the hope that we'll find some kind of... super-weapon there, which can be used to blow Anubis out of the sky."

Rodney set his laptop aside and shifted around until he was facing John as well.  "It's not entirely illogical, given that the Ancients were the architects of the gate system.  To this day, the technology they left behind is still superior to anything the Goa'uld have developed on their own, and they had to have had some means to defend themselves." 

"And they built the puddle jumper," John verified.

"Yes.  Your point?"

"It's got navigational charts, Rodney.  Has anyone ever asked it where the city is?"

Rodney rolled his eyes.  "No, of course none of us geniuses would have thought to do that.  It's the first thing I suggested to Carter when she told me about the city thing!"

"And?" John pressed.  It was still possible Rodney and all the other "geniuses" had overlooked something; John knew the jumper far better than anyone else.

"And... it's no good.  'Lost city' is a misnomer.  It was deliberately hidden as a last-ditch defensive effort.  Cut out of the maps, stricken from the history books, that sort of thing.  Colonel O'Neill tried querying the jumper and it had no idea what he was talking about."

Damn, so much for that thought.  Although John wouldn't put it past O'Neill to literally ask where the "lost city" was.  "At least the navigational charts are still useful?" he asked without much hope.  Oh sure, the Ancients had explored a significantly larger portion of the galaxy than the Tau'ri had managed -- they'd had tens of thousands of years to do it -- but one probably had to be able to read their stupid language to make sense of their doubtless detailed and vastly superior star charts.

"Um... about that," Rodney said.  "The jumper is lost."

"No, the city is lost.  The jumper is in a hangar at Area 51."  John paused, blanching.  "Tell me it's still safe in a hangar at Area 51."  The potential loss of the little ship shouldn't have been so devastating, but apparently John had grown far more attached to it than he'd ever imagined.

Rodney assured him, "The jumper is fine -- it's your brain that's missing.  Look, there are no reference points in space.  No magnetic north, no sunrise or sunset, no handy 'you are here' arrow.  The jumper doesn't have a hyperdrive.  It should begin every real-time journey knowing exactly where it is.  By knowing the path it followed to reach its destination, it should know exactly where that is, too.  But somehow that didn't happen.  The charts... we can't make them correspond to anything we recognize, and the jumper somehow lost the last journey it made.  It knows where it started, but it can't tell us how to get there because it has no idea where here is, now."

"Rodney, you could have just said it was like that Indiana Jones movie with the map that had no names," John said with a perfectly straight face.  And oh yeah, Rodney's aghast expression was so worth it.

"Of course I could have!  But that would have been wrong!  For the most part."

"Uh huh."

"I hate you."  Rodney turned back around and picked up his laptop again.  He tapped halfheartedly as they keys for perhaps a minute before admitting, "And that theme song is now stuck in my head."

John beamed.  "You're welcome."

Rodney had racked up an impressive mission count before he was subjected to one of the "introductory" training exercises the SGC held for its new civilian staff.  "This is ridiculous," he complained, cramming his backpack full of supplies the morning he was scheduled to depart.  "I think by now I know a little about surviving in alien environments."

John refused to get out of bed to see him off, considering that he was still due two hours of sleep.  He even debated stuffing his head beneath his pillow, to block out the light and Rodney's voice; it might be the only way he would get those two hours.

"I mean, maybe a month ago it would have made sense.  But I'm working on things -- important things.  I can't waste three days playing boy scouts on some completely innocuous and boring backwater planet."

"Don't forget to pack bug repellent," John said, burrowing deeper into his blankets.

Just to be spiteful, Rodney left the light on when he shouldered his backpack and tromped out of the room.

Daniel's transcription project was finished.  John still met with him some mornings to poke at other artifacts and continue his language lessons, but he was allocating more of his time to Friesen's crowd.  He resented doing it even more now that he'd learned Daniel and Carter kept all the really choice artifacts for themselves.  He'd only suspected before that the alien tech labs were basically digging through chaff; now he knew they were.

Therefore, he wasn't disappointed at all to receive a phone call that morning requesting his presence in General Hammond's office.  "Sorry," he lied.  "Duty calls."  Snagging his coat -- something in the stupid lab was giving off an uncomfortable amount of heat, and he'd stripped down to his undershirt -- he hustled for the door.

Hammond's office was open.  Nevertheless, he knocked and waited outside.

"Enter."

"General Hammond," he said.

"Major Sheppard," Hammond all but purred.

Hell, John thought.  And, Well, at least he isn't calling me up here to inform me that something bad has happened to Rodney.

"I'd like to have a word with you concerning Dr McKay."

Double hell.  "Is he okay?" John ventured.

"Why don't you take a seat?"

Triple hell with whipped cream and a cherry.

"Dr McKay is unharmed," Hammond assured, after John had sat.  "But I suspect only because Sergeant Sorenson had the foresight to remove himself from Dr McKay's vicinity before he quote 'gave in to the urge to zat the man'.  Sorenson returned through the gate twenty minutes ago, alone."

"Oh no..."

Hammond appeared to be doing his damnedest to be outraged, while a tiny part of him found the entire situation absurd.  "Dr McKay has essentially incited a rebellion.  He has the scientists refusing to take part in the training exercises.  Sorenson... well, he's good at what he does, but he's used to dealing with Marines, not civilians.  I fear his... attempts to restore order only weakened his authority further."

John winced.  "I don't know what could have happened, sir.  Rodney knows he has to behave.  Dammit, that was one of the first things I drilled-  Tried... to drill into his head."

"He needs to be reprimanded, Major.  They all do.  And I'm staring at the officer who is going to do that for me."

John had been given a copy of the official schedule for the stalled training mission, and one hour to prepare for spending the next three days offworld.

Fucking Rodney.  Fucking Rodney and his goddamned mouth that he couldn't keep shut to save his stupid ass.  Now John was going to have to ruthlessly pound him back into line.  Rodney trusted him, damn it.  Hammond knew that.  Hell, Hammond was counting on John to have to abuse that trust in order to regain control of the situation and cut Rodney off at the knees.

Fuck Rodney for putting John in this shitty position.  Just... fuck him.

John shifted his knapsack on his shoulder.  There were two more large bags and a serious-looking black case at his feet.

"Seventh chevron is locked," Harriman announced from the control room.

The forming wormhole swirled, finally settling into a sedate puddle.

John kicked the two bags through, picked up the black case, and turned to acknowledge Hammond in the control room window before stepping through the gate.

He'd chosen a black uniform, full battle-dress; the aviators were an inspired touch.  He slid them on just after reaching his destination, and coolly surveyed the area immediately surrounding the gate.

The scientists -- he took a headcount and found all nine bedraggled but present -- were gathered near the DHD.  Recognizing him, Rodney broke away from the nervous huddle and waved.  "John!"  A smile split his face, and he hurried over.  "Oh, thank god.  That Sorenson guy just left us here, and none of us have a GDO.  Hell, I think some of those guys," he motioned dismissively at the group, "don't even know what a GDO is.  I had to explain that dialing home without transmitting a valid identification code would only result in us going splat against the iris.  But now you're here."

Yes, now John was here, and everything was right in Rodney's universe.

Wrong.

John cocked his head at Rodney and said, "I don't talk to fuck-ups who can't follow simple instructions.  You!" he snapped, pointing at the group, "And you and you.  Carry those bags.  You, show me where you've set up camp."  He watched Rodney's mouth pop open, and wondered if cold fury or hurt would replace his shock, once it wore off.  John didn't wait around to find out, shouldering past him to follow the man who was scampering away into the trees.

Oh yeah, John was definitely the pack leader now.  The position had been his the moment he'd mowed down Rodney; already he could tell which of the scientists had been willing instigators, and which were going to come to him later, in private, to grovel for forgiveness after explaining that they had only been following their peers.  Some of them would probably offer him Rodney's head on a stick in exchange for a lighter punishment.

Spineless bastards.

The camp seemed in order.  John didn't need to worry about pitching a tent; he could have just taken the one Sorenson had abandoned.  But he dug his out of the knapsack anyway, threw it at someone and growled at them to set it up for him.  Then he sat down on a fallen log with the plastic case across his lap.

Rodney approached, with the caution of a dog expecting a whipping.  He wrung his hands and stood well out of John's reach.  "So, um... I guess they sent you to replace Sorenson."

John opened the case.  The latches made satisfying little clicks when he flipped them; each time, Rodney flinched.

"Look, I can guess that whatever he told them made the situation sound really, really bad.  But I think you should listen to both side of the equation before you-"

"I don't have to, McKay.  Sorenson was your commanding fucking officer.  He tells you to hold hands around the campfire and sing Kumbaya, you do it.  He tells you to shit in the woods and wipe with poison ivy, you do it.  He tells you to participate in the fucking mandatory training exercises, you fucking do it!"

Rodney looked like he might have been rallying the courage to argue further, but that's when John pulled out the gun.

"Go sit with the others," John ordered.  "I'll explain the new rules when I'm ready."

It was a pity there were nine civilians.  John started mentally nick-naming them after the seven dwarves, only to run out of names.  So the prissy guy who checked the ground for icky dirt every time he sat down became Snow White.

Rodney was still Rodney, except when he was Fucking Rodney.  And he was Fucking Rodney most of that first day.

John took his time assembling the paintball gun.  Without its ammunition reservoir, it looked like a serious piece of equipment.  Hell, even with it -- the canister was jammed full of red balls -- it didn't resemble a toy.  The SGC trained with them in the field, and wanted a weapon that felt and functioned like the real thing; John knew from experience that getting hit with the sucker stung like hell.

Then, with the monstrosity resting across his knees, he made a leisurely pass through the training schedule, taking grim satisfaction in the fact that every eye in camp was watching him with trepidation. 

Finally, he tucked the schedule inside his tac vest, rose, and strolled to the center of the clearing.  "All right everybody, listen up!  My name is Major John Sheppard, and I'm here to replace Sergeant Sorenson.  For those of you who don't know anything about ranks, let's just say that the SGC wasn't too thrilled with your little stunt and broke out the big guns."  He shifted the paintball rifle minutely, for emphasis.

"I'm a one year veteran of the SGC.  Prior to that, I was a chopper pilot by profession -- special-ops trained, multiple tours of duty in the Middle East, plus countless missions behind enemy lines that were so damned classified that most of the time I didn't know what the hell I was dropping off or picking up."

He paused a moment to let that sink in, then added viciously, "If you want to know anything else about me, I'm also Dr McKay's roommate, so feel free to ask him."

Rodney shot him a look of horror, while the rest of the scientists all shifted, restless.  It was quite the betrayal to learn that your former ringleader was practically sleeping with the enemy.

Phase one: complete.  On to phase two.

"Now, I've read over the schedule for this so-called field orientation.  And I can't say that I agree with it."  If Sorenson had been following it to the letter... yeah, John could understand how things might have spiraled out of his control.  There was a heavy emphasis on outdoorsmanship and wilderness survival, the kind of stuff John wished he'd paid more attention to in SERE training.  But these guys were civilians, most of them so shiny and new that it pained John to think about what they might soon be facing.  He owed it to them to run this orientation the right way -- his way -- and teach them something goddamned useful.  Learning to dig beneath rocks for edible grubs?  Definitely not on John's agenda.

"So here's the thing.  I've been given three days to make you into something that, as of right now, you aren't.  Sorenson probably thought he was training soldiers.  I'm training survivors.  And the first rule of survival in the field is to obey your commanding officer without question or hesitation.  If he says take cover-"

John waited.  None of them moved.

"I SAID TAKE COVER!"

Now they started scrambling, but they were dazed and clumsy, and John took pity on them by counting to five before he opened up with the paintball rifle.  He didn't bother shouldering it, just fired from the hip as he continued to shout.  "If your CO says take cover, you'd better fucking haul ass!  Most of the alien hostiles you will encounter shoot to kill, and they don't make distinctions between civilians and trained military personnel!  There's a reason the SGC has the highest mortality rate of any unit in the entire United States Air Force!"

He made sure to nail Rodney twice, in the back of his thighs where it would leave a stinging reminder every time he tried to sit down.  Out of all of them, Rodney should have known better; he should have been the first one diving for cover.

After the commotion had settled, John lowered the gun.  The booming voice he'd used moments before was now mellow and encouraging, almost friendly.  "Good, that was... okay it was decent for a first attempt.  Of course, everyone who's wearing red would now be dead if that had been an actual encounter with a Jaffa patrol, so I can see we're going to need to work on the whole following orders without hesitation thing."

If John was going to spend the next three days in hell, he wasn't going to lack for company.

Lunch was an experiment with MREs.  John only pretended to eat his, and didn't admit he'd grabbed a turkey sandwich from the mess before departing.

Then, he spent the afternoon emptying the pockets of his tac vest, passing around the items found within, and explaining their functions.  (Along with the creative uses to which they could be put that were definitely not on the product data sheets.)  Rodney sat near the back of the group and refused to accept any object passed in his direction, so that Bashful and Dopey, sitting on either side of him, eventually started reaching across him to trade off whatever they were holding.

It was doubtless hideously boring for someone who'd taken part in more actual gate missions than John had.  Not to mention, John was basically drawing from a condensed version of How to Survive the SGC: A Treatise for Civilians, which he'd authored especially for Rodney, and had been trying to drive into the man's skull from day one.  The difference was that he didn't need to disguise what he was doing, this time around.

He still chose random moments to shout, "Take cover!" before reaching for the paintball gun, and by the evening was pleased to note a marked improvement in reaction speed.

There was a campfire, but to Rodney's baleful yet silent relief, John didn't make anyone hold hands or sing.

The first civilian to approach him privately was not one of the ones he'd marked as the turncoat type.  Even more surprising was that it was the one he would have pegged as wanting to avoid contact with him at all costs, the Asian woman he thought of as Bashful.  They were sorting out tents when she ghosted into his peripheral vision and just... stood there, unmoving.  He glanced at her and caught a portrait of patience; head slightly bowed, hands clasped decorously in front of her, waiting for him to bestow his attention. 

John sighed.  That was the sort of behavior that was going to get her into trouble.  If he was more of an asshole, he'd make her stay there until she spoke up... or gave up.  A lot of officers would.  Instead he inquired, "Was there something you wanted?"

She edged closer, still staring at the vicinity of his boots, and breathed,  "Major Sheppard, I would like to request a word in private."

Crap.  Okay, so he'd already figured out that she wasn't here to complain about her sleeping arrangements.  As the only woman in the group, she had a tent all to herself.  "Sure," he answered after a moment.  Why the hell not?

He thought about taking a lantern, but decided she might be more comfortable in the dark.  So he led them by flashlight to a spot a some distance from camp, then switched it off and let his eyes prickle and adjust to the moonlight.

Two moons.  Seriously, he should be blase by now about a little thing like an extra moon.  He couldn't be though; it was too damned cool.

"Major Sheppard..." she began, then stopped, losing her impetus.

"I don't bite," John assured.  He'd already decided that in this instance, the application of brute-force charm could have dire results.  But surely a touch wouldn't hurt?  "Go on."

She sounded distressed when she finally figured out how to compress her thoughts into words; it occurred to him that English probably wasn't her native language.  "Please, we all agreed not to tell, but my conscience is burdened.  The problem with Sergeant Sorenson... it is my fault.  He asked many difficult things of us-"

"Whoa now, hold on."  If this was about squeamishness over eating grubs...  "You need to tell me exactly what kind of 'difficult things'."

It required a fortifying breath, but she did.  "He took us to a place where we had to run very far, and climb over many things.  It was difficult for us, but I struggled the most, and Dr McKay-"

"Sorenson made you guys run the obstacle course?"  Damn, that was rough.  Oh sure, John would have made Rodney do it, but Rodney... Rodney was different.  Rodney was going offworld regularly; John wanted him to have every advantage possible.  Most of these guys were being hired to sit in a lab all day.  They needed an overview of how to behave the rare times they went into the field, not an abbreviated version of basic training.  "Okay, so what about Dr McKay?"

"Dr McKay said that it was unfair, that we should express our unhappiness.  He said that if we were united, we would all be equally punished.  But that is not true!  All day, you have singled him out.  I do not want him to be punished more than me when my blame is greater."

Christ, that sounded like Rodney all right.  Band together and form a resistance in the face of military dominance and bullying.  He'd gone into it with a better grasp of the consequences than any of these other poor bastards, too.  "Look..."  John dragged his palm over his jaw, winced at the thought of shaving the next morning.  "Believe it or not, I'm Rodney's-  Dr McKay's friend.  Sometimes he can be pigheaded, and then I have to be tough with him, because he doesn't learn anything if he gets off easy.  So it may seem that I'm being unfair, but trust me -- it's for his own good."

"I... think I understand," Bashful said slowly.  Shit, what was her real name?  Mmm... something.  Miko, that was it.  "Dr McKay is a troublesome child, and you are a parent who is concerned for him."

Goddammit, no!  That's not it at all!  "Sure," John replied weakly.  "Something like that.  Um, thank you.  For your honesty -- for coming to me.  Now, since the others didn't want you to tell me what you just told me, you won't want them to know we had this conversation.  Think you can keep quiet about it?"

She nodded vigorously, causing her glasses to slide down her nose.  "Yes, I-I can do that."

He clicked on the flashlight, flipped it until he was gripping it by the muzzle, and offered her the handle.  "Here.  Let me teach you a cool trick.  You head back to camp first, alone.  I'll follow in a little while.  I'm sure some people noticed us leave together, but you can tell them I was only showing you the way to the latrine, and that you haven't seen me since.  That way, no one will ask you uncomfortable questions about what we were doing out here in the woods."

The flashlight was heavier than she expected; she nearly lost hold of it when John released his end.  "Oh, that is a very good idea.  Thank you!"

"You're welcome."  Naturally, she pointed the damned light straight in his face, causing him to wince and squint.  He jerked his chin back toward camp and said, "Well go on, scram," not unkindly. 

After she'd left, and his eyes had adjusted again, he picked out broad tree trunk that reminded him of his favorite back in the wilds of British Columbia.  He settled down against it to wait, and think.

The next morning, before breakfast, John sought out Miko and pressed a copy of the Air Force Handbook into her hands.  (Rodney had already read it cover to cover, so it wasn't like he'd be missing out on anything.)  Then he announced to the camp, "Listen up, kids!  I've got a little side project I need to work on.  Miko here," he gestured, "is in charge until I return.  I've left her with some interesting reading material that I'd like her to share with the rest of the class.  Oh, and there will be a pop quiz at the end."

Miko looked like she couldn't decide if she should be honored that John had given her the responsibility, or horrified that John had put her in a position of authority.  Either way, she clutched the book and swore, "Yes, I promise I will do a good job until Major Sheppard returns."

Then John picked up his backpack.  "McKay, you're with me.  Carry this," he snapped, thrusting it at a thoroughly bewildered and belligerent Rodney before sauntering out of camp.

Yup, today was going to be a good day.

At least Rodney had the decency to wait until they were out earshot to lay into John.  He hurried to match their strides, shoved the backpack right back, and hissed, "I thought I liked you, but it turns out you're a real jerk."

John shouldered the pack without complaint.  "Aw, c'mon Rodney.  You don't want the other kids to think you're special, do you?"

"Okay, that... that act might work on the rest of those morons, but I am totally not buying it.  Also?  You shot me in the ass."

"In the thighs, technically."

"Oh my god, you shot us all.  I bet you have no idea how much it fucking hurts!  And we weren't wearing any safety equipment... you could have put out someone's eye!"

John grinned.  "Yeah Rodney, I never came home from a practice op covered in paint.  I didn't show you all my bruises that night.  I have no idea what it feels like to get nailed by one of those."

"Jesus, I get your point.  Way to flog a dead horse."

"Miko spoke to me last night," he admitted, just to derail further hostilities.  Once he'd gotten his bearings he adjusted their course.

Rodney groaned, "Fuck.  I knew she was going to be the weak link."  Still, much of the heat had gone out of tone, and his shoulders were no longer unnaturally stiff.  "I guess she blabbed everything, then?"

"Canaries have got nothing on that woman," John agreed.  "She regaled me with the story of your selfless act of heroism-"

"Ugrgh!"  For a moment, John couldn't decide if Rodney was choking or just being dramatic. 

He warned, "I think she has a crush on you, Rodney."

"No.  Just-  No.  I mean, let's face it.  About the only woman around who can aspire to being on my intellectual level is Major Carter.  If I had to choose a recipient to entrust with my genetic legacy for the future benefit of Earth?  It would be her."

"Shucks, and here I thought you only had eyes for me," John teased, putting some good old Virginia sweetness into the words.

Rodney clapped his hands over his ears and increased his pace to pull ahead of John.  "I'm beginning to debate the wisdom of that choice!  And for the record you are never allowed to do that again!"

Uh huh.

The rest of the journey was accomplished in peace, though the few times John tried to resume the conversation, Rodney flapped his elbows in a reminder that his ears were still hermetically shielded.  And if that wasn't enough, he'd hum a few tuneless bars to the effect of, "La-la-la-la, I'm not listening..."

That lasted right up until he noticed where John had led them.  Then he halted dead mid-stride.  "Oh, you are fucking kidding me."

"Rodney..."  John continued ahead, found a good place to leave the backpack, and started to strip off the pieces of his uniform that he didn't want lost or dirty beyond hope.

"I did this yesterday!  Well... part of it.  But even that was enough to nearly kill me!  I take it back, you're not a jerk, you're a psychopath!"

The day was going to be hot.  (One funny thing about the SGC was how you could gate home from a tropical heat wave straight into the ravages of a Colorado blizzard.)  Technically, the point was to complete the course fully geared, but screw that.  John peeled out of his vest and blouse; he'd just have to be careful not to scratch the hell out of his arms.  "It's not so bad.  C'mon, I'll do it with you, show you all the tricks.  Teamwork makes it much easier."

Rodney's jaw dropped.  Clearly this was not the punishment he'd been anticipating.  "You're going to what?"

"Do.  The course.  With you."  John found a convenient stump and tied off the cuffs of his trousers properly before checking the laces on his boots.

"Oh, that is so unfair!" Rodney wailed, but it was possible he wasn't referring to the obstacle course at all, but the way John leeaaaned over to reach his ankles. 

Mmhm.

It wasn't a full-fledged course, just something the SGC had cobbled together when they'd realized they couldn't just borrow Schriever's if they wanted to parade around with a bare-headed Teal'c and a bunch of mock alien weapons.  But it was maintained regularly enough to be free of underbrush, and it was a good length if you ran it front to back and then back to front -- most of the obstacles had been designed so that they could be taken in either direction.

When John was finished securing himself to his satisfaction, he began his warm-up stretches.

Rodney hadn't abandoned all hope of escape.  "Seriously Sheppard, we skipped breakfast, I case you hadn't noticed.  I'm starving."

"You'd only throw up if you ate."

"You should at least let my stomach be the judge of that!"

John fished around in the backpack and chucked a powerbar at Rodney's head.  "Don't spend it all in once place."

"I don't even like this flavor," Rodney retorted.

"Start warming up, McKay.  And I don't mean your mouth."

Whatever Rodney shot back was muffled to incomprehensibility around a huge bite of powerbar.

John windmilled his arms.  "This is going to be so much fun.  I hardly ever get to go offworld and do fun things."

"You do realize you're certifiable, right?"

"Takes one to know one, Meredith.  Hurry up, I wanna race you to the end."

Rodney was too busy cramming down the rest of breakfast to do more than offer a grunt in response.  Nevertheless, he checked the state of his own clothing, then mirrored John's actions as John ran through the simple flexing exercises again.

They fell into position between a pair of trees, along an imaginary starting line.  John jogged in place and shook out his wrists.

"If this kills me, don't tell anyone how I went.  Make up a good lie.  Tell them... tell them we were having amazing sex, and the strain was too much on my heart.  You'd do that for me, wouldn't you?"

"Of course I'd tank my career to salvage your reputation.  What are friends for?"

"You're right," Rodney brightened.  "I'd do the same for you.  I-  Oh god, I'm not ready for this."

"Yes you are.  Three two one go," John said.  He planted his hand on Rodney's back and shoved him forward.

Despite the challenge of a race, they ended up adopting a leisurely pace.  Oh sure, John bolted for the first obstacle, but only so he could say he'd beaten Rodney there.  He waited until McKay pulled up a few strides later to begin scrambling over it, demonstrating the best grips and toe holds as he went.

When they both dropped successfully down on the other side, by some unspoken agreement they didn't run across the clear space so much as... stroll.

Rodney took the opportunity of not finding himself heaving and gasping for breath to run the one thing which never grew fatigued: his mouth.  "I mean, if Sorenson had just been an ass, I probably wouldn't have said a thing.  But he was an ass and he was wrong.  That's a combination I just can't tolerate."

John stood by a log wall.  "I was kinda wondering what happened," he admitted, lacing his fingers together and cupping his hands.  "I've met Sorenson, and no offense, but he looks like he could snap you like a twig."

"You'd be amazed at the tight spots I've bluffed my way out of with the liberal application of big words and a nasty attitude.  Plus, Sorenson's street cred with the geek crowd is paltry compared to mine-"

Street cred? John mouthed.

"-and when it comes right down to it, he's not all that intimidating once you've run into Teal'c a few times."

Indeed.

"Anyway, what are you doing?"

"Giving you a leg up, since we forgot to pack a rope."

Rodney stared at him blankly.

"It's traditionally done to help someone on a horse.  The wall's a bit taller, but the principle is still sound."

"Oh, so I just-"

"It would be your shin, if we were doing it right.  No, left foot, left!  I can't do it the other way, it's backward."

"Whatever," Rodney rolled his eyes.  He dug his toe into John's clasped hands; he had regulation boots now, the tread still sharp and new.  "Okay, now what?"

John braced his back against the wall.  "Put your hands on my shoulders.  On the count of three, hop up and reach for the top.  I'm going to give you a boost to help you along."

"Hey, how about we use our smarts and take a detour about ten feet to the left?  I think I see a clear spot where we can walk around the wall rather than trying to scale it like monkeys."

"Three... two..."

Rodney braced his hands on John's shoulders.  "You really are a font of bad ideas, you know that?"

"One."

John heaved.  Rodney-  Well, sprang implied too much grace for the scrabbling, flailing effort.  John ducked after he nearly took a boot to the side of the head.  "I made it!  I'm at the top!  I-  John, I'm sliding.  I'm no longer at the top.  John?  Help!"

He had to risk a concussion and get beneath Rodney to brace his legs before McKay could get enough purchase to haul himself back up and hook an elbow over the top of the wall.  "Rodney?  Everything okay up there?  ...can I let go?"

"Yeah," Rodney called down.  He wiggled around until he could clear it with one of his knees as well, so that he was laying more or less horizontally across the top log.  "Everything's great up here, just great.  Nice view.  I don't think I'm going to be moving for a while."

Figured.  "Any chance you could give me a hand?"

Rodney grumbled, but stretched down to catch John's wrist when he retreated a few strides and took a running leap at the wall.

They returned to camp wearing just enough dirt and disarray to make the others assume John had carted Rodney off into the woods to inflict some cruel punishment on him.  Of course, none of them knew Rodney as well as John, and probably didn't notice the glow of satisfaction underlining his complaints about aches and pains and bruises.

They'd finished the entire course.

Miko in particular seemed anxious; John made a point to catch her apart from the others and press a silent warning finger to his lips.

The afternoon was devoted to more practical matters like field hand signals for dummies; and why it was important to always let the SG teams move into an unexplored area first; and to never, ever touch something that hadn't been cleared by someone who knew how to recognize booby traps.

"Booby traps...?" Grumpy parroted, sitting up straighter.

"Booby traps," John repeated with a tiny, evil smile.  "Let me tell you about one I saw once -- rusty metal teeth, spring-loaded with more power than an alligator's jaws, designed to take a foot off clean at the ankle..."

On the final day, John turned the podium over to Rodney, who was only too happy to expound on the many and sundry ways Sorenson had been wrong, wrong, wrong.

Hell, some of them were even news to John, and wasn't that surprising?  He wondered which parts Rodney had picked up from tagging along with some of the more experienced gate teams, and which he'd researched on his own.

Oh sure, Rodney had stolen from John -- who'd cribbed it straight from Colonel O'Neill -- the theory that it was better to go hungry than to eat anything you found on an alien planet.  Because hello, fucking alien planet?  The plants and animals and stuff might resemble familiar species from Earth, but there was no telling which of them could in fact be toxic to humans.

And John was aware of the difficulties of navigating on other planets.  However, he'd never given it much thought outside of the obvious: no GPS; traditional compasses misbehaved.  Rodney delved into detail that his peers seemed to appreciate.  He tossed around terms like retrograde rotation, and demonstrated how the geographic and magnetic poles could differ by as much as ninety degrees.  Which John understood to mean that, depending on which system you reckoned by, the sun could... rise in the south-west and set in the north-east, for example. 

God help you if you were dealing with a binary or multiple star system.

All in all, Rodney's admonition, "Do not move around and get more lost if you're dumb enough to get separated from your team in the first place," was sound advice, as far as John was concerned.

Later, Rodney even deigned to sit next to John for the first time at the evening campfire.  "You smell," he said as he eased down with a hiss and stretched out the soles of his boots toward the flames.

"So do you," John informed cheerfully.  Tipping back his head, he caught a glimpse through the treetops of two pale, strange moons and a swath of foreign stars.

Smiling, he closed his eyes.

By the time his little expedition shuffled home through the Stargate, John was feeling unexpectedly content with life in general.

That feeling persisted only until he learned that, during their absence, Rodney had been granted new, private quarters on the civilian level, one floor down.

"It's practically luxurious in comparison," McKay enthused over lunch.  "Not to say there's anything wrong with your quarters... but I have a huge bed with a proper mattress now."  His expression of unadulterated longing made John want to reach across the table and smack him, and not in the friendly way.  "And bookshelves!  Real bookshelves!  Okay, I think they're made from some hideous Swedish laminate, but still..."

John replied as blandly as possible, "That's great, Rodney.  Congratulations.  You deserve it."

"You wanna swing by after lunch to see it?"

"...sure."

John spent his next free day off base, looking at apartments.

It turned out that not one but two of the gate teams who were short members were courting Rodney as a possible replacement. 

It was supposed to be his Ancient lesson, but Daniel had hopped up shortly into it, saying, "Excuse me, I just remembered I forgot to go check the-  It'll only be a minute."

That had been over an hour ago.

Still, Daniel's office was a great place to hide -- just for peace and quiet, as John didn't sulk -- so he took advantage of it and continued to plow through his work.  He was up to exceedingly simple and basic translations now, more an understanding of the component words than comprehension of entire sentences.  But he'd noticed Daniel steering him toward a vocabulary that was rich in military and aeronautical terms, and he was grateful for that practicality and foresight.

"That was a long minute," he said when a body moved into the room, not bothering to look up.

O'Neill feigned surprise.  "Oh, he does that to you too?"

"Colonel," John greeted.  "If you're looking for Daniel, it's been over an hour since I've seen him."

"Not even close to his personal best.  He lost track of an entire week once."

John shut his book on his pencil and sat back to listen.  Not only were O'Neill's stories often entertaining and embarrassing, but they almost always had a point.

"Civilians."  The colonel shook his head sadly.

"Can't teach 'em to keep a schedule-"

"Can't put 'em on a leash.  Which reminds me, I heard all about that little fiasco with the field orientation.  And I'm sure Hammond already said it, but... nice work."

That was unexpected enough to almost be startling.  "Thank you, sir."

"You actually made McKay run the obstacle course?  That is harsh.  I like that!"

John shrugged.  "It was Sergeant Sorenson's idea."

O'Neill shifted closer and walked his fingers along the edge of the desk.  "Yeeeah, I heard about that part too.  I mean, we hold the damned sessions so infrequently -- sometimes we go weeks without picking up a new contractor.  We poach what we can from the private sector, but it's about tapped out."

Hence the SGC's willingness to take a risk with Rodney, who'd already struck out once -- yeah, John had figured that out.  "Going to have to start recruiting internationally," he predicted.

"Probably."  O'Neill reached the edge of the desk.  His fingers made a pirouette and marched back in the opposite direction.  "Anyway, since Sorenson's out as an instructor..."

Dammit, I gotta remember to start screwing up more often.  The reward for good performance was always increased responsibility; one of these days, if John wasn't careful, the SGC was going to give up all pretense that they were ever going to require his piloting skills and promote him straight into a desk job.  "Can I say no, sir?"

"That depends.  Did you actually shoot at them with a paintball rifle?"

"...yes," John admitted.  "When they didn't dive for cover quickly enough."

"Then no, Major -- no you can't.  You are definitely my choice for the position."

The day Rodney returned from P3K-545 with a "massive, debilitating" splinter lodged in the base of his thumb was the same day the auxiliary AT lab was destroyed when an unidentified artifact overloaded and detonated.

John and three others were working in the lab at the time.

Of course, Rodney wasn't aware of the latter event when he entered the infirmary with his hand held aloft, completely and excessively cocooned in a field pressure bandage.  "I'm telling you, it's really big and it's in there deep," he was saying to his companion, the med tech who'd conducted his post-mission snake scan.  "If it had been a little more to the left, it could have severed a nerve, and I might-  Oh my god.  John?"

Fuck, fuck, fuckingfuckfuck...  Not what John wanted to deal with right now.  Why couldn't Rodney have returned later?  Say, after John had had a chance to clean up?  Scalp wounds always bled like crazy, and as for the rest of him... he could stand in for Paul Newman at the end of The Towering Inferno.

His own injury forgotten, Rodney barreled over, colliding with equipment and knocking over a cart on his way to John's bed.  "Oh my god.  Are you going to be okay?  What happened?  I mean-"  He fluttered his good hand, like he wanted to put it somewhere on John, but through the soot and the concrete dust and the blood he couldn't decide which parts of John were damaged and which were safe.

"Accident," John rasped.  He didn't think he'd taken in that much smoke, but his throat was raw.  Maybe from the heat.  "Don't worry.  Worse'n it looks."  He and Fraiser were still entrenched in negotiations regarding that point.  So far he'd refused to change into scrubs and lay on the bed properly like a good patient, and was holding out hope for a same-day release.  She wanted to keep him for extended observation, but hadn't been able to produce hard evidence -- like an x-ray indicating a skull fracture, though she'd tried from three different angles -- to convince him to give up without a fight. 

Rodney moaned, low and anxious.  "It looks bad, really really bad.  I just-  I don't know how this could have happened!"  Of course he never had been able to regulate his volume very well, and if he kept this up he was going to disturb the other patients, some of whom had been injured worse than John.  "The SGC is like the safest place on the planet!  You were in a secret bunker thousands of feet beneath a mountain, surrounded by dozens of trained soldiers-"

"Airmen, Marines..."

"Whatever!  The point is, I'm the one off doing the dangerous stuff on other planets.  When I come home, you're s-supposed to be waiting for me, safe a-and-"  His eyes, normally a vast blue, prickled with a brightness that almost hurt to look at.  John didn't think it was a result of the infirmary's harsh lighting.

Christ, could they not have this conversation?  Not ever, but especially not here and now, with John disoriented and aching in ways he couldn't differentiate, and Rodney drawing the surreptitious attention of everyone in the room.  John raised his voice.  "Guard?"  There was always one positioned outside the infirmary door.  "Please take Dr McKay to wait in one of the private exam rooms.  He's a little upset, and I wouldn't want him to bother the patients who need their rest."

Rodney was so stunned that the guard was across the room before he could react.  He gasped, "Don't you dare pull rank on me!" as the guard took him, gentle but firm, by the shoulder.

"Thank you, Sergeant," John said, finding new and interesting places around the room to settle his gaze, without letting it touch Rodney.

"Sir."

After Rodney had been escorted out, John finally gave up and reclined on the bed, shielding his face in the crook of his elbow.

In the end, he'd washed up and returned to the infirmary, letting Fraiser keep him overnight -- not because he thought he needed it, but because he hoped McKay would be too embarrassed to show his face there again so soon.  Rodney probably wouldn't have similar compunctions about pitching a fit outside of John's quarters, near the end of a quiet, secluded hallway.

Hammond stopped by, literally after the dust had cleared, to check on his people and ask questions about the accident.  No, none of them had known the device was dangerous.  Yes, it had been tested for explosive residue.  No, none had been found, else it would have been studied under more regulated conditions.  Yes, they believed the device had exploded as the result of a malfunction.  No, they didn't feel the device's purpose had been to explode.

John was praised for recognizing the danger and having the sense to toss the thing into a supply closet just before it detonated, where the reinforced concrete walls had done a lot to contain the blast.

His quick thinking had probably prevented casualties, etc.

Good job, Major.

He was so damned tired of hearing those words, when all they meant was that he was succeeding where he felt he shouldn't, prospering where he felt he didn't quite -- but god it was so close he could taste it -- belong.

He managed to avoid Rodney for two days, skipping their lunch dates and returning to his quarters very late at night.

Rodney caught him there the second night, as John slunk down the corridor.  He'd positioned himself so that John would have to step over him to get inside, but didn't have a laptop or reading material with him, despite that he appeared to have been waiting for some time.

At John's approach he didn't say a word, just lumbered to his feet; John recognized the deliberate motions of someone suffering from cold, stiff joints.  So probably hours.

"Rodney," he greeted, trying for normal.  He swiped his card -- Rodney's no longer worked on this lock -- and opened the door.  "C'mon in."

"Thanks."

God, it was as bad as that first night, with Rodney uncertain and hovering, when he'd lived in this room with John for weeks; when that was his bed sitting abandoned against the other wall.  "Sit down," John suggested, plopping down in his usual spot.  Damn it, he'd already cut it close, returning just before lights out.  He was going to miss out on sleep over this.

Rodney couldn't decide which direction to move, leaning first one way and then the other.  In the end, he went to his old bed and settled in the middle, cross-legged.  One hand idly smoothed over the blankets.

"You waited long?"

"Oh, you know.  A while."

"I was surprised to see you."  John didn't intend to say it, because it was malicious.  But once he'd started he couldn't stop.  "You never come up here anymore."

Rodney's chin lifted.  "Yes, well... there's nothing stopping you from coming to visit me, and I have the more comfortable furniture, so it should be a no-brainer."

Of course there were reasons.  Rodney's room was on a much busier level, where it wasn't unusual for other scientists to stop by with interruptions.  And it felt too... formal to sit on upholstery, across a real table from Rodney, and try to joke and kid about the kinds of crap they used to.  "We could take turns," John said, not really proposing it as a compromise.

"Okay, look.  I don't know what the hell your problem is, but you're the one who was nearly killed."  Rodney raised his hand, displaying his palm, which was crossed with a band-aid.  John's hairline boasted five stitches and a splotchy, rainbow-colored bruise.  "Hello, splinter?  So as far as I'm concerned, you have no justification for being all... whatever the hell this is."  He gestured at John sharply.

"Fine," John shot back, "how's this for justification?  Yeah, this time I was the one who was hurt.  But you were right -- you're the one always off on other worlds tempting fate, while I have to sit around and wait, and trust your safety to people who aren't me, and hope that this mission isn't the one you return from in a body bag.  It is driving me insane."

"In case you hadn't realized, it's a miserable fucking galaxy out there!"  He was up on his knees now, crawling for the edge of the bed.  "While you're getting in all tight with the Daniel Jackson Knitting Circle, I'm dragging my ass through mud and blizzards and sandstorms and clouds of insects so thick they blot out the sun!  I'm sick of getting shot at; I'm sick of watching the people whose job it is to protect me get shot.  But you know what I think?  I don't think this is about how dangerous it is on the other side of that gate.  I think it's about the fact that I'm the one out there, and you wish you were."

"Fuck you McKay," John said, truly meaning it for perhaps the first time.  He leaned back against the wall harder and crossed his arms.  Rodney could get up, pace, rant in tongues... John didn't care.  He wasn't moving from his bed.  "The Daniel Jackson Knitting Circle?  Do you have any idea how ridiculous that sounds?  How jealous do you have to be to come up with something like that?"

Instead of stomping over to invade John's refuge and wind up for a nice, protracted meltdown, Rodney surprised him by heading for the door.  He uttered with his back to John, "I am not jealous of Dr Jackson.  You can come visit me in my quarters when you're done being such an ass."

John responded with, "Yeah, well... don't bother trying to visit me here.  I'm moving off base."

His new apartment had a spare room.  Somehow, that had seemed important when he'd chosen it.  He didn't mention it now.

Rodney didn't say another word, and departed in silence.  Even the door was subdued; he caught it rather than let it swing, and eased it shut behind him with barely a whisper.

It was nice, as apartments went.  Lots of windows.

John approved of windows.

The complex was slightly upscale, with few children running rampant.  He knew Rodney didn't like a lot of noise.  It was close to base, convenient for shopping, and would have been perfect if not for two things.  One, it wasn't furnished, which meant that John was going to have to buy things to sit on and sleep on and hang on the walls.  And two, he didn't have a car. 

As it turned out, he was never able to rectify either of those problems, because on P3X-423, SG-15 lost Rodney to the Goa'uld.

John might not own a bed, but he had a sleeping bag, dammit.  And when Daniel had heard about the new place, he'd offered lifts to and from base until John could solve the transportation situation.  John was two weeks into his lease before he took Daniel up on the offer and tried camping out.  The floor didn't particularly make him want to return without a mattress -- or at the very least a sofa or futon -- but John hadn't reckoned with his neglected hedonistic streak, which took one look at that huge, private jacuzzi and fell madly in love.

There was clearly going to have to be some form of compromise.  Maybe he would have time to figure it out over the weekend.

The base was already in an uproar when they arrived that morning.  Hell, even the guard at the security choke-point on level eleven seemed to know something was up, and those guys never knew anything about anything important.  But the first real indication John had that something was wrong was when Colonel O'Neill intercepted them on the same level, before they could change elevators.

He looked tired, not just the weariness of a man who'd been up all night on stale coffee, but the exhaustion of a man who'd thought he was going to get a good night's sleep, then been rudely cheated out of it.  "Daniel," he nodded.  "John."

Not Sheppard, or Major.  John.

"I didn't want to call you..."

John's chest constricted.  He knew the difference between I didn't want to bother you and I wanted to deliver the news in person.

"I don't understand how this could have happened," John repeated dumbly.

They were headed to Daniel's office, since it was as good a place as any to wait for fresh -- or even comprehensible -- news.  John was flanked by O'Neill and Jackson, and even through everything else, he was dimly aware that he was the superfluous piece of the formation.  The pair moved with an intuitive awareness of each other, which was likely the result of long years spent together in SG-1.  (Although John wouldn't rule out additional factors...)  Regardless, the gesture to include him in some part of that was appreciated, even though it served to highlight how very much an outsider he actually was.

"See, now that's the problem," O'Neill sighed.  "Nobody can.  It's like a worst-case scenario on top of a disaster."

Daniel was the best person for getting straight answers out of O'Neill on good days; on bad days he was nearly the only person who could.  He was also, thank god, emotionally distant enough to retain some semblance of rational thought, so John was relieved to let him run the show.  "Okay, let's start again from the beginning.  SG-15 radioed in a day early, saying McKay was... sick?"

"Yeah, they were bringing him down from the ruins to send him through the gate for Fraiser.  They way the described it -- fever, chills, that kind of thing -- made her think it was the flu, but she was afraid he might have picked it up on the planet, so she told 'em to stay put until she could assemble a biohazard team."

Christ, the flu.  A little bed rest, plenty of fluids... all better in a couple of days.  How in the fuck did you go from that to Sorry, we let Dr McKay be abducted by the Goa'uld?

"And then...?"

"They kept sending messages.  Asking the same questions, repeating updates... I think Hammond figured out they weren't thinking straight and had probably been infected too.  Pierce was getting real garbled, kept saying he'd missed the check-in and he had to gate home.  Every time he'd say it, Hammond would order him to stay put, but you could tell Fraiser was afraid he'd try to come through anyway without giving us any warning to drop the iris."

The lights were on in Daniel's office, and a half a pot of coffee was burning in the corner.  O'Neill marched straight over poured some into a couple of mugs of questionable cleanliness.  He gave one to Daniel and one to John.

"I see you made yourself right at home," Daniel said, accepting his.  "Don't you have an office of your own?"

"So they tell me.  Pretty sure it doesn't have a coffee pot though."

John took his mug and sipped the singed, bitter liquid.  Rodney would have called it DOA. 

Damn it, how do you lose someone to the Goa'uld?  It's not like misplacing your damned car keys!

"Why didn't you?" Daniel asked, pulling out a chair.

"Why... what?"

"Drop the iris and let them through?"

O'Neill was contemplating the dregs sloshing in the bottom of the carafe.  "Yeah we did that.  Eventually.  Just not by choice."

Frustrated by the lack of progress, John growled, "I don't understand-"  But Daniel halted him with a gesture.

"Go on, Jack."

"Well... that's pretty much it," he shrugged.  "Fraiser's biohazard team was ready to go, but SG-15 wouldn't close the gate and let us dial out.  They kept saying something about a ship.  So we were gonna cut the connection on our end... and that's when they panicked.  Pierce sent his IDC -- from two years ago, to give you some indication of how lucid he was -- and said they were coming through before the ship could 'get them too'."

"Why wasn't Rodney with them?" John demanded.  He tried not to noticed how white his knuckles were on the handle of his mug.

O'Neill, who'd had a terrible night and could only look forward to more of the same, didn't have to tolerate attitude from a junior officer.  Nowhere in the rule books did it say John had a right to be informed of an incident involving a civilian contractor far outside his chain of command; he could have been ordered to go about his business without even a terse explanation.  It was a testament to O'Neill's... humanity that he was even here at all. 

But what nearly unhinged John was his empathy, when O'Neill caught his gaze and said simply, "We don't know."

A couple hours later, the gathering had migrated to the briefing room, and acquired additional members.  Carter's grainy photographs were spread out all over the table, and she was explaining the images in detail, while Teal'c...  John suspected O'Neill had dragged him in just to make John stop pacing.  Teal'c had planted himself directly in John's path, statue-still, with an austere patience that was probably supposed to shame John into behaving, or something.

It worked. 

He took a chair, gave up and gnawed on the muffin that kept materializing at his elbow.  (Apparently someone thought he should try to eat something.)

One of the photographs near him was an aerial shot of the ruins SG-15 had been investigating.  He flipped it around for a better angle; the presence in it of two armed Jaffa was bad news indeed.

There was a ship, all right.  Some of the last images the UAV had transmitted before being shot down were of an Al'kesh, parked a short distance from the ruins.  A ship that size could hold few troops, or many -- the numbers were difficult to judge based on the aerial reconnaissance alone.  Worse, it appeared that in their deteriorating condition, SG-15 had failed to erase traces of their presence or even strike camp before heading for the gate.  So not only was SG-15's equipment probably being studied to gain military intelligence about the Tau'ri, but the ruins themselves, which might otherwise have escaped Goa'uld attention, were also being scrutinized.

If the SGC was interested enough in some crumbling rock walls to send a team to study them, there had to be a reason.

Teal'c loomed over John's shoulder to glance at the photograph.  He stated, "These warriors do not belong to Anubis."

Yeah, well... John wasn't impressed by small favors, even if it was the first thing that had gone right for the SGC in this whole mess.

"They probably belong to one of the lesser System Lords," Carter theorized.  "It would explain what they were doing on a backwater like P3X-423 in the first place.  We know the System Lords who aren't powerful enough to offer Anubis a beneficial alliance are the ones most in danger of being wiped out."  She glanced at O'Neill for verification.

His frown was thoughtful.  "If it was my ass?  I'd sure as hell be looking for a safe place to hide out for a few... centuries."

"And there's no sign of Ro- Dr McKay in the recon footage?" John said.

"Nothing," Carter shook her head, before O'Neill could remind him that nothing had changed since the last time John had asked.

"Well..."  And you could always tell when Daniel was trying to be optimistic, because it didn't come naturally to him, and often manifested as wry understatement.  "At least he's more valuable to the Goa'uld alive than dead."  John shot him a look of horror, and he explained hurriedly, "He's probably still in one piece."

Carter looked grim, and agreed, "I've been putting Dr McKay through an intensive overview of the current state of our technology.  Any Goa'uld would love to get their hands on the information that's in his head."

One side of O'Neill's mouth twitched into a half-smile.  "Scales," he corrected, waving his fingers.  "They don't... have... hands."

"Sir..."

General Hammond entered the room then, with Dr Fraiser following a step behind.  She appeared as exhausted as O'Neill; Hammond seemed fresher, but it was just as likely that he was more experienced at hiding his fatigue.

"Gentlemen," he said, moving to the head of the table.

John pushed out of his seat.  "General.  Requesting permission to be included in the rescue mission."

Fraiser and Hammond exchanged glances, reminding John of parents who were silently vying not to be the one to have to reprimand a child.

And okay, but what the hell?  That's what all this was about, wasn't it?  The meeting, the intel... Carter's damned dissection of the photographs, and the strategies they'd been forming and discarding and re-working.  SG-1 was the best, the logical choice to lead the mission to rescue Rodney, and they'd been planning it, and John was here because he was going-

"As of this moment, there is no rescue mission," Hammond said, sinking into his chair.  "Dr Fraiser?"

Fraiser had folders she was passing around the table.  Someone else slid one in front of his place, as John hadn't moved.  He couldn't move, not until he was able to force Hammond's words to make sense -- even if he had to replay them in his head a thousand times.  No rescue mission, no rescue mission, no mission, no rescue...

Daniel touched his forearm, and applied pressure until John sat.

Fraiser was talking.  That was probably important.  He ought to listen, right?

No rescue-

"-have been able to isolate the pathogen, and it is definitely alien in origin.  The morphology is anomalous to everything we have in our database.  We assume they were exposed to it in the ruins, and that Dr McKay was exposed first, because he began exhibiting symptoms before the others.  The prognosis resembles a type A influenza, but on a compressed time scale.  And by resembles, I mean that the symptoms appear similar but far more severe.  The pathogen is potent and highly transmissible.  I've classified P3X-423 as a level three restricted world."

"So what does that mean, we'd all have to wear NBC suits?  No problem.  Can't be any worse than some of the cold weather gear I've had to wear," John reasoned.

"Are you kidding me?" O'Neill groaned  "Even if you could see what you were shooting at out of that dumb mask, the suit makes so much noise you couldn't sneak up on a corpse!  We'd be sitting-"

Hammond barked, "Perhaps Dr Fraiser wasn't clear concerning the severity of this threat.  Four of my men are in critical condition.  Even with the advanced medical care we can provide, I'm told there's an even chance that any of them will survive the next twenty-four hours!  Every person who was still in the gateroom when SG-15 came through has been run through decon and put under quarantine for observation.  Not to mention, decon of the gateroom itself delayed the scheduled return of several teams -- thankfully none of them dialed in hot!  I need a handle on this situation before I even consider exposing any more of my people to undue risk!"

Stillness descended on the room.  The reality Hammond hadn't explicitly stated was obvious in the deliberate framing of everything he had; it was as if his words outlined an empty space, and the shape of that space was the fear John couldn't face. 

"Permission to return to my duties, sir," he murmured, and lied, "I could use the distraction, something to take my mind off all this."

"Granted," Hammond said, with something like relief that John wasn't going to push the matter further.  "I know how difficult this is, for all of us.  You'll be kept informed, Major."

It was Carter who caught him in the hallway, even though John had made a rapid retreat.  "Major," she said, and John didn't mean to let her angle their course around a corner, but it happened and there they were -- pressed into a little alcove formed by bare pipes that entered from the ceiling and descending into the floor.

He shook his head, as if that might convey the strength of his commitment to denial.

"The Goa'uld-" she began, uncertain, and he relented when he saw her honest concern.  It hadn't struck him before that he wasn't the only one entitled to worry about Rodney.  "Fraiser's doing everything she can for SG-15, and they're still-"  She wet her lips.  "If McKay contracted the illness first, then he's gone the longest without medical care."

Yeah, John fucking got that, thank you very much.  Rodney's chances had been worst to begin with, and he hadn't been getting the treatment the others had.  If SG-15 didn't recover, if the mortality rate proved to be high enough-  Well, there was no reason to mount a rescue for a dead man.

Carter surprised him by blurting, "I don't... think Rodney could be anywhere safer than with the Goa'uld.  They've made advancements in repairing the human body that we haven't been able to touch -- healing devices, even the sarcophagi.  If they want him alive, they'll work to keep him alive, and I'm afraid with more success than we might have."

John stared at her for a long moment, just so stupidly grateful to be handed anything resembling real hope.

"So."  She leaned in with her upper body to give him a stilted, one-armed hug that he was too slow to reciprocate.  Then she was gone.

On the afternoons Rodney was offworld, John could tailor his duties to be pretty much whatever he wanted them to be, provided he made some pretense of improving himself or helping others.

Today, he'd found himself at the door to his quarters with no recollection of having made the decision to go there -- or the journey to get there.  He'd given up and crept inside, heading straight for the spot at the end of his bed where he could wedge himself into the corner.  Folding his shoulders inward to fit more tightly into the intersection of the walls, he'd let his head thunk back against the concrete.

He hadn't bothered to pull out the Ancient manuscript he'd been laboring through word by word, and sometimes character by character.  If anyone asked, he would tell them-  He would say-

Fuck it.  He didn't care enough to think up a lie.

The coin in his palm had long ago warmed to his touch.  He flipped it up, caught it again.

If I'd been there... Rodney would have made it back through the damned gate.

Without looking, he wove it slowly through his fingers.

If I'd been there, I would have noticed he was sick sooner.  He would have gotten medical attention sooner -- they all would have.

He ran his fingertip along the milled edge, tossed the coin again-

If I'd been there, I would haven been infected too.

-caught it.

But we would both be home safe, recovering together.  Now... even if Carter's right and he's okay, the Goa'uld aren't going to stay on that planet forever.  The longer we hang around waiting to see if SG-15 will recover, the smaller Rodney's chance of rescue becomes.

There was a reason John didn't fuck teammates.  They were already the people you would die for, and who would die for you right back.  That relationship was sacrosanct; you didn't screw it up with extraneous sentimental crap.  You couldn't goddamned afford to make irrational, emotionally-charged mistakes in the line of duty.

John was beginning to understand that his outcome was already fixed, that Rodney McKay had been a losing proposition from the very start.  He slapped the coin down onto the bed, lifted his hand away to reveal its verdict-

Disgusted, he flung it away to ping and ricochet off the walls.  Then he rose to prepare.

O'Neill was the one he had to convince, because in John's position, he knew the colonel would do something very, very similar.  So he made a point to drag himself to the mess in time for supper, and eat what was likely to be his last decent meal for a while.  The food was tasteless; he dug in like an automaton, but perhaps that helped his ruse. 

When O'Neill spotted him and drifted over, his expression didn't say Funny meeting you here so much as I wondered where you were hiding.  For a few minutes he merely sat and watched John eradicate the contents of his plate, until he was satisfied that John's behavior was appropriately strange given the circumstances.  Trying to fake normalcy would have been the most suspicious thing John could have done.

Eventually John asked, "How's SG-15?"

"They're hanging on," O'Neill murmured, and John suddenly wondered if he'd gotten even a nap.

"Sir, I've been thinking..."  Of course he had.  He would be expected to suggest something of the sort.  "Teal'c's symbiote would protect him from the virus.  He could-"

"No way," the older man cut him off.  "He and I have already had this discussion.  That Al'kesh could hold something like fifty troops, and he might be comfortable with those odds, but I'm sure as hell not."

John remained silent and refused to make eye-contact.

"Sheppard..."  O'Neill scrubbed his hand over his face.  "Trust Hammond.  He wants to bring McKay home as badly as you do.  We don't leave our people behind."

Shit.  So much for being able to pull one over on O'Neill.  That was a really fucking low blow. 

When John sullenly raised his eyes and acknowledged him, the colonel returned a humorless smile that admitted he knew it, too.

Fifty to one odds fell into that gray, fuzzy area between hopeless and suicidal.  O'Neill was probably counting on that more than anything to dissuade him, John thought.  It might have worked too, if John hadn't had a few hidden advantages at his disposal.

Like the zat he'd forgotten to return to the armory after his trip to Canada.

The gateroom was always staffed and guarded, but there was far less activity during the night shift, when teams weren't scheduled to arrive or depart.  John walked into the control room, raised his arm, and shot the tech on duty before the poor bastard could even turn around.  He hurried forward to catch him as he slid bonelessly from the chair.  Then, crouching over the body, he called for the closest guard.

The man was a little slow to respond, and was still scrambling to get his weapon in position when he skidded around the corner.  "Sir, what-"

"Sergeant, behind you!" John warned.  When the man spun around, John nailed him square in the back.

Sorry.  I told you.

The guard's P90 was a nice upgrade; too bad there wasn't time to dig up spare clips.  When he began the dialing sequence, it would kick off all kinds of alarms and bring a couple dozen Marines down on his ass.  Their priority would be to prevent him from getting through the gate, which meant that he had to make sure it couldn't be shut down before he could reach it.  He could probably seal the control room by shorting out the electronic lock; the tricky part would be taking out the other guards before they could reach the manual override.

He swiped the tech's card and input his address.

Last chance, Johnny.  Give yourself up now and they might show you some mercy.  O'Neill might even put in a kind word for you at your court-martial. 

He glanced out the control room window to the inactive Stargate below.

Is what you owe McKay really worth your career, possibly your life?

The answer was no; no, the debt wasn't.  But something else was.

John punched the confirmation... and all hell broke loose.

O'Neill was right: a full Nuclear, Biological, Chemical suit would have been about equivalent to painting a bullseye on his ass.  Hoping that the alien virus was transmitted the same way as the influenza it resembled, he'd opted for just a mask, which he'd stolen from one of the emergency stockpiles earlier in the day.  Yanking it on was the second thing he did after exiting the gate onto P3X-423; the first had been to dive for cover and use the life signs detector to sweep the immediate area for threats.

The SGC was probably in an uproar by now.  O'Neill would be disappointed but not surprised.  Hammond would be livid, especially after they had to pull him out of bed.  Pretty soon they would be dialing P3X-423 to radio John and order him home.  When that didn't work -- oh, John had a radio, but he wasn't dumb enough to turn it on -- they might, depending on SG-15's condition, prepare a team to come after him.

He needed a head start.  The life signs detector gave him a significant tactical advantage, but it was still going to take time to pick off enough of the enemy to make boarding the Al'kesh possible.  And, well, there was one simple way to prevent the SGC from coming after him immediately.  John had another planet in mind, one he knew wasn't host to any active missions.  He dialed the address from the DHD, then stepped up on the platform and nudged a rock half way into the event horizon.  A partial, incomplete demolecularization should hold the wormhole open for its maximum sustainable time, preventing anyone from dialing in.

At least, that's what Rodney had once claimed.  Helluva way to test a hypothesis.

The final advantage John had was very, very good intel.  Carter's aerial surveillance footage had shown him everything he needed to know about the terrain around the gate, the ruins, and the ship.  Hell, she and O'Neill had even plotted out the ideal angle of approach when they'd been arguing strategies.  There was no reason not to take their expert advice.  John got his bearings, increased the range on the life signs detector, and set out at a run.

He hit his first group of Jaffa about a mile from the ruins, and realized that he had a problem.  The life signs detector worked beautifully; he saved an incredible amount of time just by being able to crash through the vegetation without bothering to conceal his presence.  But the damned mask... it wasn't noisy, but it was loud enough to make stalking an alert enemy next to impossible -- and as soon as their numbers started thinning, the Jaffa were going to be a lot more cautious.

Still, that first group was easy.  He watched their patrol pattern on the screen, positioned himself, and took them out from the rear after they'd moved past.  There was only a moment of minor panic when the patrol of four dots turned out to be two Jaffa carrying two larval Goa'uld.  And how fucking cool was that?  The detector could actually distinguish the distinct life signs of symbiote and host.  Christ, when O'Neill heard the news, he was going to confiscate the device and never, ever let anyone else touch it ever again -- that was, if they didn't install it permanently in the gateroom to screen incoming teams rather than send them down for an MRI.

That would happen... right after John found Rodney and made it home and got court-martialed and thrown out of the Air Force with nothing but a fake identity and the clothes on his back and ended up an alcoholic bush pilot in Alaska like Steve while Rodney might remember to send him a few Christmas cards but eventually those would stop arriving and the next time John saw him would be twenty years later in a newspaper photograph receiving his Nobel Prize and dear god but apparently this was what long-term exposure to McKay did to an otherwise sane person.

John didn't think there was an antidote, either.  He was so incredibly screwed.

He started to drag the dead Jaffa off the patrol path to hide them, got all of five feet, thought I am an idiot, and pulled out the zat again.

That one-two-three shots disintegrates routine might take some getting used to, but it was really damned convenient for disposing of evidence.

John took out another patrol before reaching his epiphany.  Each Jaffa had to carry a larval symbiote in order to live.  Locating Rodney with the life signs detector was going to be as simple as looking for the odd number of dots.

Still, when he actually found a cluster of five dots, off by the edge of the ruins, he checked and double-checked and triple-checked his readings.  He'd believed Carter when she'd said that the Goa'uld would fix Rodney, but he hadn't really... believed her.  Or maybe the illness wasn't as dangerous as Fraiser was predicting, and Rodney had recovered on his own. 

God.  Rodney.  Alive.

He was close enough to the ruins that he didn't dare engage any more patrols.  Besides, he didn't need to thin out their numbers further if he could snatch Rodney from outside the Al'kesh.  Circling around, he crept up on his target.

John hadn't thought it was possible to be so overjoyed to recognize the back of someone's head.  He stole another glance around the derelict wall.  Yup, definitely the back of... well, Rodney.  He would know those familiar shoulders anywhere, even stretching the fabric of a strange, gaudy outfit.  McKay was facing a worn column, running one hand over its surface.  Two attentive guards stood over him, watching him work.  They had the wrong man if they thought Rodney could decipher anything useful from the text; of course Rodney, being Rodney, had probably promised extravagant results in a bid to stall for time.

Good man.

Pride swelled in his chest; he stamped it down into the mire of other churned-up emotions to sort out later.  The life signs detector showed the immediate area around Rodney as clear, and the direction they would need to retreat temporarily so.  If they ran for the gate, there was a chance it might not be heavily guarded yet.  Else, they could hide and wait and evade their searchers until the SGC could send out the cavalry.

John primed his zat and opened fire even as he was still coming around the wall.  He dropped the guards with such precision and efficiency that at first Rodney wasn't aware of what was happening.  He whirled around with a startled cry; John rushed in on him and clapped a hand over his mouth.

Oh, right -- the mask.

Eventually the shock in those huge blue eyes softened in recognition, and John cautiously lowered his hand.  "John," Rodney said; and repeated, sounding more certain, "John."

If breathing through the mask was difficult, speaking through it was a disaster.  "Come on!" he shouted, grabbing Rodney's sleeve.  "We don't have time.  Run!"  Everything else... could wait.

Rodney stumbled, as if he'd forgotten how to use his legs, but John hauled him along ruthlessly, and he somehow managed not to fall.  He tried to ask questions a few times, beginning with things like, "How-" and, "Where-"  Each time, John just cut him off with a shake of his head, adjusted his grip, and kept moving.

Soon they reached the edge of another patrol area, and while they'd been lucky so far, they were making too much noise to crash ahead blindly.  Slowing, John pulled out the life signs detector again and swept their path.

"Oh, you brought the everything detector," Rodney observed, just as the significance of what John was seeing on the screen finally battered its way past his incredulity.

Three dots.  Himself plus Rodney... three distinct dots.

"That is unexpectedly troublesome," the thing inside Rodney decided.  It swept up a fist-sized rock and attempted to bash John's skull in.

The first blow came dangerously close to succeeding.  Through some miracle of reflexes, John lurched out of the way, but not quickly enough to avoid being clipped; the side of his head rang with pain.  Then the thing was on him, tearing off his mask, which apparently it found inhibitive to its goal of gouging out his eyes.

Had Rodney always been this strong?  John knew he was deceptively powerful, but this... this was bad.  The only reason he hadn't gone down yet was that the thing didn't understand how to use its weight advantage.  He lashed out with his elbow and caught it -- Rodney -- in the windpipe.  The motion was combat-honed instinct, just diminished in force; he had to incapacitate, not kill.

Choking, Rodney doubled over.  However not, John realized, before he'd managed to paw the zat out of John's belt.

The zat.  The only non-lethal weapon he had.  Fuck, of course that had been its target the whole time.  He sprinted behind a tree, the Goa'uld recovering enough to send careless, lazy blasts after him.

"By all means, hide," the thing taunted with Rodney's voice, bruised-sounding and harsh.  It hadn't sought shelter, but prowled along an oblique line to John's position, possibly in a bid to flank him.  "There is no enjoyment in a hunt that ends too easily."

Don't, John.  Don't answer, don't acknowledge it.  The tree trunk was more than providing shelter; he realized it was supporting too much of his weight.  His knees weren't behaving.  He locked them and pushed, feeling bark scrape beneath his shoulders as levered himself upright.

The Goa'uld wasn't interested in stealth.  It was still on an unerringly straight course, noisy in a way even Rodney wouldn't be, grinding greenery and forest debris into submission beneath its heels.  "I must repay you for the loss of my honor guard.  Of course, it is every Jaffa's desire to die in the service of their god.  But killing them was an act of disrespect which I cannot abide."

So not jailers or wardens but a damned honor guard.  If John hadn't been so anxious to rush in and save McKay -- if he'd waited five damned minutes to observe the situation -- he would have realized something was wrong.  He would have tied Rodney up, knocked him out and carried him... done anything besides be caught unaware, disarmed, and stalked through the woods by a creature wearing the body of his best friend.

"Your suffering, as I pillage your mind, will be so great that you will beg for death," the Goa'uld promised.  It was nearing, and John pivoted several degrees to keep the tree between them, but sooner rather than later he was going to have to move. 

"Rodney, if you can hear me, don't listen to it!" he shouted and took off.  Blue-white bolts tore through the air around him, but they seemed wild; either the thing was toying with him, or it was inexperienced with the weapon.  Still, a lucky shot would drop him just as effectively as an accurate one, and the zat wasn't about to run out of ammunition.

Rather than keep to his feet, he skidded and dropped behind a fallen tree.  It was a weaker position than the one he'd abandoned, but it should... yes, it would do.  He unslung the P90, switched it to full automatic, nudged the muzzle just over the top of the barrier and fired. 

Nine hundred rounds a minute was pretty damned impressive even when the spray of bullets wasn't sweeping right for you.  And yet the Goa'uld didn't shift, didn't flinch, even though the last of the projectiles tore into the ground at its feet, throwing up small explosions of dirt.  That strength of confidence wasn't the result of courage, or recklessness -- it had known John would release the trigger at the last fraction of a second. 

Of course it had known.  It was a parasite that had access to every memory McKay had ever made.  Somehow, somewhere, Rodney must have filed away the thought: John would never harm me.  So to the Goa'uld, that was unequivocal truth.

John set down the P90 and drew his sidearm.

"Was that supposed to intimidate me?" the creature sneered.  It kicked at some shredded vegetation.  "Or merely draw the attention of more Jaffa?"

"No," John answered, deliberately vague, and watched a couple more zat blasts sail well over his head.  Just finding my range.

The Goa'uld began to move again.  John stole a glance to find it on a much more direct route, fearless and single-minded.  It was hoping to flush him out again, make him run.  The next available cover was... a healthy distance, and surely even it couldn't miss hitting him in the back from close range.  "This host... is afraid.  In the prison of his mind, he cries with despair, knowing victory could be yours if you would accept the price."

"Yeah, well, the thing about Rodney is-"  He didn't want to rise to the bait, but he needed noise to cover the metallic whisper of the slide chambering a round.  "-he probably knows me better'n anyone else..."  One after the other, he wiped his palms on his thighs and adjusted his grip.  Slow breaths.  Slow, calm. 

He would have the tree to steady him.  That was something.  The nine mil had a quarter of the range the P90 did, but the P90 wasn't meant for finesse.  Even in semi-automatic mode, it spat out multiple rounds per trigger pull, far more potential damage than he wanted to have flying around out there.  So he'd opted to go low-tech and wait for the damned thing to get close.

At least it wasn't the worst plan he'd ever formulated in his life.  That distinction went to this whole damned rescue mission, hands down.

The Goa'uld paced closer, as John listened and mentally counted down the distance.  He knew the length of his own stride; Rodney's was shorter, but even a rough estimate was better than a wild-ass guess.  Twenty-five yards.  Twenty.  Eighteen... 

Rodney knows me better than anyone, but there'll always be more he doesn't know.

He rose from behind cover, forearms extended and braced on the log, and squeezed the trigger.

The first shot landed deeper than he'd intended, and that was probably what saved him.  The impact punched Rodney's shoulder, making him stumble; the zat blast he did manage to get off went wide.  John had his distance now, and the second shot went where he wanted it, right in the joint.  The arm dangled, suddenly useless, while uncoordinated fingers fumbled and dropped the zat.

Funny thing about human bodies.  They were basically machines, and Rodney's had just suffered a really nasty breakdown.  The Goa'uld were expert mechanics, able to perform intricate repairs from the inside out -- given time.  But there was nothing that little bastard could do in the five seconds it took John to vault over the log, rush in, and slam the butt of his pistol into Rodney's temple.

More guards had come, all right.  He'd dispatched the first pair to arrive, then finished searching and securing Rodney. 

There had been blood, not as much as John had expected, but enough to require bandaging if he didn't want to leave an obvious trail.  Next had come the gag and restraints -- when he got back, he was so asking O'Neill whose idea it had been to include plastic cuffs in the standard offworld kit -- before he'd been ready to hoist Rodney across his shoulders in a fireman's carry.

And okay, maybe John wasn't as young as he used to be, but Rodney could still stand to lose a few pounds.  He'd hesitated, then snagged one of the staff weapons the guards had dropped.  If it became necessary, he could handle it one-handed without ever needing to reload.  Mostly though, it made a decent walking stick.

He set out vaguely in the direction of the gate, until he got near enough to use the life signs detector and see that many other dots were headed there as well.  That was an inconvenient setback rather than a crushing one; he hadn't expected escape to be quite so simple.  Switching on his radio confirmed it; he would have given anything to hear Hammond yelling at him, ordering him to come home, but there was only dead air.  Standard Goa'uld tactics would be to dial out and hold the wormhole open, preventing anyone else from dialing in.

Switching directions, he angled away from both ruins and gate, to the area where Carter's pictures had shown a large outcrop of rock.  With luck there would be caves, overhangs -- some type of natural shelter.

The sky predicted rain, either with nightfall or shortly before it.

The Goa'uld prodded Rodney's body to consciousness well before John would have thought possible.  It thrashed and let out muffled, furious shouts until he dropped it unceremoniously to the ground.

Whatever.  He could use the break. 

"Get up."

The thing ignored him.  It immediately discovered that its wrists were bound, and swiveled its head around to examine its shoulder, even though it probably knew the extent of the damage from prior internal assessment.

"Yeah, I fucked it up good," John agreed, planting base of the staff weapon in the ground and resting against it a moment.  "Pretty sure Rodney didn't see that coming.  Apologize to him for me, will ya?"

The expression the thing turned on him was so malevolent that it sent his equilibrium reeling.  He'd never wanted to see Rodney's face etched with such contempt and hatred, never imagined that anything like it could ever be directed at him.  He had to drop his gaze, and if that was showing weakness to the enemy, well... he didn't goddamned care.

"Get up," he repeated, snarling.  "Get up and start walking."

It cocked its head and scowled at him, losing some of the heat in exchange for curious, canny appraisal.  But it did lever itself upright.

John was steeling himself to trudge on when the Goa'uld bolted in the opposite direction.

"Oh, son of a-  Stop!" he shouted, taking off in pursuit.  The staff weapon was worthless; he didn't want to kill Rodney.  And he was holding the zat in reserve for when he had no other choice but to stun him.  Two shots kills.  What in the hell does that mean?  Two shots in a row?  Within a minute?  An hour?  A week?  Ever?  He'd asked before, but no one at the SGC had ever been able to explain the phenomenon to his satisfaction.  So zapping McKay was out.  There was nothing left to do but run him down the painful, old-fashioned way.

The Goa'uld acquired a large stick somehow during its flight.  The last second before John caught it, it turned and tried to impale him with the jagged, surprisingly effective-looking end.

As it turned out, the staff weapon had twice the reach of the stick, and wasn't lethal when swung like a club.

John was beginning to wonder if perhaps it would be better if they didn't both make it out of this alive.  Rodney was never going to forgive him for exhibiting such callous disregard for his precious brain.

It was both dark and raining by the time John finally settled on a cave. 

This was the fifth -- or possibly the sixth or seventh, details were starting to blur -- one he'd scouted, and while it wasn't particularly deep it was uninhabited and dry.  But even better, it was shielded from the elements by a nice, overhanging rock shelf.  That might not be important now, but he had the unsettling suspicion that it could be before the end of their stay.

"Good enough.  We stop here tonight."  He motioned the Goa'uld to the back of the cave by flicking the P90's muzzle, then dug out his little electric lantern so he could conserve what battery life the rifle's light had remaining.

The Goa'uld had given up displays of resistance a couple hours earlier, right around the time John hadn't been able to carry it one step farther.

Now, his exhaustion cut to the bone, worse than anything he could recall in years -- perhaps ever.  His prisoner... wasn't in any better shape, he realized, watching it just sort of give up and topple over once it reached the spot he'd indicated.  He'd been unwilling to look before, but darkness was no longer a convenient excuse; Rodney's face had a sickly cast to it, and his chest struggled with shallow, fluttery breaths.  John's own lungs ached in sympathy.  Or perhaps that was just damp mingling with the increasing chill of night.

It was almost worth the risk of a fire.  He wouldn't be getting any sleep anyway, and the life signs detector would warn him if anything strayed close enough to scent the smoke on the air.

In addition to rubbing Rodney's wrists raw, the Goa'uld had cut the edges of his mouth fighting the gag.  John removed it now, as gently as he could, with fingers that betrayed him with their unsteadiness.  The creature jerked from his touch anyway, aggravating the left side of Rodney's mouth -- the one that tended to droop in that stubborn yet strangely vulnerable manner.

"Careful," he said, when he saw one of the old cracks split again and start to bleed.  Then the Goa'uld sneered and lapped at the spot with its tongue, and he remembered that he wasn't dealing with Rodney at all.

No, he reminded himself.  He hadn't forgotten that, not ever.

John dropped a canteen in its lap.  "Drink."  It eyed the canteen with suspicion, but guzzled the water after a first hesitant sip.  A trickle escaped to wind down Rodney's chin and follow the line of his throat.  It would have caught on his collar and made a wet spot if the shirt hadn't already been soaked through.

A fire it was then.  Great -- like he needed to be watchful of yet another thing the Goa'uld could perceive as a weapon and try to use against him.  He searched near the mouth of the cave for tinder and dry things to burn, and soon had a tiny, precious source of heat.  The Goa'uld was especially interested in the firesteel John used to create the spray of sparks, and where it was stored after he was finished.  Oh, it didn't say anything, but it watched.

Well, John could watch too.  He removed all the hazardous bits from an MRE and tossed the creature what was left; even with its wrists still bound it managed the obnoxious packaging handily. 

"How's that shoulder feel?" he asked, as he might ask Rodney how a project was progressing over lunch in the mess.

The Goa'uld stilled but didn't answer.

"Game's up," John prompted.  "When you dropped down, you took most of your weight on that arm.  Plus I notice that hand's working for you again.  Want to know what I think?"

Silence.

John shrugged and tore open a powerbar.  "I think... this little hike shouldn't have worn you out nearly as much as it did.  You guys are supposed to be... what?  Super strong and fast and stuff?  But I think you've been putting all your energy into fixing McKay there, so that when I eventually keel over you'll be in good shape to brain me with some handy rock and scamper off to re-join your gang."

The Goa'uld's eyes flashed white -- raw visible emotion -- and holy shit but that was unnerving to see, even though he'd known it was something they did.  "To know how the shoulder feels, you would have to ask the host," it decided at last.  "I have chosen to feel nothing of the injuries inflicted on this body.  He has not been so fortunate."

Son of a bitch!

John must have exposed something in his expression, because it laughed, a low, papery chuckle that shouldn't have been able to emanate from a human chest.  "He was so... adamant that John would never harm him. Then again, he was certain John would come for him when he was dying on his pallet, delirious with sickness."

"Stop it."

"John was the one he called for, and his belief in John lasted almost to the very end.  Yet I was there when it broke, when he acknowledged that he had been betrayed and surrendered to despair."

"Rodney, it's lying," John growled.  "I came for you."

The Goa'uld agreed, "You did.  Too little and too late.  What could one man think to accomplish against all my warriors?  It is clear to the host that you alone of his allies considered him worth saving, for you would not be alone were your actions sanctioned."

"That isn't true."  John was on his feet without thinking, with the zat leveled at the Goa'uld's head.  His voice cracked and his arm trembled; he didn't care.  Neither did he give a damn that the Goa'uld had been able to spur him into losing control.  His anger was hot and invigorating, and he welcomed the false strength it lent.  "I told you to shut the fuck up."

The scornful look it gave him was so familiar on Rodney's face that John wanted to hit it until the resemblance disappeared.  "My intent was to kill you myself," it confided.  "Despite all that he has suffered, the host still values your existence above his own, and it would be... fitting to crush the life from you with the very hands that once obeyed him.  However, it does occur to me that a Goa'uld of my standing will have need of a First Prime.  As a candidate for the position, you have proven yourself both cunning and resourceful.  I will enjoy teaching you subservience, but not as much as I will relish the shame this host will feel every time he is aroused by the sight of you falling to your-"

The zat blast startled John, probably because he hadn't made a conscious decision to discharge the weapon.

Still outlined by writhing vestiges of energy, Rodney's inert body slumped over.  John stared at it a long moment, eventually lowering his arm.  The zat retracted to its neutral position.

"Rodney."

Afterimages marred his vision; he couldn't blink them away.

"Rodney, I-"

He had no words, but he rummaged for pen and paper in his pack and sat down to write them anyway.

To judge by the paling sky, it was near dawn when John finally finished.  That was good.  It meant he could let Rodney wake normally this time, instead of pistol-whipping him again.

All the other preparations had been simple.  The words had taken longest.  He'd crumpled drafts and started fresh a dozen times, but they still weren't adequate.  Nothing in this situation could be; and John hoped Rodney would take into consideration the extreme handicaps he'd been laboring under and cut him some fucking slack.  His effort... at least if all went well, he wouldn't be around when Rodney tore it to shreds with his usual critical panache.

He wondered if he should try to eat something.  He wondered if it would make the upcoming ordeal better or worse, or if he would even survive long enough for it to make a difference.

Screw it.  Starvation was the least of his worries, and Rodney could probably make better use of the supplies.  He re-packed most of his gear, tucked his bag away where it could be found, and settled in to wait on the perfect amount of daylight: too little and Rodney wouldn't understand what John was asking of him; too much and the Goa'uld might notice that John was burning up with fever.

John leaned over and slapped Rodney's cheeks, hard, until he stirred.  "Wake up, princess.  Your carriage is almost here."

The Goa'uld didn't respond at once, but John was half expecting it to-  Oh yeah, here it comes.  It lunged for him, but he already had his balance shifted to evade, and used the momentum of the attack to throw the Goa'uld on to the ground again, with what he hoped looked like humiliating ease.  It bared its teeth and tried to rise; he put his foot on its chest and held it down.  "I know Rodney can be a little cranky in the mornings before he's had his coffee, but this is a bit much, doncha think?"

It clawed at his boots with its bound hands, but didn't have the leverage to do more than rip at the laces.  "You will regret this," it promised, and scissored its legs, trying to reach him.

John only laughed and leaned in, applying more pressure.  "I don't think I will, Timmy.  I can call you Timmy, right?  Anyway, while you were sleeping -- does it count as sleep if your host is unconscious? -- I managed to make radio contact with some friends.  They're on their way to pick us up in a ship, then they'll take you to meet some of my other friends, the Tok'ra."

"Filthy traitors!" Rodney hissed, and thrashed harder.  "You lie."

"And you," John observed, "are scared.  I guess you know that the Tok'ra have a way to suck you guys out of a host, willing or not, through a big old straw or needle or something -- no one's ever bothered to fill me in on the particulars.  Oh, except that I understand the pain is excruciating.  For the symbiote.  Rodney there won't feel a thing."

Its eyes blazed at him again, but it stopped struggling.  "My Jaffa will-"

"Don't you mean Daddy's Jaffa?  The ones that haven't come anywhere near our hiding place all night, and have probably stopped searching for you?  A scholar once told me that in Goa'uld society, power is not inherited, but usurped.  I've had a lot of time to think about this lately, and I wanted to, you know, run my theory by you and see if I'm anywhere close to the mark."

"You understand nothing!"

John ignored it.  "The way I figure it, the Jaffa saw that host as a prize, one that would slip through their fingers if they couldn't bring it back alive.  So they took an immature symbiote from one of their own -- from the guard I killed, one of your so-called honor guards -- and implanted it in Rodney.  The host is valuable.  You are an accident, a convenient means to an end."

"The Jaffas' intent is immaterial," it sneered, with encouraging bitterness.  "I am the only god among them in this place, and they will obey me.  I possess the knowledge of the host, and I will use it to make a strong alliance for myself and seize the power that is my birthright."

John eased the pressure but didn't lift his boot away.  Instead he adopted a more casual pose, as if he was resting his foot on a rock or a curb.  "Kid, I can't say I hate to be the one to tell you, but you got shafted.  McKay's body is no prize.  He's soft, a scholar, not a warrior like me.  Worse, you've got access to all his memories, but they don't mean squat to you because you don't have his mind.  Good old Rodney there is a hundred times more intelligent than you are.  If he was in charge, he would have already figured out a way to defeat me."  He made a show of checking his watch.  "Instead, you're still a prisoner, and I still have all the guns."

"I will kill you," it vowed, and rolled out from under his foot.

He followed it with a loose, swinging stride.  "See, now that's just more of that short-sighted thinking of yours.  You have to know that I have the genetic ability to power the technology of the Gatebuilders.  That's a thousand times more valuable than anything you could squeeze out of Rodney's head.  And you would destroy such a precious bargaining chip just because I said some mean things and hurt your feelings.  Jeeze, you're such a teenager." 

It crouched, weighing options.  Lunging at him had landed it in an embarrassing position the last time it had tried.  He was wearing his thigh holster prominently -- the little, dangerous gun he'd already proven willing to use on Rodney.  If it ran, he was faster, and had the use of both arms.

C'mon you little bastard.  Figure it out.  I've done everything for you but connect the goddamned dots.

If he hadn't been so familiar with Rodney's face, he might not have caught the minute shift in countenance.

So then.  This was it.

"Get up.  It's time to go meet the ship."

"I refuse," the Goa'uld said, unmoving.

"Kinda thought you might be stubborn about it."  John shrugged and reached down to grab the front of Rodney's robes and haul him upright.

It sprang, looping its arms around his neck to prevent his escape.  Rodney looked like hell up close, sporting days worth of stubble and grime, with sunken, manic eyes.  Then his expression convulsed in agony.  He sagged, slamming all his weight into John; his mouth opened to scream...

No, not scream.  Goa'uld took possession of a host through the back of the neck.  Oh god, why hadn't he realized they didn't have to leave one the same way?  He stood, helpless with revulsion, as Rodney's body disgorged the parasite.  It was on him faster than he'd imagined possible, coiling around his throat.  Then, the lancing pain of its entry.

They both fell.  Rodney crashed to his hands and knees, retching and gasping for air.  John curled up and rolled on his side, thinking only away away away, while the creature burrowed into him, inside him.

"John?"  Rodney's voice, parched and hysterical, and coming to him as if from a distance. 

They wrap around the spine, and interface with the nervous system by extending hooks into the brain...

"Oh my god, John!"

"Rodney...  it'll have me... f-few more seconds."  He somehow dragged himself to his feet and stumbled a couple steps further away.  Away from Rodney, from the light.  "Run!  I can't leave this cave.  Rocks.  You have to-"

Rodney was scrambling toward him.  "I don't know what to do.  Oh god.  I don't-"

John groped for his holster and drew the nine mil, spun around and raised it.  "I said run!" he shouted, in a powerful, reverberating voice that wasn't his.  And finally, wearing an expression of horror, Rodney did.

Hurry...

He threw his weapon away and tottered to the very back of the cave, where it was safe to drop and curl up again, letting the pain bathe him.  It couldn't be normal.  It was too regular, flaring in magnitude only to level off just long enough for him to think that maybe, maybe he could learn to endure it, before it would crest again.  The Goa'uld was breaking him, and god, death was preferable...

At the center of it all was the sound of laughter.  His.

[I am Setekhmes.]  The introduction brushed directly against his mind, spreading on the surface like an oil slick.  It would cover him, all of him; nothing would be able to reach him without passing through the taint.  [And you are a fool, bereft of every advantage you once held.]

Then the ground moved, picked him up and hurled him back down, as an avalanche of rock buried him alive.

Part 2

The worst part wasn't that John considered them interchangeable -- that he thought he could put himself in Rodney's place, swap them around like spare parts, and expect Rodney to accept that solution.  Because Rodney didn't.  He denied it.  He didn't believe in a fair universe; one John Sheppard was not equivalent to one Rodney McKay.

See, once upon a time, in the back woods of British Columbia, Rodney had pulled a miracle out of his ass that had let them both walk free of a bad situation.  That was what John owed him in return: an ending where everyone went home safe and sound and still in possession of their own damned bodies.  This self-sacrificing attempt to cheat the system was bullshit, and Rodney refused to accept it.

He refused.

But the worst part?  He didn't know if he fled out of obedience, or out of fear.

The thing that yelled and pointed a gun at him -- the creature whose eyes shimmered with white-hot desperation -- that wasn't John.  Not anymore.  Not entirely.

So Rodney ran.

The Goa'uld had weapons; he didn't.  The Goa'uld's wrists weren't cuffed together; his were.  The Goa'uld was whole and rested; Rodney hadn't slept in days, unless one counted being unconscious.  (He didn't.)  He'd been shot.  Healed incompletely with brutal haste.  His skull felt ready to split open at the slightest provocation, which doubtless meant he had trauma and contusions and fractures and aneurysms thanks to Sheppard repeatedly bludgeoning him over the head, and he'd probably lost fifty IQ points, which would explain why he couldn't think.

He couldn't-

Fuck, it was like he couldn't remember how to use his own damned legs.  He must've found every hump and trough in the geography of the cavern floor, and only managed to stay upright through most of it because he kept careening off the damned walls.  Once, he went down, catching himself on his forearms.  Even as he was sprawling his legs kept moving, and their momentum was what lifted him back up and drove him out into the thin morning light.

He didn't know what to do.  He was supposed to be that guy -- the one whose mind worked a little bit faster, who saw solutions a little bit easier, except now he was brain damaged and they would probably take away his Mensa membership provided he ever made it home in one piece, which was so not going to happen because in about thirty seconds that Goa'uld was going to follow him out of the cave and shoot him and it wasn't even going to have to try hard because he was just standing there making a nice, juicy target.

Cover.  He needed cover.  Trees were good.  Trees were awesome.  There was a cluster of them off to the right.  He sort of stretched his arms out in front of him, overbalanced, and hoped his feet would catch him before he fell.  They did, repeatedly.

Huh.  As he approached, he could see there was something not quite right about one of the smaller-

Not a tree.  A staff weapon, propped against the bole of a young pine.  He changed his direction abruptly and made a grab for it about the same time he skidded to his knees.

Okay.  The Goa'uld was armed.  Well, now so was he.  When it came out of the cave-  That was, he should hide so that it couldn't see him before he-  If he shot John in the legs it wouldn't kill him.  Probably.  He would shoot back, so Rodney would have to... draw his fire somehow, make him waste all his ammunition.  Then it would be simple to waltz in and club him over the head for a change.  He just had to hide, and wait for it to come out of the-

I can't leave this cave, John had said.

God, his plan wasn't a plan at all, but a series of dangerous suppositions, and what was actually going to happen was that the Goa'uld was going to laugh while Rodney shot everything except it, because it knew his aim was crap and he couldn't hit the side of a mountain.  Then it was going to shoot him and haul him back to its ship.   It would have control of John's gene and Rodney's (diminished but still potent) intellect and there was a very real risk it could locate some powerful Ancient weapon before the SGC did and Earth would be fucked.  Just... totally totally fucked.

At least Rodney knew how to fire the staff, and could manage it even with limited use of his arms.  A P90 would have been much more difficult to cock or even lift into firing position.  It was the first bit of good luck he'd had in days.  He swung it around -- dangerous end goes toward the bad guy -- and primed it to discharge.  The four prongs of the head expanded, crackling with the building energy.

No, it isn't luck.  John left the staff here for me.  He knew it would come to this.  He's counting on me to have the nerve to pull the trigger.

The Goa'uld should have been right behind him.  Where was it?  Should he try to take it out while it was still in the mouth of the cave, before its eyes adjusted to the stronger light?

Oh god, I won't be able to do it.  I'm going to doom Earth because I can't-  John should have killed the snake when he had the chance, while it was still in me.

The tip of the staff dipped and wavered.  With his hands too close together his grip was awkward and unsteady.

Stop.  Stop stop stop.  Idiot!  John would know I wouldn't be able to do it.  That can't be the plan.  There has to be another plan.  Think!

When he saw it, a tremendous smile split his face.  The edges of his mouth were barely healed and still sore and it hurt, damn it, but he didn't care and couldn't stop.  Because in that moment it was possible that he was just a tiny bit madly, insanely, completely in love with John Sheppard.  "Oh, you are one clever son of a bitch," he marveled, even as he was searching out fractures and instabilities with an engineer's discerning eye.  Then he lifted the muzzle of the staff weapon and blasted the shit out of rock shelf overhanging the cave.

It didn't just fall; it took half the cliff face with it.  The tremors of the impact took Rodney down as well, but he was struggling back to his feet while the air was still choked with dust and the smaller rock fragments were still slithering and chattering over each other, trying to find a place to settle.

The cave's dark maw was gone, replaced by a substantial rock slide, and holy shit but he'd just buried John alive.  With no air.  Well, other than what he'd already had in there with him, and if this had been Earth Rodney could have already figured out how long it would take him to suffocate.  Of course, PV=nRT was useless -- because hello, constants aren't on other planets -- but if he had to guess he'd say John might have fifteen cubic meters to work with.  (Vive le metric system!)  And okay, even if he knew the oxygen concentration in P3X-423's atmosphere -- which he didn't -- it would still have to drop below about ten percent before the serious repercussions set in, while the carbon dioxide concentration only had to rise about five percent to reach toxic levels.  And respiration exchanged the two at an almost even ratio, maybe twelve to fifteen liters per hour -- god, why did his brain hang on to these horrific pieces of trivia? -- which meant... yeah, carbon dioxide poisoning would get him long before oxygen deficiency could.

Well, assuming the cave-in hadn't killed him instantly.

Rodney found the pack not far from where the staff had been siting -- further evidence that events were proceeding according to plan.  At least in part.  He hoped.

Shit, that didn't make him feel better at all.  This was John Sheppard he was talking about.  The man had been fully prepared to go out with his ship, like some sort of deranged sea captain, rather than let the puddle jumper fall into the wrong hands.  He was a pilot, for god's sake.  Weren't pilots supposed to have a cut-your-losses-and-bail-out-early mentality?  Hello, they made parachutes and ejector seats for a reason!

Although now that he thought about it?  The absence of ejector seats in helicopters made perfect sense, and parachutes were probably out for the same reason...  Which meant John was an anomaly who considered suicidal gambits perfectly reasonable, and he must've had a decent track record with them because he was still around and a person only got to succeed -- or was that fail? -- at suicide once, and Rodney needed to stop thinking.  Now was good, although thirty seconds ago would have been ideal.

When he wrenched open the pack's zipper, one of the first things his fingers encountered was John's field knife, still in its belt sheath.  He yanked that sucker out and had his wrists free after only a couple minutes of sawing.  He might have nicked himself in the process; it was hard to tell through the dirt, and his nerves had long ago given up trying to isolate and identify his body's litany of aches.

The Goa'uld had been more interested in having a functional, unblemished host than a thoroughly hale one.  Oh, it had done a remarkable job on his shoulder, because it had actually expected to catch John off-guard and overpower him.  But the small things?  Rodney feared most of those repairs had been superficial, leaving deep-tissue trauma to heal the tedious, natural way.

Yeah, Rodney would give a lot to be able to block out pain the way the Goa'uld could.  Maybe not an arm, but a kidney.  You could live with just one of those, right?  Or, alternately, he'd trade the same for some really good drugs.  John wouldn't have undertaken a hopeless rescue without at least packing a first aid kit... right?  He went to upend the pack to discover what other goodies it might contain, and that's when he found the note, tucked into one of the external mesh pockets.

It was an ordinary piece of printer paper, folded into quarters.  The outside screamed READ ME FIRST! in heavy block letters, underlined twice.  "Okay, geeze," Rodney grumbled, opening the page, when in truth it was a relief to have any form of external influence.  It let him pretend, just for a moment, that he wasn't entirely alone and self-reliant in the worst situation he'd ever faced.

The handwriting was John's, somewhat unsteady but gut-wrenchingly familiar.  It elicited memories of all the evenings they'd shared John's bed in studious companionship -- Rodney with a laptop or two, and John with his Ancient notebook propped on his knee, filling page after page with his surprisingly refined script.

Rodney, the first line said, and Rodney blinked back a hot feeling, smoothed the page with fingers that trembled.

If it really is you reading this, and not that fucking snake, it means something went right.  Thank god.  If not, well, I don't want to think about the not.  Don't suppose it matters in the end.  It won't change what I need to say.

Before I explain further, before you read any more, you need to get the hell away from that cave.  There's a map on the other side of this paper.

He flipped it over to find that there was, drawn over top of a composite print-out of aerial recon photos.

Follow it.  Take the life signs detector out of the pack, front pocket.  I left it initialized for you.  No telling how long the battery will last.  You need to use it to get away from there right now.  If you've followed the plan, the result was probably quite impressive.  Wish I'd been able to see it.  But it'll draw the attention of the Jaffa.  Set the LSD for one and a half miles, that ought to be enough.  Avoid the dots and you can move fast without worrying about stealth.

Do it now.  Go.  I mean it.  This is a direct order.

There was more, so Rodney kept reading.

Take the staff and the P90.  The zat is in the pack too.  Take it out and hide it somewhere on your person, just in case.

Why aren't you moving yet?  I said to stop reading.  Put down the fucking note and go.  NOW.

Whatever else John had needed to say, he hadn't written it on this page.  Locating it would probably take too long.  Plus, the advice was sound, much better than what Rodney could have come up with on short notice.  He was wearing some ridiculous outfit the Goa'uld had stuck him in; he'd never been particularly fond of the hot, bulky tac vests, but he sure as hell missed his now.  Still, he managed to wedge the zat securely between the layers of his robes, and the P90 had a canvas shoulder strap.  The pack went over that.  Then, staff in the crook of his elbow, he took one last look at the map to orient himself before tucking it away in exchange for the life signs detector.

Nothing in the immediate area but himself and- 

Wait.  In the direction of the cave, two faint dots.

John was alive, for now.

That was the very best motivation in the whole world.  Before, Rodney hadn't been sure he'd be able to move once he was fully loaded down.  Now, he took off without even wondering what reserves he'd had to pillage to dredge up the necessary energy.

So long as John was alive and Rodney was free, there was still a chance for them both.

The problem with John's map, Rodney quickly determined, was that it was leading him even further away from where he wanted to be: namely, the Stargate.

The SGC needed to get a team of combat engineers out here, fast.  Or hell, even a bunch of guys with picks and shovels would get the job done.  Marines were out, though.  They would want to play with their plastic explosives, and probably just bring down the rest of the cliff or collapse the cave entirely.

He stumbled on some vines, used the staff to catch himself, and temporarily lost sight of his target in the distance.  His eyes were quick to locate it again, the strange hump of dirt with the fern-like thing growing on its side.  The presence of two other temporary markers, near and behind him, kept him moving in as true a direction as he could manage without sophisticated electronic assistance.  That was something -- just knowing that he could probably find his way back, when the time came.

The life signs detector still showed all clear, but damn it, that could mean he was moving away from possible help.  What if the SGC had teams on the planet right now, looking for them?  Hell, what if the story about the ship was true, and one of their allies with a cruiser in the area had agreed to swing by and pick them up?

Of course, none of those possibilities made sense in the context of what appeared to be a career-killing solo rescue mission.  Just what in the hell had John been thinking?

It was time to find out.

Rodney wasn't even half way to the safe position indicated on the map, but screw that.  He'd covered enough distance to give himself some mental breathing space, and the life signs detector would alert him if pursuit discovered his trail.  The hillock with the fern was as good a spot as any to drop the pack and collapse.

He shut his eyes a moment, allowing himself that much -- a snatch of rest and fortification for the ordeal ahead.  Then he dug into the pack again, this time with objectives firmly in his mind.

First: a radio.  There had to be one; otherwise how in the hell had John expected to gate home?  He had an identification code, but if he was on the planet without permission, there was no way in hell he'd managed to swipe a GDO transmitter.  Not... that the SGC would have opened the iris for him even if he had.  No, John must have been anticipating one of those exchanges where you radioed the SGC to inform them of a fuck-up, then they sent a team through to escort you back to Earth under guard, where you'd be thrown into quarantine until it was proven beyond all reasonable doubt that you were who you claimed to be.

It occurred to Rodney that gating home hot had never been an option.  No wonder John had avoided confrontations and gone to ground instead.

The radio, when he found it, was already switched on and dishearteningly quiet.  Still, he listened for chatter on all the SGC's routine channels.  Then he went back and painstakingly clicked out an SOS on all available frequencies, waiting a few seconds for a response before moving on.  When that yielded no results, he returned the radio to the standard emergency channel, set it aside, and went back to cataloging his resources

Med kit.  Now he was in business.  It was one of the smaller ones, something John could have gotten his hands on without arousing suspicion, so it didn't contain anything stronger than codeine.  But Rodney was so, so okay with that just now.  The white pill was huge, and he still would have choked it down dry if he'd had anything resembling saliva in the parched wasteland that was his mouth.  Canteens helped with that problem; one heavy and untouched, the other sloshing and perhaps three-quarters empty when Rodney was finished with it.  He capped it and returned it to the pack.

There was food in the form of powerbars and a few MREs; a light coil of rope; fire starting and water purification gear; a couple of emergency blankets.  One flare gun with several charges.  A tiny LED flashlight with a baton on one end that could double as a camp light.  Two spare clips for the Beretta that was with John in the cave, along with a handful of loose rounds.  It was sort of obvious, as Rodney pulled out items and lined them up, that John hadn't learned his lesson from being stranded in the puddle jumper.  Either that or he'd never passed a wilderness survival course in his life, because Rodney wasn't sure how this pile of junk was supposed to sustain a person for any appreciable length of time.

Seriously, where the hell was the coffee?  Would it have been too much trouble to throw in a few extra packets of the instant crap?

The notebook was buried at the very bottom of the pack, which either meant that it had gone in first because it was most important, or John hadn't wanted Rodney to discover it early and get distracted from the task at hand.  He ran a finger along the slim spine, hesitant to crack it just yet, because he needed it to contain answers, and what if it didn't?  Then he truly would be stuck out here on his own.

"Sheppard, you'd better have a damned good explanation for all of this, because I-"  Rodney's voice rose steadily, until it hit a pitch that broke it.  He blamed the recent disuse and pushed on.  "You owe me.  I'll take it out of your ass if I have to, but you need to stay alive long enough for me to have a chance to do it.  You, me -- call it an unpaid debt, or unfinished business, but things are not okay between us, and you are not allowed to leave until you set them right.  You hear me?"

"Shit," he mumbled, grinding the heel of his palm into his eyes, one after the other.  Then he wrenched open the notebook.

The first pages were blank, like John had flipped to a random spot and just started writing mid-way down the paper.  But then Rodney noticed the frayed edges, where not just one but several pages had been torn out and discarded.

Rodney, the text began.  I don't know how many times I've started this, and started over.  If I repeat myself, it might be the fever, or it might just be that I can't remember what I've written and what I haven't, this time around.  It's all blurred together.

The fever.  Might as well dive in there.

Oh god, the illness.  Events during the time he'd been sick were hazy at best; he recalled being so delirious with heat and pain that he'd welcomed the frequent bouts of unconsciousness.  Now John was sick?

I don't know if you remember, but you got sick first.  SG-15 tried to get you to the gate to get you home, but they caught it too.  By the time they radioed in they were in pretty bad shape, and that's about when the Go-  Fuck, that's too hard to spell.  When the snakes showed up.  SG-15 made it through the gate.  You didn't.  No one could explain why not.

It's bad, Rodney.  The flu.  That's what Fraiser calls it.  Flu-like.  Symptoms are similar, just lots worse.  We sat down and talked about getting you back.  Me and SG-1.  They sent a UAV, Carter took all these pretty pictures.  O'Neill came up with a plan.   Then Hammond said we had to wait, the planet was off limits.

I don't know if I ever told you what Daniel told me about the Ancient plague.  There was an epidemic and it nearly wiped them out and they're a lot more advanced than we are.  Nobody's saying it, but we're all thinking it.  This could be it.  Or near enough.  Lying dormant for years.  Mutated or something.  It's bad, Rodney.  SG-15 got sick after you and they're in the infirmary and Fraiser won't say it but they're dying.  It's killing them, those big strong guys.  And you went the longest without medicine.  Nobody's saying it, but if SG-15 dies, they won't be in a hurry to risk sending someone after you.  They'd only expect to bring back a corpse.

Dying.  Yes, he'd known that at the time.  In his more lucid moments, he been downright accepting, because there were far, far worse ways to die on an alien world than illness.  Some he'd even witnessed.  So yeah, as long as he didn't go down screaming and writhing in agony, he was pretty okay with a variety of potential demises.

He turned the page and read on.

This is all Carter's fault.  I mean, I wanted to go anyway, but she caught me in the hall and told me the snakes would keep you alive if they wanted you.  They must've wanted you.  I mean, of course they wanted you.  You're brilliant and funny and amazing.  You can do anything you put your mind to.  I've never met anyone like you.  You've got all that important stuff in your head.

O'Neill knew I was gonna do something stupid.  He tried to warn me but he didn't stop me, probably because he would have done the same thing in my place.  Hell, I've read the reports.  He has done the same thing.  I had to risk it because there was a chance you were alive but you were going to slip away if the snakes left the planet.  I couldn't wait to see if SG-15 would recover, so I-

The SGC'll want to read this.  Please don't let them, if you can help it.  Just, you know... my reputation.  Even if I don't make it back.  Especially if I don't make it back.

Hammond's right.  If this flu makes it back to Earth, we're fucked.  Children and the elderly will die first, but it'll get a lot more people, even the strong healthy ones.  I don't even know where I lost my mask, but I wasn't without it for long before I got sick.  Or maybe you don't have to breathe it in.  After I shot your shoulder-  Oh god, I'm so sorry about that.  I didn't realize you could feel it, feel everything, and I caused as much damage as I could to slow it down.  Then I kept hitting you.  I wouldn't hurt you if I could help it.  Never.  I'd rather die.  Please, please forgive me.

There was more in that paragraph, but he couldn't-  Fuck.  Maybe later, once this was all over.  For now, he scanned ahead and picked up when the thread of the explanation re-emerged.

I patched you up after I shot you, and there was a lot of blood.  So maybe that's how I got sick, maybe the virus can be spread through skin contact.  At any rate, by the time I dragged you to the cave I was already getting sick but didn't realize it.  Just thought the weather was making my chest ache.  I picked that cave thinking I could trap the snake inside if I absolutely had to, like if I was going to make a run on the gate, try to take out the Jaffa guarding it.

I've mentioned the Jaffa, haven't I?  Shit, I've done it again, rambled on when I should have been telling you what to do.  I'd start over again but I don't think I have very much time left, so here goes.

The snake that was in you is an immature larva taken from one of the Jaffa.  It probably doesn't have a strong hold over them, and I'm pretty sure it doesn't have their loyalty.  I figure the only reason they're hanging around is to look for you, the host.  You're the valuable one.  But not that valuable.  They'll give up soon, and stop holding the gate open.  They're doing that now, or else the SGC would be on the radio chewing my head off.  So all you have to do is wait, see?  Go some place safe and quiet and wait for the Jaffa to get bored and leave.  DO NOT GO NEAR THE GATE.  When the SGC can finally make a connection, they'll radio and you can tell them what happened.  They'll send a team to come and bring you home.

"No, no you idiot.  A few days doesn't work for me.  The way I figure it, you've got less than a day's worth of air in there.  There is no fucking way I'm gonna sit on my ass while you suffocate.  So just... no."  Besides, Rodney knew a lot more about the situation on that Al'kesh than John did; there was no chance the Jaffa would clear out so soon.  Not after the Goa'uld had poked around in Rodney's head and learned what SG-15 had been searching for in the ruins.  No, they thought they'd beaten the SGC to a prize.  They wouldn't give up quickly or easily.

If... by some chance the SGC is able to send a team soon, you might be able to save me.  That's why it had to be this way.  Don't you see?  I have the fever.  When SG-15 got sick, they became confused so fast.  If I don't do this now, I'm going to end up the same way, weak and confused, and eventually I'll look at you and forget that you're not you and that damned snake will take me down.  Then we'll both be fucked and it'll be my fault.  This way  I did convince it to leave you and take me, right?  God, I hope so.  That was the plan.  If it didn't work then we probably are fucked and I'm sorry.  But if it worked and you got out, at least one of us is free and level-headed and besides, you're better at solving impossible problems than me.  If one of us has to be alone in this, you have the better chance.  I'm not sorry at all for giving that to you.

Maybe it'll heal me.  Maybe it won't.  Maybe it'll work to keep me alive.  Maybe it won't care enough about self-preservation to bother.  Whatever happens, I'm fine with it.  Really I am.  This past year has been-  No, these last few months I've seen things and done things and learned things I never imagined I would.  And you were right there with me, making everything even better.  The only thing I regret

The next section wasn't just scratched out; it was obliterated beneath layers and layers of heavy, almost violent ink strokes.  The paper was torn through in several places.

Tell Hammond I'm sorry.  Say the same to Daniel, but in Latin.  You'll have to look it up, I can't remember how just now.  Give Carter a hug for me, she was worried about you too.  You won't have to say anything to Teal'c, just bow your head and he'll understand.  O'Neill... he was right about both things.  Say that for me.  He'll know what I mean.

And you, behave yourself.

The funny thing is, there's an empty casket waiting for me in a pretty cemetery.  You might have heard of it, a little place called Arlington.  I can't think of a better place to spend eternity, and I don't even care if it says "Captain" on my headstone.  If news of my fuck-up doesn't get around, maybe the Air Force'll still like me enough to bury me there on the sly.  It'd be nice if my family could come to visit me for real.  Not that any of them would.

There was more, but Rodney slapped the notebook shut, unwilling to read further.

"No.  You've got some nerve, asking me to do all that.  Well, I'm not doing your dirty work for you, you lazy son of a bitch.  You can do it yourself," he gritted, shoving gear back in the pack, "after I drag your sorry ass home."

And then?  Then Rodney wasn't going to speak to him until John stopped being such a fucking coward.  There was the matter of that blacked-out section of text.  If the notebook represented the entire legacy that John Sheppard had left for Rodney McKay, then Rodney damned well deserved to know what it said.

All of it.

The plan hadn't become the plan simply because it had been the first one to bloom, fully envisioned, in Rodney's mind.  Oh no.  It would have been discarded at once if it hadn't also been a symphony, a masterpiece of shoddy logic and trigger-happy excess.

In short, it was the type of plan John would have authored in one of his more suicidally-enlightened moments of desperation.

Therefore, Rodney embraced it, even though the odds were astronomically -- yes, he'd estimated them -- opposed to his success.  But the plan gave him the opportunity to go down kicking and screaming and biting and spitting and pulling hair and generally employing every dirty trick and tactic he'd ever learned, all the way from his elementary school recess yard to the SGC's gym, where a week earlier he'd watched Teal'c toss Marines around with the same aplomb Rodney used to hurl insults.

Back in the good old days, when he'd had lackeys to terrorize.

And the best part?  The plan required no preparation, so he wouldn't have time to second-guess himself.  Plus, once he was committed, backing out was not an option.  The threat of impending death was a fairly strong motivational tool; he'd done some of his best work under the threat of impending death.

He'd done some of his best work while not wearing pants, too, but never in conjunction with the impending death thing.  Maybe... if he could manage both at the same time it would be, like, guaranteed success?

Dammit, focus!  You're supposed to be angry!  Furious!  Livid!  How can you be livid while imagining taking out a shipload of Jaffa in your boxer shorts?  John would-

That was the other cool part of the plan.  When his anger dwindled, all he had to do was picture that blacked-out section of text to make it smolder again.  Major John Fucking Sheppard, USAF, was not allowed to toss down a mystery -- no, a challenge! -- like that and then flounce off the stage in a welter of nobility and self-sacrificial bullshit.  Not when Rodney had been handed the final say in the matter.

His grip tightened on the staff weapon, renewed purpose lengthening his stride.  He had a lot of ground to cover.

Eventually, Rodney gave up trying to navigate off the map and re-discovered the ruins by the expedient method of locating a group of Jaffa with the life signs detector and trailing them in.

He abandoned the pack -- including the precious radio, which had to be switched off -- at the very edge of the crumbling compound.  He knew the area had already been searched, and the pack was unlikely to be discovered.  Then he gave himself a quick once-over, checking for irregularities in his costume.  It wouldn't make sense for him to enter camp wearing anything other than the ridiculous outfit the Goa'uld had chosen -- layers of weighty, opulent fabrics, obscenely ornamented and perfectly stupid for trekking around in the woods all day.  It was no wonder that he was festooned with twigs and leaves and bits of bark.

The dried blood should have been even worse, but wasn't actually obvious against embroidered maroon silk.

The staff was a constant, comforting presence, riding easily now in the crook of his arm.  He hesitated, then decided that keeping the zat wouldn't arouse suspicions.  Besides, he might need it inside the ship, once he got there.

If he got there.  He figured it was even odds he'd make it past the first posted guards.  Oh sure, the Goa'uld had screwed up his bloodstream with naquadah, because he'd been a host and that's what they did to their hosts, intentionally or not.  But there was no telling how long the foreign, heavy element would linger in his body.  The dose might be permanent, or it might already be dissipating somehow.  And the Jaffa might be able to sense that. 

That was how it worked, according to Carter: other Jaffa and other hosts could identify someone carrying a Goa'uld from the naquadah in their blood, and what if Rodney didn't have enough left or something, and they could tell he no longer had a snake in his head?  Or worse, what if they let him believe he'd fooled them when he'd done nothing of the sort?  Then they would grab him at an unexpected moment and take him prisoner and torture him until he told them about the cave, and then the Goa'uld inhabiting John's super-gene body would keep what was potentially the most brilliant (yet still woefully under-appreciated) mind in the galaxy as some sort of glorified pet.  Oh god, it had shown him what it had wanted to do to John, and it would do the same to him, because it enjoyed payback and parallels and tidy, ironic solutions.  And it would know that Rodney would know that Rodney deserved the humiliation and the shame of servitude.  After all, it had cribbed details -- like the way John's gaze would smolder up through his dark lashes as he knelt at Rodney's feet -- directly from Rodney's sordid fantasies.  Even if by some miracle he did manage to pull this off, he would never be able to look John square in the eye ever again.

He would have reconsidered fleeing if it hadn't been far too late; there was movement off to his right, and if they found him cowering behind a mound of old bricks there was no way in hell his act could succeed.

Angry.  You're very angry.  Think... old-testament god sort of angry.

He squared his shoulders, forcing his spine ramrod straight.

The Jaffa are your followers.  Don't think of them as physically enhanced, super-frightening warriors from a brutal alien society.  They're worms to crush beneath your feet.  They screwed up, and every indignity, every discomfort you suffered during the past two days was a result of their ineptitude. 

He didn't need a mirror to know he'd nailed the requisite scornful expression.  The Goa'uld had twisted his features into the same haughty sneer so often that it felt right, down to the subtle curl of his lip.

You're going to make them pay for their failure.  You aren't capable of temperance or mercy.

Taking one last deep breath, Rodney stepped out from behind the wall.

The Jaffa were, to put it mildly, shocked to see him.  For a moment they so strongly resembled a pair of his old flunkies caught goofing around on the clock that instinct took over.  "What are you doing?" he barked, raking his glare over them, head to toe, while they fumbled into a properly respectful and attentive pose.

"My lord-" one of them began.

"This area has been searched," he interrupted.  "If your current duties allow you time for loitering and leisure, then obviously they are too light.  Return to camp and request additional work."

"Yes, my lord," they echoed, scuttling away to a safe distance, where they could turn their backs to him without insult and escape.

They hadn't noticed anything amiss.  He'd been watching, waiting for an adverse reaction, and there hadn't been one.  Not even a glimmer of hastily covered doubt.

God, this could actually work.

He wrapped himself in a buffer of arrogance and bravado and strode for the ship.

Many Jaffa noticed him along the way, but none seemed willing to brave his ostentatious displeasure and approach.  That was fine.  Perfect, in fact.  Although... he would want an audience when he faced down the commander of the troops.

Even the Goa'uld that had taken Rodney had been wary of the Jaffa commander.  His authority was solid, and he reveled in his position; he had not been pleased to be deposed by a scaly, fledgling dictator parading around in a Rodney-suit, and was just as unlikely to welcome Rodney's return.  Already distrustful and borderline insubordinate, he would be looking for the slightest excuse to mutiny, with the well-founded confidence that his fellow Jaffa would follow.

And speak of the devil... there he was, all seven bazillion feet of him, roiling in Rodney's direction.  (Seriously, with diets as lacking in nutritional balance as they were on some of the planets in this dumb galaxy, how did the natives grow to be so... gargantuan?)  His biceps had the circumference of a telephone pole, his scalp looked like he'd shaved it with a lawn mower, and he had that disturbing black tattoo of office in the middle of his forehead.  The guy could waltz into the meanest, toughest biker bar on Earth, and no one would dare give him shit for wearing a silver miniskirt and chain mail pantyhose -- he was that intimidating.

"My lord," he scowled, closing in with the momentum of a prairie thunderstorm.  The mockery in his tone was just shy of mortal offense.  "Your return comes at a... fortunate time.  I was about to initiate-"

He didn't get out another word, because that's when Rodney swung the staff weapon around and shot him, point-blank in the chest.

The impact flung the body some distance.  It landed on its side, limbs splayed unnaturally, but Rodney wasn't taking chances.  Not when John's life had to be slipping away, breath by labored breath.  He strolled over and shot it again, in the stomach, where the crackling energy discharge was sure to kill the symbiote, then stepped over it as if it was nothing as he turned to address the assembling crowd.

"Jaffa!" he bellowed.  "Serve me well and all will prosper.  But know that this-"  A sharp, theatric gesture of his arm.  "-is the penalty for failure."

Rodney's new second in command was hurrying over, more than eager to prove his obedience.  "My lord, what news?  What are your wishes?"

Rodney planted the end of the staff in the ground, as he'd seen John do, but rather than lean against it he shifted his grip, nice and loose and near enough to the trigger mechanism to convey a loud message.  "I wish to know how a single enemy was able to breach my defenses and wreak so much damage.  I wish to know how a mere Tau'ri could evade all my warriors, and why I was compelled to deal with the disturbance personally."

The Jaffa gulped and ducked his gaze away even further.

"I suppose my... former commander was the most qualified to sate my curiosity," Rodney relented, aiming for a petulant tone.  It was difficult, with adrenaline driving his heart rate to set new, uncomfortable records; somewhere else, in some other world or plane of existence, some other version of him was shaking uncontrollably.  But where it mattered -- here and now -- his hand on the staff was steady.  "However, I have every confidence that my new commander will do his best to satisfy me."

"My lord," the man agreed, his voice hitching on the words.

"Dispose of that," Rodney ordered, jerking his head at the dead Jaffa.  "And prepare the ship for immediate departure.  I have learned all I need to of these ruins, and I am eager to put that knowledge to use.  I will be in my quarters."  He was fairly confident he could locate the shipboard suite without wandering the decks looking like an idiot.  "When all is ready, come for me.  Until then, I am not to be disturbed.  Is that clear?" he asked, lifting one eyebrow in the smug fashion that, when John did it, always made Rodney want to smack him just a little.  (Well, smack him or kiss him, because it was annoying yet incredibly sexy, however the hell that worked.)

Damn it, John.  Hold on a little longer.  You can do it for me, I know you can.  This isn't the first time.

"Yes, my lord!"

"Kree!" he shouted, which he gathered from context was a delightful, multipurpose phrase which loosely translated to: Haul ass you worthless waste of oxygen.

His new commander backed away, and when Rodney marched for the ship, the lingering crowd parted to clear him a path.

Timing was tricky, because Rodney had a vague idea of the range on the ring transporter, but he could only guess what the escape velocity would be for a ship the size and bulk of the Al'kesh, given that he knew nothing about important little details like the gravity and atmosphere of P3X-423.  Therefore, he was relieved and only a little surprised when he re-materialized on the planet's surface, somewhat on target; he was running for his hidden pack as soon as the receiving rings had lifted away.

That phase of the plan had concluded... as well as could have been expected, actually.

The pack was where he'd left it - yes, yes, thank god -- but his hands were trembling so badly that he fought with the zipper for perhaps half a minute.  All the while he was thinking, Come on, damn you, that's another liter of air John's used... and another... and another.  Work, damn it!  You're killing him!

He wasn't sure if he meant the zipper or his fingers.

Then, the radio had somehow obtained the tactile properties of a wet bar of soap, because he fumbled it straight out of the pack and couldn't seem to pick it up again.  He was nearly screaming with frustration by the time he had it under control, forcing his fingers to work the tiny buttons.  When it crackled to life, he didn't bother to check the channel, just punched the transmit key and said, "This is Rodney McKay, authentication code Sierra Whiskey India Echo Seven.  If anyone is reading me, please respond."

He was holding his breath so hard that he almost forgot to release the transmit key, and was about to switch channels and try again when an incredulous voice ventured, [Dr McKay?  Is that really you?]

"No," he snapped.  "It's Elvis, returned from the dead and chatting on the SGC's secure emergency channel.  Oh hey, and I've got Santa Claus and the Tooth Fairy here too if you'd like to speak to either of them.  Of course it's Dr McKay, you moron!  I gave you my authentication code so that you would know I really am me!"

[Sir...]

Oh hell, no one important would call him that.  "Look, we are working with an extremely limited time frame.  I need you to tell me, are you on P3X-423?  The lockout on the gate should have cleared maybe forty minutes ago, and you were obviously able to establish a wormhole.  Did the SGC already send a team, or are you back in Colorado?"

[Sir, I really don't think you should be saying-]

"I'm sorry, perhaps I wasn't explicit enough.  I am attempting to organize a critical rescue mission, despite the fact that I myself have been stranded on an alien planet for days.  Given that this is the only form of communication I have available to me-"

[Sir-]

"I'm assuming that your location is secure, and I'm sure as hell not in a position to be overheard.  Therefore I don't find it unreasonable at all to discuss particulars on an encoded-"

[Please sir, if you would just-]

"Are there any grown ups at home that I can talk to?" Rodney demanded.  Seriously, working with the military was just as bad as dealing with tiered tech support.  The only way to get anything done was to reach someone in a position of authority, and to do that you had to first break through the front-line cannon fodder.  The most expedient method was to be so rude and unreasonable that peons gave up and escalated you.

Or just hung up on you.

A patch of dead air lengthened, until Rodney almost feared he'd managed the second feat.  Then another voice was on the line.

[Dr McKay, just what in the hell is going on?  Where is Major Sheppard?]

"General Hammond," Rodney acknowledged with surprise.  "So good to hear from you, too.  That is, um... I'm not being entirely sarcastic.  I really do need to speak to you.  This way I won't have to bother explaining myself a dozen times."  Wasting time that John didn't have.  "You're at the SGC?"

[Yes, I am,] Hammond answered carefully, almost as if he hoped to get sense out of Rodney by setting a good example.

"Excellent.  I need a team of combat engineers in full biohazard suits sent to P3X-423 and I need them yesterday.  Major Sheppard is trapped behind about a thousand tons of-  Oh," he said, turning his face skyward in awe.  "Oh, that is really... something."

[Dr McKay, did you say that Major Sheppard is trapped?  Where are you?  What happened to the Goa'uld we assume have been holding the gate open to prevent us from dialing in?]

"The Jaffa," Rodney corrected.  He flailed his hand, indicating the expanding fireball directly above him.  A long, long way above him.  It was graceful, almost organic; after the initial stark burst, the chain-reaction swells continued to feed off each other in savage oranges and reds.

It was, he decided, almost like a really gorgeous sunset without all the pinks -- if a sunset could take place at the apex of a clear afternoon sky.  And before he had the opportunity to tell the story to John, he needed to find a more poetic way to say exactly that.

[What about the Jaffa?]

"General, be advised that radio communication is going to be disrupted as soon as the electromagnetic pulse reaches my position."

[Did you just say electromagnetic pulse?]  That was Carter.  What the hell was this, a party line?

"Yes," Rodney sighed.  The fireball was beginning to break up, the larger pieces of debris scattering under the effects of inertia and gravity.  "The Al'kesh just exploded in the stratosphere."  Too low for the wreckage to burn up coming down, but given the ship's trajectory and the rotation of the planet, it was unlikely that he was in any danger of being crushed where he stood.

O'Neill's voice this time, definitely.  [Did he just say expl-]

That's when the EM wave reached him; a surge of static washed out his radio.  The immediate feedback was sharp and unpleasant, causing him to wince, but soon receded to a soothing white hiss.

It would be several minutes before the interference dissipated.  Shielding his eyes against the suns' glare, he tipped his head back for one last visual imprint of the destroyed Al'kesh.  It was just ribbons now, the super-heated debris forming false contrails as it free fell toward the planet.  But it was something he felt he should remember and carry with him -- the distances to which he would go, and the unsettling resolve he could find deep within himself, if the cause was-  No, not worthy.  Dear enough.

He gathered his things and headed for the gate.  When the team arrived, he was going to need to show them what to do.

After that, nothing happened the way Rodney had envisioned.  As soon as radio contact was restored, the SGC sent a UAV to do a reconnaissance run.  He heard its engine and glimpsed it soaring over his head while he was still some distance from the gate.

All right, they didn't trust him -- in the same situation he wouldn't have trusted himself.

Still, he didn't appreciate being held under gunpoint the instant he entered the clearing around the Stargate.

A guy in a biohazard suit shouted, "Drop your weapon!"  And okay, maybe that wasn't exactly what he said, but his intent was clear from the way he and a few of his buddies had their rifles trained on Rodney's chest.

"Dr McKay, please lower your weapon," Teal'c repeated helpfully.  Rodney could understand him; they were the only two not wearing suits.  Teal'c had his own staff poised, but at least he was gracious enough not to point it-

Oh shit, never mind.

"If indeed you are Dr McKay."

"I am!  I am totally Dr McKay!  See, I'm lowering my weapon, nice and easy..."  He slowly crouched and dropped the staff to the ground.  "I've got, um, just a few more, so if you don't mind if I-"  Taking a lack of response for assent, Rodney squirmed out of his P90's shoulder strap, took the zat out of his clothes, and-  Fuck it.  -dropped the pack as well before easing back to his feet.  He only swayed a little, but attributed it to that reverse blood-rushing-to-the-head thing that happened sometimes when you rose too quickly. For John's sake, he couldn't be on the brink of physical collapse.

Staff still aimed at Rodney, Teal'c stalked closer before suddenly halting.  He proclaimed, "You are a Goa'uld."

"No no, oh no no!  I mean, there was one in me, but it, um-"  Flailing, he gestured back in the direction of the cave.  "You can't possibly think I'd wear this hideous outfit on purpose!"

"I dunno, he sounds like McKay," O'Neill offered.  At least, Rodney thought the next suited figure to break away and approach was O'Neill.  Probably no one else would have been as comfortable patting Teal'c's shoulder in a tempering manner.  "Even so, if he tries to run for it, feel free to shoot him."

Rodney gaped.  "Oh, for the love of-  Major Sheppard has been trapped in a cave for the better part of a day.  He is running out of air.  If you're too busy with your stupid military posturing to help him, at least give me a shovel.  He came all this way for me; I am not leaving this planet without him, even if it takes me a year to dig out his corpse with my bare hands!"

"Sir," Carter said.  She had some kind of scanner out, and was peering at the screen while fumbling at the buttons with her oversized gloves.  "I'm picking up a pretty strange atmospheric energy reading-"

Wait.  Scanner.  "Let me guess," Rodney interrupted, crossing his arms.  The muzzles of the weapons trained on him flinched slightly.  "Radiation, consistent with the explosive scattering of heavy-element isotopes in the upper stratosphere?  See, that is what happens when you sabotage the core cooling in an Al'kesh's sub-light engine."  As soon as the ship had throttled up to escape-velocity... boom.

Carter was shaking her head.  He guessed.  Maybe.  The suit made it hard to tell.  "I thought about attempting that once.  There's too much redundancy in the system.  If a temperature spike is detected in one of the sub-lights, a fail-safe routine will shut it down and compensate by balancing the output of the other three engines."

"Not if you've mirrored the sensor data from the paired engine to the primary and secondary inputs on the monitoring array.  Now will someone please come and take this pack?  There's a map inside we're going to need to rescue Jo- Major Sheppard.  But more important, there's something I think we can use to prove I'm not the Goa'uld."

O'Neill sidled up next to Carter.  "What he's saying... does it make sense at all?  Sounded like gibberish to me."

"Sir, I-  Actually, yes.  It could work, if he had unrestricted access to the ship's systems."

"Which I did, because they thought I was still Setekhmes."  He tugged at the front of his robes.  "You know, the snake?  The one with the good taste in hosts but with the really shitty fashion sense?"

Teal'c didn't budge, and neither were any of the other men going to take initiative without Colonel O'Neill's encouragement.  It was Daniel Jackson who walked over and picked up the pack at Rodney's feet.  "What am I looking for?"

Rodney took back every snide thing he'd ever said about Jackson.  In fact, if there was a Daniel Jackson Fan Club, he was ready to join.  If there wasn't, hell -- he'd start one, become a founding member.  "A white-ish rectangle with a screen, about the size of a VHS tape.  It's Ancient tech.  Major Carter should recognize it."

"Daniel," O'Neill warned, as Jackson zipped open Rodney's pack.

"Jack," Daniel parroted.  "Even if he is a Goa'uld, I don't think he dragged us all this way just to try to kill himself right along with us.  It would have been easier to rig up something on the gate platform, take us all out the minute we stepped through."  Rustling around, he withdrew the life signs detector and held it up.  "This it?"

"Yeah."

"Carter?" O'Neill said.  He couldn't turn his neck very well in his suit, so every time he addressed a different member of his team, he twisted his whole body around like some sort of absurd conversational weather vane.

Jackson carried the device over, and Carter examined it.  "It looks like the Ancient scanner Area 51 found in the gateship."

"That's because it probably is the Ancient scanner Area 51 found in the gateship.  Major Sheppard... uh... borrowed it and brought it with him.  He was using it to avoid Jaffa patrols."  As well as hunt them, but Rodney left that part out.  "Don't turn it off!  He left it initialized for me.  Someone else with the gene," he glared meaningfully at O'Neill, "would have to touch it to turn it back on, and I'm sure you don't need me to tell you why it would be a bad idea to breach the seal on your biohazard suit."

Carter swept the life signs detector around, skimming past Teal'c, then backtracked in a hurry.  "Oh, wow," she breathed, pointing it straight at him.

One of Teal'c's eyebrows rose to an elegantly inquisitive angle. He'd finally lowered his staff, and the suit-men had followed his example, even if fingers remained rather close to triggers.

Carter said to Rodney, "How did Major Sheppard figure out that this would be able to distinguish between the individual life signs of a symbiote and host?"

"Hey, I know that he manages to hide it behind the idiot savant flyboy routine, but he's smart.  Really smart."  And resourceful, and courageous, and consequently running out of air.

"Mmhm," Jackson agreed absently.  He was watching over Carter's shoulder as she motioned Teal'c to move apart from the group; she aimed the detector at him, then swung it around and aimed it at Rodney.  Back, forth.  "Jack, do you know what this means?"

O'Neill ventured, "Yes?"

"The scanner can tell if a person is carrying a symbiote."  He paused; Rodney could almost see him mentally count to five before giving up, explaining, "It's a Goa'uld detector."

"We have a Goa'uld detector and nobody told me?"

"He's clear," Carter announced, indicating Rodney.

"Yes, thank you.  That's what I've been trying to tell you."  Rodney stopped wringing his hands together and stalked over.  If he felt stressed and jittery, it wasn't out of relief.  All along, he'd known they would believe him, help him.  Help John.  There had never been any doubt -- or so he told himself.  "Now where's my pack?  I'm fairly certain I could find the cave without the map, but quite frankly I'm not that great at navigating even when I'm not loopy with exhaustion, so I think it would be best if someone else-"

"Dr McKay," Teal'c interrupted, somehow managing to be polite about it.  "To clarify... earlier when you said that you are not the Goa'uld, were you intending to imply that there is one nearby?"

It was funny -- and by funny, Rodney meant extremely suspicious -- how technical matters could fly right over O'Neill's head, but he was always the first to decipher even the slightest implication of unfavorable news.  "Oh no," he groaned.  And, "Son of a bitch."

Rodney couldn't help a little surge of nasty satisfaction at O'Neill's response.  "There's a Goa'uld all right," he confirmed.  "When it left me it took Major Sheppard."

Some hot and heavy negotiation took place via radio after that.

One of the combat engineers had been sent ahead to scout the cave-in.  His findings had not pleased his superior, who'd requested additional heavy equipment from the SGC.  While that was being organized, Fraiser's medics came through the gate and began setting up a field decontamination station.

Rodney recognized an opportunity to get out of his stupid outfit when he saw one.  He was pestering them for a change of clothes even before they'd finished unpacking.  His option (singular) consisted of an even less fashionable jumpsuit, but it was lightweight and snag-proof and -- best of all -- wasn't caked with his dried blood.

He caught one of the medics poking a finger through the bullet hole in the robe's shoulder, then staring quizzically at Rodney's correspondingly unblemished skin.  "Eyes forward, pal.  This isn't a peep show," he grumbled, and tried to finish changing with a little more hustle.  But he was all out of hustle, it seemed.  Drained dry.

Maybe the would give him drugs, if he made friendly and chatted them up.  John could have done it; hell, one flash of his soulful eyes would have earned John his very own morphine drip.  Rodney just needed a little boost, something to keep him on his feet until someone ran ahead to the cave with the life signs detector and verified that the manipulative jerk was still alive.

He was stubborn enough; he had to be.

Perhaps Rodney was even worse off than he thought.  He heard a voice say, "Hey," and belatedly recognized that it wasn't the first time, or even the second.  He wobbled around and nearly knocked into Daniel Jackson, who reached out and steadied Rodney by the arm.

Well, Rodney didn't need stea-  Wait, maybe he did.  The landscape was spinning funny, not on its proper axis, making the motion impossible according to the laws of physics.  He informed it of such -- not out loud, because he was weary, not unhinged -- and the spinning halted as if contrite.  "Um.  Hi."  He looked down at the hand gripping his upper arm.

"Hey," Jackson repeated a fourth time.  Really, Rodney didn't know what John saw in this guy.  He spoke like a thousand languages, and this was the best he could do to open a conversation?  Then he held out something in his other glove, and Rodney suddenly understood the attraction.  The man was a real lifesaver.  "I found this in your pack."

"John's notebook," Rodney stammered, almost clutching it to his chest.  "Did you-"

"No," Jackson anticipated his fear.  "That is, I did a little.  But as soon as I realized what it was, I stopped."

For some reason, Rodney believed him.  "Thanks," he murmured, staring at it, rubbing his finger along the edge of the cover.

Jackson released him and shrugged.  "I thought that you might want to keep it safe," he said, with deliberation that made it sound like a warning.

"Oh, I do!  I'm just-"  Rodney cocked his head and fluttered a hand near his ear.  "I'm really not thinking clearly right now.  I should have kept it with me.  I will, from now on."

"Good," Jackson said, and the strangest thing was that his attention wasn't on Rodney at all, but on O'Neill, who was far across the clearing, playing hide and seek with Teal'c and the life signs detector.

Make that the second strangest; even stranger was the fact that a nosy archaeologist was making presumptions about Rodney and John's friendship, and offering his unsolicited advice, and Rodney couldn't even work up the proper indignation because Jackson's concern felt... genuine.

"Oh hey, um..."  Great.  Now who was the articulate one?  "I just remembered.  There's something in my pack for you."

"For me?"  Jackson's roaming attention returned.  He pointed to himself in the non-American manner, aiming at his head rather than his chest.

"Well, Carter'll have to extract the data for you, but you're probably best suited for doing the translation."

Jackson frowned.  "Translation of what now?"

"The messages," Rodney said.  "On the data crystal.  You see, at first I tried to think of a way to save the Al'kesh, because hello?  Spaceship?  Pretty useful to have.  As soon as I realized I was going to have to destroy it, I-"  He was momentarily distracted by the arrival of more people and what looked like excavation equipment through the Stargate.  Thank god -- they could get moving now, start digging John out.  "Anyway, the SGC's studied an Al'kesh before, so there was no point in saving duplicate technical data.  I didn't have time to save much anyway.  That's why I thought the transmission logs would be best.  They're not complete.  The ship had been out of dock for... well, months I guess.  Their system of keeping time is peculiar." 

Jackson was just sort of staring at him oddly, and okay... had Rodney done something wrong?  What the hell?

"What I did manage to save goes back several weeks.  I took the most recent stuff because that's what you want when you're collecting military intelligence, right?  Fresh information is best?" he asked, uncertain.

"Let me get this straight."  Jackson's eyebrows were pinched together, as if in concentration, and his words were flying at Rodney just a tiny bit faster than Rodney's mind could comfortably process them.  "While you were on board the Al'kesh, you not only managed to rig it to explode, but you also cleaned out the mailbox?"

"Um... yes?"  Rodney fidgeted.  "I figured out how to sabotage the engine and the Jaffa still weren't ready to leave the planet and I was so worried about John-"  He almost caught the slip, then decided Jackson was safe and let it stay.  "-that I had to find something else to do to take my mind off it so I thought that if I couldn't keep the whole ship at least I could salvage-  Oh, it looks like they're getting ready to head for the cave.  Excuse me, I have to go with them," he said, shoving past.

Jackson snagged him and spun him around.  He winced in sympathy.  "Actually, I think Jack said something about sending you back."

"Jack certainly did," O'Neill said, leaving his discussion with a group of combat engineers to approach them.  "Sorry McKay.  Fraiser's been on my ass to get you home as soon as she heard you were still alive.  We just received the last of the outgoing personnel.  The gateroom is being set up to handle incoming quarantine traffic as we speak.  As soon as I get the go-ahead, you're going."

"Oh," Rodney said, feeling like a complete asshole.  God, why hadn't he thought of them sooner?  "Um, is SG-15..."

"Not good," O'Neill replied simply.

Rodney floundered, "John..."  Because he should be there.  He should.  When the last rock was pried away, allowing light and air and hope to leak into that cave, Rodney should be the first face that Setekhmes saw.  After all the poison it had seeped into Rodney's mind -- and the twisted, deranged half-truths it was doubtless still feeding John -- Rodney wanted to be the one to tell that fucking snake what had happened to its ship and its warriors.  He would face it down and say, That's right -- I destroyed it, I killed them all.

Payback's a bitch, isn't it?

"We'll radio with news as soon as we know anything."

God, O'Neill really didn't intend to let him near that cave.  "Don't shoot him," Rodney pleaded.  "I-  I don't think he's armed.  He left all the weapons outside for me except his sidearm, but I think that was just to fool the Goa'uld.  There were a bunch of loose rounds in the bottom of the pack.  I think it's empty.  Maybe you can stun him, if you need to.  Just... don't everyone shoot at the same time and risk hitting him twice.  You know, that whole thing with the zat..."

O'Neill's radio crackled.  Rodney recognized the voice of Harriman, the gate tech.  [Colonel, preparations are complete on our side.  You can send Dr McKay through whenever you're ready.]

"Understood," O'Neill said.  "He's on his way.  Dial it!" he shouted to one of the team members standing near the DHD.

"But-"

"Look at it this way," O'Neill reasoned.  "Sheppard would want you to go through that gate.  I'm kicking you through as a favor, because he's not here to do it himself.  You can take it up with him the next time you see him."

Rodney snapped his mouth shut, swallowing the new line of protest he'd been about to try.  Bastard.

"Jack, looks like Sam and Teal'c have gone ahead with the engineers.  You want me to wait for you?" Jackson asked.  Rodney was pretty sure that translated to: Are you going to need help handling McKay?

"Nope, go ahead.  I'll catch up."  O'Neill wrapped his gloved fist in the front of Rodney's jumpsuit and began hauling him for the forming wormhole.

Rodney concentrated on facing forward and not stumbling, all the way up the low rise of stone stairs and across the platform.  He pried at O'Neill's hand, but the grip was iron.  "Colonel..."

"No," O'Neill hissed, low and urgent, for Rodney's ears only.  His expression was submerged behind the event horizon's reflected wash on the faceplate of his mask.  "After the price Sheppard paid to bring you this far, I owe it to him to see it to the end.  Personally."  He released Rodney.  "Now go."

Fists balled tightly, Rodney turned and plunged into the wormhole.

Whatever momentum had been holding him upright abandoned him the minute he set foot back on familiar territory.  Rodney stumbled down the ramp in the gateroom, hindered by the slick plastic sheeting covering everything, and was practically lifted down the stairs by two guys in serious biohazard suits -- not the field type, but the positive-pressure kind, bulky as a spacesuit -- each with a firm hold on one of his elbows.

The protective blast doors were lowered over the control room windows, so he didn't know who all was up there when Harriman called down, [Welcome home, Dr McKay.  You're to be escorted straight to medical quarantine -- general's orders.]

Right elbow guy was tall, well over six feet, and had Rodney's arm raised at a slight angle.  It wouldn't have bothered him except -- oh, that's right -- he'd been shot.  The tendons and bone and cartilage might be whole and functional, but they also felt tender, like the shiny, new skin of a recently-healed injury.  He should probably getting physical therapy, not stressing his shoulder in a way that sent twinges shooting to the base of his skull.

"I'm not going to fall over," he snapped, jerking his right side free... and began to list at once, because left elbow guy was still applying pressure without the equal, opposite force to counteract it.  "I can walk on my own," he amended, slowing abruptly; his other option was to pull ahead and there was no fucking way he had the energy for a burst of speed.  Elbow guys let him break free, but only after holding a discussion in some farcical, silent suit-man language.  The whole situation was becoming surreal, and when Rodney couldn't make the Oompa Loompa song stop looping in his head, it was doubtless a very telling measure of his sanity.  Or lack thereof.

Suit men obviously spoke silent suit-man language because communicating with someone wearing one of the damned things was like playing a two person version of that childhood game where everyone would sit in a circle and the first person would whisper I like ice cream to the person next to them, and by the time the message had made it all the way around it had somehow mutated into I want to bang your mom.  Rodney was fairly certain that the guy who'd stopped and was motioning him down yet another indistinctive concrete corridor did not, in fact, desire to have sexual relations with the late Mrs. McKay, even though Rodney's ears insisted they'd heard exactly that.

That might have been the point where he sort of passed out a little.

The next thing Rodney knew, he was in medical quarantine, dressed in scrubs and flat out on a gurney.

Not that he would ever admit to Sheppard that he'd been zatted on a mission, but he'd been nailed enough times to be familiar with the aftermath; he began swimming for consciousness as soon as he'd gotten his bearings and figured out which direction to kick.

It was difficult going.  His mental range of motion was restricted, and it seemed the harder he fought the more his progress slowed.  Then, when he finally broke the surface, it was all right there waiting for him: the garbled short-term memory; a blistering headache; a mouth both fuzzy and bone-dry, as if packed with gauze.

He tried to sit up and immediately wished he hadn't given in to the impulse.

And-  Oh fuck, that's new.  Was that a... catheter?

Not recovering from a zat blast, then.  Just a remarkably similar misery.

His logic was shit before he had a few hours of consciousness and a few stiff coffees under his belt, but he could sometimes kick-start it if he focused on small, obvious details.  Scrubs.  That was... wrong.  He'd come through the gate wearing a jumpsuit, which meant... he must've already been through the decontamination process.

As tedious as that must have been, he was glad to have been out for the duration.  Oh, his dignity would have suffered regardless, but at least this way he didn't know who had had the dubious pleasure of stripping him and hosing him with... with pure sodium hypochlorite, or whatever the hell it was they used for extremely nasty germs.  He wasn't aware of specific witnesses, though the existence of spectators was statistically probable.

In short, there were no familiar faces to add to the list of people Rodney McKay wouldn't be able to look in the eye when he passed them in the hall.

A suited figure entered his room through the plastic airlock.  They must have been monitoring him, waiting for him to wake up.  He tried to sit again, with better results, although the suit person helped by slipping an arm around his shoulders and shoving pillows behind him.

Fraiser.  It was Fraiser -- he could see her through the faceplate now.  She was stronger than her petite stature suggested.

"How do you feel?"

Rodney would have rolled his eyes, but the room didn't need to spin any more than it already was.  He tried to wet his lips and found them cracked beyond hope.  "Hungry.  Thirsty.  Disoriented.  Stiff.  Sore.  In desperate need of privacy so I can yank this catheter out."  When he sighed, it came out a dry, rattling sound.  "You want me to go on?"

"I think we'll be able to take care of most of those issues for you," Fraiser assured.  She was touching him, coaxing him into different positions as she examined and poked and prodded him.  "What do you mean by disoriented?"

"Oh, just... you know.  I can't remember much after returning from P3X-423. Before is a little muddy too," he admitted.  "I remember having-"  The notebook.  Shit!  "I had a notebook with me," he said, fighting down an inexplicable panic as he tried to search the area around his bed.  "What happened to it?  I need to find it."  John hadn't wanted anyone else to read it, and Rodney had let it out of his sight twice now.  It was stupid and selfish to want to keep it; he should have destroyed it when he'd had the chance.

Oh.  Oh, John.

"Rodney, Rodney," Fraiser was repeating, soothing him with her hands.  "It's okay, it's safe.  It looked important, so I didn't want it to get lost.  I put it away somewhere safe for you."

"How long was I out?" Rodney demanded.  "They must have reached the cave by now.  O'Neill promised to send news."

"Rodney."  Somehow the tone of her voice, demanding his attention, snapped him back to himself more thoroughly than a bucket of ice water to the face could have managed.  "Major Sheppard is... alive."  He could tell she selected the word cautiously.  Not good or fine; just alive.  "You've been out for nearly nineteen hours."

"Where is he?  I have to see him."

She must've anticipated that he would try to escape from the bed, because she all but threw herself across his chest.  "He's not here.  Colonel O'Neill thought it would be... prudent to transport him straight to the Tok'ra home world, and I agreed."

He flopped back against the pillows.  "Oh."  So, O'Neill hadn't wanted the Goa'uld on base.  That made sense from a security standpoint, but Rodney was more relieved that the Goa'uld wouldn't be around to do or say or admit to things that he would prefer not become public knowledge.  It would have done so, out of spite.  He was sure of it.

Fraiser eased off him, rearranging the thin blanket over him with practiced precision.  "I'm sorry.  There isn't much in the way of news, except that Major Sheppard is being detained by the Tok'ra until terms for the extraction of the Goa'uld can be finalized.  General Hammond is anxious to speak to you, of course, but now that you're awake he's resting.  Maybe in the morning you'll both be awake at the same time."

"Is, um... SG-15..." he began.  Christ, he hated asking that question, because the answer, to start, was always an unembellished yes or no.  And what the hell did that mean?  No, they hadn't made it?  No, they hadn't died?

She shook her head, and god, that was even worse.  "Aston's in the clear.  Pierce and Dwight could pull through if they had some help.  Kemp... he's hanging on, but it's not good.  That's... actually what I came in to talk to you about."

"What, me?  I don't know anything!  I mean, I know the disease would have killed me if the Goa'uld hadn't fixed me, but-"  Oh.

Maybe it was the apheresis machine machine being wheeled into his room by two med tech, or maybe he would have figured it out just from what he knew about Fraiser and her bloodthirsty ways.

"I was able to isolate the effective antibody from a sample of your blood.  The Goa'uld must have triggered your immune system to produce it, in order to eradicate the virus in your system.  Given time, we'll be able to synthesize it, use it to produce a vaccine."

Rodney knew the drill; he was already pushing back his sleeve.  "But SG-15 needs it now, and I'm the only source you have."

It wasn't so bad.

He was moved to a new room, and his visitors no longer had to wear funny suits.  He was up and walking, and while wasn't allowed to leave, he'd never been so happy to be able to visit the restroom unassisted.  They hooked him up to the machine for a couple hours at a time.  ("Seriously, you should just fit me with a spigot and get it over with.")  Fraiser also encouraged him to eat -- actual food, not the usual institutional fare.  Apparently he was supposed to "keep up his strength", which he surmised meant that she was sucking more serum out of him than was safely recommended by clinical guidelines.  She didn't mention it and he sure as hell wasn't about to ask.

Hammond came to see him again during one of his shallow naps; Fraiser had to inform him after the fact, because she hadn't allowed him to be disturbed.

Rodney decided to attach a sticky note to his forehead for next time.  It would read: Tag, you're it.

The forced inactivity and lack of distractions -- laptops were forbidden, and it never occurred to him to request a book -- should have driven him insane.  Because invariably the smallest things reminded him of John; and while he'd expected to catch himself obsessing over what the Goa'uld might have told John during those excruciating hours trapped in the dark, or imagining the twinge of disgust that would mar John's expression whenever he looked at Rodney from now on, the bizarre reality was that thoughts of John caused his mind to blank and stagnate.

It was as if he had some sort of block, an inability to process ramifications without first witnessing for himself that John was whole and safe.  Probably that closure thing the shrinks were always yammering about, except instead of grieving Rodney just wanted to get on with life as normal.

(Ha!  As normal as life could be for a guy who'd had a parasitic alien snake in his head not three days ago.)

Hammond finally caught him on the third day of his incarceration, when Rodney was climbing the walls. 

"How is Major Sheppard?" Rodney asked, flinging himself out of bed.  It was the first thing he everyone who entered his room, but the general was the first visitor he'd had who might actually know the answer.

There was a thick, official-looking folder in Hammond's hand.  It boasted a large seal on the cover, and doubtless had "top secret" watermarked across every internal page.  In short, it was the sort of thing that would have scared Rodney shitless back in his UFO hunting days.  Now... hell, he wrote reports that ended up looking like that.

The general waved it at him, motioning Rodney back, and took the bedside chair for himself.  "Please sit down, Dr McKay.  This isn't your official debriefing," he snorted wryly, "but it will still take time to cover all the points I would like to discuss."

Rodney sat, praying this wasn't one of Hammond's notorious tests of patience.  Ordinarily he didn't have much, but right now he was functioning with a deficit.

"First of all," Hammond's tone softened, "how are you feeling?"

"Fine.  I'm fine.  Well, drained," Rodney quipped; he couldn't help himself.

That almost earned a smile.  The joke circulating around the SCG was that no matter what Rodney said, he wasn't truly okay unless he was complaining.  "I'm glad to hear that.  And I'm sure I don't have to tell you how pleased I am that both you and Major Sheppard were able to return from P3X-423 in one piece.  In particular, I understand that your actions were extraordinarily commendable."

"Is Major Sheppard-"

"Please, Dr McKay.  We'll reach that topic momentarily.  Now, do you know what this is?"  He handed Rodney the folder.

Rodney cracked it open to the middle and skimmed a few paragraphs.  They were meaningless out of context, so he flipped ahead a couple pages.  But nothing could make the report retain his interest short of the words John or Sheppard.  Shutting it again, he returned it and said, "No idea."

"It's a partial translation of the transmissions that were on the data crystal you salvaged from the Al'kesh.  And let me tell you, it hadn't been circulating among the top brass for two hours before Washington was in an uproar."

"Yes, how nice to hear that.  Have the Tok'ra set a date for John's extraction yet?  I am going to be there for it, even if have to break out of Guantanamo here to do it."

Hammond's voice sharpened.  "Obviously I haven't impressed upon you the seriousness of the situation.  This intelligence report has people spooked.  Anubis is closer to consolidating his power base than we previously thought.  The invasion of Earth is suddenly looking like a very real possibility to a lot of people who'd dismissed the SGC's prior warnings out of hand."

"Great.  So just before we're all enslaved, we'll at least have the satisfaction of saying I told you so."

Hammond abruptly changed tactics.  "You've been reassigned."

Wait... what?

Rodney hesitated, "You mean like... to a gate team?"

"No doctor, I don't."  There was no chance he was joking either, not with the grave, steady way his gaze caught Rodney's and held on.  "After your performance on P3X-423, I would have been comfortable recommending you to fill any vacant position on the gate team of your choice.  However, I'm afraid the decision is no longer in my hands."

"I d-don't understand," Rodney stammered.  "You're in charge of Stargate Command.  If it's not your decision, then whose is it?"

Hammond sucked in a large breath, released it in a huff.  "As commander of this facility, I am accountable to an even higher authority.  And right now, the prevailing attitude in Washington is that the SGC has been wasting time trying to locate Ancient defensive technologies.  We have been... strongly encouraged to re-focus our attention to building Earth's own defenses."

"Of course we have.  Because only a delusional moron would think that, given the level of our tech, we have a chance in hell of stopping a Goa'uld armada."

"There is something else," Hammond admitted carefully.  "We can't count on the Asgard or the Tok'ra for support like we once thought we could."

This was old news.  Rodney waved his hand.  "Yes yes, the Asgard have their own trouble with the Replicators.  But the Tok'ra hate the Goa'uld just as much as we do.  Probably more -- they've been fighting them longer."

"The Tok'ra are far more like the Goa'uld than they are like us, doctor.  Never forget that."  He rapped the edge of the folder against his thigh.  "Major Sheppard-  As far as the Tok'ra are concerned, both he and the Goa'uld symbiote are victims of circumstance.  If our allies on the Tok'ra High Council hadn't fallen from political favor, we never would have agreed to the terms we had to accept in order to secure Tok'ra cooperation in removing the symbiote from Major Sheppard."

Like it wasn't obvious the alliance was slowly imploding.  Both sides had always guarded their information just a little too jealously.

Information.  Oh fuck.

"They want to know what the Goa'uld knows," Rodney said.  "That's why it's taking so long, why John isn't home yet.  He's being held for interrogation."

If Rodney wasn't supposed to have reached that conclusion on his own, Hammond didn't show it.  Then again, Hammond dealt daily with the hand-picked cream of the Air Force crop.  He probably would have been disappointed if a mere genius like Rodney hadn't been able to keep up.  "We've allowed them five days, with the condition that one of our representatives sit in on all questioning sessions."

Meaning, the Tok'ra would have to share any intel they gained.  "And that report," Rodney pointed.  "They don't know about it.  You intend to hang it over their heads if they decide the symbiote is too valuable and try to renege on the deal."

"Either way, the extraction ceremony will take place in two days.  I'll make certain you're in attendance."  Now Hammond did offer a smile; it was equally composed of affection and pride and regret.  He stood and approached Rodney's bed.  "I admit that I was one of your critics when Major Sheppard was struggling to bring you into the SGC.  But you haven't made me regret the decision to give you a second chance.  I wish you every success in your new post."

Dazed, Rodney shook the hand that reached for his.  "I-  Thank you, sir.  That-  It means a lot, especially coming from someone whom I've come to respect a great deal, against all my former... prejudices."

A thought occurred to him.

"Ah, General?  You never, um, mentioned what my new assignment is."

"I didn't?" Hammond returned innocently.  "Must have slipped my mind.  When I heard that the Gateship Project was being reopened, I couldn't think of a more... fitting person to recommend to lead it.  Dr McKay, effective immediately, you've been transferred to Area 51."

John was dressed in the Tok'ra fashion when he was led into the chamber for the extraction: simple cream-colored tunic and trousers, and a pair of soft leather boots.

He was the most welcome sight Rodney had ever laid eyes on.

The guards led him to the far side of the room and fastened him, standing, into the platform of some sort of device.  John didn't struggle, but neither was he exactly cooperative.  "What is to happen to me?" the Goa'uld demanded in that hollow, unsettling voice the Tok'ra also used.

The Tok'ra who seemed to be in charge of the proceedings stepped forward and inclined her head.  "We will abide by our agreement."

Rodney was standing what he'd mentally dubbed the spectator gallery, along with SG-1 and the older, balding guy who'd grabbed Carter in a crushing hug upon their arrival.  Her father Jacob was a host for the Tok'ra called Selmak, if he recalled correctly from the mission reports.  Rodney had spoken little to him -- them -- but was still unnerved by the easy coordination with which they traded control of the single body.

Jacob -- or maybe it was Selmak -- grimaced and leaned in close between Carter and O'Neill to mutter, "You were right.  Oh boy, here goes."

"Right about what?" Rodney hissed.

Jackson, standing closest to him, gritted through a tight, false smile, "Just watch."

"Ah, excuse me."  That was O'Neill, clearing his throat loudly and raising his arm as if waiting to be called on in class.  "That's our guy there, and we're the ones the Tok'ra have an agreement with."

The Tok'ra leader inclined her head to O'Neill in turn.  "All agreements will be honored."

"Oh really," O'Neill stressed his skepticism.  "Why, what did the snake promise you?"

A murmur rippled through the assembled spectators.  Doubtless O'Neill had used the extremely offensive term for the symbiote on purpose, just to elicit such a response.

It was John who answered.  "I have delivered what knowledge I possess concerning the current power distribution among the Goa'uld System Lords.  In exchange for the opportunity to take a new, willing host, I offer my continued and utmost cooperation to the Tok'ra in matters of intelligence gathering."

O'Neill stormed up to the Tok'ra leader.  He towered over her, but she held her ground, trying not to be intimidated, until finally he left her no choice but to surrender a step or be knocked over.  "Oh no, no way.  We didn't agree to this at all.  That Goa'uld," he pointed, "has been inside the heads of two of my men.  It knows way too much about our operations, and I made it perfectly clear that I'm not comfortable letting it run around loose!"

"Colonel O'Neill, it is not our intent to free Setekhmes.  His existence will be spent under watch always, and the knowledge he has of your SGC will not be allowed to bring harm to our allies the Tau'ri."

The sneer on John's face said quite plainly that Setekhmes didn't believe a word of it, and was already plotting escape. 

O'Neill bristled, but he must've reached the conclusion that he would be in a better position to finish the argument after he'd obtained at least one of the things he wanted.  "Fine, whatever."  He whirled around and stalked back to his place with SG-1.  "Just get on with it already."

Rodney had been trying not to look at John directly, but Setekhmes caught him staring.  Its gaze caressed the length of his body, and it licked its lips with mocking sensuality.  "Ah, my former host, the dear Dr McKay.  I understand I have you to thank for the loss of my ship and my Jaffa."

Yeah, well John warned you that I was the brains of the operation.  He clenched his jaw, well aware that he might lose control if he opened his mouth to reply.

"Major Sheppard and I have been having such interesting conversations.  I expect that you two will have much to discuss upon his return."

Jackson's fingers dug into Rodney's arm in a silent -- and much appreciated -- warning.

"Hello?" O'Neill shouted.  "Can we do this today?"

In the end, Rodney couldn't watch after all.  The mechanized needle had barely made contact with John's forehead before he arched his back, thrashing at his bindings and screaming.  And oddly enough it was Teal'c, an impassive presence on Rodney's far side, who noticed Rodney's discomfort and appeased it with a solemn nod of his head.

Maybe Rodney wasn't the only one who couldn't watch.

He knew it was done when the screaming ceased, and John's body sagged in its restraints.  He took a step forward but the guards were already there, unfastening and supporting him.

Rodney had to look to be certain, but sure enough, there was Setekhmes -- an agitated, serpentine shape imprisoned in a transparent, liquid-filled cylinder.

He hoped the Tok'ra weren't able to find it a new host.  He hoped it spent the remainder of its life in that cramped little fish tank.

The guards moved away when John was able to remain on his feet unassisted.

That was all the invitation Rodney needed.  He edged closer, hesitant and wary -- not at all like the joyous reunions of his frequent fantasies.  No, reality felt more like a meeting of former lovers, with the awkward phantom of stale intimacy tainting the entire encounter.

"Um, hey," Rodney said inanely.

John turned his eyes up then.  They were clear and fathomless at once; and frightening, because Rodney couldn't comprehend what he read there.  Shame he'd been anticipating, and derision.  Perhaps disgust.  But this... whatever it was, he'd prepared no defense against it.

"Rodney."

John might have moved first this time, but in the end they fell against each other -- John with his hands on the back of Rodney's jacket, balling the fabric in his fists, and Rodney digging his chin fiercely into John's shoulder.

"Hey," John whispered, hoarse, and Rodney wasn't sure if he only imagined the brush of warm lips against his temple.

The socially appropriate moment to let go came and went, and neither man acknowledged it.  In fact, Rodney would have been content to remain exactly so for the rest of eternity.  Because he didn't trust his voice, he telegraphed the sentiment in the sigh he breathed against John's skin, in the hand he slid up to cradle the nape of John's neck.  John replied by attempting to crush the breath out of him, but Rodney didn't mind.  He wondered which of them was trembling, and decided it was likely they both were.

They leaped apart an instant later, when the thunderous retort of a weapon shocked the entire room.

Rodney turned in time to see O'Neill lowering his sidearm.  The Goa'uld's prison was now nothing but a puddle of discolored slime and glistening shards.  Setekhmes writhed and shrieked and bled, and eventually grew still.

"Oops," the colonel shrugged.  "My hand slipped."  Amid the chaos that followed, he gathered his people in close and said, expression grim, "C'mon, reunion's over.  It's time we got the hell out of here."

Epilogue

Sheppard's debriefing lasted six hours.

That put it in the running for the second-longest meeting in the history of the SGC.  Nothing could ever top the winner.  The votes were in, the judges had made their ruling -- SG-1's briefing for P4X-639 was admissible as a candidate.  And sure, the briefing itself had only lasted an hour... until you took into consideration the cumulative effects of three months worth of daily time loops.

Longest.  Meeting.  Ever.  Colonel Jack O'Neill secures another record of dubious honor for SG-1!

Still, Jack made it a point to stop paying attention to Sheppard's ordeal after the two hour mark -- geeze, how many times could they rehash the part where he'd shot McKay? -- and start paying attention to Sheppard himself.  The man seemed... not tired, but wrung out.  Kinda like that grimy, threadbare rag the waitress at his favorite diner used to wipe down the counter. 

When it was over, and the other participants were dispersing, Sheppard remained in his seat, wilting with relief.  And maybe he'd sensed that it wasn't quite over for him yet.  In fact, that point was kinda hard to miss when your commanding officer and his commanding officer lingered with you in an emptying room.

Jack moseyed up to Hammond and said, "George, why doncha let me handle this?"

Hammond flashed him a look that was just short of annoyance for the informality, but they both were aware he'd done it to put Sheppard further at ease, so it was allowed to slide.  "He's all yours, Jack."  The general collected his things and slipped out of the conference room.

Sheppard studied him, curiosity and gratitude mingling with apprehension.  "Sir-"

"Ah!"  Jack stalled him by raising a hand.  He took the seat next to Sheppard, pushing it out far enough so that he could lift his feet onto the table with a contented sigh.  "Okay, you were saying?"

There, just a hint of a smile.  Sheppard adored him, all right.  "Sir, I didn't get a chance to say it earlier, but thank you.  That day in the mess... you knew I was going to do something foolish, and you could have made me break an order to do it.  But you didn't."

Yeah, just like Sheppard hadn't turned on his radio and let them order him home after he was already on the planet.  Smart guy.  Devious too, but Jack happened to like them that way.  "Here's the thing, Sheppard.  The SGC is part of the Air Force, and that means the rules we have to follow weren't written with any regard for the shit we have to deal with on a daily basis.  I don't know if you're familiar with it, but there's a scenario we sometimes run new officers through, when we're evaluating their suitability to lead a gate team.  In order to pass the scenario, they have to disobey a direct order to go back for a fallen team mate, at a high risk to their own life.  Well," he amended, "a perceived high risk.  It is a controlled training scenario, after all."

Sheppard looked startled.  He hadn't heard of it, then.

Jack said airily, "As far as I'm concerned, you passed the real deal with flying colors.  If I could have my way, I'd be handing you command of your own team right now.  Instead, because the Air Force frowns on little things like unauthorized gate travel and assault on its personnel, I'm going to have to slap your wrist and tell you that you've been naughty."

Sheppard's back stiffened.  "I knew that, sir.  Believe me, I considered the consequences long and hard before I dialed the gate."

"It could have been a court-martial."

"I know, sir.  Still would have been worth it."

Damn it, Jack wanted this one.  And now, because of the idiocy coming out of Washington, the man was going to slip out of his reach.  He advised, "The Article 15 will go in your permanent service record.  I wouldn't exactly say you've shot your career in the foot, but..."

Shrugging, Sheppard made it all the way to a grin.  "With all due respect, sir, I had to die to make it past Captain.  I figured nothing short of canonization was going to get me promoted above Major anyway."

Jack clapped his hands on his thighs.  "Nothing helping it, then.  If you accept the Article 15 and forgo your right to contest the charges of misconduct in a court-martial-"

"I do," Sheppard said.

"Then you are hereby sentenced to a two week restriction on gate travel, and three days of confinement to base.  That oughta give you plenty of time to settle in."

"Sir...?  I don't-"

"Your new assignment, Major."  Damn, he wasn't going to be able to hold a straight face for much longer.  "See, an acquaintance of ours has recently been named head of a project over at Area 51.  The, ah, circumstances of his selection were influenced by... external forces, let's call them.  So naturally, being the concerned friends that we are, we took advantage of the opportunity to appoint a... trustworthy guardian to oversee his safety and success."

There was a stunned silence.  "Rodney?" Sheppard squeaked at last.

"What, did you think he was just avoiding you these last few days?  He's waiting for you in Nevada."  Jack dragged his boots off the table, rose and winced when his back creaked.  He put one fist on his waist and bent his spine back into shape.  "Oh, and John?"

"Yes?" Sheppard beamed, noticeably dropping the honorific.

"I'm sure I don't have to say it, but knowing you... it won't hurt to drive the point home.  For the love of all that is holy, be careful."