Quasar's broad emissions

WIPlash

2009-03-02T19:27:37Z

So, I'm in a borderline state of writer's block, but I'm finding it doesn't terrify me quite as much as it used to. Maybe it's just that I'm confident I'll come out of it, or I still really treasure the eight or so stories I did manage to finish during that six-year period. Or maybe, most importantly, it's that I still have the stories here in my head, where they do me the most good even if they're not much fun for readers. So, it seems like a good time to celebrate works in progress!

I saw this meme on a bunch of LJs but actually grabbed it from seekergeek. Post a single sentence from each WIP you have (or as many as you want to pick). No context, no explanations. No more than one sentence!

Like, well, more than one person, I kinda stretched the definition of "single sentence" by mixing text and dialogue. And then it came out looking almost like a very confused coversation...

"John! Where have you been? We searched --" Elizabeth's gaze shifted behind him as the wormhole disintegrated. "Where's Rodney?"

"Something's coming. Something big." Jim frowned. "It's making noises almost like a whale, but higher pitched. You can't hear that?"

Lupin's mouth quirked on one side. "No, I'm afraid this is something that will have to be done in private."

Now McKay looked over at him. "Would this be oh-god-we're-about-to-die sex or oh-god-we-survived sex?"

Wesley shook himself. "Very possibly. But if you're going up against a powerful sorcerer, who may have already worked some mischief on Mr. Giles, you're going to need more than just a stake."

McKay snorted. "A Major running a fuel truck? Your eyes must be about to fall out of your head. And you're new, so you haven't even wintered over, have you?"

"Not quite. There is one more thing," said Qui-Gon, standing and gripping the boy's shoulder. "By the order of the Corellian Security Forces, you're under arrest."

That was our third MALP lost in six months: one to the first space Gate where Colonel Sumner and the Athosians were taken, and one to the energy being -- sure, I was the one who threw the generator through the gate, but the damn MALP trundled through as soon as the drain on its battery stopped.

He waved at the crate and the device inside. "Suppose you could swap bodies with anyone, say for one day. Who would you want to be? Cindy Crawford?"

"Yesterday you couldn't remember one minute to the next." Mackie spooned up some more soup and brought it to John's lips.

Jim lost the rest of it as his vision zoomed in on a tiny speck on the horizon, sun-jeweled spires wavering in the hundreds of miles of air that separated them.

"I am -- that is, Dr. McKay is a genius," said the hologram smugly.

Fic: That Which Preserves

2009-03-02T19:04:24Z

Fandom: PC Hodgell's Chronicles of the Kencyrath
Title: That Which Preserves
Author: Quasar (quasar273)
Rating: PG
Date written: December 2008
Length: 1100 words
Summary: Shortly after meeting the Highlord's sister, Kindrie has a crisis of conscience -- his own, or someone else's?

Notes: A pinch hit written for Cherry Ice in the Yuletide Treasure challenge.

Wind murmured through the sumac leaves. Kindrie blinked upward at the glinting stars, his head aching. He didn't even remember falling asleep, just that strange slide from memory to vision to dream. He thought he was awake now; though dark, the world had that level of unyielding detail that came from outside the mind rather than inside. Distantly, he could hear the river murmuring in its banks.

Rolling over, he saw the Knorth -- Jame -- curled up under that tapestry she had been carrying on her back. It rippled and humped strangely, as if it were somehow alive and trying to consume her, or perhaps something worse. Kindrie began to wonder if he was actually dreaming, but a moment later, the blind ounce squirmed out from under the tapestry, yawning and stretching luxuriantly. He sniffed the air, gave a chirrup, and trotted off into the night as if lack of sight were of no concern.

Kindrie's own vision, like most Shanirs', was preternaturally sharp at night. He could see the Knorth's face framed by dark hair, the bruised crescents of her eyelids above the mask. Kindrie had not yet laid eyes on the injury he had been supposed to heal, yet he knew with a deep certainty that her face would be a younger, female version of her brother's. They were alike in bearing and gesture, as well, but it was not that which had deceived Kindrie when he first met her. There was something inside her which tugged at his soul just as Tori had done, as if Jame and the Highlord were one and the same.

Fratricide...

The voice boomed through Kindrie's head, but not through his ears. A memory, perhaps, made vivid and immediate by his own instability. If he couldn't recover his soul-image he would descend into hallucination and madness.

Hallucination was what he first assumed when a monstrously huge version of the ounce glided out soundlessly from the trees. It could not possibly be an Arrin-ken, for none of them had been seen in centuries.

Fratricide, echoed the imaginary cat. The God-voice has spoken.

Kindrie trembled. "Then... Lord Ishtier spoke the truth?"

You heard his words and sensed the truth of them.

Kindrie had not doubted his truth-sense before, but he doubted Ishtier. The maimed priest had locked Kindrie out of his soul-image; it was not a basis for trust. But it was inconceivable that a Kencyr priest would lie about something as serious as the god-voice -- especially about a prophecy that the Highlord's sister would murder him.

Kindrie glanced uncertainly at the sleeping figure huddled under her scrap of cloth. He had trusted her more than Ishtier from the moment of their first meeting, in spite of the strangeness that haunted her. But he could not be sure of his own judgment, as out of balance as he was. "I... I don't think she would...."

Unwilling or unknowing, the deed may yet be done the same.

Kindrie gulped. "Lord Ishtier wanted me to --" He could hardly form the words. As incomplete as his training was, it felt deeply wrong to be told to kill one he'd been sent to heal.

Sitting up, he groped at his belt. He carried a small knife there, as all healers did -- not the white knife of ritual suicide, but a mercy knife to ease the passing of those who were too severely wounded to recover. A healer knew just where to set the short length of steel for swift, sure results. But in his experience with battleground healing -- last winter, when traveling south with the Kencyr Host under the Highlord's command -- Kindrie had never had to do the deed himself. The few times he'd declared a randon beyond healing, there was always an officer or even a lordling nearby to speed the death.

Now he loomed above the Highlord's sleeping sister with knife in hand, and no one else to take the task away from him. She was wounded, and he didn't know how badly since he hadn't seen under the mask -- but he did know that it wasn't likely to kill her. There were very few poisons that could harm a full-blooded Highborn, and Shanirs like Kindrie and Jame were even more resistant.

The fact that she was not facing a lingering, painful death need not stop Kindrie's knife. Unlike a mercy stroke, this act would even save a life -- the Highlord's, whom Kindrie felt a desperate need to connect with.

Jame made a small, unhappy sound in her sleep and rolled to face the other way. The Highlord raised an eyebrow quizzically at Kindrie.

No, not the Highlord. There was a face woven into the tapestry Jame clutched about her shoulders -- was that a death banner? A Knorth death banner? Surely there could be no mistaking the characteristic triangular face, silver eyes, and cloud of dark hair. This Knorth face seemed to be watching Kindrie suspiciously, waiting for his next move. It offered no opinion, but the cloth pulled tighter around the girl's shoulders, as if hugging her close.

Kindrie looked up at the great cat. "No," he said, and his throat spasmed around the word as a thousand memories of punishment roared through his mind. "I can't do it. It's not right. I'm... a healer. Not a killer."

The cat's eyes gleamed through the darkness at him. You take your calling very seriously, child of Argentiel.

Kindrie scrambled to his feet. "Yes. I do. You're the judge -- judges," he amended as he belatedly noticed the sensation of many pairs of eyes upon him. He could only see one Arrin-ken before him, but he had the undeniable impression that many were observing. "If you want her dead, do it yourselves." His knees trembled at this audacity, and he waited to be struck down where he stood.

That is not our way, little healer. Strangely, the voice in his mind held a tinge of amusement. Order your own affairs. You know the prophecy.

Despair washed over Kindrie as he wondered if his lack of nerve tonight had doomed Torisen.

The huge cat turned and began to pad away through the trees, but at the edge of the grove it looked back over its shoulder. But do you know all of the prophecy?

Kindrie stared. "Lord Ishtier left something out?"

Ask him, came the fading voice, even as the great feline form disappeared into middle gray.

Without changing position, Kindrie found himself lying on the ground, blinking up at the stars. So it had been a dream after all, he realized; no Arrin-ken, no mysterious judgment, no failure of nerve.

Feeling oddly disappointed, he rolled to looked at Jame. From between her shoulderblades, a Knorth face regarded him solemnly.

Kindrie felt a sharp pain in his elbow and squirmed free with a suppressed yelp. Somehow the knife had come out of its secure sheath on his belt. Gripping it, he stared in wonder at the face on the tapestry. Jame twitched, and one silver eye disappeared for a moment in the folds of the cloth, like a wink.

Fic: Night of the Brotherhood...

2009-03-02T18:58:36Z

Very belatedly, here's my main entry for Yuletide 2008!

Fandom: The Adventures of Brisco County, Jr.
Title: Night of the Brotherhood of the Very Secret Thing
Author: Quasar (quasar273)
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Brisco/Bowler
Date written: December 2008
Length: 5400 words
Summary: Benefits and hazards and of a classical education.

Notes: Written for Blackbird Song in the Yuletide Treasure challenge.

Chapter One: Turning the Nob

San Francisco was shrouded in mist, only the highest hills peering above the thick blanket. Even from the hilltops the silvery orb of the moon struggled to shine through fast-moving clouds. The Autumn air held a damp, foreboding chill of oncoming winter, and the distant whistle of a train sounded almost like the howl of a forlorn predator....

If N. L. Scrimshaw was writing this story, it would probably start something like that. But the truth is, it all began on a beautiful evening. The sun was just setting, the sky was still light, the moon was skimming over the rooftops. It was Springtime, not Autumn, with mild breezes and birds singing and the first flowers blooming. And anyway, there was way too much noise from all the carts and coaches and horses and cable cars to hear any distant trains, much less lonesome wolves or coyotes or anything like that.

Socrates and I were headed up to Nob Hill to meet Bowler for dinner -- he'd promised us a big fancy spread at his mansion. And since I'm being a little more honest than old Mr. Scrimshaw, I have to admit I was feeling just a little anxious. I'd been having some weird dreams lately, nasty dreams about what happened in Warehouse 10 -- and even worse, what didn't happen there. It wasn't enough that I could remember something that hadn't even happened -- at least, not in this version of history, not the real version that everyone else remembers -- but now I had to dream about it, too? So I was looking forward to seeing Bowler in person, bigger than life, to drive those images of Bowler lying dead right out of my head.

But when we reached number 315, Reginald the Butler wouldn't let us past the front hall. "His Lordship wishes me to convey his regrets, but he will not be free to dine with you this evening," said the old guy stuffily.

"What?" sputtered Socrates. "Why not?"

"Yeah, come on," I said, "we were talking to Bowler just yesterday and he was looking forward to having us over for dinner tonight. What could have changed between then and now?"

"His Lordship is unavailable this evening," Reginald insisted.

"He means, Bowler doesn't think we're important enough to keep his appointment with us," Socrates interpreted.

"Nah, he means something came up," I guessed. "The question is, what? Either Bowler's off getting in trouble in one of his crazy schemes to make money, or --" I snapped my fingers. "I bet he has company. An unexpected visitor. Old girlfriend, maybe?"

"That could explain why he doesn't want us around," Socrates said with a nod.

"Is that it, Reginald? Did Lenore Raymond stop by? Or is it someone else?" I craned my head, trying to get a look through the gap in the double doors to the sitting room.

Reginald moved to block me. "I fear I am not at liberty to say --"

But it was too late; I'd already seen someone moving on the other side. "Bowler, come on, least you could do is say no to our faces!" I called through the crack of the door.

"Awright," came Bowler's familiar growl from the other side. "NO! That good enough for ya?"

I shouldered Reginald out of the way and pushed the doors open. "Now, that wasn't to our faces." I froze. "And speaking of faces, what happened to yours?"

Sprawled across his settee, Bowler scowled at me with one eye; the other was covered with a lump of raw meat. "See, this is why I told Reginald to send you away, 'cause you won't take NO for an answer!"

"But what happened?" Socrates insisted from behind me.

"What's it look like?" Bowler pouted. "I got in a fight!"

I moved in for a closer look. "Some fight! How many of them were there?" Aside from whatever bruises and swelling were hidden under the steak, the other half of Bowler's face was decorated with a nasty set of parallel scratches. "And what did you do to make her angry at you?" I gestured at the scratches.

Bowler pushed my hand away. "Five. And they wasn't no women. But they're lookin' worse'n I am tonight. Now, will you leave me alone? I ain't ready for dinner."

"I can see why," said Socrates. "You're not going to be eating much except soup for a few days."

"I'll be fine by tomorrow, if you just leave me in peace," Bowler grumbled.

I met Soc's eyes and gave a shrug. "All right, Bowler... but next time you decide to take on a pack of alley cats, let me know so I can back you up."

Chapter Two: That Time of the Month

On the hillsides, sheep huddled nervously together. In the town, the good folk shuttered their windows against the night. Down by the wharves business carried on, voices and faces appearing and disappearing through the swirling mist.

Socrates and I ended up eating at Stanyan's, after a little discussion.

"If you'd prefer the Horseshoe Club..." he offered.

"Nah, that's all right," I said quickly. "Dixie's out of town right now, and Ellie's sorta mad at me."

"Mad, why?"

I winced. "Well, we were discussing women's suffrage -- which I think is a good idea, don't get me wrong -- but I kinda ended up taking the position of devil's advocate. Just to make sure that all sides of the issue were presented, you understand."

Socrates nodded solemnly.

"I don't think Ellie really appreciated the rhetorical elegance of my debating style," I finished up.

"I know just what you mean," Socrates said. "It's one of the hazards of a classical education. Puts you out of touch with the common man."

I looked up and down Soc's three-piece suit, then down at my own very common, dusty leather gear. "Yeah, it does that," I agreed, just to keep him quiet.

It was when our meal was winding down that Socrates started to go quiet and thoughtful. I knew him well enough to realize that this could be a bad sign, or it could mean next to nothing. Trying to guess what might be bothering him, I looked around to see if there were any conspicuous government agents (nope), rich robber barons (no), or crazed lawyer-stalking women (not a one). But I did catch sight of a familiar profile just coming in the door. "Hey, Professor! Over here." I waved Professor Wickwire over to our table.

His face lit up in that goofy grin of his, and he pulled an extra chair up to sit with us. "Brisco! And Socrates! I see you've been exiled from the Horseshoe Club, too."

"Did Ellie get mad at you?" I asked.

"What? No, no, but it just isn't the same without Dixie there. Those other dancers can't hold a candle to her." Wickwire sighed wistfully. "But what's that you have, Socrates? You're not peeking at dirty pictures under the table, are you?" he added with a wink.

"What? Oh, no, no!" Socrates lifted up the little volume he'd been thumbing through. "It's the Old Farmer's Almanac; I just got my copy today. I'm looking something up, trying to figure out... hmmm..." He flipped back a few pages.

"What is it, Soc, trying to see when the planets will align to favor your love life?" I teased.

"Actually, there's no reason to suppose the positions of the stars and planets have any direct bearing on human activities," lectured Professor Wickwire.

"No, of course, not," said Socrates quickly. "But there are certainly things that depend on the season... and the phases of the moon... Brisco, wasn't Bowler sick a few weeks ago?"

"Sick?" I echoed.

"Yes -- remember, he begged off from that poker game?"

"Oh, well, lovesick maybe," I conceded. "That was a little while after we came back from helping out Lenore Raymond in Hard Rock. I think Bowler took the rejection a little hard."

"That was around the seventeenth, wasn't it?"

"About that."

Socrates flipped back more pages. "And a month or so before that..."

I thought back. "That would be when we were stopping the Swill brothers from pulling off that bull swindle, remember?"

"Ah, yes..." Now Socrates had a pen and was circling dates on some of the pages of the almanac. "That just might explain it. I'm starting to see a pattern here."

"What kind of pattern?" I craned my neck to see.

"Have you noticed that Bowler gets ill or, well, unsociable at about the same time each month?"

"Bowler's always unsociable," I retorted.

"More so than usual. Once a month," Socrates insisted.

Professor Wickwire giggled. "If you're trying to persuade us that Lord Bowler is really a woman in disguise, you've picked a tough case to argue!"

"Hardly that," Soc snorted.

"What are you getting at, then?" I asked.

He closed the almanac and folded his hands earnestly on the table. That, I knew, was always a bad sign. "Have you considered that there are other things which follow the phases of the moon?"

"Such as?" I prompted.

"Well..." Socrates's chin quivered for a second. "Lycanthropy. For instance."

I stared at him. "Werewolves? Wait, you're saying you think Bowler is a werewolf?"

"It fits the pattern. He's been ill around the last three full moons. He refuses to socialize with us, but clearly he is going out, and getting into trouble. He says he was in a fight, but did you see those injuries? He looked like he was --" Socrates stopped and looked around and lowered his voice to a penetrating stage whisper. "Mauled by some kind of animal!"

"I think you're getting a little carried away here, Soc."

"Just look at the evidence! It all started when Bowler was exposed to the Swill brothers a few months ago -- a reclusive, inbred clan?"

"So, what, you think they're werewolves and they infected him?" Actually, I could believe almost anything ran in the Swill brothers' heritage. Almost anything, but not that.

Socrates was on a roll. "Look, I was just reading in the paper about a series of attacks on the sheep in San Miguel Rancho, not far from here. The ranch hands said it was a wolf, but the bodies had claw marks on them, so some people thought it might be a mountain lion instead." He sat back triumphantly, as if that proved his case. "Don't you get it? Werewolves use their claws as well as teeth; ordinary wolves don't. And those marks on Bowler's face could certainly have been made by claws."

"Socrates," I said patiently. "Werewolves are fictional. They're myths. Not real. Tell him, Professor."

"I'm afraid I can't definitively say one way or the other," Wickwire said sadly.

"Oh come on, you were just lecturing us on how silly and outdated astrology is! This is the same kind of thing!"

"Not at all. You see, we understand the motions of the planets very well. They're orderly and predictable, not at all like the vicissitudes of human history. But when it comes to the mysteries of nature and diseases of the body, well then, medical science has only begun to scratch the surface. Werewolves... I'd have to say it seems very unlikely, but impossible? I'm not sure science has progressed that far."

"There are werewolf legends going back thousands of years, in almost every human society," Socrates said. "Petronius wrote about them, and so did Ovid. There are American Indian legends, old Norse legends -- the French loup-garou..."

Wickwire chuckled. "Did I ever mention that the French language sets me on fire with passion?"

"Uh, no, I don't think you did," said Socrates, edging his chair a little further from the Professor.

"Soc, I think you're taking your classical education a little too far, here. The same people you're talking about also believed in witches, and burning people at the stake, and demonic possession."

"And some of them still do," Socrates said. "Can you say for sure that they're all wrong? All of it?"

"I can't disprove every single case, no, but --"

"Focus on just one case, then," said Socrates, and stabbed a finger at his almanac. "If Bowler isn't a werewolf, then what was he doing last night? How did he get all scratched up? Why does he go off on his own every full moon? Are you going to get those answers out of him?"

I narrowed my eyes. "Maybe he won't answer questions directly," I said, "but I can find out the truth. And I will." I stood up and waved the waiter over. "Mr. Poole here will be picking up my tab," I said over the sound of indignant splutters. "Since I have some work to do."

Chapter Three: Who's Afraid of the Big Bad Bowler?

The wharf district served as home to every kind of depraved criminal and low-life feeding upon the dregs that flowed from the city. And it was there that Brisco County Jr. and his faithful companion Lord Bowler were bound...

The nice thing about staking out a house on Nob Hill was that most of the mansions in the area had little postage-stamp yards with nicely tended bushes perfect for hiding behind. I waited there for a few hours until all the lights went off in Bowler's house, including the last faint candle in his bedroom.

Now, here's where I have to admit something that makes me a little uncomfortable. Actually, the whole subject kinda gives me the willies: the subject of the Orb. Or I suppose I should say, Orbs. Back since the first time I encountered one of them, when it healed me from what should have been a killing shot, I think I was changed a little bit.

At first it was just that I had a kind of connection to the Orbs. I could sense when one of them was nearby, and when I was touching one I sort of knew what it could do and how to use it. By the time of that final confrontation with Bly down in Warehouse 10, I could almost hear the Orbs, as if someone was whispering for my ears alone. That's how I knew how to use the doorways in time -- once to go back and have a conversation with myself that was almost but not exactly like the one I already had, and once to go back and merge with my previous self and change things in a much bigger way.

I think that was also what was happening when I saw my father -- in a screwy kind of way, the damaged Orb was helping me connect with the past, or maybe with a timeline that might have been, if things had gone a little differently. At least, that explanation makes more sense to me than ghosts, and I sure like it better than the idea that I was hallucinating because I'm going insane.

Those connections disappeared when the damaged Orb blew up and Karina took the other two back to the future with her. But something else remained, a more subtle kind of a change inside me. I'm not sure what to call it except instinct, which is a hard thing to pin down. I like to think I've always had a pretty keen sense of intuition -- a man can't survive out in these parts without it, especially a bounty hunter. But ever since I encountered the Orbs, that instinct has been stronger, and I've learned to listen to it a little more closely.

And that's why, when the lights went off in Bowler's house, I listened to the instinct that said nothing more was going to happen tonight. Bowler was too banged up to be getting into trouble. I waited a little longer, just to be sure, but when no one came sneaking out the back door I headed off to do a little investigating in other places.

The San Miguel Rancho had a nice little hill overlooking the sheep pens. I may not be the tracker that Bowler is, but the light of the moon was strong enough to show me boot marks and cigar butts. Men, several of them, had been hanging out here for at least a few hours sometime in the past few days, since the last time it rained. I doubted that any wolves or coyotes or even mountain lions would have stayed in the area with those smelly cigars around.

I also found something else glinting in the moonlight, something I didn't recognize, but I had a pretty good idea who could tell me about it. I waited until morning to go look him up -- just to be polite.

When I got to 777 1/2 Carney Street, Lee Pow was quick to disabuse me of my first idea. "No, it's not Chinese," he said, looking at the tool I'd found. "Indian."

"Indian?" I turned the thing around. It looked sort of like a set of brass knuckles with sharp spikes attached. "I've never seen an Indian using anything like this."

"Not Red Indian. From India," Lee Pow clarified. "Called Bagh-nakh, the tiger's claws. Use in palm of hand, like this." He tucked his hand into the metal contraption and made a slapping motion. The claws slashed wickedly through the air.

"Okay, that explains... something, I guess. Kill some sheep and make it look like an animal did it. But who, and why would they want to?"

Lee Pow shrugged. "Kill the sheep, steal the lambs. Lamb meat is expensive this time of year -- shepherds aren't ready to cull their flocks yet."

"They will in a few weeks, though. A lamb on every table."

"A few weeks may be too late for a traveler passing through."

I looked around at the street bustling with people from every continent of the world. There were sure a lot of travelers here, but it still didn't make sense to me. "So eat beef instead -- there's always plenty to go around."

"But the cow is sacred to some sects in India. Forbidden to eat except during special ceremony."

I looked down at the tiger's claws in my hand. "Indian, huh?" Maybe that was the who, or a part of it. I had learned something, but I wasn't sure what it meant just yet.

After that it was back to the hotel for some rest, then I was up keeping an eye on Bowler's house before the sun went down. I didn't care whether it was instinct or some kind of supernatural sense of where destiny was headed or just knowing my partner, but a little voice was telling me something would happen tonight. Bowler was a fast healer and a hard man to keep down. Whatever trouble he'd been getting himself into, I was betting he'd be ready for more of it tonight.

Sure enough, a couple of hours after sunset I heard the door creak and Bowler came stepping out of his front door. The swelling had gone down in his eye, and the scratches on the other cheek were almost invisible in the flicker of the gas streetlights. He looked around before stepping out, but he didn't see me; it was just the natural caution of a man who's been a hunter or hunted (or both) for most of his adult life.

That same caution made it tough to follow him without giving myself away, so I had to hang back a bit. I'd taken a couple of extra precautions too, like taking my spurs off and putting leather pads under the heels of my boots. A few blocks from his house, in an area with more businesses and shops, Bowler ducked into an alley.

He was either trying to get away, or setting a trap for the person following him. I hurried into the alley, but carefully.

I stopped and ducked behind a crate when I saw Bowler's shadow on the wall ahead, thrown by the light from a gas lamp. He wasn't lying in wait for me, but at first I couldn't tell what he was doing. I thought for a moment he might be struggling with something or someone, as his shadow writhed and distorted along the wall. Then an even crazier thought came to me: what if Socrates was right, and Bowler was transforming into something else, something not entirely human?

And then the shadow straightened and shook itself and turned a little, and the shape of it came clear. Bowler hadn't turned into an animal, just changed his hat; from a certain anglethe silhouette of the long curled brim looked almost like a snout, but it was just a regular hat like the one I wore every day. Not Bowler's usual style, though. As he stepped out of the alley I saw he was wearing a different coat, too. He hardly looked like the man I'd gotten to know so well, without his ratty duster and jaunty bowler hat.

Just what kind of trouble could Bowler be getting into that he thought he had to try to disguise himself? It didn't seem like my friend at all.

I followed him down through the winding streets of the business district. About the time we crossed Washington Street I started to get nervous. This was a seedy, dangerous area known locally as the Barbary Coast. The kinds of businesses that tended to thrive here were saloons, brothels, gambling parlors, opium dens, and saloons with a sideline in gambling, prostitution, and opium. We were close to the docks here, but even the toughest sea salts wouldn't wander around here alone. Bowler could handle himself, sure, but it was always best to some backup with you in an area like this. Men walking alone here tended to disappear and wake up on a ship bound for the other side of the world.

Bowler wasn't exactly keeping to the safer well-lit areas, either. He stopped in a doorway and spoke to a shadowy figure -- I couldn't even tell if it was a man or a woman. He moved around a corner, and several men in dark clothes drifted after him.

This was where I stepped in. Bowler was in the alley having a low-voiced standoff with one of the gang, but he'd break the standoff if he turned to keep an eye on the guy creeping up behind him. So I took care of that part.

"Now, now," I said, catching hold of the hand that had been about to bring a sap crashing down on Bowler's skull. "Five against one might be fair, when that one is my friend here, but there's no need for nasty tools like this." With a twist, I forced him to drop the weapon.

He tried to throw a punch with his left hand; I ducked it and hit him in the stomach hard enough to put him down for a couple of minutes. And then the fur was flying.

"Brisco, what are you doin' here?" Bowler demanded when we ended up back to back for a moment in the middle of the fray.

"Watching your back, what else?" I snapped, and then I had to duck something that looked like a machete.

I wasn't sure who our attackers were, but they had a lot of friends, and they just kept coming. Finally Bowler and I had to make a run for it. Our escape involved a lot of alleys, a back room with some very private goings-on, a very long pier, and a dip in the bay -- almost. Instead of jumping in the water I managed to land us in a leaky rowboat. It wasn't that much drier than swimming, but it got us across to the next pier in time to lose our pursuers.

Once we got back to a more civilized part of town where we could dry off our outsides and wet our insides with something a little less watery, it was time to try to get the real story. I got us a table in a private corner of the public house where I could grill him properly, and I started with a nice straightforward question. "What the heck were you doing down there, Bowler?"

"Investigatin'," he grumbled.

"Try again," I said. "If it was legitimate business you would have asked me to go with you -- that's a nasty place to be alone."

"I can take care o' myself."

"That's not what your face says," I pointed out, gesturing with my beer at the scratches on his cheek. On a closer look I could see that the spacing matched the tiger's claws perfectly, but it must have been a glancing blow since the cuts weren't very deep. "Why did those guys attack you?"

"They probably want more hands for their ship, isn't that how it usually goes?" Bowler pouted into his drink.

"The guy with the sap tonight, and all his sailor buddies? Maybe. You could have woken up halfway to Shanghai."

"Calcutta, more likely," he said. "Those fellas were Lascars."

That brought me back to the tiger claws. "Okay, but whoever opened your face a couple nights ago wasn't trying to lure you onto a ship. You made someone really angry, didn't you?"

"Must be my naturally charming personality." He twisted his mouth into a sour smile.

"If this was all for a case, you wouldn't be so determined to hide it. Come on, Bowler, give! Whatever you think my reaction will be, it can't be as bad as getting beat up by five guys."

Bowler rolled his eyes. "Fine. If you must know, I was looking for some companionship, all right? I have... needs."

I blinked. "There are better places for that. Safer. A better class of... companions." Not quite as cheap, it was true, and Bowler was pretty stingy. But it was the wrong area to try to economize.

He shook his head. "Not the kind I'm looking for. My needs are more specialized." He wouldn't meet my eyes, and if it were possible with his complexion, he would probably have been blushing.

My mind blanked for a moment. What kind of special or sordid acts would Bowler be looking for that a regular class of floozy couldn't provide?

And then it clicked for me. He went to an area with lots of sailors. He spoke to a person who could have been either a man or a woman -- or one dressed up as the other.

I leaned over the table. "Are you talking about the Greek vice?"

Bowler's forehead furrowed. "Huh?"

"Sodomy? Buggery? Rogering? Homos--"

"Shh, shh!" He patted the air frantically. "Keep it down, will ya?" He looked around at the few bodies decorating the bar. "I don't want anyone gettin' any ideas."

"What kind of ideas? Thinking you like that sort of thing? But they'd be right, would they?"

Bowler squinted unhappily. "Some people think it makes a man weak, wantin' to.... bend over like that."

And that brought a whole new set of images to mind. I'd been thinking it would be the other way around, which had its own kind of appeal. But if Bowler had the occasional craving for someone to give him that kind of treatment, I could almost -- almost -- see why he thought the docks might be the right place to go looking.

I sat back a little in the chair and let my legs spread a little wider. "That's a recent way of thinking," I said casually. "Anyone who's read the classics knows it used to be a regular part of life. They thought it made someone more manly, not less."

Bowler boggled. "The classics? Like, fancy literature? They have stuff like that in there?"

"Sure! Catullus, Homer, Sappho -- they were a pretty lively bunch back then, I'll tell you." Then I leaned in again and gave Bowler my best, most charming grin. "And you know something else? There's no place better than Harvard to get a real classical education."

His eyebrows were rising up to his hairline now. "Are you saying that -- that you..."

"Uh-huh." I gave my lips a little lick. "You remember Matt Carter? He was my roommate back at Harvard. We taught each other a lot, him and me."

The surprise held for a few more seconds, then Bowler's eyebrows snapped down suspiciously. "You're gettin' me on."

"Not yet. But I'd like to."

"You'd really... with me?"

"Who better? Couple of partners helping each other out? It's perfect. I wish you'd told me about this before, Bowler -- could have made those long nights on the trail a lot warmer." I grinned at him.

"Wait a second," he growled. "If you really mean it..."

"Sure I do."

"I don't want you gettin' no ideas about the long term. This is just a convenience thing. I got plans, Brisco. I'm going to settle down someday, have me a family."

"So am I, someday," I said. "But until then... like you said, a man has needs."

"That's right," he said, still not sure if he should trust me.

"This would be cheaper, safer, and more fun than paid companionship. So why don't we go back to your place -- or mine, if you prefer -- and see if we can do something about those needs. In a mutual, convenient kind of way."

Bowler swallowed hard. "All right, let's do that."

And this is where I have to draw a curtain across the scene. Because even if I'm not writing a dimestore novel, I'm not writing that kind of story, either. I'll just leave it at this: the arrangement worked out to be mutually convenient and satisfying. Bowler's favorite sawed-off shotgun turned out to be a pretty good match for his personal arsenal, and I enjoyed the benefits of it myself.

Chapter Four: A Very Secret Thing

Socrates Poole shook his head in wonder. "I can't believe you actually tracked the Wolf Man to his lair and brought him to justice. The ranchers promised a rich bounty for this one!"

Oh yeah, I almost forgot: Socrates. We did have to do some fast talking to persuade him that his werewolf idea really was crazy, without telling him what was really going on.

"Illegal press-gangs?" he said doubtfully.

"Sure, everyone knows they prey on any visitor down near the docks at night. That's why Bowler set a trap for them."

"But... isn't that the job of regular law enforcement?" Socrates said.

"They wasn't doing it very well, was they?" said Bowler. "Sailors comin' in from all over the world, stealing people off our streets --"

"And sheep off our ranches," I filled in.

"So I thought I'd lend a helping hand."

"Not much in the way of a bounty, but we have the satisfaction of a job well done!" I said. And I was satisfied -- even a little smug, when I noticed the way Bowler kept squirming around in his seat.

"But what about the full moon?" Socrates protested. "It was a perfect correlation -- I had it all worked out!"

"And you were right. But you forgot about something else that follows the phases of the moon."

"What's that?"

"The tides!" I said triumphantly. "Sailors live by the rhythm of the tides. When the moon is full, the timing is perfect -- high tide is in the middle of the night, so they can go out and get some new deckhands in the wee small hours, then leave the harbor on the falling tide before their new recruits wake up."

Socrates blinked rapidly. "I guess that could explain it."

"It explains everything, Soc. You took the evidence and leaped to completely the wrong conclusion -- like seeing hoofprints and hypothesizing zebras instead of horses."

"I guess." Socrates shook his head wonderingly. "You win this one, Brisco. But I'll get the better of you one of these days!"

"Maybe you will, Soc," I laughed, "but it won't be a case involving mythological creatures!"

On our way out of the building, Bowler bumped shoulders with me. "You can talk him into anything, can't you?"

I shrugged. "Like good old P.T. Barnum said, Bowler, you can fool some of the people all of the time."

"Just don't get any ideas about foolin' me."

I gave him a grin. "Never, partner. You can trust me." And I winked.

Yuletide!

2008-12-26T17:47:00Z

Yuletide is up, without author names yet, and once again I'm flabbergasted by the level of quality in these stories. By crotchety standards, almost every story is readable, about every other one is good or at least very clever, and about one in four or five makes me jiggle with delight and amazement. Usually I don't do recs because they're so personal it seems kinda like a crapshoot. But this year there were some stories that were just so perfectly to my own tastes that it seems like I have to rec them. There are lots of other very very good stories out there, but if you happen to be a clone of me, make sure you don't miss these ones!

Mir Belledas Nancy Springer -- White Hart series The story written for me, not-so-coincidentally a beautiful match to my tastes! I said, "if you can write smut in the author's style, WOW!" and that's what I got. A missing scene with enriching mention of other events throughout the book. Does an amazing job of capturing tone and voices (and language and culture) while going to a place Springer (probably) wouldn't have gone, or at least wouldn't have published.

The Golden Ones Sarah Monette -- Melusine series Mildmay and Felix beginning their exile after The Mirador. Perfect writing voices, rich visual/cultural references, gripping storyline, and a touch of m/m smut.

A Light in the Darkness Martha Wells -- The Fall of Ile-Rien Good characterizations, clever mystery plot, great use of the culture. Ilias and Tremaine after the trilogy. Not enough Giliead, but yay for including Nicholas! No smut in this one, just good clean fun.

Yuuuuuuletide!

2008-11-11T23:05:57Z

I just got my assignment for this year, and it's not my very favorite nor the one I thought was most likely, but I'm beginning to get enthused. Gotta bone up on the canon again, that will be SUCH a trial...

Now, for whoever gets to write MY story: usually I try to be non-specific, but in the how-to-write-your-request posts it seemed like more people complained about not enough guidance rather than too much guidance. So I'll try to be specific but give you lots of different options to choose from.

My general preferences: Most of all I like plot (adventure, case, battle, etc). If you don't have time or story room to write a whole plot, you can fool me by writing a vignette that implies plot happening all around it, like a moment in medias res. I like slash but I don't insist on it -- you can satisfy those urges with non-explicit slashiness, or strong friendship, or hurt/comfort. I mostly just want to see the connection between the characters, and if there are het relationships involved I don't want those to be the focus of the story. I usually like to see a style that matches well with canon or with the author's writing style and language, since all my requests this year were bookfic. But if you want to experiment with a different style, go for it -- just make it conscious and deliberate and consistent. I like strong characterization and being able to hear the characters' voices in their dialogue (I know that's tough with bookfic). I like either angst or schmoop in moderation, with a general preference for happy endings. I'm always willing to read explicit smut (and if you can write smut in the author's style, WOW!), but it isn't necessary to make me happy.

As for specific requests: In all of the first three requests I just really like the connection between the characters in canon and want to see more of it. For the Nancy Springer, I'm okay with reading incest but have never been able to write it, so I threw out a request to get someone else to write it for me -- there should be lots of potential for angst there. Same thing with the master/apprentice dynamic for Pamela Dean -- I can't write that but like to read it if you're game to try, or you can fall back on friendship and distract me with pretty language and Shakespeare quotes. With the Martha Wells I'm envisioning a Sherlock Holmes type mystery but it doesn't have to go that way -- maybe first meeting or first kiss or angsty rejection of one-sided crush or something.

The Bujold request is probably the hardest because it's so vague, and it's the only one that isn't character-driven. Here's where I'm coming from: I like the world Bujold built, but as far as the main characters go I'm happy with what we're getting in the canon and don't feel a drive to see more. So I'm looking for something different -- another part of the world or the history, or an expansion of some secondary characters (I generally like the Lakewalkers better than the farmers), or something like that. I have found myself toying with putting people from many of my favorite fandoms into that world and seeing how they would be different, how it might work if ATA gene=groundsense or Sentinel senses=groundsense or something like that. I'm intrigued by how little we know of the past world with the sorcerer-lords and maybe the gods weren't absent at that time, and how did that work? So there are a lot of different approaches you could take with this request, and I'm hoping that one of my suggestions will gel for you. I still have the general preference for something that's centered around a character or a couple, whether original or canon-secondary or transplanted from another fandom. I still have a general preference for m/m slash, but also willing to read m/f or f/f for this request.

I hope that's enough for you to work with! Just don't worry too much -- remember, I love these worlds and characters and will be happy to see anything written about them!

Fic: Double Rebound

2008-10-02T04:37:23Z

Fandom: Stargate: Atlantis
Title: Double Rebound
Author: Quasar (quasar273)
Pairing(s): McKay/Keller/Dex
Length: 5800 words
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: up to s4, Trio
Warnings: Mild kink, not fully resolved ending

Summary: Jennifer wants Rodney for an experiment.

Author's Notes: I wrote this way back in March 2008 after seeing Trio and the scene where Ronon kinda-flirts with Rodney in Kindred. I didn't want to post because I was trying to write the happy mcshep sequel. I finally admitted that the sequel would be long and angsty and not porny and not what I wanted to write. Then Tracker came out and I decided maybe this could stand as is (this story has no spoilers for Tracker).

The night after Rodney fell into a Genii mineshaft with two beautiful women, one of whom then fed him painkillers and beer, he slept fourteen hours.

The next day he walked around like an arthritic old man, could barely feed himself because it was too painful to bend his fingers even a little, and had trouble just raising his voice. The fifth time a scientist acted concerned instead of cowed, he decided to take Radek's advice and go back to bed. On the way he passed Colonel Carter crutching gracefully toward the Gateroom; she said with apparent sympathy that he looked awful and should get some more rest. He slept another eleven hours that night.

The second day, he felt a little better. He still couldn't type properly, but that just meant he was free to gesticulate as he pointed out exactly how stupid his scientists had been to think they could get away with doing nothing while Rodney was out for a day and a half. By the third day, he was typing his rants as well as yelling them, and almost back to a normal sleep schedule.

On the fifth day, Keller inspected his hands and said he could leave the bandages off so long as he kept his palms clean and didn't re-injure them. Her own hands had been bandage-free for two days, at that point. When his checkup was done, she invited him to stop by her quarters after dinner.

"You... what?" said Rodney. "I mean... really?" He'd thought she was just being nice to him, earlier. Consoling him over the breakup with Katie. Or possibly just amused by his total ineptitude in the field of romance, even the most casual kind. He hadn't believed she was genuinely attracted to him.

"Sure," she said with her little enigmatic smile. "We didn't get much chance to talk last time, since the beer sort of knocked you out --"

"Beer and Percocet!" he reminded her. "And hey, should you really have encouraged me to combine those?"

"I made sure your breathing wasn't depressed when we put you to bed," she said tartly.

"Good... wait, we who? Who we?" All Rodney remembered was trying to explain the beauty of unified theory to Keller one moment and waking up in his own bed with a powerful urge to pee the next.

"Ronon carried you to your room," she said. "You didn't think I did it myself?"

"Well, no, but..." Rodney had supposed one of the legion of muscle-bound nurses under Keller's command had helped. Or maybe she would have called Sheppard to get one or more of his muscle-bound minions. And then maybe John would have come along to help out himself instead of delegating. Rodney hadn't given much thought to how much he liked that idea. But in reality... "Ronon? He wasn't, um, upset or anything? That you and I had a drink together? I mean, I wouldn't want to, um, poach on his territory or anything. Not that I think you're his territory, or any man's, or, or that women are ever territory at all... it's just --"

Keller was getting those little crinkles around the corners of her eyes that meant Rodney was being especially inept again. "Ronon's not bothered by it," she said. "He understands."

"Oh... good," said Rodney faintly. Because Keller was very pretty, but the thought of going mano a mano with the man-mountain for the favors of, well, any woman was pretty much out of the question.

"Good," she repeated back to him with lifted eyebrows. "See you at twenty, then?"

"Yes, um, twenty... right." Rodney left the infirmary in a daze and forgot to yell at his idiots for nearly two hours.

Being nervous, he ate too much at dinner that night. Sheppard gave his heaped plate a doubtful look.

"I'm hungry!" Rodney protested, digging in.

"I didn't say anything."

"You made a face."

"What are we, four?"

Rodney didn't dignify that with an answer, and there was silence for several bites. Finally he noticed Sheppard had no tray, just a glass of iced tea. "You're not eating?"

"I ate earlier."

Rodney blinked. "Why are you here, then?"

"Just stopped by to see if you're up for a game of chess tonight," said John. "I got a movie, too, if you're interested."

Rodney shook his head, swallowing his mouthful hastily. "Can't. I have a date."

John stiffened to attention like a hunting dog. "A date?" he repeated, rolling the word around his mouth with unflattering disbelief.

"That's right," said Rodney, lifting his chin. "Is it so hard to believe I could attract a woman?"

John backed down. "Well, no, but -- okay, yeah. It's kinda soon after Katie, isn't it? You on the rebound or what?"

"No, that's not... I don't know." Rodney was starting to regret he'd said anything, but he was so bad at keeping secrets, trying to keep his mouth shut usually turned out more embarrassing anyway. "The opportunity came up, you expect me to say no?"

"Guess not..." Sheppard had a little line between his eyebrows. "So who's the lucky lady?"

Rodney shook his head.

"No one I know?"

"Oh, you know her, I just don't think I should, ah, spread rumors," Rodney finished lamely.

"C'mon, Rodney, you can trust me," John wheedled. "You know I'm gonna find out sooner or later."

"Let's make that later." Rodney pressed his lips tightly together.

"It's not Colonel Carter, is it?"

"No!"

"...Teyla?"

"What? She's pregnant!"

"Pregnant, not dead."

"No, it's not Teyla!"

"Well, then... that cute, um, Dr. Esposito?"

"No, she went back to Earth after the thing with the explosions." Rodney sighed.

"Who is it, then?"

"Look, I just think I should get some idea if it's going to work or not before I starting talking about it," Rodney said uncomfortably. "You know, telling you -- telling people about my plan to propose to Katie, before I even told her, was one of the big mistakes I made. I just don't want to... jinx anything." Rodney gulped at his water. "I'm good enough at jinxing things by myself, I don't need you adding to it."

"I'm not going to jinx you, Rodney!"

Rodney snorted over his pudding.

"Okay, fine, you know what?" Sheppard put on his big fake smile. "I'm just going to wish you good luck, and then tomorrow night you can tell me what a great date it was over chess. Okay?"

"Yeah. Okay, that sounds... nice." A lot less terrifying than actually going through with the date. Rodney flinched in surprise as Sheppard slapped him on the back, then dredged up a grin and waved the colonel away. And then he checked his watch and discovered it was already quarter to twenty and he'd better get going.

He shouldn't have eaten so much, he realized as the butterflies jumped and spun in his stomach while he stood in the hallway. It wasn't too late to change his mind and play chess with Sheppard. He frowned a moment over the contrast: possible sex with a hot blonde woman versus chess with a lanky, messy-haired guy. He had no idea why the second seemed somehow more appealing. Tightening his jaw resolutely, he waved at the controls on Keller's door. Jennifer, he should start thinking of her as Jennifer now; probably he should have started a while ago.

She answered the door wearing a welcoming smile and a tight shirt with a deep V-shaped collar that showed a bit of cleavage. It wasn't really a dressy shirt, except it was dressy for Atlantis, where a head of division might get calls at any hour of the night. Rodney was just grateful the shirt was a sort of rust-brown instead of the deep red he'd first thought when she opened the door. He did not need to be reminded of Elizabeth just now; he was nervous enough already.

Keller (Jennifer) passed him a brown bottle -- LaBatt's, he noted with surprise. She must have traded for it, because a few days ago she only had Heineken. Or maybe she'd figured weak American beer would be less dangerous to combine with Percocet. "Oh, um, that's very..." he said, fumbling for the multitool in his pocket. Jennifer rolled her eyes and handed him a bottle opener.

"Come on in, sit down," she said, waving him to her desk chair with a bottle of her own in hand. "There are a couple of things we should talk about first."

"Talk?" Rodney squeaked. That was the part he was always worst at, when the talk had anything to with relationships or making someone besides himself feel valued. He thought Jennifer knew how bad he was at that sort of thing, but now she was expecting him to do it anyway? Hell, maybe she really was only with him for the amusement factor.

"Relax," she urged, "It's nothing bad. I just want to make sure we're clear on a few things first, set some ground rules."

"Uhmm." This was sounding... not like what he expected. He wasn't sure what it did sound like. A business arrangement, maybe? He took a big gulp of beer.

"Just to make sure we're on the same page here and we know what the expectations are," Jennifer continued, taking a pull at her own beer. "See, the fact is I'm not really looking for a relationship, or anything long term. I'm just hoping we can have some fun together. Good, clean -- mutual! -- fun."

Rodney blinked. Did she really say she just wanted sex, no strings attached? When had his life turned into the Pegasus version of Playboy Letters? He was pretty sure he hadn't done anything particularly right in any previous encounter with Kel-- Jennifer. "Am I in a coma?"

She stared at him. "Excuse me?"

Rodney snapped his fingers. "That's it, isn't it? I was severely injured when the mine collapsed, and now I'm on life support or the brink of death and, and I'm dreaming all of this, right?"

Jennifer's puzzled frown slumped into a more familiar half-lidded exasperation. "This isn't a hallucination, Rodney."

"You're sure? Because, um, it really has some elements in common with a previous hallucination of mine." Beautiful blonde, check. Using her charms to distract him from his work, check. Acting out of character... well, he thought it was out of character, but he didn't really know Jennifer very well just yet.

"Yes, I'm very sure." Jennifer took another swig of beer. "Look, you need to tell me if you're not up for this. I just thought, since you broke up with Katie and you're at loose ends now, you might be -- y'know -- open to a little experimentation."

Seeing an opening he recognized, Rodney pounced. "I'm a scientist, I live for experimentation! Experimentation is my bread and butter." Then he froze, as he began to wonder exactly what kind of experiment she was suggesting. It probably didn't involve folding space-time or improving shield efficiency.

"So, this is okay with you?" She perched on the foot of her bed and waved around at the room -- airy and open and non-rectangular, like most rooms in Atlantis. She had the same sparkling curtains as Sheppard and several other people. The bed was definitely non-standard though, about twice as wide as Rodney's and half again as long.

Rodney froze, contemplating the unknown while the butterflies in his stomach did half-gainers. But it was never really in question -- beautiful blonde charms, after all -- so he gulped and bobbed his head and said, "Sure. Yes. Better than okay. Sounds great!"

Jennifer's smile was near-blinding this time. "Good. That's very good. Because I've really been looking forward to this, and so has Ronon."

The door swished open.

Rodney jumped to his feet, hands extended so that beer splashed everywhere. "I didn't touch her! I swear!"

Ronon paused just inside the door and squinted at Rodney, then at Jennifer. "Thought you were going to explain it to him."

"I was working on it!" she retorted.

Rodney lowered his hands cautiously. "No, uh, I think I can categorically say no one mentioned anything about this." His nerves were saying this was a setup that would lead to the kind of physical humiliation he had endured in high school. But Ronon didn't look insane with jealousy; actually, he seemed sort of amused, the way Jennifer looked when Rodney's tongue ran away with him.

Jennifer sighed, eyebrows lifting in a pained show of patience. "I think the technical term is ménage à trois. Or threesome, if you prefer."

"With... ?" Rodney waved the beer bottle in Ronon's direction, then drew a triangle with it. "I mean, trois, three -- you, me, and, and him?!"

"S'why I'm here," Ronon put in calmly.

Rodney stared. "And you want -- I mean, um, you agreed to... ?"

Ronon shrugged. "She thinks it'll be fun. I'm willing to try."

Rodney gulped. "This, uh, this was not at all what I was expecting tonight. I think maybe I should just go and uh, leave you two --"

"What's the matter, you chicken?" Ronon retorted.

"Ronon!" Jennifer snapped. She turned to Rodney. "Really, I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable or anything. I'm sorry I didn't explain more clearly. Seriously, if you want to back out, that's fine."

"Well, I... I think I should..." Rodney swallowed. He couldn't just leave, with Ronon thinking he was a coward. But he couldn't agree without knowing a lot more about the details. "What, um, what exactly did you have in mind here? Because I should tell you, I'm really not into, um..." The beer bottle proved inadequate to delineate Ronon's height and breadth and excess of masculinity. "No offense."

Ronon quirked an eyebrow. "I said the same thing about you. No offense." He jerked his head at Jennifer. "She wants two men. Not going to want to watch us fucking each other."

"Not that I would say no if you wanted to!" Jennifer chirped. Then her eyes widened and she held a palm up to Rodney. "But I understand that isn't on offer, really. I totally get that. It's just, um, I read about... and I had a friend who tried it once, and she said it was really, uh... and this seemed like a pretty good opportunity, since you and Ronon are both, um, interested in me, and you're two reasonably attractive and open-minded guys, and, you know, friendly with each other..."

Rodney stared as Jennifer babbled and a blush crept up her cheeks. "I thought I was supposed to be the one who was bad at this sort of thing!"

Her mouth snapped shut and her eyes narrowed in annoyance. "You are. So I figured you might have a little sympathy -- this isn't an easy topic to bring up, you know!"

Ronon sprawled across the bed. "Didn't have any trouble asking me about it," he commented.

Jennifer flapped a hand backward at him, still staring earnestly at Rodney. "What do you say, Rodney?"

He should say no. He should absolutely say no. But he knew that Ronon would needle him for weeks if he did, in little hidden ways that wouldn't spill the secret until Rodney couldn't take it anymore and snapped and ranted back at him and that would reveal this sordid little affair to everyone.

Whereas if he said yes... it really was sort of like Playboy Letters, wasn't it? He used to fantasize about scenes very much like this. Okay, those usually involved Rodney with two women (Norina and Sam Carter had been a very celebrated pair in his mental movie theater for a while), but he could hardly blame Jennifer for thinking about such things when he'd thought about it himself. He'd never done anything, of course, because the opportunity had never presented itself. And now here it was, if not exactly the opportunity he'd been looking for.

It also occurred to him that if he humored Jennifer in this, she might be willing to help fulfill a reciprocal fantasy further down the line. Of course Sam was out of the question (but wouldn't that be hot?!), and Katie wasn't speaking to him, but there might be others. Lieutenant Cadman delighted in making inappropriate suggestions to Rodney anytime she was in town; wouldn't it be sweet to take her up on it and then do her one better?

Or maybe Jennifer would want to try it again with Rodney and a different man. Not that he was attracted to any man, but someone with, say, Sheppard's height and build would be a lot less intimidating than Ronon. That wouldn't be so bad, really.

Rodney glanced again at Ronon's lounging form, and the bulge visible at his crotch. "Just, um, the two of us with you, right?" he asked Jennifer. "No, um..."

"No guy on guy action, I promise," she said. "Unless you want to, because that would be really, uh... yeah."

Ronon gave a little snort, as if it was absurd to suggest he might find Rodney attractive in the tiniest way. Rodney wanted to protest that plenty of men found him desirable, but then he would be asked for examples. Gritting his teeth in annoyance, he blurted, "Okay. I'll do it."

What came next was very surreal. Rodney had gotten used to incorporating aliens and nanoviruses and sundry other threats into his daily life as if they'd just walked out of a book or movie into the real world, but this was the first time he'd ever experienced pleasure, sexual pleasure, that seemed like it belonged in a fictional setting.

Jennifer took charge from the start, and insisted that they should all be naked and that furthermore it was her right to do the undressing. Ronon's clothes came off first, and Rodney struggled not to look until he noticed Ronon leering at him and realized he wouldn't get beaten up if he did look, just once...

"Oh," he said. Ronon was big, but that wasn't a surprise -- other details were. Circumcision was less universal in Canada than the States, but it was still pretty common when Rodney was born. He'd never seen an erect uncircumcised penis in real life, and he wanted to ask questions: what does it feel like, is it really more sensitive, aren't you worried about infections, does it hurt when the foreskin stretches like that, do women like it?

As if he'd read Rodney's mind, Ronon said, "Most women here don't know what to do with it," and teased the foreskin back and forth over the head.

Jennifer slapped his hand away. "Save that for later."

Ronon's eyes slitted with amusement. "She knows what to do with it," he told Rodney.

Jennifer took her own shirt off, then cleverly got rid of Rodney's clothes while he was trying to decide whether to stare at her breasts or Ronon's penis. Then she shed her uniform pants and started arranging everyone on the bed. This involved some pleasurable groping and a few appreciative kisses -- on the mouth and elsewhere -- so Rodney's body was fully interested in the plan even while his mind was still a little doubtful.

Ronon went on the bottom, lounging back with a smirk and his impressive penis pointing straight up. Jennifer petted him and played with him for a little while, then slipped a condom on and straddled him. She didn't sink down onto Ronon right away, though -- she sat on his belly first and held out a bottle of lube and asked him to stretch her ass, since Rodney couldn't risk infection in his hands.

Rodney gulped, watching from the foot of the bed as Ronon's powerful hands parted Jennifer's pale cheeks, and a couple of thick fingers played in and around the hole he would soon be visiting himself. Jennifer threw her head back and made mewling noises and teased Ronon's straining penis with every twitch.

Rodney had only experimented with anal penetration once before -- giving, not receiving; he really wasn't interested in receiving, or at least he'd never given it much thought -- and it hadn't gone very well. The college girl, three years older than he was but one grade behind him, had said he didn't prepare properly and went in at the wrong angle and didn't listen to her and finished too quickly. He hadn't tried it again.

Jennifer seemed to know what she wanted, though, and she certainly showed signs of enjoying Ronon's playing. Finally, panting, she told him to stop while she got Rodney ready. To his surprise and pleasure, this involved his kneeling on the bed while she sucked him wetly and deeply until he was hard enough to pound nails. Then she put a condom on him and slathered it with lube, her slick squeezing almost as pleasant if slightly muffled by the latex.

Ronon gave a long, luxurious groan and Rodney realized Jennifer had finally sunk down onto him, even while her hands played with Rodney's erection. It was surprisingly erotic to hear Jennifer having sex with Ronon at one end and teasing Rodney at the other. He found himself panting with excitement.

"Okay," said Jennifer after several long, slow strokes of her hips up and down Ronon's length, while her hands mimicked the rhythm on Rodney. "Okay, I'm ready." She settled down over Ronon and leaned forward. "Your turn, Rodney."

Rodney got behind her and at first there were too many knees trying to be in the same space. Jennifer tucked her knees up by Ronon's flanks, Ronon spread his legs, and Rodney squeezed into the middle. He petted the elegant line of Jennifer's spine, the graceful flare of her hips and her generously rounded butt. Pressing her cheeks apart, he had a flare of nervousness. "You're sure you want this? I mean, I wouldn't want to hurt you --"

"You won't," she said positively, and before Rodney could conclude that was a disparaging comment on his size, she continued, "I've done this before. Not two at once, but I know how it feels and I know I like it. Put it in."

He lined up and pushed, adjusted his position and tried again, adjusted again... he almost got the head in but it was too tight and he could feel Jennifer's back tensing. "This isn't working."

"Okay, okay, hang on." Jennifer lifted up off of Ronon, and his groan this time was of disappointment. "Try it now."

She was more upright, her leg muscles tensed differently as she held herself up. Rodney squinched his eyes shut and pushed -- and popped in past the head, sliding smoothly until he was almost completely sheathed. "Uh!" he said, though he'd been meaning something more eloquent.

"That's right," she said almost clinically -- oh, no, Rodney was not going there -- as she shifted in front of him. "In and out a couple of times, slowly... okay, hold there. Stay with me." She reached down to line Ronon up with her vagina again, gave a little sideways shimmy that made Rodney gasp, and then sank down. Ronon groaned, Rodney's breath left him explosively, and Jennifer said "Oh yeah. Yeah, that's it. Come on boys, give it to me!"

It still wasn't completely smooth sailing from there. Jennifer tried to set a rhythm, but one or both of them would slip out if she moved too much. Finally she promised to stay still and let Rodney do the work (Ronon grunted disapprovingly), but apparently "staying still" involved a lot of twitching and spasming and one or two of the little hip-shimmies that made Rodney squeak. He tried to be careful and gentle in his motions, but Jennifer egged him on with increasingly loud moans and whimpers (and a shriek when Ronon pinched her nipples that made Rodney think he'd hurt her). The tight ring around his shaft and the soft smoothness beyond were intoxicating, and soon Rodney was plunging in and out far more roughly than he meant to. Jennifer's moans rose to a sharp peak and then a series of throaty yells, and Rodney lost it completely.

His orgasm wasn't quite over when Ronon started to move, powerful thrusts that lifted Jennifer off the bed. Rodney felt it more intimately than he'd thought possible, not only the flexing of Ronon's tree-trunk thighs around his own and Jennifer's butt brushing against his belly, but something long and hard pushing against him inside of her, separated by thin layers of flesh. The stimulation of his oversensitized penis was excruciating at first, but after a minute he realized that he was staying hard in spite of the orgasm. The lift that gave him sent a shiver straight up his spine.

Jennifer was flattened over Ronon's chest, moaning and sobbing as he pumped into her. Rodney had been bracing himself on her shoulders but that wasn't working now; he tried to move his hands down to the bed, but her elbow was in the way, flexing frantically as she rubbed her own clitoris. The rhythm and angle of the movement reminded Rodney strangely of masturbating himself, and he spasmed sympathetically with her as she clenched and flexed. He ended up with his hands pressing down on someone's hips, and only belatedly realized they were Ronon's.

Jennifer was rising to another climax now, even noisier than before, the waves that racked her body rippling sympathetically through both men. As she slumped down again, Rodney unexpectedly met Ronon's gaze over her shoulder, and saw the same frustrated arousal he was feeling.

"Can't move enough," Ronon grunted. "Turn over."

"Um," said Jennifer weakly, panting. She seemed to want to direct things but didn't have the energy at the moment. She reached back to give Rodney's hip a little pat, something between encouragement and please move.

Rodney pulled out carefully, reaching down to hold the condom on. He was mostly hard, but not quite enough to keep the condom secure. He was about to pull it free when Jennifer said "No, your hands. Gotta keep 'em clean." And she turned around, neatly pulled the condom off, tied it in a knot (Rodney had heard about that but never seen anyone do it), and dropped it in the wastebasket right next to the bed. She bent again and sucked him back to full hardness, then had a fresh condom on him and slathered with lube in seconds. Apparently there were real advantages to having sex with a medical doctor -- stuff that was normally awkward to deal with was all taken care of quickly and efficiently.

Jennifer had wiped her hands on a towel and was now pushing Rodney to lie back against the pillows. At first he thought he was going to be in Ronon's position, and he gasped at the leap of arousal. But Jennifer turned her back to him and -- whoa! -- sank down with Rodney buried in her ass again, only now the angle was different and pressed him in new and fascinating ways. Her butt cheeks against his stomach were very nice; her tailbone on the base of his penis, not so much.

Ronon moved between Jennifer's legs and they had another duel of the knees. This time Ronon won, and Rodney found his legs spread almost as wide as Jennifer's, so that he felt as if he was the one being possessed when Ronon entered her with one sharp push, his cock slithering up along Rodney's length and then away again. Jennifer yelled "Yes!" loud enough to embarrass Rodney, and let her knees spread wider.

Ronon was as energetic in this as in everything else he did; with each thrust he was pushing Jennifer hard against Rodney, and the pinch of her tailbone made Rodney yelp "No, wait, wait, this isn't working!" Finally he mastered the trick of it, balancing Jennifer on his thighs and flexing his legs and abdomen with each of Ronon's lunges. He should have known this would involve sweat and working his muscles to their limits; this was Ronon, after all, and it was just a different kind of sparring.

The press of Ronon's cock through Jennifer's flesh was weirdly seductive, though. It wasn't Rodney moving, but it was a rhythm he knew in his bones. And Rodney's muscle-flexing scheme, in addition to the force of Ronon's thrusts, did lift Jennifer an inch or two each time only to come back down on Rodney's penis as Ronon pulled away. So there was a weird sort of counter-penetration going on even though Rodney wasn't actively pushing into her -- at least, not at first. Once he started to get the hang of it, and it began to seem more like hot sweaty crazy sex than a hot sweaty crazy puzzle he had to figure out, then his instincts took over and he was giving a little push upward each time Ronon moved back.

It lasted a lot longer this time, at least for Rodney. Jennifer came again after about a minute, and then again so many times Rodney wasn't quite sure when she was in one orgasm or rising up toward another. Ronon got close at one point and paused, his head curled down so the dreadlocks tickled Jennifer's breasts. But after suitable grimacing and jaw-clenching, Ronon took up his thrusts again, slower than before but harder. Rodney was grunting or moaning with each one, though probably he couldn't be heard with all the ruckus Jennifer was making.

Rodney's orgasm came as a surprise. He had his eyes shut, feeling the rhythm through his whole body, breath and flex and counterthrust and the unexpectedly sweet slide of Ronon's penis against his own, when a big hand clamped on his shoulder. Rodney's eyes flew open to meet Ronon's, staring at him past Jennifer's cheek. Ronon's perfect teeth gleamed and his perfect chest flexed, and sweat glistened down his lean, perfectly muscled arms. His eyes were nearly all pupil, black with arousal, and Rodney had the strange thought that green eyes would probably look just as dark in this situation. And suddenly Rodney was there, tipped over the edge and throwing everyone's synchronization off as his hips stuttered and shook.

He didn't black out after the orgasm, but he sort of checked out for a while. He knew they were moving his body, and he didn't object except when Ronon's knee pinched the skin of his hip. The bed rocked and Jennifer moaned, volume rising and falling in an intriguing aliased frequency as the rocking and the individual moans interfered constructively, then destructively, then constructively again. Rodney plotted the Fourier transform of her orgasms against the inside of his eyelids.

He opened his eyes after a while to find they were still at it, Ronon pistoning smoothly in and out, in and out. Jennifer seemed to be in some kind of sexual fugue state, barely aware but matching Ronon's moves nonetheless.

"So, when you said you need more cardio, that was just a joke?" he asked Jennifer. She didn't answer, apparently reduced to a brainless sex pudding.

Ronon grinned. "She wasn't joking when she said you need more cardio."

Rodney frowned. "How'd you know she said that? Has she been talking about me?"

Ronon shook his head. "Doesn't need to; I know you, McKay." Then he tucked his hands under Jennifer's butt and pulled her tight, shifting into a fast pace that made Rodney's penis twitch with an echo of remembered pleasure. And then, finally, Ronon was coming, strangely silent and vulnerable as he made faces of pleasure/pain. If this was how Ronon looked in orgasm, as if he had to keep the pleasure locked in some secret place inside, then maybe he actually had come before, when Rodney thought he was just close and trying to hold it off.

Rodney drifted again for a bit, Fourier transforms and secret inward orgasms jostling through his brain with the stray thought that there was another universe where he was playing chess with John right now. He thought the other two were asleep, but after a while there were murmurs and shifting, and someone got off the bed. Rodney slitted his eyes open to see Jennifer weaving unsteadily toward the bathroom. She didn't bother closing the door, which made Rodney roll to face away in embarrassment.

Ronon was sprawled across the bed, loose-limbed and smug. The pose reminded Rodney of Sheppard, except he'd never seen John in such a position naked. Oddly, that thought made Rodney's limp penis twitch again. He wondered if Ronon was picking up the slinky casual act from the colonel, since Ronon had seemed not to know how to relax when he first came to Atlantis. John wasn't really a bad role model for that, if you ignored how childish his slouches were. And how it was all an act, really; on the inside Sheppard was perhaps the most restrained and un-relaxed person Rodney had ever met, after himself, maybe.

Ronon's returned Rodney's stare for a little while, then he grinned. "That was good, huh."

"Yeah. Yes, it was..." Possibly the best sex Rodney had ever experienced, certainly the kinkiest and the most intense. It had been years since he'd had more than one orgasm in a night. And now he felt sort of let down, almost disappointed with himself in the face of the others' athletic feats. "It was definitely good," he said, wondering why that would make his throat ache and his eyes burn.

Ronon rolled off the bed and up to his feet, as easy as breathing. He scratched his chest hair and ambled toward the bathroom, still occupied by Jennifer. Rodney heard running water and the two of them talking to each other, and it made his skin crawl; he'd never been the kind of person who could casually witness the bodily functions of others.

"Rodney, you should wash your hands," Jennifer called out. "Soap and water, gently but thoroughly, for at least thirty seconds."

"Yes, I'll, uh, I'll get right on that," he said, sitting up and looking around Jennifer's room in a daze. What the hell had he been thinking, coming here, agreeing to their crazy scheme?

He saw his clothes on the floor and snatched at them. He wasn't specifically trying to be dressed and ready to leave before they came out of the bathroom, but if they were too slow...

The shower turned on. The bathroom door was still open, Ronon and Jennifer still talking easily in tones Rodney couldn't catch.

He didn't yell goodbye.

Fic: Any Sufficiently Advanced Technology, Part Three

2008-07-18T07:00:46Z

Fandom: Stargate: Atlantis
Title: Any Sufficiently Advanced Technology, Part 3/3
Author: Quasar (quasar273)
Pairing(s): McKay/Sheppard
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Violence

Summary: Years ago, John recruited a famous wizard for a project that went bad. Now he's asking for Rodney's help again.

Author's Notes: Written for the Away Team in mcshep_match, to the prompt "Call of Duty." Special thanks to argosy for story advice and beta, and to my beloved spouse for discussing this story with me week after week!

Back to Part One
Back to Part Two

Montreal, QC, July 2004

"You remember Elizabeth, right? Dr. Weir?"

"Of course. She saved my life."

John swallowed at the images that flashed through his memory. "Right. Well, she works -- we both work at a place called the SGC. You might have heard, um, rumors about them?"

"No," said Rodney blankly. And that was a pretty good sign that he really had done what he said, gone cold turkey on the physics and the magic and turned himself into an unassuming musician.

"Okay, well, she sent me a letter to give to you. It's --"

"Wait, wait. You're saying Elizabeth knows about you being alive? She's been lying to me too?"

John winced. "No, she thought I was dead, and she was almost as angry as you when she found out. She didn't punch me, though," he reflected, rubbing his jaw. "That was about a month ago when I, uh, bumped into her in Antarctica."

Rodney squeaked. "You want me to work in Antarctica?! I'll stick with the music gigs, thanks."

"No, no, the Antarctica thing was sort of a side project. The SGC is based in Colorado. But we're planning a trip -- we -- it's complicated." John ran a hand through his hair. "I don't suppose you'd agree to sign a non-disclosure agreement before I tell you about this?"

Rodney snorted. "So when someone comes out of nowhere and kills me, no one will know you had anything to do with it?"

"It isn't like that, Rodney!" John scowled. "Okay, look, I'm going to tell you anyway because you deserve to know. And we need you, even Elizabeth admits that. Just, uh... hear me out, all right? It's a long story and it sounds kind of crazy right around the middle. And the beginning. And the -- um. Just, it's all true, okay?"

Kiev, Ukraine, May 1992

John hadn't indulged in wine, but he was feeling pretty mellow anyway. They had finished their mission and disabled an impressive number of warheads without anyone guessing what Rodney was doing. This morning, finally off the clock, they had slept in and eaten a big breakfast, then Rodney had spent the better part of an hour stroking and teasing all over John's back before fucking him long and slow. Now they were refueling with a delicious lunch, with more sex likely to follow, and tomorrow they would be heading back to the States. John had told Maybourne the plans were copied, and the colonel sounded pleased enough that John might actually be getting back in a cockpit sometime this century.

Elizabeth had recommended this restaurant, Pantagruel, saying it was for people with big appetites but fortunately more cultured than its namesake, whatever that meant -- Rodney seemed to understand it. Maybe it was the warm glow of good humor that prompted John to let Rodney babble on about things he really shouldn't discuss in public. They were sitting on the terrace with a fountain nearby and the babble of other diners all around, and if Rodney's voice sometimes rose above the hubbub, probably no one would figure out what he was talking about anyway.

"It's the fundamental problem of our time," Rodney was saying around a half-chewed mouthful of pasta. John didn't look too closely. "Of any time, really. Magic could do so much, but it's limited to parlor tricks and stage shows -- why?" Rodney took another bite and this time, mercifully, chewed and swallowed it instead of talking.

Busy with his own steak, John didn't bother responding. He knew Rodney would continue without a prompt.

"Because they can't count on magic when it's really needed," Rodney said with an emphatic fork-stab. "When you're really desperate, when the chips are down, suddenly you discover you can't concentrate and the magic just isn't there. We need a way to change that."

John hesitated as he realized where this conversation was headed. "And you're the man to do it?" he asked.

"Yes. Yes, I am. I've already published a proof of concept, and I'm working on building a thaumatron."

John choked on his steak. "A whatathon?"

"A device that can do magic."

John frowned. "That's a dumb name. But don't they make those already? Firestarters, things like that?"

Rodney rolled his eyes. "Right, so you can shell out a couple hundred bucks for something that replicates the function of a match. Or a flashlight, or a battery. I'm not talking about something that can perform one simple spell that most schoolchildren already know. I've figured out the secret to controlling what particles the thaumons turn into. You control that plus the intensity, spread, and rate of conversion, and you can reproduce any kind of magic, every time, reliably and repeatably. No emotions involved."

"Are you sure that's a good idea?" John said slowly. He wasn't supposed to discuss this with Rodney -- in fact, he'd been specifically ordered not to. But if he could make Rodney see what he was really doing here and what the risks were, the rest of Maybourne's plans would be unnecessary.

"Come on, have you listened to anything I've been saying for the last hour?" Rodney said. "I'm talking about overcoming the single biggest limitation that keeps magic from its full potential."

"You're talking about overturning our society and putting superweapons in the hands of anyone who can afford one."

Rodney blinked. "What?"

"Don't you get it, Rodney? What prevents people from using magic for violence? Because anger prevents magic. All those kings and generals throughout history who tried to get magicians to win battles for them -- it never worked, not in a useful way, because of the emotional limitation. Your machine would change all that."

Rodney's brow was furrowing up. It would have been cute if the subject matter weren't so serious. "But... this could be a huge benefit to, to everyone!"

"Like nuclear power?" John asked. "You just spent three weeks disabling a fraction of the warheads that could destroy our planet. Still think it was worth it for the sake of not-clean, not-safe, not-cheap energy?"

"The thaumatron could be used for defense as well as attack!" Rodney protested.

John snorted. "Even I know magic shields are just a legend. At best, your thing could be used for counteroffense, and that just leads to another arms race. We just finished one Cold War and now you want to start another -- only this time it would be on a personal scale."

"No, no, it wouldn't be like that!" Rodney protested. "This is to help people."

"Don't be so naive, McKay. Look, you're a Canadian living in New Jersey. What do you think about America's gun control policies, huh?"

"They're a joke, but what does that have to do with --"

"It's the same thing. People claim they need guns to 'defend' themselves, but by nature a gun is not a defensive weapon. So what happens when the guy down the street has a device that can kill you or set your house on fire, or fry the electronics in your car, all without leaving a trace? What can you do except buy a bigger, better device and threaten him back? You make this thing, it will give a whole new meaning to keeping up with the Joneses."

"Hang on here, you're military. Aren't you supposed to love guns and the latest powerful weapons and all that?"

"Because I'm military, I have a pretty good idea of just how bad it can get. You realize, they don't even teach us about dealing with magic in combat? Because it hardly ever happens. But you're planning to change all that."

Rodney's mouth was tight and slanted, his eyes blazing blue. "So that's why you copied my notes, is it?"

"Um..."

"That was what you were doing when you 'accidentally' dropped my papers, right?"

John gulped.

"It's all right. I was expecting it. Well, at least half expecting it. I'm not surprised, anyway. Maybe a little disappointed. Was it all just an act?"

"What?"

"The sex, I mean. Are you even attracted to me, really? Obviously, you've been with men before -- is that why you got this assignment? You were supposed to seduce me and distract me and copy all my work?"

"No, wait, Rodney --"

"So, how does copying the plans for the thaumatron fit into your little theory about an arms race? Oh, I get it! You want to make sure the military -- the American military -- will get their hands on it first!"

John quoted the official explanation: "We need to know about it so we can have an effective defense ready in advance. If that's not possible, at least laws to prevent large-scale production or sale to minors. That sort of thing."

Rodney's glare was withering. "Is that what Maybourne told you? And you believed him?"

John bit his lip, because he'd worried Maybourne might be lying. But he could hardly tell Rodney about the real plan, the one he actually believed in -- the plan to discredit Rodney's research and sabotage his prototype so that no one would ever agree to manufacture the device. It wasn't a nice scheme, but John had figured it was better than the alternatives.

He sat frozen, unsure what to say. The appearance of a friendly face just at that moment was perfect timing. "Elizabeth!" He half-rose in greeting.

Rodney's face twisted in annoyance.

She came to their table, an uncertain smile on her lips. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt. It looked like you were discussing something important."

"No, no, just a little, um, political debate," John managed. "Here, sit down, join us." He looked around for an empty chair, but the restaurant was crowded.

"Oh, no, I'm here with Dr. Pappathanapoulos; I wouldn't want to abandon him. I just came to see if you were enjoying your meal." She looked at the congealing food on their plates with a puzzled frown.

"It's great!" John popped a piece of broccoli in his mouth to demonstrate. "Rodney loves it, right Rodney?" He blinked. "Rodney?"

Rodney was hunched over in his chair, gray-faced and shaking.

Elizabeth reached for him. "Are you choking?"

But John could see he was panting for air, a fist curled against his chest. "I think it's... my heart?" Rodney gasped out.

"You're not even twenty-four!" John objected, pushing his chair back with a squeak. "Do you have a heart problem?"

"No. Checkup... before coming here." Rodney groaned in pain.

"It's an attack," John realized, and straightened from where he had bent over Rodney. He started looking around at the other diners, mostly tourist types staring back in alarm. "A magical attack. Can you block it?"

Rodney blinked at him, dazed. "What?"

"Someone is disrupting the electrical signals to your heart." At least that was how it usually worked in spy novels.

"Are you sure?" Elizabeth asked. Now she was looking around as well.

"Rodney, can you stop it, counter it?"

"Fear, upset... emotion," Rodney ground out.

Waiters were converging on their table, about to block them in.

"Line of sight," John muttered. "Come on, let's get out of here." He caught Rodney by the arm and hauled him out of his seat.

"What? Wait, ow..."

Elizabeth was reaching out, either to help John or stop him.

"Elizabeth, deal with them," John snapped with a jerk of his head at the waiters. "Come on, Rodney. We need to get you out of sight." He pulled Rodney's arm over his shoulder and started plowing through the crowd of bystanders: a sour-faced woman, a man in an expensive suit, an older couple in garish clothes.

"Line of sight... doesn't work," Rodney protested weakly.

"It works if they're not sure where you are." John half-carried Rodney up the steps to the restaurant proper and down the little hall to the restroom. With the door locked behind them he propped Rodney against the sink and quickly checked to make sure no one else was in the room.

Rodney's breathing was still fast but deeper now, his face less pinched. Color was flooding back into his cheeks.

"Better?" John guessed.

Rodney nodded. "The pain just stopped. What was that?"

John swallowed. "Someone was trying to kill you."

"But -- violence and magic don't mix!"

Someone knocked on the door.

John considered. "In books, there are psychopathic assassins with no emotions."

"Those are stories, not real!"

"Well, yeah, that's what I always thought. But I guess sometimes it is real."

The knocking turned into thumping.

Rodney was definitely looking better now. "See, this is why we need thaumatrons -- to be able to fight things like this!"

John shook his head. "You make your invention, and it doesn't matter what stupid name you give it -- an attack like that could come from anyone, not just one-in-a-million weirdos with defective brains."

"Of course you would say that. You probably called in the hit!"

"What? I'm trying to protect you, here!"

"Sure, that's what you want me to think. You phoned Colonel Maybourne, didn't you? Told him you copied the plans?"

"Um." John had done that when Rodney was in the shower this morning.

"They don't need me any more, so they sent an assassin."

"No, it isn't... he wouldn't..." It was horribly plausible. It would save Maybourne all the effort of his complex plan to discredit Rodney.

Rodney stabbed a finger into John's chest. "You call the colonel back. Tell him the plans are useless. The photos didn't come out. Tell him he needs me alive, and to call off his fucking assassin!"

"Rodney, I didn't have anything to do with this! I don't control Maybourne or this killer, whoever it is!"

Rodney glared. "That would be a lot more believable if you hadn't been lying to me since day one, Lieutenant. Now, I'm getting out of here." He flipped the lock on the door and pushed it open to reveal a mob of people. "I'll go back to the hotel with Elizabeth. You stay away from me. If you really want to help, make that phone call." Rodney pushed his way into the crowd.

John followed only to be swamped by people jabbering at him in multiple languages. From the clothes, one was a restaurant manager and two were police, and many others were bystanders. If any of them were speaking English, John couldn't make it out through the noise.

"Rodney, wait!" John reached for him, jacket flapping open.

A woman in the crowd screamed something and pointed at John. At his shoulder holster, he realized, a moment before the policemen spun him around and pinned him up against the wall. By the time they removed his weapon and hauled him away, Rodney was gone.

Montreal, QC, July 2004

Rodney's grip on the music bag had eased. He stared at John over the top and closed his mouth slowly. "Aliens."

"Sort of, yeah. They looked human, but --"

"Aliens built a device for instantaneous interplanetary transport thousands of years ago. And no one has known about it until recently."

"Well, it was buried --"

"And these same aliens experimented on our brains?"

"Hey, that part actually makes sense to me. Haven't scientists been wondering for years why we're the only animals on Earth with a phaba in our brains letting us do magic? And there's no evidence that humans had phabas before about ten thousand years ago?"

"This is crazy!"

John grimaced. "Yeah, it sounds that way at first. I just heard all this stuff for the first time about a month ago, you know. But I've seen the Stargate. It's real. And it looks alien, all right."

"So why are you telling me all this? You thought I should work with this Ancient alien technology stuff?"

John took a deep breath. "We're mounting an expedition to go through the Stargate to another galaxy. The place the Ancients came from. We don't know exactly what we'll find. And because it takes a lot of power to travel between galaxies, we, um... might not be able to return. Right away."

Rodney was clutching his bag tightly again.

"The expedition needs people with the Ancient gene, like I have. That's why I got roped into this. But we're also going to need scientists. People who know almost everything about almost everything. And really powerful wizards."

"I don't do that stuff anymore."

"But you could. You still know how. Rodney, we need you. I know how good you are in a pinch. We need what you can do."

Kiev, Ukraine, May 1992

It took a couple of hours and almost all of John's cash in bribes for the police to admit that his carry permit was probably genuine, and they still hadn't given him back the gun. His face was aching where it had been 'accidentally' slammed into a door frame -- three times. So he was already in a bad mood when he got back to the hotel to find that Rodney and Elizabeth had never returned.

He tried calling Maybourne on the satellite phone, but there was no answer on the line where the colonel was supposedly always available. It wasn't likely that Maybourne could do anything helpful at a distance anyway, or that John could get him to admit a connection with the assassin, if there was one.

Stymied, he grabbed his backup Beretta from the suitcase and some extra ammunition clips, then went to the front desk to ask them to let him into Elizabeth's room so he could look for clues there. He was still trying to explain the situation to the clerk when Elizabeth staggered into the lobby, flushed and panting, her hair in disarray.

"John!" she gasped. "Thank god you're here!"

"Elizabeth? What happened?"

"I was kidnapped! We both were, Rodney and I. Two men grabbed us as we were leaving the restaurant and took us in a car. They stopped at a train crossing and Rodney -- he kicked the door open and we both ran. But somehow we ended up on opposite sides of a moving train. Rodney yelled at me to keep going. I -- I think they must have caught him again."

"Where?" John demanded urgently. "Where was this? And how long ago?"

"Nearly an hour -- it took me a while to catch a cab. I can show you the train tracks where I last saw him, but I'm not certain where they were planning to take him. Look, shouldn't we call the police?"

"Oh, no. I've just had an object lesson on how ineffective and corrupt the police are here," John growled.

"The army, then," Elizabeth urged. "I heard the kidnappers talking -- I think they're Transnistrian separatists."

John boggled. "Trans-whosiwhatsis?"

"Transnistria -- it's a breakaway republic on the border between Ukraine and Moldova. They've been at war for nearly three months now; I'm sure the army would react quickly to the news that Transnistrians had kidnapped two prominent foreigners here on a diplomatic mission."

"I just bet they would," John said. "But why do these guys want Rodney, for chrissakes? It doesn't make any sense."

"Ransom. They think all Americans are rich."

"Rodney's Canadian."

"I doubt they can tell the difference."

"This is going to be a hell of a big splashy international incident, isn't it?" John said slowly. "What if... what if that's exactly what they want?"

"To draw attention to their cause?" Elizabeth said doubtfully. "I suppose that's possible, but they were talking about money."

"Not the Transwhovians," John corrected. "I'm guessing those guys are just flunkies, with no idea what they were really getting into. The real culprit is probably the same person behind the attack at the restaurant."

Elizabeth's eyes widened. "There was a woman in the car with them. Giving the orders."

"She's the one, then."

"She was speaking Russian instead of Ukrainian, with a terrible accent."

"American?"

"I... couldn't tell. She didn't speak English where I could hear, and I didn't let them know I understood what they were saying."

"Good thinking. So she's a foreigner, anyway. She must have hired or manipulated these Transylvanian guys to do the dirty work. Look, I think a diplomatic incident is exactly what they want. Let's not give it to them."

"But -- what about Rodney? We have to help him!"

"We will. I will. Tell me where you saw him last."

"You can't go by yourself!"

"Call in anyone else and we're giving them what they want, CNN on a platter."

She crossed her arms. "I'm going with you."

John hesitated.

"Do you want my help finding him, or not?"

"All right, all right! But you stay out of the way. If I can't get Rodney out of there, then you go get the army or the cops or whoever will listen to you."

They caught a cab from the stand outside the hotel, one of the nearly identical fleet of black vehicles that crawled Kiev's streets. Elizabeth started to explain something in halting Ukrainian, but the driver just sighed and said, "Stick to English, lady, I'm from New York."

John was diverted momentarily. "What's a New Yorker doing in Kiev?"

"Gee, you know, no one's asked me that before," the man retorted sarcastically. "My wife's from around here, okay? She's got family, and the cost of living is a hell of a lot lower here. At least rent is -- you never really know about food prices these days."

"Well, uh, good. That will make things easier. Elizabeth, can you tell him where we need to go?"

"I don't know the name of the road," she said. "It's south of the main part of town and it crosses the train tracks, heading towards the Dnieper."

"Oh, that's helpful," said the cabbie, but he pulled out into the street anyway.

"I'm sorry -- I'll know it when I see it!"

"Did they say anything about where they were taking him?" John asked.

"I think I heard the word for factory," Elizabeth said, "but I didn't catch a name or anything specific."

"A factory?" John mused. "It would have to be empty."

"There's a bunch of those between the river and the train tracks," the cabbie offered.

"This would be someplace isolated, probably," John pressed. "They wouldn't want any witnesses."

"Wait a second, buddy, are you talking about something illegal here?"

"Our friend's been kidnapped," said Elizabeth before John could stop her.

"Geeze, why didn't you call the police, then?" After a beat, the cabbie went on, "Okay, yeah, so I guess you know they're not totally reliable."

"If we can find out where our friend is being held, then we'll call for help," John temporized. "We think we can work faster without a lot of questions being asked. Especially if you'll help us."

"Okay, tell me what you got."

Elizabeth described what she could and the cabbie pressed her for extra details -- how many tracks running together, freight trains or passenger trains, how far from the river. After fifteen minutes or so they started driving parallel to the railroad, the cabbie pausing at each cross street so Elizabeth could see if she recognized it.

"Wait, up there!" she said after a long series of negatives. "I think I recognize that church. Keep going. Yes, that's right, this is the area where I caught a ride back to the hotel. I walked up from --" She pointed. "Head that way."

Five minutes later, they found the crossing where Rodney and Elizabeth had escaped their captors. There was no one there now, no trains moving -- just late afternoon sunlight baking the trees and the pavement.

"They were going east, right?" the cabbie asked. "And headed for some kind of abandoned factory?"

"We think so," Elizabeth confirmed.

"So unless they crossed the river there's not too many places they could be going. Let's see what we got here." Once across the tracks the cabbie turned south again. The view was uninspiring, as they passed several brick buildings with faded signs and weeds growing in the lots. One larger multi-winged factory was still active, with people and cars around and smoke rising from the chimneys, but there were too many others that showed no signs of life.

"Okay, maybe I was wrong about not too many places," admitted the cabbie. "Man, I knew the economy was tanking but I didn't realize it was this bad!"

"We're looking for a place with just one or two cars parked outside," John said.

"Unless they parked out of sight from the road," the cabbie pointed out.

"Elizabeth, what kind of car did they have?"

"Well... it was black."

"There's a surprise," John murmured.

"A little bit older, dusty and banged up. Oh -- the front bumper was crooked!"

"Like that one?" the cabbie pointed. They were passing an abandoned building, smaller than some of the others, with a boxy Lada sedan tucked in close to the wall. It was only really visible after they'd gone past the building.

"I think so," Elizabeth murmured. "Yes, that has to be it!"

"Pull into the next lot," John urged. He was already picking out a line of approach that avoided most of the windows. One car was definitely a good sign -- he might only be facing the two Transi-guys and the woman in charge.

The woman who might be a highly trained, ruthless assassin-wizard. But John would worry about that when the time came. John pulled out his gun to check the clip.

"Hey, no guns in my cab!"

"I have a permit for it." John jacked a round into the chamber. "What do we need to pay you to wait here?"

"Wait? I'll do that for free so long as no one comes shooting. But I'm not going with you."

"I am," said Elizabeth, but her chin was quivering.

"No, you're not," John snapped. "You're going to stay here and call for help if it gets bad. You see Rodney, you get him to safety, got that? Don't worry about me."

"John..."

"Dammit, Elizabeth, I'm supposed to be a fucking bodyguard! It's about time I did some guarding." John omitted the part where the bodyguard role was just a cover. He was piecing some things together and realizing Rodney was right about Maybourne. "Look, Rodney thinks I betrayed him. Lied to him."

"He mentioned something about that," she admitted. "At the restaurant."

"I need him to know it wasn't all a lie. I need to do this for him. It's important -- in more ways than one." If Maybourne wanted an international diplomatic incident, John wasn't going to give it to him.

"Just be careful," she said, her dark eyes shining. "I want both of you back safely, okay?"

John couldn't think of anything to say so he just nodded at her, slipped out of the cab, and headed around the building.

There was a stretch of bushes and grass between the two abandoned lots, but they were too sparse for real cover. John was counting more on the design of the factory, which had windows only on the sides and not on the end facing him. He paused in the shadow of the last bush, checking all the vantage points he could see.

He had to be fast, and smart, and stealthy. He'd been pretty good at this kind of stuff during training, but when he realized that being too good might get him assigned to ground duty he had bombed the final test. He wondered if Maybourne had seen those test grades and chosen a disgraced Lieutenant on purpose to be a lousy bodyguard. But the truth was, acing the course wouldn't really have prepared him. This wasn't like training, and not like anything John had done in real life. It felt like there was a hummingbird lodged at the base of his throat.

He ran across the open space before the building and flattened himself against the wall.

No shots, no yells.

John edged along the wall to the factory entrance near the black car. Fresh scrapes were visible in the paint around the lock. He hesitated a moment over the possibility of squeaky hinges, then gritted his teeth and pulled the door open.

It wasn't squeaky, but it wasn't completely silent either, especially the clunk when it closed. John glanced around quickly -- he was at the edge of a big, dusty room with bulky machines arrayed across the floor -- and darted into the shadow under a staircase.

Footsteps and cigarette smoke announced the approach of a guard. John crouched deeper, breathing open-mouthed for silence. A stocky man descended the stairs, AK-47 held out in front of him. He went to the door first and opened it to check outside, then yelled something up the stairs. Another voice responded after a moment, in the tone of a command. Sighing, the man headed out into the shadowy room, checking around each piece of machinery.

Wishing he had a silencer, John flicked on the safety, reversed his grip on the gun, and sprang, using the weapon as a club. The guy went down with a groan, but he was still moving; John had to hit him again and this time he felt something crunch. Swallowing hard, he moved back a step. But he knew the next thing he had to do and there was no point in wasting time; he bent and rolled the man over to pull free the strap of the Kalashnikov, slinging it around his own neck. He checked the ammo; a full clip. Slipping his handgun back into the holster, John started up the stairs. After the first few steps, he toed off his shoes and continued in sock feet.

He thought the guard had only come down one flight, but he wasn't certain, so he paused to listen on the landing. There was a dark hallway with doors into what seemed to be offices, and a woman's voice murmuring from one of them. Suddenly someone yelled, and John knew this voice intimately. The pain in Rodney's cry drew him halfway to the door before he thought about whether it was a good idea.

The woman laughed. "Amazing what the nervous system can do, isn't it? No need for high voltage. Just a tiny jolt of electricity causes the most exquisite pain." Her English was smooth, but the accent wasn't quite native. Possibly Scandinavian, John thought -- not that it mattered.

"How can you --" Rodney gasped out brokenly. "Shouldn't be possible --"

"Oh, I'm not bound by ordinary human limitations," the woman cooed. "When I was little they thought there was something wrong with me. But later I found my calling in life. This is what I was made for, do you see?"

"But killing's such a waste," Rodney protested, his voice ragged and slurring. "Especially killing me! I could -- I could be doing great things, helping people! Wouldn't you rather do something constructive with your magic?"

"You want to study me, Dr. McKay?" she said. "Take me apart and see why I don't tick? I doubt I would find that enjoyable."

"No, no -- AAAH!" Rodney yelled again.

Once again John was pulled forward by Rodney's pain, peeking around the edge of the doorframe. Rodney was tied to a chair, facing away from the door. Over by the window lounged another guy with a Kalashnikov, and leering at Rodney was a woman -- it was the sour-faced blonde from the restaurant, the one who had blocked their path and pointed at John's gun.

Her eyes glittered coldly as she smirked at Rodney. "I assure you, I find much creative satisfaction in my work. For example, the goal here is not merely to kill you but to do so in a way that will accomplish a particular goal. A goal which Andrei and Yevgeni will help me reach."

She was standing too close to Rodney for the uncertain spread of the AK-47. John let the big gun hang from his chest and eased out his Beretta instead.

"I gather they don't know you're setting them up?" Rodney spat.

"Not at all. They are very simple boys, and they speak no English."

Andrei -- or Yevgeni, whichever it was -- stirred and spoke to the woman. She glanced back at him and they exchanged a couple of phrases, then the woman gestured toward the doorway -- and looked straight into John's eyes.

He fired from not more than twenty feet away. She didn't duck or scream, merely narrowed her eyes. The first shot missed. So did the second and third. Then a spray of bullets from Andrei's Kalashnikov made John duck back out of the way.

He knew he'd had her dead in his sights, but he'd missed. Either the gun had been messed up when he used it as a club, or the woman was using magic to deflect the bullets somehow.

Andrei's heavy footsteps were heading for the doorway; John poked his gun around the corner and fired once, blindly. He wasn't trying to hit the guy, just make him hesitate. The woman snapped at Andrei, and John used the distraction to roll across the doorway and get a new line of fire, not so close to Rodney's back. He came up with the stolen AK-47 in hand and sprayed.

Apparently magic didn't work so well at ten rounds per second, or maybe the woman just wasn't bothering to protect Andrei. He went down hard and ugly, and John ducked back into the hallway, breathing hard.

There was silence for a moment, then the woman said, "Come out. Or I kill him."

"You're planning to kill him anyway!" John yelled back, his voice higher than usual.

A pause. "Come out, or I hurt him."

"Don't do it, John!" Rodney yelled. "I'm -- AAAH!"

Without conscious will, John found himself stepping into the open, his hands lifted free of the Kalashnikov.

Rodney stopped yelling, slumped over and panting.

"Good boy," the woman said with a quirk to her mouth. "You have interfered with my plans. But I think I can compensate." She held out her hand, and John's gun -- the Beretta he had dropped in the doorway -- flew to her. It floated in the air just in front of her, then spun around to face John. He could see straight down the barrel.

The muzzle flashed.

John waited for the pain, but there was nothing.

Frowning, the woman triggered the gun again. This time, John heard the bullet pass his ear.

She looked down at Rodney. "How did you --"

"Guess I learned something," Rodney growled, and lunged out of his chair as the ropes crumbled away. He hit her in a flying tackle and she went down with a grunt. But a moment later Rodney was flying through the air to tumble at John's feet.

John leveled the Kalashnikov and strafed a two-second burst right across her torso. The bullets splintered the wooden floor on either side of her. She smiled and the gun jammed. He snatched up the fallen Beretta and it twisted in his hand, turning in spite of everything he could do to stop it. Once again he saw the muzzle foreshorten --

Rodney's hand clamped on John's arm and hauled him through the door. "Run!" he gasped. "I can't -- I don't know how to stop her!"

"You can do what she does!"

"But I can't -- I can't kill! I don't -- I wouldn't --"

"Fine. You distract her and I'll kill her. Just keep her from turning my gun against me."

"But I don't know how to do that!" Rodney glanced back down the hall. "Oh god, she's coming!" He pulled John through a door and slammed it behind them.

"No, wait, this is a dead end -- oh shit, she's between us and the stairs!" John realized.

Rodney hunted around frantically -- for a weapon or a place to hide, John wasn't sure. The room was empty, with only one door.

"I really don't know how I was able to do that," Rodney babbled at high speed. "It shouldn't be possible, actually. I think maybe I went numb, sort of overloaded on fear, or went through and came out the other side, something like that. But I'm not sure I can do it again."

The door handle turned slowly. John aimed the Kalashnikov at the wooden door, but the moving handle didn't guarantee she was standing on the other side.

"You have to do it again, Rodney," John snapped. He tried to think of something encouraging to say. "I know you can. I trust you."

Rodney gulped. "Come on, then." He grabbed John with one hand and with the other made a throwing motion. The window shattered, and a moment later John and Rodney went flying through after the falling glass.

John yelled. It felt like freefall to his gut, so it took him a moment to notice they weren't moving very fast. And then they landed on their feet, so lightly the glass shards didn't even cut through John's socks.

"Jesus, Rodney!" he choked out.

"Sorry. There wasn't time to warn you."

"Okay, come on, we have a few seconds here." John hustled Rodney around the corner of the building, back to where he had entered. "How can we stop her? What are her weaknesses? Line of sight -- what else?"

"I don't know!"

"Fine, think of it the other way -- what do you know that she can do? Telekinesis..."

"Electricity," Rodney said miserably.

"Chemistry? That quantum stuff you do?"

"I don't think so."

"So she's not as good as you."

Rodney found the energy for a derisive snort.

"I noticed she hasn't levitated out of the window, either. She must be taking the stairs --" John whirled and pointed. "Can you lock that door? Hold it closed?"

Rodney stared at the door. "I -- I don't know the mechanism of the lock. But maybe I can..." He frowned, and the door handle suddenly drooped, elongated, dripped onto the ground. The lock melted into slag, then a moment later hardened again.

"Good," said John. "She won't get through that. Is there another door?"

"I'm not sure. Other end of the building?" Rodney guessed.

"All right, that buys us a couple minutes." John turned in place, assessing his resources. He had two guns, but she could deflect bullets. What else could he use?

"Rodney, can you hotwire a car?" John pointed at the black Lada.

"Probably. Why?"

"If she can't levitate her own mass, I'm betting she can't stop a car." John ran to the driver's side and tried the door, pleased to find it unlocked. He slid into the driver's seat. "Okay, start this baby for me."

"I need to see the ignition." Rodney leaned in through the door.

"I thought line of sight was --"

"I need to know where the ignition is," Rodney snapped. "Steering column?"

"No, dash." John pointed.

The car rumbled to life as if his finger had awakened it.

"Perfect." John caught Rodney leaning across his lap and pressed a hard kiss to his lips. "You were right about Maybourne. I swear I didn't know." Then he pushed Rodney away, out of the car. "Now get out of here. There's Elizabeth over there waving -- go with her."

"Wait, John --"

John slammed the car door and hit the gas. Rodney probably knew some tricks that could stop a car, but John was betting he wouldn't use them.

He circled around the building, looking for doors, looking for -- there she was, stalking the brick perimeter unhurriedly as if she knew there was nothing they could do to stop her. John's lips pulled back from his teeth as he swung the car through a wide arc.

She stopped, watching him come. Her eyes widened a moment as she realized what John was doing; then that same steely look came into her gaze that she had worn when John had fired at her. The car had too much momentum for her to divert, though -- the steering wheel didn't even twitch in John's grip. Was she trying something else?

He recognized the smell of smoke a moment before he wrenched the door open and bailed out.

The gas tank blew in a roil of flame the instant before the car crunched into the woman and the brick wall.

The second explosion was brighter, whiter, and the whump tumbled John across the curb at the edge of the pavement and into the weeds. Blearily, he thought he should have guessed that a terrorist's car would be packed with Semtex. His ears were ringing from the blast, or maybe that was a concussion.

Dimly, through veils of drifting smoke, he saw Rodney yelling and crying, and Elizabeth drawing him back away from the flames. "Thanks, Elizabeth," John muttered as he let his head fall into the overgrown grasses.

Montreal, QC, July 2004

"I don't think I can," Rodney said. "Magic, physics -- I've left it all behind me."

"Really?" said John gently. "So tell me, what are you hiding in that bag?"

Rodney froze. Slowly, he said, "This place you're going -- is it dangerous?"

"We don't know. It might be."

"The aliens they've found so far, do they do magic?"

"Some do, some don't." John dredged his memory for the reports he'd read. "A lot of them were humans transplanted from Earth, you know. So it depends if they were moved before or after the Ancients did their little genetic experiment on us."

"Then... maybe this will help." Rodney unsnapped the top of his bag and reached inside. The object he handed John was about the size of a cell phone, with a sliding switch along the side.

"What is it?"

"It's a prototype. I've been working on it since..." Rodney swallowed. "You wear it on your belt or carry it in your pocket. It creates a sort of a buffer zone, about one meter in every direction. It prevents thaumons from converting, so magic won't work inside that volume."

John started to smile. "It's a magic shield?"

"I wasn't sure I should call it a shield. It only works against magic, not against bullets or, or rocks or whatever. I... I didn't want to give it a stupid name."

"It's a defensive weapon," John mused.

"That's the idea, yes. It burns through batteries pretty fast, though -- I still have to work on that part." Rodney paused. "I left magic because of you, you know. Abandoned my career, destroyed the plans for the thaumatron because of you. Because you died rescuing me from the consequences of my discovery."

"Maybourne threatened you," John blurted suddenly. "That's why I let you keep thinking I was dead. It was to keep you safe."

Rodney closed his eyes, lines springing up on his forehead.

"I didn't give him the plans," John husked. "I destroyed the film."

Rodney blinked. "You destroyed the film?"

"Exposed it to light."

"But... I destroyed the film!"

"What?"

"I fried it while it was still in the camera. While you were sleeping, the night after you took the pictures. I messed up the unexposed film too, in case you took more."

John stared. Then he started to laugh. A moment later, Rodney joined him.

Washington, DC, June 1992

Lieutenant Colonel Maybourne smiled at John across his desk. "Lieutenant Sheppard. It seems reports of your death have been exaggerated."

"I'm fine, sir," said John, standing at parade rest. "Ready to fly again."

"I'm afraid I can't allow that, Lieutenant, since you failed in your assigned mission."

"We completed the mission. Nearly three hundred nuclear warheads disabled, and no one knows we did it."

"Except Dr. McKay. Who is still the only one with the secret to his magic machine. The film you gave me was useless."

"Sorry, sir," John muttered insincerely.

"I ordered you to get copies of those plans, and you failed. How am I supposed to recommend you for flight status if you can't carry out a simple job like that?"

John took a breath. "Because if you don't, sir, I'll spread the word about what you tried to do. Trying to stir up political unrest in the former Soviet bloc -- I guess that peace dividend hasn't been working so well for you? And then there's the kidnapping and attempted assassination of a Canadian citizen."

Maybourne stared at John, lizard-like. "You can't prove any of that."

"Prove it to the standard of a court-martial, no. But I have enough evidence to make some generals pretty suspicious of you. Enough to make sure your career doesn't go anywhere from here." John let those words hang for a moment. "Or, I could go back to active flight status, and Dr. McKay could go on peacefully with his life, and no one would have to hear about all this."

Maybourne leaned back in his chair, considering the offer. "Dr. McKay believes you're dead."

John bit his lip.

"He resigned from Princeton and withdrew several of his papers from press. He's gone to live with his sister in Canada." Maybourne leaned forward suddenly. "So long as you stay away from Dr. McKay -- and he leaves his mad scientists' inventions alone -- you've got a deal. That way we can all have a little peace of mind."

John thought his heart might be breaking, but it was no more than he deserved, after all. If he hadn't had the good sense to die rescuing Rodney, the least he could do was stay out of the way and ensure the safety of the man he'd come to love.

Stiffly, John saluted.

Montreal, QC, July 2004

"Maybourne's gone, you know," John offered. "Apparently he was involved with the SGC too, for a while, but finally he fell into one of his own traps."

"That's good to know," said Rodney.

"I'm sorry you turned your life upside-down because of -- what happened. But here's a chance to turn it back."

Rodney shook his head. "It wasn't just because I thought you were dead. You were right about the thaumatron. Too vulnerable to abuse."

"But you can't leave it all behind you, can you?" John held up the little box Rodney had given him. "This proves you still have what it takes. The magic, the physics -- you can't stay away from it. It's time to get back in the game, Rodney."

"I don't want to be the Oppenheimer of magic."

"What about using your abilities and inventions to fight aliens? To save the Earth? From what I've heard, they could really have used a thaumatron or something like it these last few years since they found the Stargate."

Rodney swallowed. "It sounds pretty dangerous out there."

"Uh, yeah. It might be." John recalled how reluctant he had been to join the program when he first found out about it. It seemed strange to be pushing Rodney to do something he'd been so unsure about himself. Maybe it was time to take another approach. "Look... Elizabeth didn't send me here. I asked to come. I'm the one that persuaded her to offer you the job."

Rodney's mouth tipped down at the side. "You mean, she doesn't really want me on the expedition?"

"No, that's not what I meant -- she thought you wouldn't want it. She was sure you'd say no. For all the reasons you just gave me -- you're rusty, you don't do magic or physics any more, all of that. She said we should respect your decision."

"Then why --?"

"She did say that you would be a real asset, if you agreed to come. But I think the reason she sent me here -- let me come here -- was to let you know I'm still alive. She was almost as angry as you about that, and she insisted you should know the truth."

"She was right about that. Obviously, she has more sense than some people," Rodney said with a lift of his chin.

John ran a harried hand through his hair. "You're still not getting it. Elizabeth will be very glad if you come. I'm sure she thinks I should be pitching this to you as your duty to humanity and the future of scientific discovery and all that. But I want you -- need you -- to come with us. For me. I don't know if I can do this without you."

"You've lasted twelve years without me!"

John supposed mentioning his occasional secret surveillance wouldn't help his case any. "But I always knew you were there. I knew you were safe. Now... I'm going to another galaxy, Rodney. It might be a one-way trip. And I can do that, I can say goodbye to all of this -- pizza, football, a family that never talks to me -- no problem. I can even take the chance I'm giving up flying. But I can't leave you. I can't..." It sounded sappy even before it came out of his mouth, but John pushed it out anyway. "I can't live in a world that doesn't have you in it."

Rodney's expression had softened as he listened, but then he went grim again. "That's exactly what I've had to do for over a decade. What you made me do."

"I know. I thought it was better than the alternative."

"Me mourning you was better than you mourning me?"

John swallowed. Having one person believe the other was dead was surely better than having one person really dead, wasn't it? "I'm not as strong as you are, Rodney. Not... not that way."

Rodney sighed and looked at the envelope John had given him, still unopened. "Save the world?"

"Good chance of it. And the pay is definitely more than triple what you're making now."

"Students?"

"No, but plenty of other scientists for you to rant at."

Rodney's lips quirked. "Well... I suppose it couldn't hurt to read Elizabeth's offer, at least."

It was just like their first meeting; Rodney might play hard to get, but John could tell when the bait had been taken. He felt a grin trying to come out. "For Elizabeth? Not even a little bit for me?"

Rodney tried to look stern, but after a moment he relented. "Maybe a little. Oh, all right, come here already!"

He still tasted the same -- like home, like flying. John could go anywhere if he had this with him.

"This make-up sex had better be good," Rodney growled into John's mouth. "I've been waiting twelve years."

Fic: Any Sufficiently Advanced Technology, Part Two

2008-07-18T06:54:22Z

Fandom: Stargate: Atlantis
Title: Any Sufficiently Advanced Technology, Part 2/3
Author: Quasar (quasar273)
Pairing(s): McKay/Sheppard
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Violence

Summary: Years ago, John recruited a famous wizard for a project that went bad. Now he's asking for Rodney's help again.

Author's Notes: Written for the Away Team in mcshep_match, to the prompt "Call of Duty." Special thanks to argosy for story advice and beta, and to my beloved spouse for discussing this story with me week after week!

Back to Part One

Montreal, QC, July 2004

"You just cost me a job," Rodney growled when they were out on the street. He glanced down at John's hand on his arm and shrugged free once again.

"Yeah, and such a great job, too," John said, following Rodney along the sidewalk.

"Hey! It pays the bills. Some of them."

"A part-time gig playing jazz? Come on, Rodney, you can do better than that!"

"I switched to music because it's safe."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"If I'm just a musician, no one gets hurt by my work." Rodney's quick steps slowed and he swallowed hard. "No one gets killed."

They walked in silence for a while, then John cleared his throat. "Look, I'm staying right around the corner from here. We can talk in my room."

"Assuming I want to talk," Rodney muttered, but he didn't say no.

"It's the Hotel St. Denis." John waited for Rodney to mock his pronunciation.

"Ooh, swanky. Didn't know the NID's budget had increased -- but then I wouldn't, would I, since they don't make it public."

John bit back his first and second responses. "I sprang for it myself, actually." He was here in a not entirely official capacity, but he was sure if he convinced Rodney to take the job he could also persuade the brass to hire him.

"So just a personal budget increase, then?"

"I'm a major now," John said, still proud of the accomplishment even though it had been a couple of years.

"Huh. That means a higher degree, doesn't it?"

John nodded. "Masters in Aeronautics. I considered Thaumaturgy, actually, but no one teaches it like you do."

"Like I did," Rodney corrected.

And then they had reached the hotel and John couldn't safely say any of the things that wanted to come out of his mouth. Entering a hotel lobby with Rodney, ascending the elevator and unlocking the door, all brought back memories so powerful that John almost went into the room first to make sure there were no threats. Instead he stood back with a smile and waved Rodney in.

Near Pervomaysk, Ukraine, May 1992

As usual, Rodney was at the front of the group of dignitaries before they even entered the missile bunker. John, being a supposed bodyguard, was really supposed to enter rooms and buildings before Rodney did, but sometimes it was hard to keep up with him.

John's real job, to keep Rodney from doing or saying the wrong thing, had also turned out to be kind of a non-starter. Rodney talked nonstop and he almost always said the wrong thing, but never by revealing their secret mission. He simply offended everyone, everywhere, until they got angry and stopped listening to anything he said. It was surprisingly effective cover.

"Yes, yes," Rodney was snapping now, "I'm sure the decades-old technology in your control room is very impressive, but I'm more interested in seeing the missile itself."

Dr. Ulyshenko, whose real title John had promptly replaced in his mind with 'tour guide,' had learned by now how to smooth over some of Rodney's gaffes. Fortunately, few of the people working at these silos had English fluent enough to keep up with the details of Rodney's high-speed diatribes.

"And what good is a blast door that's propped open?" Rodney demanded as they moved from the control area toward the silo.

The officer in charge at this particular site was flustered. "The ventilation fans do not work -- we wait for the part to come. We must breathe."

"Yes, apparently you must breathe toxic fumes. Didn't anyone tell the designers of these things that the fuel lines should run separately? You get one little leak here and you're going to be very sick."

"Yes, we know," the officer was saying, "Russian design, what can Ukrainians do?" He shrugged apologetically, but Rodney had already moved on.

They were standing at the top of the deep well which housed the missile; the nose cone was slightly below their level.

"And how many warheads are in this particular missile?" Rodney demanded.

Dr. Ulyshenko stepped in before the local officer could speak. "The RT-23 or 'Scalpel' as you call it can accommodate up to ten warheads."

"I know that, but how many are loaded in this one right now?"

"That information is classified," Dr. Ulyshenko said impassively.

John suppressed a sigh -- it wasn't a surprise, but not knowing how many actual warheads were in place meant that Rodney would have to work his conversion on all ten cavities that might hold fissile material. It was a lot of magic to work, especially without revealing the effort he was exerting.

"I hope for your sake that the real number is zero, because you have some serious problems here. Look at the corrosion over on the -- yes, here, if you could just step out of my way, thank you --" Rodney casually ducked around a hulking Ukrainian soldier, who looked in bafflement at his commanding officer. They had probably been told to be polite to the visiting dignitaries, but they weren't expecting someone like Rodney.

Rodney was climbing down the ladder to the service platform, talking constantly and occasionally twisting around to wave at something on the body of the missile. The local officer and Dr. Ulyshenko followed more slowly, as did a couple of other scientists from the advisory group. John stayed up at the top level with Rodney's briefcase, fading into the background like the other bodyguards.

"He certainly is... energetic," said a voice at his shoulder. Dr. Elizabeth Weir quirked an eyebrow at John. As one of the diplomats in the group and the youngest member of the delegation besides Rodney, she had proved very helpful in smoothing some of the ruffled feathers he left in his wake.

"But must he do this at every silo that we visit?" chimed in Dr. Trinh, one of the more senior members.

Dr. Weir smiled. "He does seem to be finding different things to comment on at each site."

"Primarily variations on a common theme," said Dr. Pappathanapoulos, who was leading the delegation. "I think we have established the essential steps required for successful decommissioning."

Weir tilted her head thoughtfully. "Dr. McKay does have a point -- each case offers unique challenges, and they may find that a single strategy doesn't suit them all."

Rodney's voice floated up from the service platform: "And you'll want to be sure to drill at least one hole in the nose cone -- after the warheads are shipped away, of course --" as he pointed at the top section of the missile. No one would guess that he was performing magic as he spoke.

But even as good as Rodney was at hiding it, the magic still had its price. When John saw him panting up the ladder, he stepped forward to offer Rodney a hand up to the top level.

"Rodney?" Elizabeth Weir came toward them. "Are you all right? You seem rather flushed." She laid the back of her hand against his forehead. "And you're burning up!"

"I'm okay," Rodney gasped. "Just, uh, overdid it a little."

"Maybe it was something you ate?" John suggested quickly. Some of the delegates had expressed surprise at how much food Rodney packed away at each meal, especially since none of it showed on his slender frame.

"Yes, uh, I guess that could be it," Rodney murmured. He swayed a little, and John tucked a hand under his elbow.

"We're done with official business for the day," said Weir, watching Rodney with concern. "Maybe you should skip dinner and just head back to the hotel? Dr. Pappathanapoulos can make your excuses to the mayor of Pervomaysk."

"Yes, of course, this will not be a problem," Pappathanapoulos agreed at once. He wasn't a big fan of Rodney's conversational style.

"That sounds good, but can you spare a car and driver just for the two of us?" John asked.

"We will make it work," said Pappathanapoulos, apparently eager to get rid of Rodney.

It was nice having a car to themselves for a change. With a barrier between the compartments and a driver whose English was suspect at best, they had a kind of privacy. John opened his own briefcase and handed over one of the water bottles he had taken to carrying. "Headache?" he asked.

Rodney moaned. "Awful." He was slumped back against the seat, eyes closed and face glistening with sweat as he gulped blindly at the water. "Food?"

John had already unwrapped the leftover sandwich from lunch. "What's the matter, forty warheads in one day too much for you?" The final two Scalpel silos had been squeezed into their tour at short notice, on top of the Stilettos they had anticipated.

"It's crazy," Rodney mumbled around the sandwich. "Even with the tricks I figured out to maximize efficiency, that's pushing it." He opened his eyes cautiously, squinted at the light, and closed them again.

John grimaced. "I'm sorry about the change in itinerary. If I'd known they were considering it, I would have --"

Rodney flapped a hand weakly. "Nothing you could do about it. The fever and headache will pass in an hour or two. What else do you have in that briefcase?"

John handed over the candy bar he'd been saving, and it disappeared in a couple of bites. "We'll get a proper meal back at the hotel."

"Better be a big one. Wake me when we get there." Rodney tipped his head back against the seat and drowsed the rest of the trip while John sat in thought, reflecting on the missile commander's offhand comment about Russians.

The short nap and a dinner big enough for three people perked Rodney up, and he brought out the travel chess set they'd been exercising off and on.

"I'm curious about something," John said once the game had gotten started.

"Hmm?"

"What would happen if the Plutonium in the warheads was contaminated with Pu-240?"

"It already is. Up to seven percent -- that's about the best anyone can do. Isotope separation is very inefficient."

"But what if it were more, like fifteen or twenty percent?"

Rodney looked up. "Like Maybourne wanted me to do?"

"Yeah."

"Basically what I said. I mentioned a crane operator getting killed? That really happened -- Japan, I think. As much transport and handling as these things are scheduled to go through, an explosion would be almost inevitable."

"How big?"

"Oh, not like Chernobyl or anything. Enough to kill a few people, possibly contaminate the plant or train depot or whatever."

John sat back and thought about what that might do to the decommissioning process.

"The colonel was right in that they would probably assume it was bad quality control, and never connect it to us."

The missiles came from Russia and would be going back there for decommissioning, so that sounded potentially bad for the troubled relationship between Russia and Ukraine. "But it would work, right? I mean, it would make the warheads unusable?"

Rodney opened both eyes this time. "Not necessarily. The critical mass would be higher -- maybe higher than the mass of the warhead. But it's risky. Depending on the exact concentration and location of pockets of Pu-240, the chain reaction might still take off."

John bit his lip and decided that was enough of that topic for now. "Checkmate."

"I -- what? You did that on purpose! You distracted me!"

"Shouldn't play chess when you're exhausted, McKay," John said smugly.

"Best two out of three?"

"Maybe tomorrow. Right now I think you should get some sleep."

Rodney's breathing had deepened into half-snuffles, half-snores when there was a soft tap at the door. There was no peephole, so John called softly, "Who is it?" through the heavy wooden door.

"Elizabeth Weir."

John cracked the door open.

Elizabeth looked past his shoulder at the dim lights in the room. "Is Rodney all right? He looked pretty rough earlier."

John smiled easily. "Yeah, he started feeling better after a nap."

"Good, I'm glad to hear it." She glanced down at the white paper bag she was holding. "I suppose, if his stomach is bothering him, he won't want this. I brought some leftovers from dinner."

"Oh hey, that's really thoughtful," John said. He figured Rodney would appreciate the food in the morning, or if he woke up in the night.

She handed the bag over. "John, could you tell me..."

"Yes?"

"Why does Rodney need a bodyguard? Most of us on the team don't have one."

"Ah." John grimaced. It was true; none of the other scientists had bodyguards, only Dr. Trinh and Dr. Pappathanapoulos who were both high-powered diplomats. Those were private contracts, but Elizabeth thought John was a private hire as well, since he hadn't mentioned his NID employment and Rodney never addressed him by rank. "It isn't so much about this trip, as some of Rodney's other work," John said in a confiding tone. "And I'm afraid I can't really talk about that."

"I see. But... is he in danger?"

John swallowed. "He might be."

"You don't think his illness today is --?"

"Oh, no." John tried to think of the right thing to say to allay her suspicion but not make himself look either stupid or unneeded. "Actually, I did consider that at first, but it passed off quickly. I think he's just tired. I'll keep a closer eye on what he eats from now on." His hand clenched in the paper of the bag.

Her mobile lips pursed thoughtfully. "Take good care of him, then. I'll see you both tomorrow."

"Good night."

The conversation left John feeling nervous enough that he took a small taste of each of Elizabeth's offerings. He could always tell Rodney he was checking for citrus.

He was sprawled on his own bed and a couple of chapters into his latest book when his suitcase rang. Cursing and hoping Rodney wouldn't wake, John pulled out the briefcase-sized satellite phone and carried it into the bathroom before answering.

"How's it going?" Maybourne's voice crackled. The signal was scrambled and supposedly secure, but as an extra precaution they never used names or ranks in these conversations.

"Pretty smoothly," John said. He started the water running in the sink, just in case. The elderly plumbing had a habit of banging; that noise in addition to the sound of the water itself should thoroughly foil anyone trying to listen in. "There have been some changes to the itinerary, nothing major. We're about halfway done."

"Good. We've checked at this end and found no sign of the plans. He must have the papers with him."

John winced at the thought of what Rodney would find when he got back to his lab in Princeton.

"I need you to get copies of those plans."

"That wasn't part of the job, sir," John protested, but he remembered the small camera he'd been issued. Apparently someone had had this possibility in mind all along.

"The job -- the mission is whatever it takes. You know how important this is. Get the plans." Maybourne hung up.

John turned off the water and closed the phone's case again. He sat on the closed toilet for a moment, thinking. 'Spy' wasn't a job he'd ever signed up for. That was supposed to be for the guys who asked to go to NID, not someone who was assigned to NID as punishment. John just wanted to fly. Anything -- jets, props, choppers -- anything was better than being stuck on the ground. But apparently he needed to play the spy for now if he ever wanted to get back in the air.

With a sigh, he carried the phone case into the bedroom. He would replace it inside his suitcase, get the camera, casually pick up the scientist's case instead, carry that into the bathroom -- and then he'd have to figure out how to get past the lock somehow.

The lights were up in the main room, and Rodney was seated at the table humming happily over the contents of Elizabeth's bag.

"You're awake," John said in surprise.

"I could hardly sleep through that phone ringing and then the stupid pipes banging. You do know you're not supposed to take the phone in the shower with you, right?"

"Ha ha." John slipped the bulky phone into his case and hesitated a moment, reaching into a side pocket.

"I guess I slept what, two hours? I feel pretty good, though. How about a rematch at chess?"

John unclenched his fist from around the camera. "Sure, sounds great."

Montreal, QC, July 2004

"Um, feel free to... have a seat." John hastily grabbed his bag from the chair and dumped it on the floor.

"Traveling light, hmm?" Rodney sat in the chair but didn't put his music bag down. His knuckles were white where he gripped it.

"Uh, yeah. Just out here for a couple of days."

"To talk to me."

"That's right." After so much waiting and preparing for this moment, John felt unaccountably at a loss for words. He rubbed the back of his neck. "You want something to eat? I have a -- no, well, I could order --"

"I'm fine," Rodney said quickly. One hand relaxed from the music bag to rest self-consciously on his stomach. "I don't eat so much these days. Don't need to."

"Because you're not doing magic."

Rodney nodded.

"You look, ah, you look good. You've filled out."

"By which you mean, fat."

"No! Really, you were way too skinny before. Not that I thought -- I mean -- um. You look good."

Rodney looked up. "I notice you're not commenting on my hair."

John gulped, his palms itching with the memory of the soft golden waves from a decade ago. "Definitely not commenting on the hair. Well, it does, um, show off your eyes better."

Rodney's mouth quirked. It seemed more slanted than it used to be, and John wasn't sure if that was from age or unhappiness. He felt a sudden urge to kiss that frown away, see if it evened Rodney's mouth out, see if he still tasted the same.

Chernivtsi, Ukraine, May 1992

Rodney flipped on the room light. "Oh no! They gave us one bed again!"

John lowered his suitcase and took in the room. "At least this one is bigger."

"I'm going down to the front desk and --"

"They don't have any more rooms, Rodney. Relax, I promise to be a perfect gentleman." John put a hand over his heart.

Rodney snorted and tossed his own case onto the bed. "I can't wait for this trip to be over."

"Today wasn't so bad, I thought. We got done early, anyway." John yanked off his tie and scratched under his collar, envying Rodney his less formal clothes.

"It still wasn't a day off! Haven't had one of those in over two weeks."

"Three more days and we'll be done."

Rodney rummaged through his suitcase. "That's a good thing, because I'm almost out of clean clothes."

"And by 'clean' you mean 'worn less than ten times since last washing?'"

"Hey, it's not like I've had time to go to a laundromat, you know!" Rodney tossed his sports jacket over the back of a chair and frowned. "Do they have laundromats in Ukraine?"

"You can get the hotel staff to clean your clothes. You just have to pay them."

"Oh, I'm sorry I neglected to include a budget item for bribes in my grant proposal!" Rodney clicked the switch for the desk lamp, frowned when it didn't come on, and reached into the top to check that the bulb was screwed in properly.

"It's not a bribe, McKay --" John had just pulled his own jacket off, but a sharp gesture from Rodney made him pause in the act of twisting out of his shoulder holster. "What is it?"

Rodney made an odd sound of annoyance. "Here, take this." He turned and deposited something small in John's palm.

A bug.

"It's okay, I deactivated it," said Rodney.

"Are you sure?" John asked, just as the faint odor of burnt electronics reached his nose.

"Of course I'm sure! I fixed the lamp, too -- bad switch." Rodney clicked it on defiantly. "You would think, if they're going to plant bugs in lights, they would at least make sure the light is, oh, working? So it doesn't draw attention?"

John hmmed and set the bug on the table while he went for his briefcase.

Rodney looked around the room. "Do you think there are others?"

"There might be." John got the signal detector out of his case and extended the antenna. "Can you deactivate them all?"

"Sure, if you'll find them for me."

John arched an eyebrow. "I thought you didn't need to see something to be able to affect it."

"I need to know where it is, though!"

"Well, I'm not finding anything," John said, eyes never straying from the needle on the detector. "Let me check the bathroom... no, nothing in there either. I guess we're clear."

"Who was it, anyway?" Rodney asked. "Who bugged us?"

"Could be anyone. GRU, CIA, Interpol, Ukrainian police, half a dozen intelligence agencies."

"Can't you tell from the, the design?"

"I can't. They didn't really cover this sort of thing in flight school, you know. But maybe someone else can; that's why I'm saving it." John frowned down at the dead bug on the table. "I guess I should put it in something. Um..."

Rodney made an impatient sound and grabbed his own briefcase. He pulled out a small three by four inch manila envelope (John was briefly diverted, wondering why he was carrying it around), stuffed the bug inside, fastened it shut, and handed it to John.

"Thanks." John put the envelope and signal detector away, hyper-aware that Rodney's briefcase with all his notebooks and papers was still sitting open on the table. He searched for something casual to talk about. "So, um, I'm still confused about what you can and can't do."

If Rodney thought the change of topic was odd, he didn't hesitate to follow -- probably because magic was his favorite subject. "I still can't detect things with magic. Can't read minds or sense the astral plane or whatever crap they like to spout in New Age tea parlors. Or find bugs, case in point."

"But you can affect things you can't even see, right? Even the books and movies usually stick to line of sight."

"It's a common misconception, and the belief perpetuates itself because mental state is so important to magic. But really, you just have to know exactly where the thing is that you want to focus on."

"So you couldn't deactivate a bug if you didn't know it was there."

"Right. It's -- I tell my students magic is a lot like music. Everyone can sing, if they have ears and voices. Everyone can press a key on a piano. But very, very few people do it well enough to make a living at it. Magic is like that. Someone with limited talent can improve a lot through proper training. But no amount of training is going to turn Pee-wee Herman into Luciano Pavarotti."

John snickered.

"So natural talent does matter, but almost anyone can learn to get around the line of sight. That so-called rule is much less important than, say, emotional limitations on magic. Movies always get that part wrong, too; they make it seem if you want something badly enough, the magic will just work. In fact, it's almost the opposite."

John nodded. "I think I read about that. Something about the blood supply in the brain?"

"Exactly. The phaba, the organ that produces and directs thaumons, is located down in the lower parts of the brain, far from the cortex -- that's partly why it takes so much work to achieve the right mental state for certain kinds of magic. The other reason, of course, is that the phaba is right next door to the hypothalamus, which is involved in strong emotions, especially anger. When the hypothalamus is stimulated, the blood flow to the phaba is reduced. And that means no one can work magic when their emotions are strongly engaged."

"But that's a good thing, right? I mean, otherwise there'd be a lot more cases of magic getting used in domestic violence, or road rage, or murder, right?" There were still the odd sensational stories of magical serial killers, but those were psychopaths with messed up emotional responses.

"Yes yes, that's probably why the phaba evolved that way. Toddlers who kill their parents during a tantrum have a poor survival record. However, it also means that someone whose house is burning down can't suppress the fire with magic. Someone whose spouse has a heart attack can't send a jolt of electricity to restart the heart. Someone being stalked in an alley, or even just bullied on a playground, has no recourse to magic for defense!" Rodney's voice shook with feeling. "You have to be calm to work magic, and that means it's not there when it's needed the most!"

"Whoa, Rodney, I had no idea you cared about this kind of thing so much." John's eyes strayed to the papers in Rodney's briefcase.

"Yes, well. It's a . . . thing, I suppose. Something I've been working with, trying to find a way around it."

"And did you?"

"Maybe. Maybe." Rodney stood up and stretched his back, wincing. "Hey, is it okay with you if I get the shower first?"

"Sure, no problem." John tried to look casual, pulling his paperback out while Rodney moved his suitcase to the floor and headed for the bathroom with his toiletries. The last few days had made John acutely aware of how often Rodney tended to change his mind, reverse directions, pop back out of the bathroom for a last word or to write a note on an idea that had just come to him. So John waited until he heard the shower actually running before he reached for the briefcase Rodney had left on the table.

It didn't take him long to find a notebook with exactly what he needed -- a series of closely-spaced notes and diagrams about Rodney's biggest breakthrough. Some of the notes were mixed in with other material, so John wasn't exactly sure how much of it was important; he had to assume all of it was. He set the desk lamp to shine on the pages and grabbed his camera. It took longer than he'd expected from spy movies. He was only three-quarters of the way through the written pages when the shower cut off -- and he still hadn't even glanced at the loose papers in the briefcase.

Rodney showered and dried as fast as he talked; John had time for a couple more pages, but he couldn't finish them all before his internal alarm told him to start cleaning up after himself. He put the notebook back in the briefcase again, moved the desk lamp further away, stuffed his camera in his pocket and grabbed his book to lounge innocently on the bed.

Then he waited. Apparently this time Rodney had decided to linger after his shower, unlike every other time since Maybourne had told John to copy the plans. After five minutes John couldn't stand it anymore. He should at least look at the other papers in the briefcase and figure out if they were important too. So of course he was standing there with Rodney's papers in his hand when the bathroom door opened.

"Hey there," John said. "I knocked your stuff off the table, sorry. I'm not sure if I put everything back in the right order."

"It's not a problem," said Rodney, but his mouth was slanted uncertainly.

John set the papers and notebook back inside and closed the briefcase, hoping Rodney wouldn't notice it was still unlocked.

Rodney wasn't paying attention; he was bent low over his suitcase, sorting through the clothes. John stared at the line of his spine and the rounded ass below, barely covered by one of the hotel's skimpy towels. The towel came loose and Rodney reached back to grab it before it fell, but he didn't bother wrapping it around his waist again. John swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry.

"So, not such a perfect gentleman, after all?"

"Huh?" John realized Rodney had turned around, and he was still staring. He tried to drag his eyes up to Rodney's face, but the hand holding the towel moved and drew his gaze again.

Rodney tossed the towel aside. "I guess the quoting show tunes thing wasn't just a fluke, huh?"

John gulped. "Rodney, look, I..." He had no idea what he was about to say.

Rodney stepped forward -- did his hips normally swing like that? -- until he was directly in front of John. His interest was unmistakable. "That's okay. This is a lot more fun than chess." Then he took John's face between broad palms and leaned in for a kiss.

Rodney's mouth was hot and minty, his narrow lips surprisingly soft. For a moment John felt self-conscious about his unbrushed teeth, but then Rodney made a small sound of appreciation and plastered himself against John's body, and everything else became very unimportant.

John's hands roamed hungrily across smooth, heated skin. Rodney had a broad frame, though there wasn't much meat on it. John's fingers mapped every dip and swell, the rise of muscles and the hollows of joints. Rodney's chest hair was more abundant than it looked, the blond wisps nearly invisible against pale skin. Below the navel the hairs grew coarser and redder, curling around heavy brown balls that swung whenever Rodney moved. His cock was average-sized but looked bigger jutting between his slender hips. Even fully erect, it pointed straight out from Rodney's body instead of up along his belly the way John's did.

While John was looking his fill, Rodney was ready to start some exploration of his own. He had the bottom two buttons of John's white shirt undone and was reaching up underneath it with eager hands. Startled to realize he was still dressed while Rodney was naked, John started to shrug off his shoulder holster.

Rodney caught an arm to stop him. "Leave it on," he breathed huskily.

"I -- uh, I can't..." John couldn't form the words to explain that it was too dangerous, that he didn't mix guns and sex, that the possibility of accidental injury left him cold.

Rodney seemed to get it, anyway. "You can take the gun out, but leave the holster on."

"Uh... okay." John pulled out his gun, checked the safety, and set it on the bedside table. "You like the holster?"

"Oh yeah," Rodney murmured. He undid the top button on John's shirt and leaned in to lick at the hollow of his throat. "Makes you look dangerous." He sank to his knees and pressed his mouth to the bare skin just above John's waistband where the shirt was gaping open.

"I am dangerous," John managed. He was half-leaning against the bed for support, his hands on Rodney's shoulders, resisting the temptation to push him down further.

Rodney looked up at him, eyes glinting. "So am I." He popped the button on John's black pants and pulled the zipper down in one motion. Then he was mouthing John through the cotton of his boxers, mapping his length and position. As usual, John's erection was trying to grow up past the waistband; Rodney discovered he could dip his tongue just past the elastic and tickle the head of John's cock.

John closed his eyes and tipped his head back, fingers twisting through silky hair. "Rodney..."

Rodney hummed interrogatively, the vibration going right through the cotton to John's skin.

John groaned. "Rodney, please!"

"Please what?" Rodney murmured, pulling the elastic down an inch and giving John's cock another swipe of his tongue.

John swallowed hard. He'd done this before, of course, but not with a lot of different people. He could never quite guess how someone might react. He tried to keep his hands from fisting in Rodney's hair. "Suck me?"

Rodney grinned broadly and pulled John's boxers down until the elastic pressed firmly on the base of his cock. "Okay." And then he slurped John into his mouth.

That was definitely John's preferred reaction.

Rodney was eager and confident enough that this couldn't be his first time, but not perfectly skilled. His technique felt damn good to John, but he kept pausing to adjust the angle of his head or John's cock. After a moment he half-rose off his knees, but that didn't seem to work either. With a frustrated growl, Rodney pushed John back against the bed until he overbalanced and fell, sprawling across the coverlet. Rodney grabbed John by the legs and pulled until his hips were nearly hanging off the bed; then, with a small noise of satisfaction, Rodney squirmed between John's knees and bent to suck him in again.

This was good. Rodney's mouth was hot and deep, and John could just lie back and groan. Rodney swirled his tongue expertly on the upstrokes and took him a little bit deeper with each downstroke. Then, just as John was starting to get lost in the sensation, Rodney went a little bit too deep and his throat fluttered oddly around John's cock.

Rodney pulled back and swallowed hard, his lips swollen and wet, one hand curled loosely around the base of John's erection. "Sorry! I always wanted to do that, but I, I never have time to practice. You know I'm a really busy person, and --"

"Shhh," John breathed. "It's okay. You don't have to swallow me." It was fun to think of, but John really didn't want to risk being puked on. "Just stick to sucking. That was good. That was awesome."

"Oh, right. Okay." Rodney bent to it again, this time with more tongue work, teasing the slit while his hands massaged John's balls and the base of the shaft. When Rodney's jaw got tired, he licked his palm and jacked John hard, squeezing and twisting, his hand moving in a sort of circular motion so it was never still, never pausing between strokes. There was always slick skin moving over John's hot flesh, and it was glorious. The sensation kept him right on the edge for an agonizing few minutes that felt more like a couple of hours, until Rodney bent and started sucking again. That was too much, and John exploded so fast and hard he didn't have time to give any warning beyond a startled shout.

Rodney eased off the suction but kept his mouth in place until John started to get too sensitive. He swallowed, but didn't quite manage to suppress a little grimace at the taste. John liked knowing that Rodney would do that for him even if it wasn't the most delicious thing he'd ever eaten.

"I didn't mean to finish you off so fast," Rodney said a little regretfully.

"Then you shouldn't be so damn good at that," John huffed. He stretched a little on the bed, feeling the glow of satisfaction spread through his muscles.

Rodney looked a little smug. "Like I said, I don't get as much chance to practice as I'd like. But I was hoping to try, um, some other stuff." He looked down at his erection, flushed and eager and pointing straight at John.

"You could fuck me."

Rodney's cock twitched. "Oh! Um. I don't know if I -- that is, I wouldn't want you to -- I mean, if you're not going to get anything out of it..."

"Oh, I will," John promised warmly. "I'll probably get hard again." He glanced down, realizing he must look debauched with his shirt half-undone and his nice pants creased and his hair probably defying regulations -- not to mention his softened dick hanging out in the air. He stood up slowly and undid his remaining buttons, making a little tease out of shrugging off first the holster and then the shirt. His pants and boxers were barely clinging to his hips; a little shimmy and they fell, so he could step out of them. It was no elaborate performance, but Rodney seemed half-mesmerized anyway. John crawled onto the bed and lay on his stomach, hitching one leg to the side appealingly. "Come on. You got any stuff?"

"Hmm? Yes! Yes, I do," Rodney breathed and dove for his toiletries bag. He came up with a small bottle of AstroGlide and a strip of condoms, which he dumped on the bed. Then he started petting John's back, easy sweeps up and down with a tantalizingly light touch.

It was John's big secret, his sensitive back. He considered it his biggest and most neglected erogenous zone. Only a couple of lovers had ever realized how much he loved to have his back stroked, and even they had rarely used just the right touch -- light enough to tease and stimulate, firm enough not to tickle. If he hadn't known it was impossible, John would have suspected Rodney was reading his mind, because he did it perfectly. Soon John was panting and twitching like a puppet under Rodney's skilled hands, his cock lengthening all over again.

The hands strayed lower, caressing John's cheeks and exploring the cleft between. "Are you... um, have you --?"

"Yes, Rodney, I've done this before and I know I like it," John drawled. "Get ready and get in me."

Rodney made a strangled sound and fumbled around behind John, tearing and squirting and shifting his weight. "How, uh, how do you want to do it?"

"This is good." John lifted himself up to hands and knees. Rodney palmed his ass cheeks almost reverently, and then blunt fingers were at his hole, spreading slickness and checking how loose he was. John wasn't exactly promiscuous, but he knew how to relax those muscles at will, so he didn't need a lot of preparation. "Fuck me already."

Rodney edged forward, his knees pressing John's wider apart, and then he was pushing inside. He felt bigger than he looked. It took a moment to find the right angle, John canting his hips up and down while Rodney paused and shifted and pushed again. Then he was sinking in, sinking deep, and John felt the burn, that peculiar satisfaction of being filled.

"Yeah," John moaned. "Hard. I like it hard." He thought about Rodney's heavy balls swinging, bumping up behind his own, and that brought him back to full hardness.

Rodney pulled back slowly and then pushed in fast. His hips smacked against John's cheeks, and their nested thighs flexed together. He did this a few more times, slow and then fast, but pretty soon he was speeding up.

John gasped and moaned and squirmed, trying to get his prostate into the act. There! With his elbows braced straight and knees spread wide, John got the benefit of every hard thrust straight on his pleasure point. The bed squeaked with Rodney's steady rhythm. The GRU wouldn't need bugs inside the room to know what the two of them were doing; the thought made John laugh out loud.

"What--" Rodney gasped, "What's funny? Oh -- oh, god, never mind, I don't care, just -- oh, yeah, like that --" as John distracted him with some well-timed squeezes. His fingers spasmed across John's back, his breath hitched, and he was really leaning into it now, hips pumping hard. Belatedly he started to reach around John's hip to give him a hand, but it was too late; Rodney's fist clenched around John's cock and stayed there as if clinging to an anchor while he rocked and groaned into John's shoulder.

"Sorry, sorry," Rodney breathed, pulling out and leaving an ache behind. "Should've... touched you earlier." He was still breathing hard, collapsed on his side on the bed, flushed and sweaty, his hair plastered in curls to his forehead.

"It's okay," said John, drinking in the vision while he jacked himself slowly. "I can take care of it."

Rodney's eyes popped open. "No, no, I want you to fuck me." He stripped off the condom and tossed it in the general direction of the trash.

John hesitated. "Are you sure?"

"Yes! It's what I had in mind earlier, but I was too, um, with the blowjob."

"Have you done it before?"

Rodney nodded. "Not... not a lot. I might need more, ah, stretching than you did. But I want it. I've been thinking about it since the first time I met you."

John remembered Professor McKay in the classroom, and how the khakis had clung to his backside. "So have I." He propped himself up on an elbow and stroked a hand along Rodney's chest. He wanted to find the other man's hot spots, the way Rodney had discovered his sensitive back. But it turned out most of Rodney's torso was acutely ticklish, and what should have been a makeout session quickly became playful wrestling instead.

Either because of the laughter or the recent orgasm, Rodney seemed pretty relaxed when John started to explore with a finger. He left just that one finger inside, unmoving, while he stroked Rodney's half-hard cock and licked at his sensitive nipples. The tease worked; Rodney was soon squirming in search of more sensation and making little sounds in his throat that were something like whimpers.

John sat up and let his free hand roam across Rodney's chest. Sure enough, several of the spots that had triggered laughter earlier made Rodney whimper even more now. "Something you want?" he breathed.

"More. Need... more!"

"Like this?" John brought a second finger up to tease the edge of Rodney's hole, twisting the one that was already inside.

"Yes, no. Want..."

"What do you want, Rodney?" John had the second finger inside now, scissoring carefully. A little bit further -- yes, there was the sweet spot.

Rodney gave a lush groan and apparently lost the power of speech.

"Tell me what you want," John urged, enjoying the sensation of having a powerful, mouthy wizard completely helpless under his touch.

Rodney gulped. "You. Want you. Inside -- oh!" as the fingers twisted again.

"What part of me?" John insisted, partly out of perversity and partly to buy a few more seconds of stretching. Rodney was pretty tight.

"Your, your -- oh, god, yes, right there! Um, your penis."

John raised a brow at the choice of word. Either Rodney wasn't used to dirty talk, or he really was bordering on non-verbal. Whichever it was, it was sort of sexy in a backwards way. John liked the thought that no one had made Rodney feel like this before, no one had made him beg for it.

John got a third finger into play while he tore a condom package open with his teeth. Rodney was hard again, dick pointing up at the ceiling as he twitched his hips back and forth.

John felt pretty clever about getting the condom on left-handed, but then he dropped the lube off the side of the bed. Rodney groaned with disappointment when John pulled his fingers free to go get it. Slicking himself up hastily, John used the opportunity to get Rodney positioned just the right way, with knees lifted up and spread wide.

"I thought, um, I thought," Rodney babbled as John leaned over him. "I thought face-to-face was supposed to be harder? For, um, people with less practice."

It confirmed what John had suspected; if this wasn't the first time Rodney had ever been fucked, it was pretty close to it. Maybe he'd never felt just how good it could be. "I've had practice," John promised, "and for the way I'm built, this works better." With his cock trying to curl up against his belly, John could hit his partner's prostate every time by fucking face to face. "And I want to see your eyes. Open your eyes for me, Rodney."

Rodney's eyes obligingly went wide as John pushed in. He was almost painfully tight, but after a moment he took a deep breath and the muscles relaxed enough for John to ease forward carefully. "Oh!"

"This all right?" John choked out, holding himself still against the sweet, hot grip of Rodney's body.

"Um, it's... yeah?" Rodney sounded uncertain.

John groped for Rodney's cock with his dry left hand and found it still hard. A few gentle strokes, and he could feel Rodney's muscles shift as his focus went from inside to outside.

"Oh! That's... okay, that works," Rodney gasped.

John looked down at the cock in his fist, still pointing right up at the ceiling. As a teenager, John had succeeded a few times in sucking himself, just barely getting his lips around the head. He wasn't quite so flexible now, but their relative positions brought Rodney up higher by several inches. Maybe... John pulled his knees forward. "Here, can you push up with your hips?"

"What are you -- mm! Oh." Rodney pushed up, and John got his knees under Rodney's butt, and he had the feeling his dick was pressing right up against Rodney's prostate now.

"Let me try something, okay? I'm not sure if I can do it, but --" John curled his spine down. He could almost make it -- the tip of his tongue grazed Rodney's slit. John let out his breath and pressed down harder, and he was able to get his lips on the head and give a proper suck.

Rodney cried out and bucked his hips involuntarily, throwing John off. He was staring as if John were some kind of god. Catching his breath, John grinned down at him and gave it another try. This time Rodney managed to hold still, though John could feel the pulse leaping in the shaft under his hands and tongue.

"How can you --" Rodney choked.

John straightened. "Like I said, practice." He gave an experimental thrust and found Rodney had relaxed from too tight to just very tight. "I can't really move properly while I'm doing that, though." He jacked Rodney consolingly while he started to move his hips.

"You're incredible. I've never heard of -- oh! Oh my god, do that ag-- uh!"

"There we go," John murmured, starting a proper rhythm that would hit Rodney's prostate each time. It was just as well they hadn't done this first, because John would have gone off within seconds of getting his dick into that tight slick flesh. As it was, he could feel the potential orgasm starting to lick at the base of his spine as he pistoned in and out.

Rodney had gone completely non-verbal, his head tossing from side to side and his hips lifting to meet each thrust. He was beautiful like this, with his hair mussed and curling, his eyes thin rims of blue around wide pupils, his sweet crooked lips swollen with desire, parted and panting.

John tucked one hand under Rodney to massage his butt while the other stroked his cock. Remembering the trick of the unceasing circular motion, John tried adding a twist of the wrist, and Rodney's cries turned up a notch. John hitched his knees further forward and started pushing harder into each thrust, shaking the bed with his force.

"That's it, buddy," John grated. "Give it up for me, come on..."

Rodney went still and silent, his eyes fixed on John's with a stunned expression as if he'd never felt anything like this before. Then the lids drooped closed and his face squeezed up and the shaft in John's hand pulsed hard, hot spunk spilling out over his wrist. John put his head down and drove his hips faster, the rhythm going wild and uncoordinated as he felt his body seize up, everything concentrated down to one central point of perfection.

John swayed and had to let go of Rodney's softening dick to catch himself. He stared down at the man under him for a few seconds, suspecting that they wore matching dopey expressions. Then, with a sigh, John pulled free to let himself flop over beside Rodney, one hand trailing across his chest.

"Well, that was, uh..." said John. It had turned out a little more intense than he'd expected.

"Wow," said Rodney.

"Yeah," John breathed. He felt a grin stretching his face. "I knew we'd be good together."

Under John's hand, Rodney's stomach growled, and both of them burst into laughter.

Part Three

Fic: Any Sufficiently Advanced Technology, Part One

2008-07-18T06:48:11Z

Fandom: Stargate: Atlantis
Title: Any Sufficiently Advanced Technology, Part 1/3
Author: Quasar (quasar273)
Pairing(s): McKay/Sheppard
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Violence

Summary: Years ago, John recruited a famous wizard for a project that went bad. Now he's asking for Rodney's help again.

Author's Notes: Written for the Away Team in mcshep_match, to the prompt "Call of Duty." Special thanks to argosy for story advice and beta, and to my beloved spouse for discussing this story with me week after week!

Montreal, QC, July 2004

The courtyard of the Jardin Nelson restaurant was vaulted with late sunlight, lined with trees and flowering plants, filled with mellow jazz. As a single, English-speaking diner, John got a spot in the corner where he couldn't really see the jutting balcony that held the trio of musicians. He could hear them, though, the piano tinkling out over the bass foundation and the hum of conversation. He nodded at the maître-d' and settled to squint at the menu.

He took his time with the meal, despite the waiter pointedly checking every few minutes. The sky had gone dark and he was on his third coffee by the time the music wound down. He emptied his cup, tucked the receipt into his jeans, and ambled toward the restrooms. His timing was perfect; they actually bumped into each other in the hall.

"Hey, Rodney," John drawled. "Nice suit."

Rodney glanced down at his dark jacket and then back up, gaping. "J-John?"

"In the flesh. I'm here to offer you a job."

And wasn't that a blast from the past?

Princeton, NJ, March 1992

Classrooms at the Department of Thaumaturgy were numbered according to some bizarre system, so John found the place a little late and his dress blues stood out like a sore thumb when he slipped into the lecture in progress. Dr. McKay glared at him over the heads of a couple dozen students, most of them turned to gape at the man in uniform. John crept into a desk at the back, trying to be inconspicuous but not really succeeding.

Certainly the students didn't look like the types to spend much time in or around uniforms. The woman just in front of him was wearing layered skirts and scarves in earth tones. Her bracelets jangled as she doodled giant eyes in the margin of her notebook. A meditation crystal was prominently placed on the desk in front of her, and John could smell the incense from where he sat -- jasmine and patchouli. The guy three seats over in the back row wasn't bothering to take notes, and the lingering smoke that clung to his clothes definitely wasn't from incense. Those two described the range of most of the students, typical Thaum majors except for a couple of earnest nerds in the front row taking notes carefully from the blackboard.

The stuff on the board wasn't much like what John remembered from magic club back in school or the low-level Thaumaturgy classes he'd taken in college. There were no spirals or mantras or doggerel spells, but instead a bunch of equations. Newton's law of gravity -- okay, yeah, John had learned about the link between telekinesis and gravitation in college. But the simple F = GMm/r2 had a big X through it and a series of other equations written below. John squinted at the writing, vague memories tickling his brain. Was that the weird tensor notation Einstein used to combine four equations into one expression? Over there were Maxwell's Equations for the behavior of electric and magnetic fields. And wait, were those Feynman diagrams? Was this guy talking about magic or physics, here?

Both, apparently. John had read the dossier, so he knew the man standing at the front of the class -- just a couple of years older than the upperclassmen he was haranguing -- actually had two PhDs, in Thaumaturgy and Physics. Dr. McKay (should it be Dr. Dr. McKay?) had been one of those prodigies as a child, showing amazing early abilities in the three M's -- Math, Music, and Magic. He'd won every award in Canada and more than a few in the States. His education was fast-tracked, all his professors predicted a glowing future for him (at least, when they weren't predicting he would be strangled by his colleagues), and now here he was, talking at a bunch of bored undergraduates who clearly didn't understand or care what he said.

John had been chosen for this job because he supposedly knew the basics, but the stuff on the blackboard was beyond him and coming to the lecture ten minutes late hadn't helped. Even the nerds in the front row seemed more confused than enlightened. Bracelet Girl jingled as she turned a page in her notebook and started drawing an elaborate mandala.

McKay ran a hand through his wavy hair (revealing the first signs of a receding hairline, and no, John wasn't smug about that at all) and set down his chalk, trying a new approach. "Okay, look. You all learned in school how to light and extinguish candles, right?"

A woman who could be Bracelet Girl's soul sister snorted. "Before school, more like."

"Right, right, there's a reason why putting out fires is part of a kindergarten curriculum. Fire is the first magic most children learn, often without being deliberately taught. And the fire comes from which of these fundamental forces?" McKay waved at the other side of the board, where large letters declaimed 'Electro/Magnetic, Gravitational, Weak Nuclear, Strong Nuclear' down the board.

No one answered.

"Come on, this is basic stuff!" McKay exclaimed. "Fire is caused by...?"

"An exothermic chemical reaction?" ventured one of the front-row nerds.

"Yes yes, ignited by simple heat. Heat!" McKay waved at the list of forces again.

Everyone looked confused. John thought he saw where this was going, but McKay had skipped several steps that the students just weren't getting.

"Heat is... the agitation of atoms and molecules?" Front-Row tried again.

"But agitated by energy from what?" McKay's voice was rising. "Okay, okay, look, maybe fire isn't the simplest example. What other magic do children learn early?"

The students stirred and muttered. "Warm up the blankets," said one, at the same moment Bracelet Girl offered, "I used to cool down my soup."

"Right, more heat transport. What else?"

The students just weren't picking up McKay's lead, so John took it. "Night lights," he said, his voice making heads turn. "I always liked the finger flashlight," he added with a wink and a pointed index finger at Bracelet Girl.

McKay scowled at the intruder, but took the offered thread anyway. "Light! And light is..." Another emphatic wave at the list of forces.

"Electro-magnetic radiation!" said the front-row kid, relieved.

"Exactly." McKay underlined Electro/Magnetic. "Which, at infrared or certain microwave frequencies, can easily translate into molecular agitation, i.e. heat. The electromagnetic force is the first one we all learn to manipulate by magic. Candles, fire suppression, warming and cooling, night lights... leading up to the kind of light shows and illusions done in high school magic clubs or stage performances, fancy fireworks -- all of that magic is based upon electromagnetic forces. This is why, in the nineteenth century, early experimenters with electricity believed it actually was magic, until... well, you've covered that in other classes. My point here is that magic can also manipulate the other fundamental forces, but it doesn't come quite as easily."

McKay pointed a chalky hand at the crossed-out equation for Newton's law of gravity. "Historically, it wasn't until the time of Isaac Newton -- or, for each of us as modern individuals, at the high school or college level -- that we learned how to manipulate gravity reliably, therefore producing the effects of levitation, telekinesis, anything that affects objects with mass."

John had heard this part before, but the students murmured uneasily. The marijuana smoker in the back row objected, "But telekinesis goes back to Aristotle."

"Further than that!" said Bracelet Girl. "The ancient Egyptians recorded cases --"

"Yes yes, I'm sure that's all very exciting," scoffed McKay, "but it wasn't reliable. Each court magician would have one or two parlor tricks in his repertoire to please the Pharaoh or Emperor or whoever, but it was hard to pass the knowledge on. The magician's guilds knew a few more spells, but even they couldn't readily adapt to new circumstances. Newton's comprehension and mathematical description of the behavior of gravity provided a foundation that allowed multiple people to manipulate massive objects in a reliable, repeatable way according to simple, sensible rules."

The nerds were nodding and scribbling in their notes, but the more stereotypical Thaumaturgy students looked rebellious.

"Listen to me," said McKay intensely. "If you're going to pursue a career or just a degree in Thaumaturgy, this is the single most important thing for you to understand. Write it down. Underline it. Sleep with it under your pillow at night."

Scowling, Bracelet Girl flipped to a fresh page of her notebook and waited with pen poised skeptically.

"Magic works by manipulating fundamental physical forces," said McKay with emphatic stabs of his chalk at the board. "And magic comes from here -- " He pointed a finger just above his ear, in the direction of the tiny brain organ associated with magic use. "So it follows that understanding the underlying physics will help you get your brain into the right configuration to produce the desired magic."

Students stirred, and McKay held up a hand at them. "I know what you're going to say! Yes, you can do magic without understanding exactly how it works. Children do it every day. Adults did it for thousands of years before Newton, before Einstein. There are cantrips and meditations and visualization exercises and whatnot, all to achieve the same effect: to put your brain into the right state. But I guarantee you -- I guarantee! -- your mastery of magic will be faster, and easier, and more reliable, and stronger if you take the time to learn the physics behind it. Case in point. How many here can levitate objects?" McKay held up his left hand in demonstration.

All but two of the students raised their hands. John, with a smile tugging at his lips, put his hand up as well.

"Can you levitate more than ten pounds?"

A couple of hands went down.

"More than thirty? More than one hundred?"

Most of the hands were down now. John lowered his own to half-mast. Once, just once, he had levitated himself -- and it was very cool, for a couple of minutes. But afterward he was panting and headachy, and his muscles were trembling as if they'd done the work instead of his brain. It was more exhausting than chin-ups for pretty much the same effect -- and a lot more exhausting than stair-climbing, which lifted his body far higher. That was about the point where John decided magic wasn't worth the effort, and he changed his concentration.

McKay nodded. "So that's what a few hours of meditation will get you. Here's what a thorough understanding of General Relativity gets me."

A couple of students exclaimed in surprise, on opposite ends of the room. A big muscular jock on the left and a less-than-svelte woman on the right clutched at their desks as they rose several feet in the air, notebooks and backpacks and all. While most of the students were craning around to one side or the other, John noticed that Dr. McKay, in the front of the room, was floating on a comfortable cushion of air himself with arms crossed and a triumphant smirk. He had a little frown of concentration between his brows, but no visible sign of great effort.

John leaned forward for a closer look. He was pretty sure that one of the front-row nerds was between McKay and the jock, or had been before the jock's chair rose up. So the dossier was correct and McKay really could get around the famous Line of Sight Rule; he could exert a magical effect on something (or someone) without also affecting everything along the path between himself and his subject. It was a simple but impressive demonstration, more so for anyone who knew a little about magic and its limitations.

The two students and their desks settled down with hardly a sound, and then there was another series of murmurs as the students finally noticed that McKay himself was levitating. He stepped down as if from an invisible floating cushion and summoned a glass of water from his desk to his hand. John could just see a faint sheen of sweat on the man's forehead, but it still wasn't much given the amount of mass McKay had just lifted.

"Go ahead, practice meditation so you can control your emotions," McKay said. "But if you really want to get better at magic, study physics. Now, I'm going summarize the kinds of physics you need to learn."

From there, the lecture got into some esoteric stuff that flew well above John's head and he suspected completely beyond most of the students. Grand Unified Theories, thaumons turning into photons and gravitons and bosons and gluons, the many unverified reports of alchemy as possible manipulations of the nuclear forces -- John's attention was piqued at that, but the discussion quickly devolved into whether any of the historical alchemists did what they claimed, or even understood what they claimed. None of the rest of the lecture was really important to John; he had the answer to his question, so he just sat there and enjoyed the show. McKay was an energetic speaker, waving his hands around and sometimes shouting, and when he turned and lifted the chalk to the blackboard, his loose shirt rose up to give John a view of a shapely ass caressed by soft khaki fabric.

No homework was assigned, since this talk was a one-off in a lecture series rather than a regular class. McKay did pass around a list of suggested readings, which interested John, but there were exactly enough printouts for the students and none for the unannounced visitor. The marijuana smoker in the back row gave John a grin and flipped the last copy across the intervening desks at him.

When the lecture was done, John waited politely while the two front-row nerds, Bracelet Girl's soul sister, and the levitated woman paused at the front to ask McKay some questions. Only when the students had all left did John stroll down the side aisle to meet his assignment in person.

McKay snapped his shiny new briefcase closed and faced John with his chin raised in challenge. "Well?"

"Dr. McKay, I'm Lieutenant John Sheppard with the NID. I'm here to --"

"NID? That's an Air Force uniform."

Point to McKay. John had expected the guy to be one of those clueless foreign geeks who didn't know anything about the American military. "Yes, I'm an Air Force lieutenant, but I'm assigned to the NID just now. I'm here to --"

"Yes, I know, offer me a job, what else is new?" McKay circled a hand impatiently. "The CIA has been trying to recruit me since grade six."

"Since you built an atomic bomb for the science fair."

"A model of a bomb, yes. I said no to them then, and I said no to the FBI, CSIS, RCMP, and the rest of the alphabet soup. This isn't even my country. Why should I be interested in what you have to say?"

John blinked. He was supposed to string the target along, butter him up a little, get him feeling good about himself and the job before even mentioning an offer. But clearly that wasn't going to work now, so John decided to cut to the chase. "One: you get to save the world. Two: opening offer is three times what you're making right now. Three: no students."

McKay successfully maintained his bored expression until the third point in the list. He glanced around the slightly shabby lecture room, and John knew this wasn't what the man had envisioned when he won all those awards as a kid and started MIT at the age of fourteen. "Well. You might have a point there."

John brought out his best friendly grin. Now it was time for the buttering up. "Shall we talk over lunch? My dime."

McKay's stomach growled. "It had better be more than a dime. Magic uses energy, you know, and I'm hypoglycemic."

John knew the bait was taken before the appetizers arrived.

Montreal, QC, July 2004

Rodney just stared.

"You're on break now, right?" John pressed. "We can talk?"

"You -- you're dead!" Rodney gasped. "I thought you were dead!"

John grimaced. "Yeah, um, sorry about that."

"Sorry?!" Rodney's voice was rising, turning heads in the front hall of the restaurant. "You knew -- you knew -- and you let me go on thinking..."

John had been prepared for a negative reaction, but not this early in the game. "Look, uh, maybe we should take this somewhere more private." He reached for Rodney's elbow to guide him to the door.

Rodney pulled free sharply, and when John turned to look at him a fist appeared out of nowhere, staggering John into the wall.

"M'sieur McKay!" thundered the maître-d', hurrying toward them. "Qu'est-ce que vous faîtes? C'est un client!"

Rodney, shaking out his fist, looked as surprised as John. "Uh, sorry -- désolé -- I just --"

"It's okay," John said quickly, bringing his hand down from his face. "I'm fine, it's just a misunderstanding."

The maître-d' wasn't pacified. "Allez!" he snapped at Rodney. "Out, get out! Don't come back."

Rodney blinked. "Wait, I have -- my bag, my music --"

"We'll send it."

"No, no, I need it! I need --" Rodney shot John a weird look, almost... frightened? "My, my wallet is in there. I can't leave without it."

John frowned; he thought he'd seen a wallet when Rodney's jacket flapped open during that punch. He'd noticed because looking for a weapon was an automatic reflex these days.

Rodney tried to push past the maître-d', but the man held him back and snapped out a torrent of rapid French, pointing at a busboy who ran off.

"Look," said John reasonably, "it really isn't a big deal. It was just a little love tap." Okay, that wasn't what he'd meant to say at all.

Rodney shot him a poisonous glare, and the maître-d' looked unconvinced. Then the busboy came panting back with Rodney's bag and pushed it into his chest.

"There is your bag," said the maître-d'. "Now, go. Go! Or I call the police." He crossed his arms and glared as John dragged Rodney out the door.

Washington, DC, April 1992

Lieutenant Colonel Maybourne smiled across the conference table in that way that always made John feel like he needed a shower. "It's good to meet you, Dr. McKay. I understand you're a very accomplished wizard. Is that the right term?"

"Yes yes, wizard, mage, sorcerer, whatever." McKay's chin was high, his lips tight.

"We can use whichever you prefer." Maybourne was trying to look friendly, and it creeped John out since he knew the guy didn't really give a shit.

But the act seemed to be working to relax McKay, at least. His chin came down and he said, "Wizard is fine with me."

"I always thought those were like different ranks or something," said John. "Like, a wizard can do more than a sorcerer, and a mage knows more than a wizard, and all that."

McKay huffed. "Ranks are for stage performers. The rest of us prefer to be defined by our real accomplishments."

"Yes, and speaking of those," said Maybourne. "I understand you claim to be able to manipulate all four fundamental forces -- even at a quantum level -- in addition to more common forms of magic."

"That's right. It takes a very fine control and understanding of the processes involved, which --" he smirked "-- most wizards lack. I'm not the first to explore this area, although it wouldn't be boasting to say I'm probably the best in the world right now."

Yes, McKay, it is boasting, thought John, but with Maybourne present he resisted to the urge to needle.

"And what does that imply?" Maybourne led him along. "What can you do with those skills?"

After just a few days of working with the man, John could easily see that McKay was torn between deriding Maybourne as an idiot and playing up to the man's admiration. Of course, the admiration was just a show, but McKay apparently hadn't figured that out yet.

Chest puffing a little, McKay explained, "Well, manipulation of quantum electrodynamic interactions enables me to alter molecular chemistry, restructure crystals and solids, change the reflection spectra of most substances, and induce phase changes without adding or removing as much heat as would otherwise be required. It does require an extensive understanding of molecular chemistry and solid state physics, which aren't my particular specialties, but I've picked up a few things over the years."

Maybourne considered all that. "Could you give us an example?"

"Or a demonstration?" John suggested, knowing McKay enjoyed that sort of thing.

"I just did," said McKay smugly, pointing at Maybourne's coffee cup.

John could only see part of it from where he sat, but apparently Maybourne's dark blue mug had acquired a Canadian flag on the side of it. Maybourne picked it up for a better look. "Impressive," he said mildly.

"You'll notice I also froze the coffee."

Maybourne tilted the mug and tried to restrain a frown as the coffee failed to slosh.

John slouched in his chair and drawled, "Gotta hand it to you, McKay, you're a real whiz of a wiz."

McKay glared at him. "Except that I'm the real thing, not a fake behind a curtain. I thought people in your line of work weren't supposed to, ah, quote show tunes?"

John suppressed a grin. "Well... not in public, anyway."

Maybourne gave John a cold look (he slouched harder in response) and returned to the topic. "I notice that this flag --" he rotated the cup to face the other side of the table "-- appeared on my side of the cup. Out of your line of sight."

"That's right. Of course, I had to assume that the cup was the same color all over -- otherwise, my adjustments would have come out differently. But since the other mugs are all solid-colored, I thought it was a safe assumption." McKay pointed at the little coffee service tray at the end of the table, and the mug right in front of him.

"I see. So you're not restricted by the Line of Sight rule?"

Rodney scoffed. "That so-called 'rule' is not as absolute as people believe. The movies get it all wrong -- emotions are a much bigger impediment to magic than the line of sight. All you need is the right mental state." McKay waved at his head. "If you can't see it, you have to be able to picture it very accurately. If the picture is wrong, the magic won't work."

They were getting close to the important stuff, and John knew Maybourne would be choosing his words carefully.

Maybourne led in slowly. "It really is impressive what you can do on a quantum level -- and I noticed you did it while you were talking, too. What can you do with the other fundamental forces? Say, the strong and weak nuclear forces."

McKay blinked, as if it was obvious. "Well, elemental transmutation, of course."

"Alchemy."

McKay snorted. "If you want to use an ignorant and outdated word for it."

"So, let me just make sure I have this right. You can cause nuclear fusion and fission?"

"Exactly." McKay beamed. "The strong force for nuclear fusion and the weak force for fission. That's an extreme oversimplification, of course. The processes are incredibly complex, and --"

"Without radiation?"

"What? No, of course there has to be radiation. Both particle radiation and electromagnetic. These are natural forces I'm working with, after all. The reaction equation has to balance."

Maybourne frowned. John's hands clenched into fists under the table.

McKay looked between the two others in bewilderment, sensing the change in mood but not understanding it. "However, I can induce forms of fusion and fission which wouldn't occur naturally. Energy- and particle-absorbing reactions instead of energy-releasing ones. Low-energy X-rays instead of gamma rays. That sort of thing."

Maybourne glanced questioningly at John. John raised an eyebrow and shrugged, though he doubted the colonel really cared about his opinion one way or the other.

McKay continued, "You see, I'm essentially changing the laws of physics -- in a specific way, in a small volume of space -- to make the reaction I want more likely, where it would be extremely unlikely to happen by itself. Changing the rules is easier than brute force, but there's still a price to pay. The more radical the changes I make, the more energy it takes. And by the laws of thermodynamics, most of that energy has to come from me."

Maybourne nodded. "I think you can help us, Dr. McKay."

McKay's lips thinned. "So now we come to it. What asinine task did you have in mind for me?"

"Not asinine at all, I promise you. Unless you consider saving the world from potential nuclear cataclysm to be beneath you?"

McKay's eyes darted between the two of them as if waiting for a punchline. "That's a pretty hard sell, Colonel. Maybe you haven't heard, but the Cold War is over now. The Berlin Wall is gone."

"Unfortunately, that brings in a whole new category of threat." Maybourne leaned forward, hands clasped on the table to display his urgency. "With the Soviet Union dissolved, nuclear missiles which were once under the control of one umbrella government -- admittedly a hostile one -- are now distributed under the authority of a dozen different nations, most of them too poor to support the full costs of decommissioning. Poor enough, in fact, to be tempted to sell their assets to a different country, or to leave security lax so that terrorists might come in and steal fissile material for their own uses."

McKay blinked slowly. "Okay, I'll grant that's an important problem. I don't see how I can do anything to change it, though."

"Alone, you can't. Working together, we can make a difference." Maybourne pulled some papers from his briefcase, setting a page of notes in front of him and pushing a map across to McKay. "Nearly half the Soviet nukes were actually located in Ukraine. The new Ukrainian government agreed to send most of those back to Russia for decommissioning, but just last month they had a falling out and stopped shipping their tactical nukes across the border. Of course, what we're really worried about isn't the small fry, but the ICBMs. Stiletto missiles with up to six warheads each, Scalpels with ten apiece -- and each warhead has a half-megaton yield."

McKay looked at the number of missiles targeted against North America, and swallowed hard.

"The transport and decommissioning is proceeding too slowly, especially for the larger Scalpel missiles. We're concerned that politics or economics could interrupt the process before it's complete."

"Still not seeing a job for me, here," said McKay.

"The UN is sending a team of diplomats and scientists to Ukraine to review the process, offer advice and support and so on. They will be visiting a large number of these missile sites, including some which are not currently on the schedule for decommissioning. We want you to accompany them."

"And do what?"

"A little unilateral decommissioning of our own. With your abilities, Dr. McKay, you could convert the fuel in those warheads to something harmless, and no one would ever suspect what you were doing."

"I... I don't know if I can do that. I've never tried anything like it."

Maybourne nodded. "Fair enough. Let's find out. Lieutenant?"

John stood and went to the side of the room, picking up a metal box that waited on the table there. It wasn't much bigger than a couple of stacked paperbacks, but it weighed nearly twenty pounds. He stretched carefully to put it in the center of the conference table between Maybourne and McKay.

"In this box," said the colonel, "is a hundred grams of weapons-grade Plutonium-239."

"What?" McKay pushed his chair back sharply, staring at the box as if it would bite him.

"Relax, it's perfectly safe. There's plenty of lead shielding there, and a hundred grams is nowhere near a critical mass."

"You could have told me this was sitting over there the whole time!" McKay objected.

"Why? Sheppard and I knew it was there, and we weren't worried."

"That says more about your intelligence than your containment protocols!"

"All right." Maybourne reached into his briefcase again and pulled out a box with a long nozzle on it. "Here's a Geiger counter; see for yourself. I assure you it hasn't been tampered with."

Still looking doubtful, McKay took the instrument, fussed over the settings, and pointed it at himself, John, and the table before finally aiming for the lead box. The rate of clicks definitely increased, but not all that much.

"See?" said John. "If that was popcorn, I'd almost be getting ready to open the microwave door."

"Fine." McKay set the Geiger counter down, although John noticed he didn't turn it off. "So the Plutonium is adequately shielded. What do you expect me to do about it?"

"Well, you're not restricted by the Line of Sight rule, and I understand the shielding won't affect your ability to do magic inside the box?"

"No, unconverted thaumons have a cross section almost as low as neutrinos." McKay looked at the two of them. "That means shielding isn't a problem."

"I understand the concept of cross section, Dr. McKay," Maybourne said blandly. He glanced down at his notes. "In fact, what I want you to do is simply to increase the neutron-capture cross section of the Plutonium so it will pick up lower-energy neutrons from the environment. Convert ten percent of the Plutonium-239 to Plutonium-240 and it will no longer be weapons grade, but just reactor grade."

McKay's jaw dropped. "That's a terrible idea!"

It had sounded pretty good when it was first explained to John. "What's terrible about it? If it works, it could be excused as errors in the purification process. Nobody would suspect tampering."

"The problem is that Plutonium-240 is unstable. They're planning to transport and disassemble these warheads eventually, right? Enough contamination with Plutonium-240 and you could get fizzles -- small explosions during handling." He scowled at the box as if worried it would react badly to handling, as well.

Maybourne just shrugged. "Maybe terrorists would think twice about trying to steal it, then."

McKay gave him a withering look. "Terrorists are crazy. It's the responsible people we have to think about. You blow up one crane operator, and you could derail the decommissioning process entirely. You already think it's going too slowly -- why bring it to a screeching halt?"

John worked to keep his expression neutral while he thought about that.

Maybourne's eyes narrowed. "How would you propose to render this Plutonium harmless, then?"

McKay snorted. "Harmless? Not going to happen. Less explosive, maybe. Hmmm..." He snapped his fingers. "I need something to write with."

John pushed over his own notepad. There were only a few doodles of F-16s and one sketch of Maybourne (probably not recognizable) with horns and a pitchfork cluttering the paper so far. McKay glanced at the pictures, then at John, then started scribbling chemical transformations on the page.

"I have to figure out the energy profile that would be required," he said as he continued to write, "but I think I can... yes! I can convert the Plutonium to Uranium-238."

"Another radioactive material? How's that going to help?" John asked.

"There aren't very many elements at that end of the periodic table that aren't radioactive in one way or another. U-238 occurs naturally, has a higher critical mass, and decays very slowly so it produces less radiation -- that's good enough for me. Also, if the conversion is incomplete, the Uranium could absorb neutrons instead of emitting them, preventing a critical chain reaction in the remaining Plutonium. So no half-megaton explosion even if the warhead is detonated."

Maybourne was frowning. "I'm no expert in this stuff, but doesn't U-238 get turned into Plutonium in breeder reactors? Can you really reverse that process?"

McKay grinned exuberantly, and something squeezed in John's chest. "Of course! It only has to emit one positron and one proton. The proton will be absorbed by the lead shielding. The tricky part is preventing the positron from annihilating to produce high-energy gamma rays. But all I have to do is change the speed of light, and we get lower energy X-rays that will be stopped by the shielding. No problem."

"Change the speed of light..." John said slowly.

"In a small volume of space, yes. All I have to do is adjust the emissivity and resistivity of free space -- simple!"

John shrugged. "Okay, so I can see why we need a real physicist for this."

But Maybourne was shaking his head. "The problem with this plan is that it couldn't be concealed as mistakes in quality control," he pointed out. "It's an impossible reaction under normal circumstances. They would figure out there had been tampering."

"Make up your mind," McKay snapped. "Do you want the Plutonium neutralized, or not? Making it impossible to detonate the warhead sounds pretty effective to me."

Maybourne's mouth tightened at the scientist's tone, but he only said mildly, "See if you can do it in a controlled environment, first."

McKay glanced at the lead box. "I need to know exactly where the Plutonium is in there."

Maybourne pushed a schematic across the table, then picked up the Geiger counter. "Warn me before you start the conversion."

"You realize the change in radioactivity will be slight? I'm not converting the entire sample."

"Convert half of it -- one third, even -- and we should be able to tell the difference. We'll send it out for a more thorough analysis later. Just do it, already!"

McKay licked his lips nervously, glanced over his calculations one last time, then glared at the box and said, "Here goes. I'm -- I'm starting now."

Within about a minute, the sputtering from the Geiger counter had slowed noticeably. John felt his eyebrows climbing. "Time to open the microwave," he commented.

McKay startled. "What? No, don't open it!"

"We're not going to." Maybourne reached out to push the box aside, then grunted as it took more effort than he'd anticipated. "The lab will check it out. If it worked as you predicted --"

"Of course it did!"

"Then this plan is feasible."

McKay wiped sweat from his forehead. "You really want to send me to Ukraine? This --" he waved at the box "-- was nothing. But I can't convert hundreds -- thousands! -- of nuclear warheads. Is it really going to make a difference, in the end?"

"It's a start," said Maybourne. "Think of it as a proof of concept. You make this work, and others could be trained to do the same thing."

McKay looked offended. "Not as well as I do. Not without being very, very obvious about it."

"So that's why we want you to go first and prove it can be done. Among other sites, the advisory group will be visiting a number of Scalpel silos that aren't scheduled for decommissioning at all. Neutralize those and I assure you, you will be making a very real difference to the security of this country. This continent."

McKay ran a hand through his hair, disarranging the golden-brown waves. But he wasn't saying no.

"If you were American, I would use the line about 'your country needs you.' But the truth is, Dr. McKay, this is bigger than countries. This is about making the whole world safer from the specter of nuclear terror."

"I..." McKay swallowed. "I suppose I can try."

Maybourne pulled out a sheaf of stapled papers. "Here's the itinerary, and a list of others on the team. Due to your youth --" He gave what he probably imagined was a kindly smile, but it just made John shudder. "You will appear to be a very junior member of the group. Only you and Lieutenant Sheppard will know that you're actually the most important one in the party."

John stiffened and gave the colonel a sharp look. He pursed his lips slightly and shook his head. John subsided with a grimace.

McKay reached up to wipe his forehead again, and John realized his hands were shaking.

"Are you all right?"

"I need food. And water -- ice water. Elevated body temperature is a common effect of magical work."

"There's some water right here." John poured a glass from the sweating pitcher on the sideboard. McKay gulped at it thirstily.

Maybourne stood up and smiled again. "Think about our proposal. You can give Sheppard your answer over lunch."

"Just a moment, sir," said John as Maybourne was about to leave. "Could I have a word?"

Maybourne's face tightened as he nodded towards the door. The hall beyond was deserted, but John knew enough to keep his voice down.

"You're sending me with him?"

"You'll be his bodyguard, ostensibly. In addition to making sure he comes to no harm, you're going to ensure that he doesn't step out of line. McKay isn't committed to our objectives; you are. Make sure he doesn't ruin everything."

John shook his head in bewilderment. "You said if I got this job done --"

"That I would make sure you got back to active flight status. And I will. But 'this job' means more than just persuading one reluctant scientist to accept our offer. You need to make sure he follows through, all the way."

John was angry -- not just at Maybourne for the bait and switch, but at himself for falling for it. He should have known the man would demand more, more, more. It was taking all his willpower to keep from saying something that could get him in big trouble. Bigger trouble.

Maybourne put on his 'reasonable' voice. "Come on, Lieutenant, surely you didn't think reading a few files and making a quick trip up to New Jersey would be enough to get you off the top brass's shit list? You buzzed a no-fly zone and caused an international diplomatic incident, just for the sake of a bet."

"It wasn't a bet!" John protested. "I mean, there was a bet but I didn't take it. I saw a bogey -- it was hot pursuit." He still didn't know what the thing was that he'd seen, but no one believed him anyway. He wasn't stupid enough to claim it was an alien spaceship even if he was thinking that; he just said he hadn't seen it clearly.

"It was a no-fly zone and you ignored a direct order to return to base. That means a few more months of boot-licking to go before you can even think about getting back in a cockpit again. Do a good job on this mission, and you'll be in the air again soonest. Mess it up, and you can kiss your wings goodbye. Am I being clear, Lieutenant?"

John gulped. "Yes, sir."

Maybourne eyed him sharply. "Can I rely on you, John?"

"Yes, sir." It was the only answer possible.

McKay stuck his head out from the conference room. "Is it time for lunch now?"

"Of course, Dr. McKay," said the colonel smoothly. "Lieutenant Sheppard will take good care of you. Lieutenant." He nodded, waited for John's salute, and headed away down the hall.

"Got your bag?" asked John, and led off in the other direction when he saw McKay was ready. "How do you feel about Mexican? Big meals, hearty fare, no questions asked."

"Right, and lime in the most unexpected dishes."

"Uh... Italian, then?"

"Lemon, in pretty much everything."

John's head was whirling. "Okay, there's an English pub just down the street. Cold wet country, not known for their citrus groves?"

"They're called Limeys for a reason!"

John laughed. "Just avoid the fish and chips, and you'll be safe."

"All right, all right," McKay grumbled. "Whatever, just so long as the service is fast."

"I guess it's a dangerous world for you, McKay."

The wizard glanced across at him. "Call me Rodney."

John felt a smile stretching his face. "Rodney. I'm John."

Part Two

Fic: Opportunity Knocks

2008-07-17T16:44:57Z

Fandom: Stargate: Atlantis
Title: Opportunity Knocks
Author: Quasar (quasar273)
Rating: PG
Date written: June/July, 2008
Length: ~10000 words
Spoilers: Set mid 4th season, sometime after Quarantine and before Kindred

Summary: A disgruntled minion hands Rodney an opportunity in disguise.

Author's notes: Tried to do something short and fluffy and plotless. Maybe I succeeded at fluffy.

Rodney thought he could be forgiven for not recognizing it as an opportunity right away. What with Major Lorne nearly shooting him, Colonel Sheppard really shooting him and then throwing him in the brig, and Colonel Carter interrogating him as if he were the enemy, he took it as a pretty negative development at first.

It started when Radek walked into Rodney's lab one morning and dropped his coffee mug and yelled "Who are you? What are you doing here?"

But actually, in some ways it started long before that, in their first year on Atlantis when they learned the Wraith were coming and they would be caught with no ZPM. They were scared and desperate and trying to hide those facts from their subordinates, and they'd both been recently rejected by beautiful women who seemed initially receptive, so it seemed almost natural at the time for John and Rodney to fall into bed together. Or at least to have frantic, toe-curling sex -- beds optional -- when they had a few minutes between attempting impossible tasks.

Then, incredibly, they survived, and everything changed. John changed. At first he was just distant, and Rodney thought it was because of the shock of surviving, being sent back to Earth, visiting Ford's cousin, being promoted. But John didn't change back when they returned to Atlantis. He sent Rodney off with other officers, criticized him more sharply, yelled at him more seriously. His teasing took on a nasty edge if Rodney tried to close the distance between them. He never showed any sign of jealousy over Rodney's dinner date. Even before Doranda, it was seeming like John didn't really want to be friends, much less anything else.

After Doranda, Rodney gave up. He tried to pretend that thing between them had never happened in the first place. He tried to be a team player and make jokes about saving each other's lives. He tried not to show his reaction every time John smiled or did math or offered to play Ancient Civilization. He tried to make himself want sweet, forgiving Katie Brown.

For nearly two years he succeeded reasonably well at all those things. But eventually it turned out even Katie couldn't put up with Rodney in close quarters, in a tense situation. No one could put up with him for very long, it seemed. It was probably just as well John had stopped before things went too far between them, because a real breakup from a real relationship would have been even worse.

And then one morning Radek yelled "Who are you?" and called for security to Lab One, and minutes later Major Lorne was holding a gun pointed at Rodney's head while two Marines pinned him to the wall and searched his pockets.

"It's me, Rodney McKay!" he yelled back at them. "Your boss?" he yelled at Radek. "Sheppard, tell them who I am!" he yelled when John came in the doorway.

John just gave him the cold gaze he usually aimed at Wraith or Replicators and said "I've never seen you before in my life." And shot him.

Rodney woke up in the brig with a stunner headache and needle marks in the crook of his elbow.

Before the pins and needles had passed he was pacing back and forth, trying to figure out what had happened. He grouped the possibilities into categories according to scale of effect. Theoretically it should be easier to change things on a small scale rather than a large one, but in Pegasus the theory sometimes didn't mean so much.

Category 1: The world had been altered.

1a: Rodney was in a parallel dimension. Disproved by the fact he'd awakened in his own quarters this morning, and he'd been working in his lab on his computer with his handwriting all over the damn whiteboard when Radek walked in.

1b: Rodney was in a virtual environment. This was hard to disprove, but it was made unlikely by the very real quality of the environment and the fact that Rodney couldn't summon a cup of coffee just by wishing for it.

Category 2: Everyone else had been altered.

2a: Everyone's memory had been wiped of Rodney's name, face, and existence. But how, and why?

2b: Everyone perceived Rodney as someone or something else. How and why? And just altering vision wouldn't explain all of it -- had they heard different words when he yelled that he was Rodney McKay?

Category 3: Rodney had been altered.

3a: Rodney's memories of four years in Atlantis were implanted somehow. But he was was here now, and Atlantis certainly seemed real, so that possibility required more explanation.

3a.i: His current situation was part of an ongoing delusion -- but if everyone was part of the delusion, why did they suddenly change?

3a.ii: After the memories were implanted, Rodney was transported to the real Atlantis. How and why? And if someone could do that, why wouldn't they also implant memories of Rodney in everyone else?

3b: Rodney had been altered to look like someone else. Similar to 2B only affecting Rodney himself. He spent a while patting his face and hair, turning his hands back and forth, and finding no differences.

He started to break the sub-sub-categories down by Roman numerals, but too many possibilities ended in "how and why?" At last, the door slid open. Rodney hurried to the bars, remembering at the last minute not to lean his elbows on them. (He wasn't sure whether to be flattered or annoyed -- they hadn't used the forcefield on Lucius, but they used it on him?)

Sam walked up to the cage, her eyes calculating. John stood just behind her shoulder, his face blank and cold.

"Who are you?" Sam demanded. "How did you get into the city?"

"I'm Rodney McKay," he said at once, trying to project earnestness. "Dr. Rodney McKay. I work here."

"You were hacking into a program to re-modulate the city's shields. Why?"

"I wasn't hacking, I was working on it! I wrote that program!"

"You claim to know us, so why is it that no one here remembers you?"

Rodney threw up his hands. "I have no idea! Look, let me ask you some questions, okay?"

"We're asking the questions here," John growled.

"No, seriously, this will help. Who's the head of the science division?"

Carter looked puzzled for a moment. "I'm the leader of this expedition."

"Yes, but who's in charge of the scientists specifically?"

Carter hesitated.

"Zelenka makes a lot of the decisions," John offered.

"No, he doesn't. He does what he's told. Who tells him?"

Carter's gaze flickered to the side, checking John's reaction.

"Okay -- Colonel Sheppard, how many people are on your offworld team?"

"Four. Me, Teyla, Ronon, and... Lieutenant Ford."

"Ford's been gone over two years -- Ronon replaced him! So who else is on your team?"

John just stared blankly.

"Me, that's who! Rodney McKay! Check your mission reports. Check the science division reports -- I sign off on them." Rodney gulped. "If those have been altered, check with the SGC, for god's sake! They know who I am."

They were starting to look a little doubtful. And then the door opened again and Dr. Keller came in.

"Keller, tell them I am who I say I am!" Rodney called.

She glanced at him nervously, but didn't answer, turning instead to Carter. "He appears human on all scans. No nanites."

"Did you check for nish'ta or anything similar?" Carter asked.

Keller nodded. "First thing. No unusual substances detected." She hesitated. "There's something else."

"What is it?"

"I ran a genetic comparison, so I could tell if he's from Earth or one of the planets of the Pegasus Galaxy. I found a perfect match, one hundred percent, with a member of this expedition."

"Who?"

Keller looked at the computer cradled in her arm. "A Dr. Rodney McKay."

"See!" he yelled.

"We have complete files on him going back to before the expedition left Earth."

"I told you! I am a member of this expedition! A very important member!"

Carter leveled a glare at him. "All this proves is that you had time to plant files in the system before we caught you."

"Did I also have time to furnish my quarters? Building K-south, level 41, apartment 5. There are photos in there -- me with the rest of Sheppard's team, with others from the expedition. Oh, and Teyla has some pictures with me in them, too. You think I crept into her quarters in the middle of the night to plant those?"

Sheppard had a hand at his ear, talking quickly into his radio.

From there, the situation improved rapidly -- up to a point. They looked at files and file backups and double-backups on isolated servers. On top of the digital evidence, they found photos with Rodney in them in half a dozen people's rooms or offices (he was relieved when everyone agreed that Rodney was the man in the pictures, so he could scratch categories 2B and 3B off the list).

They listened to Zelenka admit that the work on the whiteboard in Rodney's lab wasn't his and was, in fact, beyond him (Rodney didn't mention that he had been altered by an Ascension device when he wrote those notes). They called the Daedalus -- departed several hours ago, but still within subspace range -- and got confirmation that Rodney existed and belonged in Atlantis and had been there for years. Carter even delivered a very prettily-worded apology for the way he'd been treated, which soon had him agreeing with her that it was the only thing they could have done.

But there the progress stopped. They had converged on explanation 2A, but they were stuck on the How and Why parts -- and they hadn't even begun to get to How To Fix It. And while everyone now agreed that Rodney belonged here, no one knew him. They all looked nervous and a little bit guilty about it, except for Ronon who looked like he thought it was an elaborate hoax and they would all be better off if he shot Rodney.

"Could it be a virus?" Carter asked. "Like the last time?"

Keller shrugged. "I'm running scans on everyone's blood to look for anything anomalous. But really, I don't see how a virus could be targeted to affect specific memories like that."

"And how come I'm not affected?" Rodney said. "I mean, I still remember me. Usually I pick up every bug going around -- I have a delicate constitution."

No one rolled their eyes at that; they all seemed to take the statement at face value. But none of them had any answers, either.

Finally John said they were getting nowhere and needed a break, so he went with Rodney to the mess hall for lunch. Looking across the table assessingly, he said, "So, tell me about Rodney McKay. What sort of man are you?"

Rodney opened his mouth to explain that he was the smartest person in two galaxies, then froze. It was the plain truth, but when he said that to people he'd just met, they tended to conclude he was egotistical rather than brilliant. He always ended up having to prove his intelligence anyway.

John arched an eyebrow. "Dr. McKay? Are you all right?"

"Yes. Um, I just -- I'm not quite sure what to say." Maybe he should try being modest. That seemed to make a good first impression.

And that was when he realized it -- first impression. He knew these people, but they were essentially meeting him for the first time. Maybe he could avoid some of the mistakes he'd made in the past. Maybe he could make them actually like him, where they had only tolerated him before.

Except he didn't really know how to do it. He should have the edge here since he already knew Sheppard, but he was as much at a loss as ever to make someone like him. He could try the modesty idea, but he'd never understood how humility was supposed to work. Wasn't it a kind of lie, to pretend you weren't as smart and capable as you knew you were?

"I'm sorry," Rodney said, realizing John had just said something. "I, uh -- what was that?"

"You're on my team, right?" John repeated. "So how do we work together? Where do you fit in?"

"In the middle, usually," Rodney said, but that probably wasn't what John meant. "Uh, I'm a physicist. I detect things and analyze them and fix what's broken and operate it after it's fixed." He restrained himself from describing just how good he was at all those tasks. Then he remembered that modesty included admitting things you weren't good at. "I guess, ah, I'm not so great when it comes to fighting. I can handle a gun, but, you know -- hand to hand and all those things, I leave that to the rest of the team."

"So that's why you're usually in the middle?" John's mouth was quirking -- amusement was a good sign, right?

"Yes, exactly." Rodney ducked his head, thinking frantically. Everyone had seemed to like Rod pretty well -- could he act like that? Except Rod wasn't exactly modest. And Rodney couldn't pretend to be good at something like golf when he simply wasn't. He couldn't pretend to be cool when he wasn't.

"From what Zelenka said about your work, you must be pretty good at it. All that detecting and fixing and stuff."

"Well, yes, I'm --" Rodney managed to swallow the words 'the foremost expert on' and edited them to, "-- familiar with Ancient and Wraith and Replicator technologies." Also Goa'uld and Asgard, but maybe that would be boasting too much?

"And inventing a completely new kind of math to describe things," John prompted.

Unaccountably, Rodney felt his face heat up. He was proud of that particular accomplishment no matter how he'd come by it, but somehow hearing the words from John made his insides squirm. "I had some help with that," he admitted. "My brain was enhanced, temporarily. I'm still trying to catch up to where I was." He coughed and pushed his chair back before he completely messed this up. "I'm going to get some, ah --" he waved at the dessert table.

One of the cooks was at the table just setting out pastries, with several people in a ragged line waiting to grab them when she was done. Rodney used his usual excuse to cut to the front of the line and ask, "Could you just confirm for me that these have no citrus in them?" Then he realized she wouldn't know about his allergy and started to muster up an explanation.

Before he could get going, she said in bored tones, "Yes, Dr. McKay, I checked. Aside from the lemon tarts which are labeled clearly and kept separate, all of these are safe for you."

"Good, I -- wait." He looked at her suspiciously. "You remember me? You know who I am?"

"Is that a trick question, sir?"

"No -- yes -- come with me!"

It took a little while to find out exactly how many people still remembered Rodney, because it turned out a city-wide announcement of "Would anyone who remembers Dr. McKay please report to the control room" was assumed to be a joke by anyone not suffering from amnesia. But eventually they had a small crowd assembled: a doctor, two nurses, two cooks, six marines, a technician, and two scientists -- a biologist and a geologist, neither of whom had worked closely with Rodney. In fact, none of these people were really close to Rodney at all. Was it too much to ask that one member of his team, or at least the senior staff, would remember him?

"They work the night shift," Sam concluded after a few questions. "They were all on duty last night."

"I'm not," and "I wasn't," said the two scientists in chorus.

Then the biologist frowned. "I did have some trouble sleeping last night," she admitted. "I got up and spent a couple of hours compiling data on a project, but I was still in my room."

"What time was that?" Sam asked.

"From about three until five or so?"

"The cooks started their shift at four," Sam mused. "So I'm thinking whatever happened must have occurred somewhere in the window between oh-three-thirty to oh-four-thirty, and affected everyone who was asleep at that time."

"But I was asleep then!" the geologist objected. "I slept all night."

Rodney snapped his fingers in realization. "Wait, wait -- I see you around a lot. Your quarters are just down the hall from mine, aren't they?"

"Yeah, around the corner and two doors down," said the geologist.

"And I slept all night, too!" said Rodney triumphantly. "So there you are."

Sam frowned adorably. "I don't see your point, Dr. McKay."

"I was unaffected too -- I didn't wake up with amnesia this morning. So in addition to those who were awake, we have two people who were asleep during the suspect window who weren't affected, and it turns out our quarters are close together."

"Good point," said Sam. "If one area was affected differently, it suggests the effect was localized rather than city-wide."

"And that whoever or whatever did this deliberately kept it away from my quarters." Rodney frowned. "Which says something about the motive. I'm not sure what." He shivered at the thought that he might have awakened with no memory of himself and no one who knew him. Once was more than enough for that.

"Good observation, Dr. McKay," said Sam, as if she thought he needed encouragement. It was odd having everyone address him as a stranger, but odder still when they tried to treat him just like a regular person.

"Colonel, take a look at this." John jerked his head toward one of the hanging screens. "We don't have video surveillance in residential areas, but I asked Sergeant Campbell to check recordings for critical areas during that time window. Here's the hallway outside the infirmary, 4:14 am." The picture showed a man pushing a cart along the hallway. "Same thing in three other parts of the central tower between four and four-thirty in the morning."

"Who is that?" said Rodney, squinting at the fuzzy picture.

"That's Dr. Brouchard," Chuck volunteered. "He left on the Daedalus this morning, returning to the SGC."

"Oh, right, he couldn't hack it here," Rodney remembered. "But what's he got on that cart? I don't recognize it." The device was about a foot tall, angular, with arms or antennae stretching outward and several lights glowing in the central body. The picture wasn't good enough to make out any writing or details of the controls.

"I do," said the biologist. "At least, I think so. It was in one of the Don't-Touch-This storerooms; I saw it when I was putting away that bio-scanner we found which turned out to induce mutations, remember?"

"No," said Rodney. "That is, I remember the scanner, but not this thing."

"But you must have known about it," she insisted. "There was a sign with your handwriting on it, I think."

"What did the sign say?" Sam asked.

"Oh, the usual: 'Don't touch this on pain of death,' something like that," said the biologist airily.

"I don't remember that. I don't remember anything like that." Rodney gulped. "Does that mean I have amnesia after all?"

Sam crossed her arms. "I think we should contact the Daedalus and ask them to interview Dr. Brouchard for us."

"You think he opted for a little personal sabotage before leaving?" John asked.

"Something like that." Sam smiled tightly at Rodney. "Don't worry, Dr. McKay; we should have some answers fairly soon."

Rodney shook his head. "We might find out what happened and why, but if that device came out of the Don't-Touch stores, the effects aren't going to be easy to reverse."

After the unaffected people had been dismissed and the message had been sent to the Daedalus, Rodney took the opportunity to knock on the doorframe of Carter's office. "Ah, Colonel, could I have just a moment?"

She looked up from her computer. "Of course, Dr. McKay. I realize you're in a difficult situation here, but we'll do our best to resolve it quickly."

"Right, right. I just, uh..." Rodney tried to muster his words. Gracious, that was the impression he was aiming for. "I just wanted to thank you for, for being so pro-active in dealing with this."

"I'm sure we'll come up with something," she said. "Give it time."

"Oh, yes, I'm not doubting... that is, I just wanted to say..." Rodney moistened his lips. "You and I, uh, we've always had a sort of --" adversarial "-- complementary working relationship. I've always hoped that it could be more than, uh, that is to say that I've always admired you... your work, and --"

"Dr. McKay." She stood up from her desk, and the expression on her face was only too familiar, as if she smelled something unpleasant. "I think I should inform you that I keep a personal journal. And I've taken the time today to check it for references to you."

"Wait -- you wrote about me in your diary?"

She crossed her arms. "So, if you're trying to lead me to believe that our relationship is anything but professional --"

"Oh, no, no! Nonononono. Nothing like that." Okay, so possibly the idea had crossed his mind very briefly. In brilliant Technicolor and Surround Sound. "I'm just trying to -- I thought this could be an opportunity to, to turn over a new leaf, so to speak. Start over again with some people who might not have gotten the best impression of me the first time around. That's all." He smiled at her and hoped it didn't look as stupid as it felt.

Her smiles were never stupid, but right now her expression had a making-the-best-of-a-bad-situation quality to it. "That's very admirable of you, Dr. McKay. But you might want to keep in mind that we are hoping to reverse the effects of the amnesia. If we're successful, everyone will get back their original impressions of you." The glint in her eyes suggested that she didn't pull any punches in that journal of hers.

"Right. I was just trying to, uh, build some bridges. Mend some fences. Sow some seeds of... well, I'd better be, uh..." Rodney swallowed and pointed out the door.

Sam nodded and kept her sharp gaze on him until he was gone.

As he walked back toward his lab, Rodney considered Sam's words. If he tried to make people perceive him differently, would they feel deceived when (if) they got their memories back? Would they go back to treating the same way they always did, like the comic relief on their team, the clueless bumpkin who was useful in a crisis but ignored or ridiculed the rest of the time?

The guy who was an okay lay if you were expecting to die in a week or two, but not worth the effort of an actual relationship?

Rodney's resolve hardened. He had make something out of this opportunity. As long as he didn't actually lie to anyone, it wouldn't be deception. But first impressions could be very powerful. All he had to do was figure out how to use that fact to make a lasting difference in the way people saw him.

The problem was, of course, that he really didn't understand people. He had always thought he should be able to tell the truth and everyone would believe him, and that was how it should work. But instead, he told people he was brilliant and they thought he was a conceited jerk. He told people he had life-threatening medical conditions and they thought he was a cowardly wimp.

So maybe he should try reverse psychology. Would pretending to be stupid make people look more closely at his intelligence? But that smacked too much of lying, and anyway he wasn't that good an actor. Especially in the case of the medical conditions; acting like he wasn't worried about lemons could get him killed.

What he really needed was to get them to see him as a person instead of a cardboard character. Somehow. Talking about his feelings should get people to acknowledge they were real and meaningful, but it never actually worked that way.

He turned the problem around in his mind several times, wishing Kate Heightmeyer were still around to act as a sounding board. Psychology wasn't his gift, but even so he was a genius, and after a while he hit on the answer.

He had to reverse the psychology not by lying about himself, but by turning it towards other people. Show people you care about them and they will start to care about you -- Rodney thought maybe his mother had said something like that once, but he hadn't really been paying attention at the time. Now, how could he make people believe he cared?

Rodney thought about it off and on during the afternoon, while he was reviewing current projects with Radek and looking for anything in the Ancient database or his own notes about the amnesia device. He also tried to remember his resolution to be nicer to people, but it wasn't easy when they kept saying the most moronic things. Fortunately, Radek was as imperturbable as ever even though he didn't remember that Rodney was always like this. He actually looked a little bit awed when Rodney called Dr. Aufthalle Dr. "Off-The-Wall" and told him to keep his mouth shut until his brain was in gear.

But mostly Rodney was nice. He thanked Radek for handing him a cup of coffee and actually complimented two scientists on their work. He thought that was pretty good evidence that he was really trying, but no one seemed greatly impressed by his efforts.

When dinnertime rolled around, Rodney was well prepared. "Oh, good, you're all here," he said quickly when he found his teammates halfway through their meal. "I have some things I wanted to -- what?"

"What, what?" said John.

"You're all looking at me."

"Because... you're talking to us," said John slowly.

"Wait, were you talking about me?" Rodney blinked. "Should I go away and, uh --?" He never knew what to do in these kinds of situations. Oh, right, pretend you hadn't noticed they were talking about you. Too late for that.

"Please sit with us, Dr. McKay," said Teyla, smoothing over the awkwardness. "We were discussing the amnesia. It is rather... unsettling for us, but I imagine it must be even more so for you."

"Yes, well, that's why I, uh," Rodney nodded. "I brought some things to help us, um, get to know each other better. Or, to help you get to know me. That sort of thing." He reached into his pocket. "Ronon."

Ronon arched an eyebrow.

"I actually made this a while ago, for... another occasion. But then I realized it wouldn't be ready in time so I went with a different, um, plan. But it occurred to me maybe you would like it anyway. Here." He dropped the little globe into Ronon's hand.

John squinted. "You made him a marble?"

"Actually, it's a crystalline scale model of --"

"Sateda," said Ronon in surprise, tracing the continents with one finger.

"Yes, right. I got the, um, basic map from the records of when the Daedalus visited there last year. I had to put all the clouds in as well because they obscured some of the coastlines, you see. And we never did get a look at the area around the north pole so I just put a big cloud there. And of course the colors aren't exact..."

"This must have taken a long time to make," Ronon said.

"Yes, well -- no, not really, just a few days. It was just a matter of programming the pictures into the Ancient visualization device, but it still took longer than I had available at the, um, at the time." When he found the completed globe on his desk a few days after his brish with Ascension, Rodney had gotten cold feet and thought maybe Ronon wouldn't want such a reminder. So it had sat in a drawer in his lab for months.

"We have a device that can make programmed shapes?" John said, craning over at the object.

"Only from one particular material, but yes. Some of the scientists call it a three-D printer," Rodney snorted.

Ronon was still turning the little globe over in his palm.

"If, ah, if you don't like it I could program something else into --"

Ronon's fist closed. "I like it." Then he looked up. "Can this thing make knives?"

"Well, yes, but only in crystal, as I said --"

"Will it hold an edge?"

Rodney blinked. "I'm not sure. It's virtually unbreakable so I guess it should work. But you would have to program the edge into the shape, not try to sharpen it after the fact. Oh, and I'm not sure about the balance. That's important to you, right?"

"For throwing, yeah."

"Well, do you have any spare knives I could examine? Especially any that are made all of a single material?"

"A couple."

"Bring them by my lab tomorrow and we can discuss the design, then."

"Okay." Ronon squinted in what passed for a smile with him in most occasions not involving the deaths of many Wraith. "Thanks, McKay."

"Yes, well, uh. You're welcome." Rodney cleared his throat. "Teyla."

"Yes, Dr. McKay?"

He gulped. "Rodney. You call me Rodney. Usually. Well, sometimes. I, uh, I've been preparing a gift for your, your --" He waved at her abdomen.

"Baby," she prompted gently.

"Yes. Your... baby. But that one isn't ready yet. My sister Jeannie --" had thought Rodney's gift idea was a spectacularly bad one. "She said every mother's needs are individual, so she sent this along. It's a catalog of maternity and baby products. If you see something you think would be useful, we can order it to be sent from Earth. See, Jeannie circled some items that she thought were particularly good."

Teyla leafed through the catalog in wonder. "This is very thoughtful, Dr. -- Rodney."

"Yes, well, actually it was Jeannie's idea."

"Wait a second," said Sheppard. "Jeannie? Jeannie Miller?"

"Yes, my sister." Rodney looked up. "You remember her?"

"Sure, but I thought she was..." John rubbed his temple. "Somebody else's sister. Colonel Carter's? No, um..."

"Mine. She's my sister." Rodney considered. "It seems you can all remember various events and people associated with me even though you can't remember me in particular. I wonder if that would give us a starting place to... hmmm." He filed the thought away for later. "Sheppard."

John shook his head. "You don't need to give me any presents."

"Oh. Well, that's good, since I don't have anything to give you. But I did get a new game I thought you might like to try later ton--"

John was wincing. "Look, McKay -- Rodney. You're my friend, right? We're all friends?"

Rodney glanced at the others. "Sure. Yes. Right."

"Fine. So just quit acting like you need to buy our affections, all right?" With that, John stood and cleared away his tray.

Teyla looked at Rodney sympathetically. "I'm sure he did not mean that as it sounds."

"Want me to talk to him?" Ronon offered.

"No, no, it's fine. We're good." Rodney looked down at his suddenly unappealing food. "I just, uh, thought of something I should check out. In the lab." He left the dining hall quickly.

Sam came to the lab a couple of hours later. "We got word back from the Daedalus about Dr. Brouchard," she said. "They sent us a record of the interview." She handed over a thumb drive.

"So what did he say?" Rodney glanced up and did a double-take when he saw Sheppard lounging behind Carter's shoulder.

"Just what we suspected. He used the device to make people forget about you before he left here. When he was in the area around your quarters he just thought about making you forget the device itself."

"Of course, he never even considered the security cameras," Rodney scoffed. "And they wonder why I call them idiots!"

Sheppard put in, "He'll face charges back on Earth, but that doesn't really help us fix the problem here."

Sam shrugged. "He said he got the device from the hazardous storage, and he believed it had been found a few months ago. He didn't know much about it except that it only affects people sleeping within a limited range. He doesn't know of a way to reverse the effects, but he did tell us where he's stashed the device. I sent a couple of Marines -- people without the ATA gene -- to pick it up and bring it here for further study."

"I'm not sure we need to study it much more," said Rodney. "I found our notes on the initial analysis. Apparently it's some kind of Ancient psychotherapy voodoo thing. The operator can make a sleeping person forget about a particular topic. We discovered this when Dr. Coleman dozed off while it was being tested and forgot about the existence of coffee, because apparently the, er, person testing the device was thinking about coffee at the time." Rodney coughed. "Dr. Coleman has since recovered her memories related to coffee -- all of them, she thinks -- but she's not sure exactly when that happened."

Sam brightened. "That sounds promising. So we should all be back to normal within a few months, maybe sooner."

"Right." Rodney glanced at John and looked away.

"Did Dr. Brouchard say anything about why he did it?" John asked, still slouching in the doorway.

Sam grimaced. "Actually, yeah. He had a lot to say about that. It's all in the recording there. The gist of it was that he wanted Dr. McKay to experience what it's like to be 'forgettable.'"

"Yes, well, thank you, Colonel Carter. This information is very, um --" Rodney couldn't exactly say 'helpful' since he'd figured it all out beforehand. "Good to know," he finished lamely.

"You're welcome." Sam smiled. "Don't work too late -- senior staff meeting tomorrow at oh-seven-hundred." She paused. "You are a part of that, right?"

Rodney sighed. "Yes, I'll be there."

Her footsteps retreated, but after a moment Rodney realized it was only the one set. He looked up to find Sheppard stepping forward from the doorway, hands in his pockets and a sheepish look on his face.

"So, uh, Teyla thinks I was kinda hard on you at dinner --"

"Oh, stop it," said Rodney wearily.

"What?"

"Don't even try to apologize. You're terrible at it, and besides, you were right. You want to know why I'm trying to buy your affections?" Rodney waved the thumb drive Carter had given him. "This says it all. I'm terrible with people. I forget their names, I don't care about their petty concerns, I tell them when they're being idiots -- and they hate me for it."

"I'm sure it's not that bad --"

"No, it is. It's exactly that bad. I'm lucky if I can bribe people to like me -- sometimes even that doesn't work." Rodney sighed and dropped the thumb drive on the lab bench. "It's not like I didn't know this already. It's nothing new. This incident just brought it home in new and unexpected ways, that's all."

John shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot. "Come on, you said we're friends, right? We play video games together?"

"Sometimes," Rodney admitted.

"Yeah, I remember playing that Ancient Sims game with -- someone. Someone I can't put a face to. That was probably you, wasn't it?"

Rodney swallowed and nodded.

"So we're buddies."

"More than," Rodney muttered.

"What?"

"We were more than friends. A lot more." And I blew it, Rodney thought bitterly. He saw John's eyes flicking up and down his body, checking him out, so he ducked his head and waited to hear how ridiculous the very idea was.

John whuffed out a breath. "Okay. I can see where you'd be pretty upset that I forgot something important like that."

Rodney flapped a hand. "No, it's, it's not important, it --"

"It is important." And suddenly John was right there, in Rodney's space, resting a hand on his arm. "This is exactly what Brouchard wanted, to mess up all your relationships with other people. Let's not give him that." And his mouth descended on Rodney's.

With all the hot and wet and tongue and wow, it took Rodney a few seconds to process what was going on and where it was going to lead. And where it would go after that, which wasn't as appealing. "Whoa, wait, wait!" he said, pulling back even though it felt almost physically painful. "Not like that. We weren't like that."

John's face went still and began to congeal towards anger. "You just said --"

"It was! We were. But it was over. A while ago." And the truth was they had never really kissed -- at least, not on the mouth. Belatedly Rodney wondered if he should have just played along, because that had been really nice. He licked his lips for the last taste of John.

Sheppard stepped back. "Bad breakup, huh?"

"Not exactly a breakup at all. We just sort of fizzled." Rodney wondered how bad it would look if he reached down to adjust himself right now.

"And you figured you could use this opportunity to get me back?" Sheppard's eyes were glittering now.

"Huh? No!" Okay, so maybe the idea had occurred to him, and maybe it had even more appeal than pulling the same trick on Sam, but Rodney hadn't acted on the temptation and that made the accusation all the more unjust.

"You lied to me."

"I did not! You just misunderstood! If I had been lying, would I have corrected your mistaken assumption two seconds later?"

Sheppard hesitated, his eyes still narrowed in suspicion.

That was when the city-wide intercom came alive. "Colonel Carter, Colonel Sheppard, Dr. Zelenka to the gate room."

Rodney grabbed up his laptop and collided with John in the doorway.

"He didn't call for you," John growled, sprinting for the stairs.

"That's because he's forgotten I exist!" Rodney retorted, trying to keep up. "If they need Zelenka, they definitely need me."

When they arrived, they found Major Lorne on the control level talking to Carter. "Spherical, about a foot and a half in diameter, hovers so it must have some kind of anti-gravity. I thought it was just a probe, until it fired at me," he said. "Scorched a big hole in the wall." He was feeling his reddened cheek gingerly, and the odor of burnt hair was unmistakable as they approached.

Carter nodded sharply at Sheppard. "Pearce and Gonsalves found something when they went to pick up the amnesia device."

"Wait, you mean Brouchard booby-trapped it?" yelped Rodney.

No one paid attention to him.

Sheppard turned to Lorne. "Casualties?"

He shook his head. "Apparently it scanned Pearce and Gonsalves when it activated, and after that it ignored them. Seems to have a grudge against people with the ATA gene." He felt his ear and winced. "Bullets don't slow it down. Neither did a Wraith stunner."

"I am tracking the probe," said Zelenka from one of the consoles. "It appears to be heading for the central tower."

"Heading here," said Sheppard grimly.

"It is likely, yes."

Rodney looked over Zelenka's shoulder. "What's that signal it's emitting?"

"Carrier wave for its scanner, I think. I am trying to analyze it to find the origin of --"

"That's nanite code," Rodney breathed in horror. "Replicator technology!" He went to another terminal and started typing rapidly. "This is no booby trap from Brouchard, it must be left over from when the Replicators were here!"

Carter stiffened. "Is it broadcasting on subspace frequencies?"

Zelenka shook his head. "Short-range signal only. This is probably why it is heading for the gate."

"Not like there's anyone left for it to send a signal to," said Sheppard, but his expression was worried.

"So far as we know," said Carter. "Even so, I'd rather not advertize our position."

"Even if it can't phone home, it could do a hell of a lot of damage if it gets here," Lorne pointed out.

"Right. First priority is to stop it before it reaches the control tower," Carter said.

Sheppard snapped his fingers. "If it's nanites, how about an EMP?"

"That won't work," Rodney returned.

"Good thinking," said Carter as if Rodney hadn't spoken. "We'll try that."

"It won't work!" Rodney protested. "This thing was made by nanites, not made of nanites. Same way this control room was rebuilt after we blew it up. You think an EMP will dissolve the whole control room? Just no!"

But no one was listening to him. Sheppard was talking to Lorne about trying to get to the armory for an anti-replicator gun, Zelenka was setting up the EMP, Carter was about to go on the city-wide and tell people about what was going on.

Growling in frustration, Rodney slammed his laptop shut, grabbed a toolbox from the recess under the console, and headed out. The Marines guarding the control room doors were slow to move out of his way, as if they didn't trust him or didn't realize what he was doing was important.

Rodney had planned to get one of the Marines to accompany him, but he saw Ronon looming by the door, in workout clothes with a towel over his shoulder and holding one of those wooden swords -- Rodney was always mixing up the Japanese and Satedan names for the things so he couldn't remember what they were called. "You, come with me," he snapped.

Ronon's eyebrow went up. "What for?"

"You want to stop this thing?"

"Was thinking I'd like to see what my gun will do to it," Ronon admitted.

It won't work was on Rodney's lips, but he changed it to "Here's your chance to try."

As they clattered down the tower's interminable stairs, Carter came over the city-wide ordering people to stay out of the hallways and turn off all electrical devices in preparation for a EMP. Rodney snorted.

On their headsets, chatter among Lorne, Zelenka, and some Marines provided information on where the probe was -- cutting through a door with a laser, apparently. Rodney stopped Ronon two doors short of its position and started digging through the toolbox.

"What are we waiting for?" Ronon growled.

"For me to be ready." Rodney hastily programmed a life-signs detector to translate the signal he needed and send it to his laptop. "Here's the plan. I have to attach these --" He held up a pair of alligator clips and a dangling transmitter "-- to the probe, and then I need to analyze its control code and figure out how to send the signal to shut it down. That's going to take me a couple of minutes, so in the mean time your job is to keep it from shooting me."

Ronon grinned. "What if I stop it before you do?"

"Then you win, and I'll show you where Sheppard keeps his secret beer stash."

"Fair enough," Ronon grunted. "You ready?"

"After the EMP."

They waited until the chatter over the radio indicated the EMP had had no effect, then went through the door just as the probe finished cutting into the next section of hallway. Ronon stepped in front of Rodney and fired point-blank at the bobbing sphere.

A force field flashed golden around it, and it merely slipped back a few inches as it absorbed the energy of the blast. Rodney, with some knowledge of the technology that protected it, was impressed it had reacted that much.

The probe rotated and whirred as it focused on Ronon, scanning him. Rodney took the opportunity to dart in close to the probe and attach his alligator clips. It took him a moment to get them securely fixed on the metal ridges that traces across the probe's surface. By that time it had decided Ronon was uninteresting and was trying to turn its scanner on Rodney. He backed away hastily, but not before it got a good look and discovered his ATA gene.

Fortunately, another shot from Ronon made the probe slip again and its laser blast missed Rodney by nearly a foot.

The next few minutes were a hectic nightmare of trying to analyze and alter an alien program while dodging, running, ducking, and darting around corners. Ronon found out that a good hit from his wooden sword would displace the probe more than a shot from his blaster, so he whaled away on it every time it tried to go after Rodney. The two Marines who'd been following the probe's progress showed up and tried to help. They tried throwing a jacket over the probe to wrestle it down, but it just lasered the fabric into shreds. It zipped up near the ceiling where only the tip of Ronon's sword could reach it. After a certain amount of interference, it was starting to pay attention to Ronon and the Marines, sending nasty little shocks their way, but its worst weapons were reserved for Rodney.

"Get in one of those rooms and shut the door!" Ronon yelled when another blast narrowly missed frying Rodney.

"I can't!" Rodney yelled back. "The signal isn't strong enough, I need to be close to it!"

He was making progress with the code -- which was pretty amazing, under the circumstances -- but it wasn't fast enough. He was dimly aware of Sheppard arriving with an ARG, which did nothing, but Sheppard's gene did distract the probe from its pursuit of Rodney. Just when Rodney had found the syntax for the shutdown code, Ronon tackled him around a corner and the laptop went flying.

"Get off me!" Rodney yelled. "It better not be broken." He wasn't sure if he meant his laptop or his elbow, which had cracked hard on the floor.

Ronon groaned.

"Oh, no, are you hit?" Rodney tried to be a little more gentle as he rolled the heavy body away. Ronon's workout singlet was scorched and blackened along the ribs, and bright red was starting to seep through.

There was the sound of another laser blast, and a moment later Sheppard pelted around the corner and helped drag Ronon into a room. Rodney retrieved his laptop and tried to find his place in the code again.

"How bad is it?" said Sheppard, crouching by the closed door with his useless ARG.

"Fortunately these laptops are impact-resistant," said Rodney, typing frantically.

"I meant Ronon."

"'M okay," said Ronon, heaving himself up to sit. "Just a little burn."

"I've got it! I've got the code ready to transmit," Rodney announced. "I just have to get close to the probe one more time --"

"Sir!" said voice over the radio. "The probe is heading for the door to --"

They could all hear the sound of Ancient glasslike polymer shattering, over the radio and through the door of the room.

"-- the balcony," the Marine finished. "It's outside now."

Sheppard leapt to his feet. "It's going to head straight for the control room."

"I can stop it, I can stop it!" Rodney insisted. "I just have to get the signal out. If I can broadcast -- no, that will take too long. Oh wait, I know!" He bent his head and worked even faster, opening new windows and cursing the computer's slow response.

Carter's voice came over the radio. "I'm removing the dialing crystal from the DHD. Even if it gets here, it can't dial out."

"It's here," Lorne's voice interjected. "Not going to take it long to get through that window."

More glass shattered. Gunfire sounded. Zelenka was yelling something frantic.

And then it stopped.

"Colonel Carter?" Sheppard said sharply. "What's going on? Status!"

"We're fine," said Sam, sounding a little out of breath. "It broke through the window and then it just -- stopped. Fell to the floor. It's like it ran out of power or something."

John blinked. "I guess it was using a lot, with the lasers and the force field and everything..." he stopped, looking at Rodney curiously.

Rodney just closed his laptop and stood, the aftermath of adrenaline making his hands shake. "Now that's over, I think I'm overdue for some rest." Belatedly, he remembered his injured teammate. "After we get Ronon to the infirmary, I mean." So much for his attempt to portray a kinder, gentler McKay.

Trailing behind the medical team, he decided it was time to give up on his plans. It seemed like what he'd taken for an opportunity was really just a trap.

"You took over Rodek's laptop, didn't you?" said Sam a few minutes later, arriving in in the infirmary. "He said he had to reboot to get control back."

Rodney winced. "Sorry about that. I didn't have time to be nice about it." He glanced up and saw Sheppard listening nearby, then ducked his head again and contemplated the roaw of blisters across the back of his left hand.

"So you hacked into the probe, analyzed the programming while you were under fire, found the command to shut it down, and then you took control of Radek's laptop to send the command?" Sam pursed her lips. "Pretty impressive work there, Dr. McKay."

Rodney's face heated. "Oh, uh... thanks."

"Why didn't you say something?" John asked.

Rodney rolled his eyes. "As I recall, no one seemed to be listening."

"I mean afterward -- why didn't you tell us what you'd done?"

"Oh, well, by that time we were heading here. Injuries," he added for Sam's benefit, and held out his hand in demonstration. Then he frowned as Ronon walked walked up. "Speaking of injuries, are you supposed to be here?"

Ronon's shirt had been cut off, revealing his impressive physique and golden skin nicely set off by the white bandages on his ribs. He shrugged the shoulder opposite the bandages and pulled an IV pole forward. "I'll live."

"Probably," Dr. Keller filled in. "If we watch out for infection. And that's why you're staying here tonight. No arguments." She picked up Rodney's hand and looked at the blisters.

"Probe got you?" said Ronon.

"Just a little," said Rodney. "I didn't even notice it right away. Ow!" He added as Keller sprayed it with antiseptic.

"Sorry," she said. "I'm sure it must be painful."

"Well..." Rodney glanced at Ronon's array of bandaging, and Sheppard and Carter looking on. "It's not that bad. Just... stings a little."

"Hands are sensitive," she said sympathetically. "I'll get you some painkillers in a minute, just hang on." She placed a gauze square and started to wrap it lightly but securely.

"I'm concerned that the amnesia situation may be affecting our performance," Sam said grimly. "In retrospect, we could have dealt with that probe a lot more sensibly."

John squinted at her. "You think we've forgotten more than we realized?"

"How would we know?" Rodney asked, trying to remember if there was anything he couldn't remember. It was sort of like trying to see your own eyeballs without a mirror.

Sam shook her head. "Even if we only forgot the two things we're already aware of -- Dr. McKay himself and the previous research on the amnesia device -- that still led to us overlooking Dr. McKay's contributions in fighting the probe."

Rodney tilted his chin up in vindication, then winced as Keller tucked in the corner of his bandage.

"Your team is benched anyway," Sam said with a nod toward Ronon.

"I'm good to go," he said at once.

"No, you're not," replied Keller. "You'll be ready for light duty in three days if there's no infection. Probably at least a week until you're cleared for light exercise, two weeks before you're ready for missions. Minimum."

Ronon scowled at her but she didn't back down.

Sam continued, "we can all use this time to reassess, review mission reports, look for any other gaps in our memory. Perhaps Radek -- and Dr. McKay -- can find a way to speed up recovery from the amnesia." She nodded to John. "Colonel, I'd like your team to take this chance to get reacquainted, make sure you can work together smoothly and know each other's capabilities. If Ronon is up to it, maybe you can try some simple exercises or review threat scenarios, that sort of thing."

Sheppard looked sour but didn't say anything, which left Rodney to groan, "Wonderful. I love fake, cheesy team-building exercises."

"It'll be good for you. For all of us," said John, but he still had his shoulders hunched. Even Ronon looked doubtful.

"All done!" said Keller brightly, patting Rodney's arm. "Here are those painkillers, Dr. McKay. They might make you drowsy, so take one before bed, and no alcohol while you're taking these. Ronon, back to bed." She pointed firmly.

"I'll make sure McKay gets back to his quarters," John said, taking Rodney by the elbow as he hopped down from the gurney.

"Do you even know where my quarters are?" Rodney muttered as they got out into the hallway.

"Sure. You told me this morning. Look, McKay -- we should talk."

"Oh, no," Rodney groaned. "Can't it wait for tomorrow? This has been a really crappy day, you know?"

"Yeah, and I'm sorry about that -- I know some of it was me. But you need to speak up for yourself, okay?"

"What?"

"I mean, I get that you have some self-esteem problems --"

Rodney came to a stop just outside the transporter. "Self-esteem? Are you joking? Everyone knows I have the biggest ego in the entire city!"

John's eyes flicked downward and he moistened his lips. "Is that a euphemism?"

"What? No! Where did you come up with this idea, anyway?"

John propelled him into the transporter with a hand in the small of his back. "You seemed kind of... uncertain of yourself."

"When?"

"Lunchtime, dinnertime, when we talked in your lab, when we were discussing the probe in the control room, when it was all over and you let us think the thing just ran out of juice..."

Rodney jabbed a finger at the transport map and then whirled out into a new hallway. "Okay, first of all? I was trying to be nice. And frankly, I'm not very good at it, so that would be why I seemed uncertain."

John nodded. "Low self-esteem."

"No, I -- okay, fine, believe what you want. But when we were in the control room, that was different; I just realized it would be faster to do it than to talk about it. And afterward, what was the point? I knew Zelenka would figure out what I'd done anyway." And he was tired of never getting the admiration he deserved -- why keep beating his head against that wall?

"Is it because of me? Because I don't remember you? What we... were?" They were almost to Rodney's door and the corridor was empty, but John lowered his voice anyway.

"No, it's..." Rodney sighed and rubbed at his face. "It's everything, I guess. Everyone. No one remembers me, or reacts the way I expect. I thought it was a good thing, I thought this was a chance to make everything better, but it's not working out the way I thought it would." Rodney waved at the sensor on his door.

John followed him in and stood silent until the door closed behind them. "It was before the Wraith attack, wasn't it?"

"What? Oh... yes." Rodney gulped. "Are you remembering?"

"Not really. I've been trying to think... I remember something. Someone, but I can't remember who. So I figure that must have been you."

"Right. It was a stress thing, I suppose. Nothing... nothing that was meant to last." Rodney turned toward his desk, but sleep seemed more appealing than work just now, so he changed his mind and sat at the foot of the bed.

"McKay, look, I may not remember all the details, but I'm pretty sure it was my fault it didn't work."

Rodney laughed bitterly. "Right. It's not me, it's you, and sure, I'd be delighted to just be friends. There -- we've had the breakup talk, two and a half years late. Can we go to bed now?" His face heated. "I mean, beds, not bed. Separate beds. Me in my bed, you in yours. To sleep."

John shifted back and forth on his feet, still standing near the door. "It wasn't the sex, was it? I mean, the sex was good, right? I think I remember that."

Rodney groaned and flopped back onto the bed. He was really not up to having this conversation right now. "The sex was fantastic. At least for me. And I think for you -- you never complained, anyway." Not that they'd talked about it much at all; afterward, they would sleep for fifteen minutes or an hour until one of them got a call on the radio and they had to go back to frantically preparing for the attack.

"So... maybe we should try again?"

Rodney lifted the arm he'd flung across his eyes. "What?"

"We could try the, you know, relationship thing again."

Rodney stared. John's ears were pink and he looked almost sheepish. "Are you nuts? There was no relationship, it was just sex. Any relationship between the two of us would be doomed. As proved by the fact that it didn't last. None of my relationships last," he finished with a sigh. He hadn't really meant to say that last part, but he was tired.

"Mine either. So maybe we should, like, try it with each other."

Rodney gave that a thought and found it didn't add up. "You don't even remember what it was like the first time. You don't remember why it ended."

"And you never knew why it ended in the first place, did you? I think that makes us about even in the not-knowing department."

"Dooooomed," Rodney repeated.

"So no pressure, then. Anything's better than nothing, right? Can't do any worse the second time around."

"Why are you doing this? You don't even like me!"

"Sure I do. I like you just fine when you're being yourself and not all --" John flapped a hand. "Fake and nice, that sort of thing."

"But you don't remember me."

"I thought that might be an advantage, actually. Fresh start, clean slate, all that."

"I thought so, too," said Rodney in a small voice. "Except... I still remember. So not really so fresh and clean after all."

John sighed heavily and rubbed the back of his neck. "Fine, okay. You're probably right. Bad idea." He shifted nervously. "So... good night, then?"

"Wait." Rodney sat up, took a moment to wonder if he was making a huge mistake, and took the step anyway. "What if we try it the other way around?"

"What other way?"

"Like, start with friendship, relationship stuff first, add the sex in later if it seems like it might work. Because the sex was never the problem, it was the personal stuff that tripped us up." Or so Rodney had always assumed. He didn't really know what had happened; John was right about that part.

John stepped closer, perched on the edge of the bed. "Obviously, my memory is suspect, but from what I do recall it was other stuff that got in the way." He waved a hand at the world beyond Rodney's room. "Outside stuff."

Rodney gulped. "That was part of it, I guess."

"So maybe this would a good time to try again. Start over."

"Other way around, friendship first," Rodney reiterated.

"Right. Friendship." John looked around the room. "So, uh... you said something about a new game?"

They stayed up too late playing games and arguing about classic science fiction. John fell asleep first, sprawled across Rodney's covers. They woke in the morning still wearing yesterday's clothes, and they kissed in defiance of morning breath. And when they headed out to face the new day, Rodney realized he'd been right: it was an opportunity after all.

Fic: Not Single Spies, But Battalions

2008-07-03T22:42:07Z

I wrote this a while ago but forgot to post here. Note warnings!

Fandom: Stargate: Atlantis
Title: Not Single Spies, But Battalions
Author: Quasar (quasar273)
Rating: PG-13
Date written: March/April 2008
Length: ~1000 words

Spoilers: through mid fourth season
Warnings: death fic, major character death, not for readers who hate death

Summary: What might have been in a world a few minutes different.

Author's note: Thanks to argosy for swift and insightful beta. Originally written for the sga_flashfic Family Challenge.

Jeannie blinked and licked her lips. She wasn't really thirsty, thanks to the IV, but her mouth was dry, her lips papery. Nothing hurt, though; she felt pretty good, all things considered. She turned her head and found John Sheppard standing next to the bed, hands clasping opposite elbows.

"Hey," he said tersely. "How you feeling?"

Jeannie smiled creakily, shaking the dreams from her head. One of them had involved Sheppard, and lots of wandering through long corridors... even as she reached for the memory, it was gone. "Medical comas are weird."

"Yeah." His mouth crimped oddly. "Your legs okay?"

She blinked and looked down the bed, moving them under the blankets. "They feel fine."

Sheppard nodded. "The docs said the breaks were all healed up, but you might need to drink some extra milk for a month or so."

"How long was I out?" Jeannie sat up carefully and swung her legs to the side of the bed. Bathroom sounded like a very good idea.

"Just under a day," said Sheppard.

Jeannie blinked. "That was quick." Mer must have worked fast, but still, after less than a day he couldn't be that exhausted; he must be avoiding her. "I take it Mer was too embarrassed to face me?"

Sheppard's face, already more still than usual, went positively stony.

"What is it?" Jeannie demanded. "Did something go wrong? Are the nanites still in me?"

Sheppard swallowed. "Rodney... I'm sorry, Jeannie. Rodney's dead."

"Is this a joke?" She tried to laugh, but it didn't work. "What are you talking about?"

"No joke. Rodney was killed --"

"When? How!"

"A few hours ago, by a Wraith."

"Okay, now I know you're joking, because this is Earth. Not Atlantis. Not Pegasus Galaxy -- Earth! There aren't any Wraith here."

"It was the one that was working with Rodney on the nanite base code --"

"In Atlantis!"

"We brought it here. To help with... Rodney said he couldn't --"

"No!"

"I'm sorry. I got there too late. I tried to keep Rodney out of the lab, but he got around the lock."

"Where is he? I have to see him."

Sheppard winced. "You really don't want to --"

"Yes, yes I do! I need to see him."

"He's not really very... recognizable." But Sheppard handed her some slippers and a robe, and led her to a chilled room nearby. Of course the morgue was convenient to the infirmary, Jeannie thought hysterically.

She looked at the mummy-like corpse in the body bag and had to choke back something -- a scream, a sob -- that tried to escape her throat. It didn't look much like Mer, except that she knew her brother and could see him even in that shriveled thing. Sheppard just looked on as if he were carved from granite.

"What happened to the, the -- the thing that did this?" she rasped.

"Over there," said Sheppard, pointing at another body bag in the corner.

Jeannie stared.

"Tried to escape, right after the nanite code was uploaded. Nothing we could do," said Sheppard shortly.

Jeannie didn't ask if there had been witnesses; she had the feeling Sheppard didn't much care. "What about the code he was working on, with Mer? The anti-replicator code?"

"We'll find another way," was all Sheppard would say.

Jeannie had never thought of John Sheppard as a jittery man, someone like her brother who couldn't stay still for even a moment. But over the next day and a half she saw a new stillness about Sheppard that made his previous behavior seem manic. It was more chilling than Ronon's dark glower and curled lip. Sheppard had only known Mer for a few years, so why did it seem that his loss was somehow more profound, more devastating than Jeannie's?

They got the formalities taken care of and Jeannie went home, cried on Kaleb's shoulder, and let Madison cry into her shoulder. She scattered half of Mer's ashes near their childhood home. The other half had gone back to Atlantis, to be scattered in space from a jumper. She didn't think about how Sheppard's face might look as he piloted that jumper.

A month later, like some horrible kind of déjà vu, Colonel Carter was there on the Miller porch in a dress uniform.

"If this is a job offer, I can't leave my family," Jeannie said at once.

"It's not a job offer," said Carter, but her attempt at a smile was brief and unconvincing.

"Well, if you're here to inform me my brother is dead, I already know that." Jeannie hoped the quiver in her chin wasn't visible.

"I'm sorry. I'm afraid I have bad news, and I didn't want you to hear about it through rumors. Could we talk about this inside?"

Jeannie conducted Carter into the living room, and brought out coffee and cookies, and heard the news. She was still sitting there, alone, the coffee in her cup gone cold, when Kaleb and Madison got home two hours later.

"Atlantis is gone," she whispered to Kaleb once Maddie was distracted by her newest DVD. "It was destroyed by replicators. Almost everyone evacuated safely, but..." She gulped. "Not Colonel Sheppard. He didn't make it."

Kaleb's face showed shock and dismay, but also some traces of anger remaining from last month. He had said all the right things, supported her through her grieving, but she knew he was at least a little glad that her big brother wouldn't be getting her into trouble again.

"Kaleb, what if it was because of me? They were working on a way to defeat the replicators, but then Mer... and the Wraith..."

He held her, but she couldn't cry this time. She remembered the look on Carter's face as she explained how Sheppard had tried to salvage a single jumper from the dying city, then failed to get through the wormhole before it collapsed.

Carter hadn't said it out loud, but her frown said Sheppard had done it on purpose. Jeannie remembered that expressionless face, the grief that surpassed words or tears, and figured Carter was probably right; that was exactly how Sheppard had wanted it.

Fic: Crossed Wires

2008-02-27T07:42:11Z

Fandom: Stargate: Atlantis, Stargate: SG-1, The Sentinel
Title: Crossed Wires
Author: Quasar (quasar273
Rating: PG
Pairing: none, implied Jack/Daniel
Date written: February 2008
Length: 1140 words
Summary: Messages waiting in the top of the queue for the next databurst to Earth.

Notes: Another short bit for my Criss-Cross series; takes place after Crossing Paths. Here's a summary of the series, which contains links to the stories (and some story spoilers).

To: O'Neill, Jonathan S BrGen 1 SGCC/IOA <jack.oneill@cheyennemountain.af.mil>
From: Cap'n Jack <oneill@lantis.peg>
Warning: domain unknown
Warning: invalid IP address
Warning: this message originated from an unrecognized domain and may contain a virus
Date: May 29, 2007 25:31 ALT (UT-??)
Subject: READ THIS FIRST! I MEAN IT!!!!

Yo ~~maxi-me~~ ~~big Jack~~ ~~Jack the elder~~ ~~Daddy-o~~ ~~jack-oneill-untagged-version 1.0 alpha~~ Jack,

Sorry about that -- I had too many people looking (and typing) over my
shoulder, but I got rid of them.

I don't know how long this message is going to sit around before we
make contact again, but I asked Grodin to make sure it goes at the top
of the databurst whenever we get a chance to send it. There's lots of
other important stuff to catch up on, but this comes first. You
probably want to be sitting down someplace private when you read this.
Okay, I guess it doesn't matter if Danny's in the room, but give him
something to read so he isn't watching too closely, all right?

So here's the thing. You remember that guy you sent along when we
were having our little Genii problem? Colonel Sheppard, from the
Atlantis expedition in another universe? Well, we got him sent home
to his own universe, and the John Sheppard that belongs here showed up
instead, and Dr. Weir hired him on. You know all that stuff, and I'm
sure you've seen his Air Force records (I haven't, but I got the basic
rundown from Sheppard). I guess you also know he has the ATA gene,
about as strong as you and I have it. So of course Dr. Beckett got
all excited about another strong ATA and got to looking at our genes,
and he found some things.

What I'm saying is, you might want to take a closer at Sheppard's
record. Like his birthdate, May 10, 1970 -- go ahead, do the math.
His mother told him he was conceived at Woodstock, but it might have
actually been a little before that. Say, on the way to Woodstock.

Oh yeah, his mother. Jenny Sheppard. Formerly Jenny Zwerdling.
Formerly Jenny Bascomb. Sound familiar? She died in 83, but I bet
there are pictures on file if you go looking. Sheppard looks like his
mother -- small favors -- but Beckett says there's no real question
about the genetics of it.

So, there you go. I figured you should know about that before you
read anything else. Not that I know what else will be in the
databurst, but this seems pretty important.

(mini) Jack.

P.S. He says his stepfather Mark Sheppard is a good guy, so quit
thinking about mail bombs.

P.P.S. Although, is Max still working with the police in ABQ? I'm
thinking maybe a few parking tickets . . .

To: Jackson, Daniel X Civ 846 SGCC/IOA <daniel.jackson@cheyennemountain.af.mil>
From: Cap'n Jack <oneill@lantis.peg>
Warning: domain unknown
Warning: invalid IP address
Warning: this message originated from an unrecognized domain and may contain a virus
Date: May 29, 2007 25:48 ALT (UT-??)
Subject: Read this now, Daniel -- I'm serious.

Hey Danny,

I know whenever you get this, it will be part of a databurst from
Atlantis, and that means you have a huge pile of fascinating whatevers
to check out. But I want you to take your computer and your coffee
mug and go to General Jack's office right now and read your whatevers
there, okay? He needs you.

Jack.

P.S. Just don't let him start talking about Charlie.

To: O'Neill, Jonathan S BrGen 1 SGCC/IOA <jack.oneill@cheyennemountain.af.mil>
From: Shep <jsheppard@lantis.peg>
Warning: domain unknown
Warning: invalid IP address
Warning: this message originated from an unrecognized domain and may contain a virus
Date: Jun 2, 2007 06:14 ALT (UT-??)
Subject:

Hi there.

We haven't met. Maybe you think we have, but actually we haven't.
The guy you met was some kind of miracle worker, walks on water, big
damn hero kind of guy. I'm just a civilian pilot. Colonel Sheppard
was wearing my body, though, so I guess you do know what I look like.

I've met your clone, so I know a little bit what you're like, but I
realize it's not the same. He's a pretty cool guy, so I'm guessing
you must be too. He, Jack, told me he already wrote you a message
explaining what this is all about. So you know the big news, I guess.

Here's the long and short of it: I grew up thinking my father, my real
father, was a guy who died in Vietnam. Sometimes when I got in
trouble, got sent to bed without supper or whatever, I used to think
my real father would have understood me better. But mostly, it really
didn't bug me. I had a good life, a fun childhood, two cool parents.
I didn't worry about the dead guy very much.

Knowing my real father is a different guy who's not dead doesn't have
to change anything, unless he decides he has some right to try to run
my life -- that would change things, and not in a good way. So I
don't want you to get any ideas about reversing my discharge or
setting up a trust fund or buying me a plane or anything like that.
Okay, I know a BrigGen's salary isn't that high, but from what
I hear you must have racked up a hell of a hazard bonus the last
decade or so. Spend it on your retirement or health care or fancy
cars or hookers -- I don't care. Just don't try to throw it at me.

Jack and I have decided to try to treat each other like brothers, and
I think that's probably going to work out okay. Better than the
father/son thing. So maybe if you try to think of me as a long-lost
nephew, that would be best. We can exchange Christmas cards, chat
about flight school or my mom (you knew her for what, a week?), maybe
have a beer if I ever get back to Earth. That's plenty for me, and
I'm not asking for anything more.

John Sheppard

P.S. If you want to ignore me completely, that's good too.

P.P.S. And don't even think about getting your cop buddy in NM to
harass my stepfather -- I heard Jack muttering something about that.
Mark Sheppard wasn't happy when I went into the Air Force, but he was
even angrier when I got kicked out, and I promise he would love
to sue your ass if you try something, whether or not he finds out
about any connection between you and me.

P.P.P.S. And if he did find out about it? He'd be thinking you were
14 when I was conceived. So don't give him any reason to think about
you at all.

Fic: Cross Talk (Criss-Cross series)

2008-02-25T15:29:12Z

Fandom: Stargate: Atlantis, Stargate: SG-1, The Sentinel
Title: Cross Talk
Author: Quasar (quasar273
Rating: R
Pairing: Jim/Blair, John/Rodney
Date written: February 2008
Length: 4300 words
Summary: Jim and Blair's perspective on events in the Criss-Cross universe.
Notes: Just a bit of self-indulgent fluff for my Criss-Cross series. This one takes place immediately after Cross Country and shortly before Crossing Paths. Here's a summary of the series, which contains links to the stories (and some story spoilers).

Blair blinked open gummy eyes to find he was lying in his own bed (which was nice), on his right side (good, because his left shoulder still ached), with a muscular arm locked around his ribs (nice, but sort of overkill).

"Morning, Chief," Jim murmured in his ear.

Blair turned a deep groan into a hum that he hoped sounded halfway pleased. "No morning run?" Normally he would be pleased to spend a lazy morning in bed with his husband, but in this case he knew it was Jim being overprotective, and he knew he had to nip it in the bud.

"Had a good workout yesterday, hiking," said Jim.

Blair only remembered about half of yesterday; the healing device that had cleared up his concussion (and other injuries that he didn't like to think about too closely) hadn't fixed the amnesia caused by the concussion. He remembered finding a Wraith dart crashed in the desert and heading for the nearby mountains to look for the Wraith, and that was it.

Jim had explained tersely that they'd hunted around for a little while before the Wraith dropped down on them out of ambush. (On closer questioning, Jim had admitted he knew the Wraith was near but was expecting it to be cocooned -- he'd been too focused on scent and hadn't heard their enemy creeping right up to them.) It had positioned itself so that Blair blocked Jim's line of fire, but Jim had gotten off one shot anyway; then the Wraith had grabbed Blair and thrown him into a tree. Sheppard had killed the Wraith, McKay had helped Jim with the first aid, and they'd gotten back to Atlantis as soon as possible. Then, when Dr. Beckett broke the news that Blair would never walk again, probably never type again, and possibly never breathe on his own again, McKay had pulled off a miracle with a Goa'uld healing device. So Blair got to go home, sleep in his own bed, walk, talk, and gesticulate as normal. And he shouldn't be ungrateful (he wasn't!) about an aching shoulder (he didn't care about that) and a little lost memory (okay, that part still bugged him).

Blair stretched and sat up carefully. He was stiff and thirsty (and really hungry too) and he needed to piss. "What time is it?"

"Almost ten," said Jim dryly.

"What?" Blair yelped. "Are you kidding me? But I went to bed at, like . . . couldn't have been later than twenty-six last night. That's twelve hours ago!" He jumped up and then staggered from the head rush.

Jim caught his arms and steadied him, without even jostling his sore shoulder. "I fielded a couple of calls from Beckett already," he said. "Had to swear on my hyperactive senses that you were okay and the sleep was doing you good. Don't make a liar out of me, Sandburg."

"I'm fine, man," Blair insisted as the sparkles cleared from his eyes. "Just really gotta pee." He patted Jim's hand as a signal to let go. In the bathroom, he gave the shower a longing look (he still had irregular patches of grime and sweat and medical adhesives and who knew what else from yesterday), but that would have to wait. Breakfast was definitely the first order of the day.

When he got out of the bathroom, Jim was already dressed and had set out some clean clothes on the bed, along with the sling Beckett had pressed on Blair yesterday. The shirt was Blair's last remaining button-down, which also happened to be his nicest shirt -- but since the buttons made it much easier to get into, he didn't object. He brushed off Jim's offer of help and eased into the shirt himself with no gasps or grimaces, then gave a triumphant grin. "See? I don't need the sling. It really doesn't hurt, unless I move the wrong way."

"Nice try, Chief. The whole point of the sling is to keep you from moving the wrong way. Here, I'll give you a hand with it."

Then, when they got in the transporter and Blair reached for the symbol nearest the mess hall, Jim pushed his hand away and tapped the position below the gateroom instead -- the position closest to the infirmary.

"Jim, come on . . ."

"Don't give me any trouble, Sandburg, or I will carry you to the infirmary over my shoulder."

"I'm starving!"

"You're hungry because of the healing -- the energy came mostly from McKay, but the raw material came from you."

"Yeah, I know, Carson explained all that."

"And he explained it would throw off all your electrolytes and blood levels for a while. And that's exactly why he needs to check you out first thing. If you promise to be good, I'll bring your breakfast to the infirmary."

"Aw, man, but you're just going to do the bacon and eggs route."

"That's right, I am. I radioed a request to the kitchen staff while you were in the bathroom. Anything else you want?"

"Milk."

"That yak stuff?" Jim made a face.

"I don't care what animal it came from, I want a big glass. And some yogurt, too. And those fruits, the green kiwi things? At least three of those. And some Athosian tea, yeah, that'd be good."

They were at the door to the infirmary now; Beckett heard them and came out of his office, eyeing Blair closely. "Here's the man of the hour, then. Everyone's been asking after you, and all I could say was that Captain Ellison told me you were fine." He gave Jim a doubtful glance.

"He's dehydrated and smells sort of . . . sour, like halfway between tired and sick," Jim said, "but I think a good breakfast will fix most of it. I was just going to go get some --"

"Hang on a moment, man, I want to see the both of ye."

Jim sighed and followed Blair back to the exam area. "What's up?"

Beckett patted a table for Blair to sit on and started checking him over: eyes, lymph glands, grip strength, reflexes. "I've had another look at that blood sample ye gave me yesterday, Captain."

Jim settled into a formal stance with his hands behind his back, which usually meant he was uncomfortable about something. Blair frowned at Beckett, who had taken the sling off and was checking Blair's shoulder for heat or swelling.

"It's just as I guessed -- I can't believe I never thought of it before, but apparently the gene is extremely rare. More so than the ATA gene. Though, of course, the ATA gene frequency is quite different between the Earth and Pegasus native populations, so it's possible this one varies as well -- so the tests done on Hoff might not reflect what we'd find in another sample base . . . "

"Wait, wait," Blair protested even as Beckett eased him back to lie on the table and pulled a scanner into position. "What gene are you talking about?"

Beckett blinked. "Oh, didn't I say? The gene for resistance to Wraith feeding."

Blair thought about that while the scanner whirred, and looked over to Jim -- who was staring off into space, pretending to be zoned. Blair could tell the difference; Jim was just trying to avoid an unpleasant conversation.

"And you're saying Jim has that gene?"

"Aye, I can't believe I missed it! Of course, I've sequenced portions of his genome in an effort to understand the Sentinel phenomenon, but it's difficult to know what I'm looking for without other examples to compare against. Yet I never even thought of looking for the resistance gene until I heard what happened yesterday."

"What about what happened yesterday?" Blair assumed the doctor wasn't talking about his neck injury.

"What, didn't they tell ye, man? That Wraith tried to feed on Captain Ellison -- tore up his shirt -- but didn't leave so much as a mark."

Jim cleared his throat. "That's interesting about the genetic, uh, thing, Doc. I'll just go get Blair's --"

"Stop right there, Ellison," Blair growled. He was gratified to see Jim freeze, even though it was hard to convey any real threat while he was lying on a table under a scanner. "Why didn't you tell me about this?"

"I did. I said --"

"You said your shirt got torn on a tree branch!"

Jim winced. "I may have obfuscated a little . . ."

"That's my line!" It was hard to stay angry when Jim threw Blair's own tricks back in his face like that. The scanner stopped whirring at the end of its sequence and Blair quickly sat up. "Uh, look, Carson, could we have a minute here?"

"Aye, have a talk while I check over these results." Beckett disconnected the laptop from the scanner and carried it off to his office.

"Jim, what the hell? You need to tell me this stuff!" Blair hissed.

"You had enough on your mind, Chief. Anyway, it was already over, and nothing happened."

"You let the Wraith get its hand on you?!"

"Nothing happened."

"What, were you zoned out or something?"

Jim threw up his hands. "Yes! It's possible I was just a little more worried about you than about me, considering I'd just heard your neck snap!"

Blair flinched. "You were zoned on me?"

Jim rubbed his jaw; he'd mentioned a few times that it ached lately when he flexed it under stress. "Yeah," he said, voice dropping to a murmur. "I thought you were -- that you might be . . ."

"Jim, you can't do this shit! You told me yourself, you have to stay present in a situation, no matter what goes down. It's been years since we needed to talk about you overdoing the Blessed Protector thing!"

Jim slumped, suddenly and appallingly. Blair was so used to the straight spine and braced shoulders that he hardly knew what to do when Jim looked so defeated. "I wasn't your Blessed Protector yesterday, Chief. It was McKay that saved you. McKay and Sheppard."

Blair stared. "Jim. Come here. Come sit here." He patted the exam bed next to him and grabbed Jim when he sat, leaning against him. Touch was always the best way to calm Jim, so Blair practically plastered himself against his husband and slung an arm across his back. "Okay, look, so maybe Rodney's the one that healed me --"

"Not just that. I'm pretty sure he actually grabbed the Wraith and pulled it off of me."

"Whoa! Rodney?" Blair had a little trouble picturing that.

"Not that it made that much difference, because it wasn't actually feeding on me. And McKay was wearing that shield thing, you know, the one I can barely smell through? He held the Wraith down while Sheppard killed it."

"Okay. Um. Wow." Blair was starting to realize they owed Rodney even more than he'd thought. "So . . . we have a good team going. We all look out for each other. That's how you need to think about it. And like I was saying, Rodney used the healing device, but who thought of it in the first place?"

"I did," Jim said slowly.

"Yeah. You're the one that remembered it, you're the one that got Rodney to try it out. Hell, I think I'd forgotten it was sitting in your office. No one else was even going to realize it was a possibility. If you hadn't thought of it, Jim, this time today I probably still wouldn't be conscious."

"More likely partway conscious and facing some very unpleasant evaluations," Beckett said, returning to the room. "Is now a good time?"

Jim sat up straighter, but Blair stayed half-draped over him. He subvocalized so that Beckett couldn't hear: "You are my Blessed Protector, Jim. Always. Rodney's just a damn good guy to have on our team."

Jim twitched but didn't react openly. "How's he doing, Doc?"

"Much better, I'm glad to say. The residual inflammation in the neck and head is entirely resolved, and neurological function is fine, as we confirmed yesterday. His shoulder injury seems to be progressing normally -- a bit inflamed, but nothing to worry about unless it persists for several days. Given your special abilities, Captain, you might consider giving it a bit of light massage. Nothing too deep or vigorous, just stimulate the blood flow a wee bit." Beckett tapped his computer and frowned at the next page of results. "As expected, his blood tests are a bit off. Calcium, magnesium, and potassium all below normal -- I'd like ye to take some supplements for a few weeks, Blair, and then we can reassess. Blood sugar also rather low --"

"I think the answer to that is on the way," said Jim, watching the doorway intently.

A few seconds later, John Sheppard appeared with a tray of food in his hands, grinning warmly at Blair. "The kitchen staff said this special order was for you?"

The tray had the expected bacon-and-egg analogies, but also milk and fruit. "Bless you!" Blair breathed, and snatched up the glass of milk for a long, luxurious drink.

"Here," said Beckett, and dropped several fat white pills on the tray. "Take your breakfast over there and eat it while I have a wee talk with the Captain about further genetic tests."

Blair was torn. "Oh, I want to hear about that," he said, even as his fingers snatched up a strip of cured meat and stuff it it his mouth.

"I'll go over it with you later, Chief," Jim promised. "Go, eat."

Sheppard carried the tray over to the duty nurse's desk and found a space for it, Blair following like a puppy on a leash. He was working on the fruit now, and barely noticed when Sheppard eased a chair in behind his knees.

"Mmmph! Oh, man. Thanks for bringing this. I was so -- mm!" Blair found a fork and started working on his eggs, unworried by the purple veins threading through the yellow.

"You must be really hungry -- you're worse than Rodney, even," said Sheppard indulgently.

"Carson says it's because of the healing," Blair mumbled around a mostly-empty mouth, "but y'know, I didn't get a lot to eat yesterday, anyway."

"Go to town," Sheppard encouraged him. "You need it. Feeling better today?"

"Oh, man, I've been trying to figure out how much we owe you and Rodney --" Blair began.

Sheppard held up a hand. "Forget about it. You'd do as much for us. I'm just glad you're, you know --"

"Not a vegetable? Me too. Understatement of the century. I gotta find some way to thank Rodney for this!"

Sheppard grinned. "Don't worry about it. He's been getting little presents from half the people in the city."

"What?" Blair was so surprised, he stopped chewing for a couple of seconds. "Why?"

Sheppard snorted. "Look around you, Blair -- everyone likes you. They're all glad you're going to be okay."

"Huh." Blair blinked. Sure, he got along okay with just about everybody, and in a closed, isolated society like Atlantis that was a big deal, but he hadn't thought it went quite so far. "Well, I'm glad Rodney's getting the gratitude he deserves, but seriously, if you can think of anything --"

"Chocolate," said Sheppard.

"Where?" Blair looked around his tray eagerly.

"No, I mean, if you know of a source of chocolate, real chocolate, Rodney would consider that repayment in full."

Blair considered while he scraped the last of the eggs from his plate. "That's a tough one." The expedition had run out of chocolate over a year ago. More had come through the gate with Colonel Sheppard's strike force, but Blair was pretty sure that was all gone, too.

"Or real coffee, that's just as good. Or a source of caffeine that doesn't taste like, um, what did he call that tea? Grass water? Straw water?"

"Caffeine I can do," said Blair with relief. "There are these nuts from P3E-211 -- kind of bitter tasting, and they'll mess up your digestion if you eat too many, but four or five of them will give more caffeine than a shot of espresso."

"Sounds good. I'll try to make sure he gets the message about the digestion thing."

Blair looked up. "So, uh, are you two getting along better now?"

Sheppard shifted his weight and glanced around the infirmary, and Blair noticed the tips of his ears had gone pink. "Yeah, maybe. I think -- that is, I'm going to try -- I think we're getting back together."

"That's great, John! I'm glad to hear it!" Blair went to slap him on the back with his left arm and winced as the shoulder twinged. "Just tell him you love him and everything will be fine."

Sheppard's ears were bright red now, as if he'd been running in cold weather, but the rest of his face looked perfectly normal. "I, uh . . . I'm not really good at . . . yeah. Okay. Here, let me get that tray for you." He bustled around stacking the fruit rinds on Blair's tray, gave some hasty excuses, and hurried out.

Blair turned to find Jim waiting behind him with the sling in his hand. Blair sighed and accepted help getting the thing on.

"Come on, Chief, I know you want a shower. Here -- these are from Doc Beckett." He handed Blair a bottle of the supplement pills.

Blair bounced on his heels as they reached the corridor. "It's so cool, man -- John and Rodney are getting back together!"

"I know."

"Oh, you heard?"

Jim shook his head. "I was talking to Beckett. But I could smell it. They slept together last night."

"No kidding?" Blair turned to look in the direction Sheppard had gone, thinking about why his ears had blushed.

"Not -- I mean, I didn't smell sex. But McKay's scent was all over him, so they must have spent a lot of time together." Jim frowned. "It's weird, I never realized -- Sheppard smells a lot like O'Neill."

"Huh. You think that's because of the ATA gene?"

"None of the other carriers smell that way, even the natural ones like Beckett and Kusanagi."

"Well, maybe it has something to do with John and Jack both having the super gene. Like maybe it's the enzymes in the skin you're smelling?"

"Maybe," said Jim doubtfully.

"You should tell Carson about it -- could be something for him to check into. What if he could make his gene therapy as effective as the super gene?"

"You're still not getting the shot, Sandburg."

"Yeah, yeah, I know. Hey, what did Carson want to talk to you about?"

Jim shrugged. "Mostly just speculation. He's wondering if the Wraith resistance thing and the Sentinel thing are connected. Some vague reference to senses in those records on Hoff -- but he can't really check it out since he's not welcome back there."

"Yeah." Blair winced at the thought of what had happened to Hoff, but he couldn't help wondering if he might be allowed to go there. It had been a long time since he found any new, genuinely original material on Sentinels. "Is he thinking the Hoffan gene therapy created a bunch of new Sentinels?" That would certainly be a fascinating study, if a whole society turned super-sensitive . . .

"Well, not that he knows of, but it could have been latent, or something --" Jim froze a few steps from the transporter. "Hold it, Sandburg. You'd better not be thinking what I think you're thinking."

"What?"

"You're not getting the ATA gene therapy, which is fifty percent effective. And you're definitely not getting the Hoffan gene therapy, which is fifty percent deadly."

"I wasn't even thinking about it, man!" Blair held a hand to his chest -- or at least, to his sling. "Scout's honor, Jim. Even if it was safe and completely effective, I wouldn't want it. I already have a Sentinel of my own -- I don't need to be one."

Jim's face softened.

Later, freshly showered and lying face-down on the bed, Blair moaned happily as sensitive fingers found and soothed every sore spot in his back. Also some spots that weren't sore, but Blair knew Jim was satisfying himself that Blair's spine was intact again, so he didn't complain.

"It's weird," he mumbled into the pillow as Jim traced Athosian oil down his vertebrae one at a time.

"What's weird?" So Jim wasn't -- quite -- zoned out on Blair's back; that was good. He'd gotten much better at dividing his attention over the years.

"I keep thinking about that other Jim and Blair."

"What are you talking about?"

"In the other universe -- Colonel Sheppard's universe, where John visited for a little while? He said our counterparts weren't there."

"Maybe he just didn't meet them."

"No, he's pretty sure he would have remembered seeing them. I wonder what went differently in their lives. Why they didn't make it to Atlantis."

"Maybe the Trust killed them," Jim said darkly.

Blair grimaced into the pillow. "Way to harsh the vibe, man."

"There probably is a universe where the Trust killed us, you know."

"I know. But maybe not that universe. It could have been something else. Like, maybe they never got kidnapped by the Trust in the first place."

"So they never hooked up with the SGC? It's possible," Jim conceded.

"Or maybe they did go through the initial kidnapping, like us, but they didn't end up going to Colorado Springs. So they met the SGC folks but never came to Atlantis."

"Maybe," said Jim. "Maybe they never went to Frisco to get married, so the Trust didn't make their move. Maybe that other Blair never went on the 'out and proud' kick you got into that set us off in the first place."

Blair chuckled. "Come on, I wasn't that bad, man! It just started to seem really important to me, that's all."

"Sure, Chief, but you know I'm not really into sharing intimate details of my life with the press. I've been down that road too many times."

"I know, man, I'm sorry. But I just got so mad . . . I found that magazine article about gays discharged from the military, remember that? And there was one story that really got to me . . ." Blair went silent, remembering.

"What is it, Blair?"

"I think . . . I think maybe that article was about --" Blair pushed himself up from the bed, suddenly energized. "It was about a pilot in Afghanistan who got discharged after he went in to save his buddy, and later it came out they were lovers."

Jim just looked at him. "Okay, if you say so."

"Jim! I think that article was about Sheppard."

Jim blinked.

"Don't you get it, that's it! In the other universe, Sheppard wasn't discharged. No article, no Blair Sandburg outrage, no eloping to Frisco, no kidnapping . . . the Jim and Blair in that other universe are probably still serving and protecting in Cascade, with no idea about other planets and galaxies and aliens."

Jim rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "That could be it."

"It makes sense, man, it hangs together! Can you imagine, our lives being determined by whether or not John Sheppard got kicked out of the Air Force?"

"I think you're getting carried away with this, Chief. There's a lot of other stuff about that universe we just don't know. Sheppard being a colonel was just the big difference we knew about because he came here, but there were other things. What about McKay? I seem to remember he never got implanted with a Goa'uld in that universe, right?"

"Um. Yeah, I think so." Blair started thinking about whether that could somehow be a consequence of Sheppard's discharge. He had no way of making that connection, but it wasn't impossible.

"So maybe in that universe, the Trust isn't as entrenched, not as ambitious. Maybe the other Jim and Blair did get married, but just didn't get kidnapped. That makes as much sense as what you were saying."

"Well, yeah, I guess . . . either way, though, it's kind of sad, isn't it?"

"How come?" Jim angled Blair to face away from him and started working on his shoulder again, long gentle strokes that seemed to push the ache right out of the overstretched muscles.

"Well, whatever the reason, we know the other Jim and Blair didn't come to Atlantis. And that's sad, because it means they never got to know all the incredible people and all the cool stuff we've encountered."

"Yeah? You mean like Wraith and super-hurricanes and yak yogurt?"

"And Athosian semil oil," said Blair, referring to their new favorite lubricant, which Jim was rubbing into his shoulder. Unlike most artificial lubricants, it was compatible with Jim's sensitive skin. There was a lot to be said for not breaking out into a rash in intimate places.

"And the effects of intergalactic gate travel on Sentinel digestion," Jim added.

"Oh, don't remind me," Blair groaned. Projectile vomiting had been the least of it. "Let's go back to the semil oil, I was liking that a lot more." He turned around, caught Jim's hand, and moved it lower along his ribs. "Now that you've rubbed all the stiffness out of my shoulder, I'm thinking there's another part of me that's kinda stiff . . ."

"Yeah?" Jim looked down, a fond smile curving his lips. "You want me to massage that for you, Blair?"

"Ooh! That, uh -- oh! That might just make it stiffer."

"I could stop, if you want me to."

"No, I think we should give this method a chance to work. Keep -- ahhh -- keep trying." Blair grinned as he lay back, enjoying his husband enjoying his living, healthy body.

Fic: Vuja De

2008-02-18T10:03:05Z

Fandom: Stargate: Atlantis
Title: Vujà Dé
Author: Quasar (quasar273)
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: John/Rodney
Date written: February 2008
Length: ~11,000 words

Spoilers: many eps up to 4x15 Outcast
Warnings: borderline underage (15 year old with 16 year old)

Summary: It's bad enough being a teenager and probably gay, but going crazy makes it all worse.

I lick along his jawline, coarse stubble under my tongue, and nip at his lips until they open for me. His skin tastes like sweat and medicine; his mouth tastes like coffee and apple. I toy with the nipples peeking through his shirt, paying back some of the teasing they've subjected me to.

He's moaning into my mouth, and I'm whispering into his: "God, you feel so good. Need you. Need to taste you, eat you up, feel you with me, in me. Never let you go again."

He curls his head down, forehead against my chin, panting in little gusts that tickle my throat. "So is this the way a friend loves another friend?"

"You know what I was thinking when I said that."

He chuckles. "I know. You were thinking it loud enough."

"I can't do that again, Rodney. Can't let you go again. I can't --"

"Shhhh," he breathes, lifting his mouth to mine again but keeping it gentle, soothing, warm and sweet instead of crazy with lust. His genius hands are working my fly, slipping behind the band of my boxers. He pulls me free -- warm hands and cool air -- then slides down my body and licks at the slit.

I can hardly speak. "No, no -- Rodney, I want -- I need . . . "

"Shhhh," he says again, blowing across the spit-damp head. "Just going to take the edge off first. Then I want you on your hands and knees, and I'm going to fuck you so you can feel I'm still alive. Long and slow, all night long if I have to, gonna fuck you through the mattress until you come and come again --"

I barely even need his mouth on me to give it up the first time.

John startled awake to a pounding on his door. "You better get downstairs, or Dad's gonna pop a gasket!" Dave shouted through the door.

John blinked around at his room, dazed and achingly hard. Damn, that one had been the most vivid yet. Bad enough when weird gay sex stuff was invading his dreams -- well, a lot of the dreams were about sex, but there were some that weren't -- but now it was starting to happen when he was awake. He glanced over the side of his bed. Yep, there was the book he'd been reading for his homework when that dream, or vision, or whatever it was, started. Maybe Ernest Hemingway was making him gay.

Dave thumped on the door again. "What are you doing in there, whacking off?" The doorknob rattled, and John was glad he'd remembered to lock it.

"Give me a minute, Dave! Geeze!"

Actually, whacking off sounded like a pretty good idea. He couldn't go down to dinner like this, and he knew from experience that it would take a while to go away. Faster just to take care of it.

John grabbed a wad of tissues from the box by the bed -- needed a refill soon -- and stuffed them down his pants. He rolled over and shoved a pillow under his hips, carefully not thinking about broad shoulders and strong hands and firm, flexible lips. He didn't need to think about anything except the feel of his own hand --

the sweet burn of muscles stretching wide as I'm filled, again and again, the heavy cock pounding into me like --

John spilled about a gallon of spunk into the tissues and lay panting on the bed for a minute. Great, so he was gay and crazy. There was just no way he could explain this to his parents.

"Jo-ohn!" Dave bellowed again, from the bottom of the stairs.

"I'm coming!" John yelled, and then giggled at the involuntary pun as he threw the wet tissues in the trash (reminded himself to carry it out later), untucked his shirt just to be safe, and galloped down the stairs.

They were halfway through the soup when he reached the dinner table, and -- surprise! -- talking about Harvard again.

John stirred his soup. Eww, cream of celery, and there was a skin on the top. He tried not to make a face, but Dad picked up on his distaste anyway.

"It wouldn't be cold if you'd come downstairs the first time you were called."

"Sorry, sir," John mumbled. "Sorry, Mom. I didn't hear you the first time. Guess I dozed off."

"Well, if you didn't lock your door, sweetie, I could come wake you up. I don't know what you're doing in there alone for hours on end."

That sounded like the worst idea ever. Dave looked almost as appalled as John felt. Fortunately, Dad didn't say anything.

"I was reading my homework," John said, and made a show of attacking his soup. Dad and Dave had finished theirs already, but Mom was still sipping hers so they weren't exactly waiting on him.

"You were telling us about what classes you'll be taking, son," said Dad encouragingly to Dave.

"Well, of course for the first two years I'm mostly filling general ed requirements," Dave said self-importantly, "but I'll have room for a few electives each semester. I'm thinking about whether I want to major in business or economics."

"Surely you don't have to decide right away," said Dad.

"No, majors are declared in sophomore year. But if I plan it out ahead of time I can get a head start on the required classes. Maybe even do a double major."

Mom dabbed at her eyes with a napkin. "I'm just so proud of you," she gushed. "My boys are growing up!"

Uh-oh. Mom didn't usually get weepy until later in the evening. And her vowels had that peculiar liquid sound to them -- not slurred, of course; she never let herself get that bad. John lowered his soup spoon and glanced at her glass, a dark-blue tumbler like all the others, so he couldn't tell what was in it. A martini, probably. And if he asked (he wouldn't; he'd learned how much trouble that could cause), she would insist this was only her second. Of course, that glass held three times the amount of a regular martini. And sometimes she skipped the vermouth and just drank the gin.

Most nights Mom's drinking wasn't quite so blatant. John had just started to realize it was a problem over the last year or so. Of course, Dave said if it took him so long to figure it out that meant there wasn't really a problem. Dad had said something similar; she didn't drink in the morning, so she wasn't alcoholic. But John was pretty sure getting sloshed every single night was a problem. Not that anyone would listen to his opinion. He was never going to convince them, but still he spent way too much energy trying to figure out exactly what and how much Mom was drinking.

The thing was that Mom and Dad and all their rich friends lived in a world where appearances were everything. Looking weak or out of control for a few minutes during a party or a board meeting could cost them millions of dollars when the stock market opened the next morning. They literally couldn't admit that there was anything wrong, and the worse a problem was, the more important it was to sweep it under the rug.

So Mom drank, every night, but never until she was falling-down drunk. And John listened to Depeche Mode for hours (Lie to Me), but he knew better than to try wearing eyeliner and black leather. He hadn't told a single person about suspecting he was gay, hadn't even dared to sign a book out of the library about it, because the maid would find it when she cleaned his room.

All his life John had tried to live up to what his parents expected of him, even though he never managed to be as polite and smart and good at sports as his older brother. At least when he was younger he'd really believed it was possible to be that perfect, if he tried a little bit harder. Now he knew the only way to create that appearance was to lie -- just like his parents lied.

Making it worse these days was that he had something new to lie about, and he wasn't sure how long he could keep it hidden.

"John." Warm breath in my ear, a soft touch skimming down my arm, a hand coming to rest on my chest. I flinch.

"Sorry, sorry. I just can't believe . . . you don't even have a mark. It was barely visible yesterday, and now it's gone. And your hair is back to --" Rodney combs through my mop. "Well, at least you know you won't have to worry about losing it when you get older, right?" His laugh sounds more like a sob.

"C'mere." I pull Rodney close. "I'm fine," I tell him firmly, willing him to believe it. "Like you said, I'm probably younger than I was before. I feel younger -- parts of me, anyway." I nudge my hips against him suggestively.

"God, yes. That works for me." He tugs the covers away and bends down to check for himself just how alive I am.

"Are you done with your soup, sweetie?" Mom asked, leaning over his shoulder. Her breath was pretty strong.

"Oh! Uh, yeah, sorry Mom. Guess I'm not, uh, very hungry." John handed the half-full bowl to her. He was hard again, under the table where no one could see.

Mom brought a casserole dish from the kitchen and started to serve everyone, Dad first.

Dad scowled at his mix of macaroni and hamburger. "What the hell is this crap?"

Mom's lips went thin and white. "Juanita left it in the freezer for me to heat up." The ladleful she dumped on John's plate missed, partly, and some of it ended up on the tablecloth.

"You said you wanted to cook more," Dad snapped.

"Well, I would, but I've just been so busy with the charity work for --"

"You said we didn't need to hire a second cook to cover Juanita's days off."

"We don't! This is a perfectly good casserole."

It tasted like cardboard to John, but he kept forking it into his mouth anyway, more as an excuse to keep his eyes down than out of any real desire to eat. Across the table, Dave was doing the same thing. Looked like this wasn't such a great time to announce that he was going insane.

"It's reheated crap. I told you we shouldn't have hired that Puerto Rican bitch."

"Patrick! You will not use language like that in front of the boys!"

"They're men, not babies. They might as well learn what a mistake it is to hire lazy, incompetent illegals who barely understand a word of English --"

John's hand tightened on his fork; he liked Juanita. She made special snacks for him and taught him phrases in Spanish (she said they were romantic things to impress the ladies, which he didn't really care about, but she made it fun), and he'd been helping her with her homework for night school. She cooked five or six different meals every day for various family members and staff, and prepared extra food for Mom to serve on the weekends. John didn't see how that could be called lazy.

"Patrick, you know I made sure her documentation was in order --"

"Probably faked. You know those types, always lying --"

John placed his fork and napkin carefully on the table and pushed his chair back.

"What are you doing? John?"

He walked away. He was perfectly calm and mature about it; he didn't stomp or throw anything. But he just couldn't stay in that room a second longer and listen to his parents complain about the lies of other people.

"Jonathan Patrick Sheppard, you come back here this instant!"

John broke. He ran, and he slammed the door on the way out, and he didn't stop running until he was out beyond the horse paddock. Then he bent over and heaved up everything he'd just eaten.

When I find the right cabin, Rodney's already there, sprawled on the bottom bunk. "Major, finally! Good to see you again. I tried to contact you while we were on Earth, but --"

"It's Lieutenant Colonel now." I sling my duffel reluctantly on the top bunk. I could argue, but fear of heights on the one hand and love of flying on the other would probably decide the case.

"Mm, I heard about that. Yes, congratulations." He sits up, then stands, well within my personal space. His hands are coming up, ready to settle on my shoulders or maybe pull me in for a hug.

I back up. There isn't a lot of room. "Listen, McKay . . ."

He tenses.

"We should talk."

Up goes his chin. "About, about what? What about?"

"This, um . . ." I gesture from him to me and back. "What we -- what happened back, you know, when the Wraith were on their way."

He's frowning unhappily. "This doesn't sound good."

"No." I swallow. "It's not. Look, we thought we had days to live, right? We thought there wouldn't be any consequences. But now, it's . . . different."

The slant of his mouth is getting steeper. "Because of your promotion?"

I push a hand through my hair -- freshly trimmed by an actual professional. "That, yeah, and we'll be in regular communication with Earth, and people aren't going to look the other way now. You know Caldwell wants my job, and the IOA would probably like an excuse to give it to him."

"Yeah. Yeah." He's staring at the deck now. "Right. You don't have to tell me twice. I'll just --" He starts to make a gesture, then suddenly grabs me and kisses me, hard, bruising, close-mouthed. And then he lets go. While I'm still swaying, he goes on, "I can switch room assignments with that other, uh, Major whatshisname. Your new second in command. You probably need to get to know him better, right?" He's grabbing a bag, twice the size of mine, and shoving things back into it from the drawers, all crumpled and haphazard. "Yes, that should work. I'll just, uh, go make those arrangements."

The door closes behind him. I wipe my mouth and then, slowly, my eyes.

John waited in the office for a couple of minutes, then started looking at the books on the shelves. There was a lot more stuff here than what he'd found in the school library. He pulled down one called the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders. He tried to look up hallucinations in the index, but it was hard to understand all the technical jargon. He kept getting referred to the pages that described schizophrenia, and that couldn't be right because John didn't have a split personality, did he? Were those weird dreams some kind of memories of being a different person, or something? But no, they couldn't possibly be real. So they were sort of like what the book called "bizarre delusions" -- except he wasn't paranoid, which seemed to be a big part of the definition. He didn't think anyone was trying to control him or anything; he just had these weird, impossible visions.

He heard the guidance counselor outside talking to the school nurse, so that gave him enough warning to get the book back on the shelf and sit down again before the door opened.

"John," said the guidance counselor with fake warmth.

"Hi, Mr. Davis," he said dutifully.

"Come on, I thought you agreed to call me Bob."

"Bob," John repeated.

Blue light illuminates stringy white hair over a greenish-gray face with slit-pupiled eyes and pointed teeth. He jerks and falls and bleeds as a pistol bucks in my hand, again and again and again --

"-- said you might need another ice pack."

"Uh. Yeah." John took it and hoped the guy didn't notice his hand was shaking. That had been a paranoid kind of a hallucination, hadn't it? He didn't really think monster zombies were invading or anything, he just had really detailed, vivid hallucinations about it. "I, uh . . . the ice melted so I threw the bag out, but I still have the cloth it was wrapped in."

"That's fine, you can leave it on my desk. Hang on to that one for now. How does your face feel?"

"It's fine." It wasn't fine; his eye wasn't going to swell shut or anything, but it ached if he blinked too hard and he knew he'd be sporting a shiner for a few days. There'd be no way to hide it from his parents, even if he convinced Mr. Davis not to phone them.

The counselor took a seat -- on this side of the desk, so he could seem like John's buddy.

"So, John, tell me what happened today. It's not like you to get into fights."

John shrugged and pressed the ice pack to his eye.

"In fact, I seem to recall you've acted as a peacemaker in the past. What was different this time?"

"I was trying to get them to cool it, but I guess it didn't work," he said dully.

"Them. You mean Adam Watts and Nicholas Sandage?"

"I guess." A teacher had seen those two slugging it out with John, so they were already in trouble. John didn't mention Tim Bancek and the Purdue twins, who'd been quick enough to get away.

"Adam said you called him Conan the Barbarian?"

John sighed. "Ronon."

"Excuse me?"

"It's just a character in a, um, a movie I saw. Not a bad character or anything. It's just been on my mind, and I said it by accident, and I guess Adam thought I was insulting him so he got pi-- angry. It was just a mistake, though."

"What movie was this?"

"I forget."

"It's been on your mind, but you forget what movie it was?"

"Something on late-night TV. I was like half-asleep."

"I see. But that's not where this all started, was it?"

John was silent.

"I heard Adam and Nicholas were picking on another boy, and you tried to stop it."

John shrugged.

"Who were they picking on, John?"

"I don't know. One of the, y'know, the geeky kids. I forget his name." Cory Sidmeier had a big nose and dark curly hair and really didn't look anything like the guy in John's dreams, except for the way his hands waved around when he talked. And the way his eyes got huge and blue when he felt threatened.

Mr. Davis looked at him solemnly. "This isn't a large school, John. I'd be willing to bet you know all the students' names."

"Maybe the kids in my year, but not all of them. I think this kid was a freshman, maybe."

"I see. And you're a sophomore."

"Yeah." John didn't mention he used to be in the same class as Cory. He'd cared a lot, once, about being skipped ahead a grade. He supposed it was still important since it meant he could leave home a year earlier -- but that was starting to feel like three years too late.

"Are you feeling troubled lately, John? Problems at home, maybe?"

He knew the answer to that one. "No, sir."

"How are your classes going?"

"Fine. I mean, I made a mistake on the big chemistry experiment last quarter, but I think I can still pull an A. All the other classes are good."

"How do you like English class?"

John shrugged. "It's okay." Not as much fun as math class, but it was easy. He could relax for an hour.

"Do you like Mr. Randolph?"

"He's okay." Mr. Randolph was the one who'd broken up the fight earlier. John frowned, as he started to see a trend to the questions. "Did I do something wrong in English class?"

"Mr. Randolph mentioned you had a test on Monday."

"Yeah, on War and Peace. I think I did okay."

Mr. Davis was quiet for too long, a faint frown between his eyebrows. "Do you like War and Peace?" he asked at last.

"It's all right. Pretty dense. I'm only --" Up to page 121, he almost said. But he had finished the book the day before the test.

No, he'd finished A Farewell to Arms. The test was on Ernest Hemingway. He'd never read War and Peace, not even partway.

"Um," said John.

"Mr. Randolph said you answered all the questions as if you were referring to a different book."

"Uh." John didn't actually remember the test in any detail, because he'd had one of his visions right before class -- not zombies, but robots that looked just like people. So he'd been sort of distracted, but awake, or at least he thought so. "I guess I got mixed up."

Mr. Davis looked very grave. "John, I'm sorry to have to ask you this. Have you been taking drugs?"

While I'm coaxing the jumper to better speeds up through the black water, I can hear Zelenka in the back fussing over Rodney. After a minute he comes forward again and checks his computer.

"Yes, good, continue at this rate and the shield will last until we reach a depth of one thousand feet, and then it should be safe to let it drop."

"And we'll have enough juice to get home?"

"Yes, if we take it easy. Which we must, anyway -- Rodney tells me he increased pressure in the other jumper to four atmospheres. He must decompress slowly." Zelenka taps on his computer, and my ears pop suddenly and painfully.

"Hey! A little warning might be nice." My voice echoes strangely inside my head. Nothing outside sounds right until I swallow several times, and then I'm suddenly aware of Rodney mumbling in the background.

Zelenka talks over him. "Sorry, sorry. This is the pressure we must start from, for Rodney's sake. I'm not sure of the safe decompression rate, but we can ask once we are in communications range. That will not be too long from now."

"All right. Should be a smooth ascent from here, so I'm putting it on autopilot. I'm going to check on McKay; you keep an eye on the power consumption, okay?"

Rodney's hunched on the bench in the back, still wearing his wet clothes with a blanket pulled uselessly around his shoulders. His teeth are chattering. I grumble inwardly at Zelenka's neglect; Rodney wasn't that clueless even on our first missions.

"I'm okay," Rodney chants through chattering teeth. "Gonna be fine. Sam was right all along."

"Right about what, buddy?" I say gently as I pull the blanket from his cramped grip and get to work on his clothes. Was Sergeant Griffin's first name really Sam? That doesn't sound right.

"She -- she was right."

I blink. "She? Are you talking about Sam Carter?"

"Yes."

"What was she right about?" With his vest off, I start peeling up his shirt. The wet fabric rolls and gets stuck on his shoulders.

"She said you'd rescue me. She said I just had to trust you and wait."

"Well, yeah, she was right about that." I hold the collar wide to keep it from scraping his bloody forehead, tap his arms so he'll raise them for the sleeves to come off.

"What -- what are you doing?"

"Getting you out of these wet clothes."

"No . . . n-no, you can't do that."

"Have to, Rodney, otherwise you'll get hypothermia." If he doesn't have it already. He's still shivering, which is probably a good sign except that it makes my jaw ache in sympathy.

"No! I can't be, be naked in here."

"You won't be -- look, here's a blanket." It's damp, but not too bad. Certainly better than his sopping clothes.

He clutches the blanket, but insists, "No, that's not good enough. Not enough, not -- I can't be naked!"

He wasn't this shy a year ago when the Wraith were on the way, when we were desperate for hope, for just a few more minutes or hours to know we were alive. "It's okay, Rodney, I've seen it all before."

"No -- no . . ."

"Fine," I sigh. "Look, I'll give you my shirt, will that be good enough? And you can wear the blanket over your legs, okay?" I'm not crazy about putting my skin on display either, but I can put up with it for a little while. It was my job to prepare the mission, after all, and I never thought about spare clothes.

I peel off my shirt -- damp in places from handling Rodney -- and pass it to him.

"Oh," he says, curling his hand in it. "Warm."

"Yeah, c'mon, put it on." I have to help him like a child, but he gets the shirt on eventually and pulls the blanket close again while I get to work on his pants. I try to distract him. "So, uh, when did Colonel Carter say that?"

"Say what?"

"That you should wait for me to come find you?" How could she have known this would happen?

"Oh. Just, uh, couple hours ago."

That makes me pause in the middle of pulling his pants down. "Colonel Carter was talking to you a couple of hours ago?"

"Uh-huh. I mean . . . it was just a hallucination, of course, I realize that. Because of, uh --" He waves a finger at his lurid forehead.

Hallucinations are bad, I know that only too well. But slightly less bad if you know they're not real. Rodney seems mostly coherent, but I'll need to ask Beckett about it when we get communications going again.

"And also because of, you know, stress and loneliness and thinking no one would come looking for me and all that."

I tap his thigh. "Hips up."

He stands, lurches, braces himself on the overhead compartment. I pull his pants and boxers down together and then realize --

"Boots," he says with a shaky chuckle.

"Yeah, I know, sorry. Sit down and tuck the blanket around yourself." I get started on the wet knots in his laces. Have to keep him talking. "Why did you think I wouldn't come for you?"

He squirms and frowns. "I didn't think you could find me."

"But you had to know we'd keep trying, right?" His feet, once the boots come off, are like blocks of ice. I get the bunched wet fabric shucked off his legs, and then, on an impulse, I undo my own boots. I pull off my socks -- clean this morning but not so much after the kind of day it's been -- and work them onto his icy feet. Then, hyper-conscious of my bony feet and long toes, I jam them sockless back into my boots.

Rodney's still shivering, staring off into the middle distance. Hypothermia, or the head wound, or something else? Is he hallucinating again?

"Rodney, c'mon. Of course we're gonna come rescue you. You have to know that."

His face crumples and he mutters something too low for me to hear beneath the clacking of his teeth.

"What was that?" I turn him to face sideways on the bench and slip in behind him, wrapping my arms around his chest. He's cold and damp, droplets falling from his hair onto my bare arms. Instead of warming him up, in a couple of minutes I'll be shivering, too. "What did you say, Rodney?"

"I . . . I didn't rescue you."

I blink. "Sure you did. Plenty of times."

"Not when Ford took you to raid the hive ship. Not when you were in the time dilation field. I did everything wrong! You were right not to trust me."

Oh. Yeah. He's still pretty upset about that. Me, I had six peaceful (boring) months to meditate it right out of my system. I rub his arms, both to warm him and try to cheer him up. "Come on, I know you tried. And you got there eventually."

"Not --" His teeth click. "Not fast enough. Not good enough. No wonder you didn't want to keep it going between us. I'm always . . . not enough. Or, or too much, or something."

Damn. I turn and check on Radek; his head is barely visible over the top of the chair, and he's muttering in Czech at his laptop.

So I stop warming Rodney's back, manhandle him around on the bench, and straddle his blanket-draped lap. I pull him close, chest to chest. "You're enough for me, Rodney," I whisper, and cover his cold lips with mine.

Saturday, John went out to the orchard and tried to think what to do. He sat with his back against one of the trees, the petals of the apple blossoms drifting slowly around him. When he was young he'd loved to climb these trees, but he was bigger now and fruit trees didn't age so well, so he just sat and ignored the cold damp seeping through his jeans.

He was supposed to be at baseball practice, but he'd told the coach he was grounded because of getting into a fight in school. Since he still had brownish-purple bruises around his eye, the coach believed him. In fact, Dad hadn't bothered with any punishment after bawling him out about the fight and the English test -- and Dad didn't even know John would be peeing in a cup every week until the end of the school year. He'd just been sent to his room after the scolding, and Juanita had snuck a plate of food upstairs for him.

So John wasn't grounded, but he worried about what would happen if he had one of his episodes in the middle of a ballgame. He was always scared one of the other boys would catch him looking in the locker room, but that fear was familiar; thinking they might find him drooling and staring off into space -- or worse, talking about what he was seeing in his visions -- was too much.

It was getting worse. The visions were getting longer, more involved -- and still just as vivid and real-seeming. They were starting to feel not just like individual scenes, but parts of a story told out of order. He knew they weren't real, but on some level he was starting to believe in them, and from what he'd read in Mr. Davis's book that was a really bad sign.

He was sure most adults would say he should go to his parents for help, but he simply couldn't. The conversation wouldn't be about John or about how to get the hallucinations to stop; it would be about how can we keep this a secret, and how could you do this to us, and where did we go wrong, and why do you always have to be the troublemaker, and do you have any idea what this could do to your father's career.

He thought about running away, but Dad could send legions of private investigators after him. Even if John buried himself in the seamiest, most dangerous slums -- even if he went overseas, which he wasn't sure he could manage in the first place -- he'd get dragged back eventually, and he'd be in real trouble then. And he didn't particularly want to inhabit the underbelly of society even for a little while; anything could happen if he drifted off into a vision while the wrong people were watching. He could get killed, or more likely robbed, beaten, raped, or drugged.

If he died, at least he wouldn't have to face the aftermath. John didn't particularly want to die, but not facing his parents sounded sort of attractive. Except if he tried and failed, that would be really bad. There'd been a kid in Dave's year at school who attempted suicide a couple of years ago, and it was in the papers and Mom talked about how it was a cry for help, but Dad said the kid was just spoiled and selfish and didn't think about how his actions would affect others.

John toyed idly for a while with suicide methods that would be sure to succeed. Or maybe something that would look like an accident, so his parents wouldn't have to know. The problem was there wasn't much overlap between the two categories. John could get his dad's gun, which would be sure to work, but he couldn't make that look like an accident. He wasn't sure if he could drown himself without using weights or something obvious. He could throw himself off a horse, or get in the way of one of Devil's vicious kicks, but even if he managed to get kicked in the head he wasn't sure it would be fatal. Setting up a car accident had the same problem, plus it might involve other drivers or bystanders and he might get caught driving without a license before he even reached the nearest cliff or whatever. He didn't want to risk surviving a really bad accident; brain damage or paralysis or both on top of insanity and homosexuality would just make the unbearable worse.

When he realized he'd been thinking seriously about suicide for nearly half an hour, he got scared. He jumped to his feet and started walking, away from the house and stables, wishing he could just fly away and disappear into nothingness. Maybe one day he'd go into one of the visions and just stay there, dreaming about zombies and hot sex, and then he wouldn't have to worry what his parents thought about whether their drooling, catatonic son would ever get his MBA.

More likely he'd wake up to find they'd reached the same conclusion as Mr. Davis.

The lights are too bright. The chirps and whines of the machines hurt my ears. My skin itches; my hair aches. Everything is strangely fluid, people moving and talking too quickly one moment and too slowly the next.

"What is it, why did you call me?" I almost know the voice, but the harmonics and undertones are all wrong.

"He's been asking for you."

I turn my head -- which hurts -- and try to say, "Rodney." I think I constructed it properly but it comes out sounding strange. And it hurts.

"What, what was he saying?"

"That was your name."

"No, before -- you said he was asking for me. What did he say?"

"Ach, just some talk about dreams, I think. Said he was sorry, but he couldn't let the Wraith eat you?"

Rodney's face -- that is Rodney, right? -- turns several impossible colors, especially across the cheeks. "Well, I should hope not!"

"Other bits, too -- nanites and ascension and whatnot."

"Carson," I groan. "Don't . . . don't carry the tumor."

"What was that?"

"I couldn't make it out."

"Go . . . fishing," I gasp.

Rodney pats my shoulder -- which hurts -- then frowns and moves a hand to my forehead, which hurts. "Carson, he's burning up!"

"Aye, Rodney, strangely enough I had noticed that. I believe something was mentioned about it in medical school." Beckett's voice goes from bass distort to chipmunk in one sentence.

"Well, do something about it!" Rodney sounds like a chipmunk too, and I giggle. I grab his hand and squeeze (which hurts).

"There's not much I can do. I can't give him anti-retrovirals because they'll block the corrective retrovirus as well as the first one. All we can do is treat the symptoms, but he's not reacting typically to most drugs."

Rodney pats my hand with his left, trying to squirm the right out of my grasp. "Can't you at least give him a painkiller or, or fever reducer -- at least something to help him sleep!"

"Too dangerous to sleep," I tell him. "He's in your dreams. He's me -- I'm in your dreams. With a clown!" I laugh, and tears sear my skin where they run.

"We've tried all that, Rodney. About the only thing we haven't tried is --"

"Yes? What?"

"Alcohol," says Beckett slowly, the word lengthening and distorting and reverberating around my head.

"You want to get him drunk?" Rodney's still patting my hand nervously.

"It's a simple molecule. As I recall, it affects Wraith and Iratus tissue similarly to humans. I'm not precisely sure the CNS effects will be the same, but it might help him sleep."

"Fine, so get him some! Ask Sergeant Campbell if you don't know who has the best stuff."

Beckett purses his lips, and I watch the infrared tracing the blood vessels across his cheeks.

"What?!" says Rodney.

"Rodney . . . I have the best stuff. I've a twenty-year-old bottle of Glenfiddich in my office, never been opened."

"Oh. Did I know that? No, never mind -- just go get it!"

Beckett leaves, and Rodney starts trying more seriously to pry his hand out of mine. I don't let go; I pull him closer to me.

"No, no, this is not what you want, Colonel. You don't remember just now, but you're very, very angry at me. I did a -- made a mistake, a big one, and you . . . and anyway, even before that you were -- I mean, we're not . . . this isn't what you want!"

"'S what I want now," I mumble, craning up toward his lips.

He looks torn for a moment, and I can see the glow of heat beneath his clothes, concentrating in his crotch. "No," he says decisively. "I can't take advantage of your, your altered state. And anyway, I don't know if what you have is contagious. You don't want me turning blue on you, now do you?"

Then Beckett is back, with a bottle and a glass and a straw, and Rodney pulls away from the bed.

John came back to himself by the side of the road. That one had been really weird, like hearing a dozen different songs played at once, half of them with the turntable at the wrong speed. He still felt like his perceptions were off, like he was seeing or hearing beyond the normal human range.

He didn't know how long he'd been standing there, or even if he'd kept walking while his brain was off in la-la-land. God, what if he'd walked into the path of a passing car? A chill shivered up his spine at the thought, and another when he remembered that just a little while ago he'd been trying to plan something like that on purpose.

He could hear a car coming along the road now, dawdling instead of speeding like most did on this stretch where the driveways were all so far apart. He turned and began to trudge along the side of the road, thumbs tucked in his pockets and head bent while he kicked at gravel.

The car was a taxi, which wasn't a common sight around here. It drove past John, then stopped suddenly with a screech of tires. He lifted his head with a sigh, prepared to give the driver directions, but instead the back door opened and a kid got out.

He was around John's age, skinny with awkward elbows and knees, in clothes that showed his ankles and wrists. Wavy dark-blond hair flopped above blue eyes and a slanted mouth.

John blinked.

"Oh, thank God!" the boy said. "I thought we'd never find the right place. We've been driving around for -- yes, what?" He turned to talk through the open door of the cab. "Well, we wouldn't have gone forty miles if you had any clue what you were doing! No, I'm not going to -- oh, fine, but it's highway robbery -- literally!" He shoved a couple of bills at the driver, pulled a heavy backpack from the seat, and slammed the door. The cab drove away, leaving the two teenagers by the side of the road.

John stared.

The kid settled the backpack at his feet and huffed. "I just spent two hours on a train and another in the clutches of that so-called taxi driver to get here. I suppose I should be glad you live close enough to Boston for a weekend trip, but I'm having trouble working up the gratitude. You would not believe how hard it was to find out your address, considering that I already knew your name and your father's name and the closest city. In the end, I actually had to physically go to the library, can you believe that? I miss the web. You realize, I don't even have a laptop right now? Just a state-of-the-art desktop which is pretty pitiful by modern -- fut-- our standards, I guess. I remember I thought it was fantastic at the ti-- when I first got it." He gave a puzzled little frown, which would be sort of adorable if John weren't distracted right now.

If the mouth and the stubborn chin hadn't clued John in, the speech patterns clinched it. "Rodney?"

"Yes, what? You're staring . . . do I have something on my face? Oh, it's the hair, isn't it? Yes, I realize it's vastly amusing to see exactly how much I've lost -- will lose -- given that you're, well, pretty much the same as you were -- will be -- at forty, but --"

"Rodney? You're real?!"

"Of course I'm -- wait. What do you remember? Or, what don't you remember? I didn't come back to the wrong time, did I? No, no, I calibrated that very carefully."

"You're my, my . . . hallucination." John wasn't lost in a vision now; he was standing beside the road with the wind ruffling his hair and robins whistling in the bushes. But the person he was seeing couldn't possibly be real, which meant the taxicab wasn't real, which meant he was even closer to the padded rooms and the straitjackets than he'd thought just a few minutes ago.

"Hallucination?" Rodney squeaked.

"Or at least, someone who'll grow up to look like my hallucination." Did imaginary friends age? This was getting way too complicated.

"I'm not a hallucination. Look!" Rodney poked John in the shoulder. "Perfectly corporeal."

John rolled his eyes. "Duh! Hallucinations can include touch as well as sight and sound." He turned his back on the imaginary guy and started to trudge along the road, glumly thinking about what could happen if the visions started mingling with real life. He might end up doing something -- well, something crazy, something that would get other people hurt as well as himself. Maybe he should try talking to his parents about the problem.

Rodney hurried after him, grunting and panting as he hefted the backpack. "Wait, don't you remember me? I mean, don't you realize what happened?"

"What happened is I'm going crazy," John snapped.

"But you know who I am, at least, so I didn't go back too far. Huh. That device must have been further off calibration than I realized. Well, that's what you get for touching things before we've had a chance to figure out what they're for or even if they actually work. Hey, slow down a little, will you? I presume we're heading for your, uh, your house?"

John didn't answer that. A figment of his imagination really ought to know already, and was probably just pretending he didn't. "Next you're going to tell me, what, that aliens are out to get me? There's a secret government project? Only I can save the world by doing something incredibly stupid and dangerous?"

"Actually, all of those are true to some extent, depending on how you look at it. But that's not why I'm here."

"Fine, I'll bite. Why are you here?"

"To help you stop remembering the future."

"What?"

"Look, just -- tell me about your, um, your hallucinations."

John threw him a glare as they reached the decorative iron gates at the foot of the driveway. "What's to tell? You know it already."

"Humor me, okay?" Rodney adjusted his backpack with a grunt. "I'm doing this all for you, you know."

"Right, because you're my best buddy. My only friend, here to warn me the rest of the world is out to get me -- right?"

"No! I mean, yes, I am your best friend, but -- okay, let me see if I can guess. It started about three weeks ago, right?"

"See? I said you knew already."

"But I don't know the details. That could be important. What's it like?"

John came to a stop on the grassy verge. "Like . . . a dream. Dreams. Really vivid, detailed, lifelike dreams."

"When you're asleep?"

"At first, yeah. But in the last week it's been happening when I'm awake. I have this . . . vision, and then I come out of it and I'm not where I was before and I don't know what's been going on around me." John's voice cracked, which it hadn't done in years, and he swallowed hard. "They're getting longer and stronger every time, and I've even started talking -- or writing -- about them without meaning to. People are noticing something is wrong with me. I read up on it, so I know what it is. Schizophrenia starts in puberty sometimes."

"You're not schizophrenic, John."

"Says my hallucination. Big help."

"Fine! I'll, I'll prove I'm real."

"How?"

Rodney pointed along the drive to where Gordon was trimming the hedges. "You know him?"

"Sure, for years."

"So he's real, right?"

"Of course he is."

"Good." Rodney marched toward the gardener. "Excuse me! Uh, hi there."

Gordon stopped snipping and looked up, shifting the tobacco chaw to the other side of his mouth.

"Could you tell me, um, um, what kind of, of hedge is this? 'Cause it looks really, uh, nice, and I might want to, you know, get some."

"'S forsythia," Gordon grunted. "Blooms early." He gave John a nod and went back to his clipping.

"Right. Yes, well, that's fascinating. Um, thanks." Rodney turned and stomped back to John's side. "See that? A real person saw me and spoke to me. That means I'm real."

"Unless I'm hallucinating Gordon," John pointed out.

"Oh, for -- will you just take me someplace where we can discuss this? Someplace I can sit?"

John glanced around at the neat lawns all around them. "There's a bench over --"

"Someplace with electricity, did I mention that? Someplace like, ooh, how about that nice big house over there?" He waved up toward the end of the driveway.

"Um," said John. Anything private, he tended to do away from the house. But Mom and Dad were off watching Dave row in a boat race, and they wouldn't be back until nearly dinnertime. "Okay, I guess."

I sit on my bunk, hands loose in my lap. I feel exhausted even though I haven't actually done anything today -- just standing, talking, witnessing.

It's hard even to drag my eyes up for the chime at the door. But McKay isn't the type to let no answer stop him; he breezes right in. "So. Uh, how did it go?"

I shrug. "They're coming, but we knew that. They're really, really hungry, but we knew that." I blink. "Or maybe not quite so hungry anymore. They pretty much wiped out the population of that planet."

"Hmm." He's probably trying to look sympathetic, but it comes across more like constipated. "Did you get your recordings to Ford?"

"Just one. Yeah."

Uninvited, he sinks onto the bunk beside me. "What did you tell your family? I, uh, I really wasn't sure what to say to my sister. We haven't spoken in years."

I sigh. Normally I would change the subject, but it seems like too much work just now. "My family doesn't want to hear from me."

"What? But, I mean, you do have family -- they're not all, um . . ."

"My father and brother are alive, but they don't want anything to do with me." Something trying to be a chuckle forces itself out of my chest. "They don't approve of people like me."

"People like what? A hero? An officer and a gentleman?"

I don't even know why I'm telling the truth. Maybe it has something to do with facing doom. "A homosexual. A queer. A fag."

Even with peripheral vision I can tell McKay's staring with wide blue eyes. "You . . . what?"

"I'm gay, Rodney." Unutterably tired, I drag a hand down my face and wait for him to leave.

"But . . . you can't be."

"Gay people can be heroes, too."

"No, I mean -- what about that, that half-ascended hussy?"

God, he's still upset about that? "That wasn't . . . it wasn't actually sex, you know."

"But you were panting after her like a dog in heat! I mean, a dog after a --"

"Yeah, I get what you mean. I was trying to get her to like us, to help us." There was just something about Chaya that seemed important somehow; she drew the eye from the first moment I saw her. But whatever my subconscious was trying to tell me about her, it didn't have much to do with sex. I was prepared to sleep with her if that would get her on our side, but that wasn't the point of it.

"But, you -- it's not just her. You . . . flirt! All the time! Women are falling at your feet!"

"Newsflash, McKay: sometimes women find it easier to get along with gay men than straight men." It was why Nancy thought marriage might actually work, because we were friends even if we fizzled instead of sizzling in bed. And I still think the reason Teyla first trusted me was because I looked at her face instead of her chest. "Case in point," I add, waving at him. His attempts to talk to Allina are still painful to remember.

The pause that follows stretches out, and out -- then, "Who says I'm straight?"

Now I actually turn my head to look at him. He looks sort of belligerent. "You were going on just the other day about blondes with long legs and perky breasts."

"Well, sure, but I wouldn't say no to dark hair either. Or a nice pair of --" He makes the intergalactic gesture for bazoomba! "-- pecs."

I can't resist; I start to giggle and it turns into worn-out, half-hysterical laughter.

"Yes, all right, very amusing," he grumbles. "Please, don't hesitate to laugh at my expense." He waits for me to get it under control and then continues, "I'm sorry about your family's, um, attitude. But don't you think they would want to at least hear from you? I mean, it might be your last chance to, to talk to them."

"It's not the last chance, Rodney. We're not gonna die."

"How can you say that? You can't possibly know that!"

I do know, though. It's hard to put a finger on the reason for it, but I just know this isn't the end, for me or McKay. I'm not so sure about anyone else, though, and after a day of watching people get killed and talking about people getting killed, I almost wish I could just be afraid for myself instead of everyone else.

"Trust me, McKay. I just have a hunch."

He just stares at me, lips pursing and un-pursing nervously, and I just can't resist. It might be the stupidest thing I've ever done, or the smartest. I lean over and kiss him, gentle and loose-lipped.

His eyes go even wider for a moment, and then he gasps out, "God, yes!" and grabs me and pulls me onto the bed with him. And we're squirming and grinding against each other and yelping as body parts get rolled onto, but after a lot of work I get his fly open and my mouth on him, and he's swearing at me and pushing and pulling until I finally take the hint and turn around the other way so he can get at me too, and then we're flying.

John blinked up at the boy in his bedroom. He was tight against the seam of his jeans, but glancing down to see how visible it was would just attract attention to it.

"Was that one of them? Your . . . visions?"

"What was I doing?" John touched his chin uncertainly.

"You weren't drooling or anything. You just stopped answering me or looking at me. It started about when we reached the house, I think. You just walked up here as if you were hypnotized or something, and you sat down." Rodney glanced around the room as if he'd just remembered his request for a place to sit, then pulled John's desk chair over. "What were you remembering?"

John shook his head. "We thought we were going to die. We, um . . ." His face heated and he found himself looking first at Rodney's mouth (about the same, but without the stubble) and hands (just as big, but more awkward-looking at the ends of skinny wrists). He didn't look at Rodney's crotch -- not for more than a second, anyway.

"Oh. Yes. That one. I remember that." Rodney swallowed hard. "Do you, um . . . are they all like that?"

"Like what? I don't know how it looks from the outside."

"No, I mean the content of what you remember. Are they all, um . . ."

"There's a lot of . . . sex, yeah." It felt like the first time he'd ever spoken the word, even though he knew that couldn't be true. "Some other stuff, too. Some of the visions seem sort of related to whatever I'm doing or thinking about at the time, in the real world I mean. Some of them just come out of nowhere."

Rodney frowned. "That makes sense, I guess. After all -- healthy teenage male, some part of your brain is probably thinking about sex more often than not, so a lot of the memories you're getting revolve around that."

John bent down and grabbed the football from under the bed, just to have something to hold in front of his lap. "Why do you keep saying 'memories' and 'remembering?'"

"Because that's what it is. You're having memories of things that haven't happened yet."

"Uh . . . huh."

"Okay, look, I'll explain it in simple terms. We found a lab in the city -- Atlantis, you remember Atlantis?"

The place in John's visions was definitely called Atlantis, but he just stared at Rodney without answering.

"Right, fine. Anyway, this lab had once belonged to an Ancient who was studying time travel. He destroyed most of his work, but there was one thing left -- a sort of early feasibility test for the basic concepts. The real goal was to see the future, of course, but they hadn't gotten that far yet, so instead this device would let the user's past self see, or, or remember, what happened in the, um, the present -- which would be the future from the point of view of the past self, of course -- up to the moment when the device was activated."

John blinked. "That sounds . . . really complicated."

"Yes, yes it is -- complicated, and delicate, and requiring very careful preparation before use. So of course you had to grab it and jam it on your head before we even knew for sure what it was. And it wasn't calibrated, and the result was . . . this. You having intense and confusing visions of the future. I gather most of what you've seen is from a few years around the time when you activated the device? I mean, you don't remember all the years between then and now?"

There had been one dream, last week or the week before, with some very cool stuff about flying jets and helicopters. "Most of it is about, um, that place. Atlantis," John admitted.

"Right. Interesting." Rodney frowned.

"But how come you, uh, 'remember' all this stuff more clearly than I do?"

Rodney rolled his eyes. "Because I took the time to calibrate the device and attune it to my brainwaves before using it. You told me about what it had done to you -- as much as you could remember, anyway, which wasn't actually very much. And I read the notes from the Ancient who created the device, who said that it could be 'problematic'" (Rodney made air quotes) "for some brains to handle the conflicting input. So . . . I designed a way to counter the effects."

"Like an antidote."

"No. Okay, yes, if you want to compare hit-or-miss chemical experimentation with the extremely careful advance planning I put into this. Add to that the fact that I had to come up with something that would work with the transistor technology available in this day and age, and you can see why it took me a couple of weeks to build it once I, um, received my own set of future memories. And I do have a very grueling class schedule to keep up with as well -- even though I have full mastery of the subject material already, of course, it's still a lot of work, and I can't afford to mess up my -- my past self's future, if you know what I mean."

"Not really, no."

Rodney huffed impatiently. "Yes, why do I even bother explaining?" He bent and opened up his backpack, pulling out little metal boxes, an oscilloscope, and yards and yards of wire. No wonder the backpack had been heavy. "Fine, I'll reduce it to words of one syllable: I can make your visions stop. You aren't crazy, but you might end up that way if this is allowed to continue. So I'm just going to attach some wires to your head -- I'll have to glue the electrodes on, unfortunately, but --"

"Wait, wait!" John protested as the electronic components started to pile up on his desk. "What is this, some kind of electroshock therapy or something?"

"No! Well, only very distantly similar. ECT is like bashing someone over the head with a club. This is more like . . . like using a jeweler's screwdriver to make fine adjustments. It won't be painful, I promise."

"How do you know? Have you tried it?"

"Of course not! If I had used this on myself already, I wouldn't be able to remember the future and so I wouldn't know what to do to help you!" Rodney swallowed. "I will have to use it on myself later, though -- probably when I get back to MIT -- so you can rest assured that I've been extremely careful to build it to spec."

"Why are you planning to use it? The, um, memories aren't driving you crazy."

"No -- or at least, not yet -- but even if it never went that far, the memories could create a time paradox which would mess up the very future I'm trying to protect. Not to mention how incredibly frustrating it is to be a precocious student at MIT in 1985 when --"

"MIT? How old are you?"

"Sixteen. I did say precocious, didn't I? Anyway, I know about other planets and galaxies and alien technologies -- including some things that are hidden away on this very planet right now -- and I can't do anything about it! Did I say frustrating? That's an understatement. So I assure you, I'm very much looking forward to getting rid of these memories so I can enjoy my dinosaur of a desktop computer for a couple of years." By now, Rodney had his boxes arrayed in a neat tower on the desk and plugged in (he'd brought a power strip, which was fortunate since this old house had a limited number of outlets), and he was sorting out the wires.

John gulped as he looked at the electrodes. "So this is going to . . . erase my memory, or something?"

"Hmm," said Rodney. "Not exactly. It will stop you from having any more of those future visions, but you'll still retain knowledge of the ones you already experienced. But not very clear knowledge, according to your future self. You -- he -- you described it as remembering a dream, or the plot of a book you'd read once as a child, something like that. I, on the other hand, will lose my memories of the future completely -- at least, I remember not remembering, so I think that's what will happen." He flipped on a series of switches and studied the trace on the oscilloscope. "Okay, yes, it's ready to go. Just have to attach the electrodes, and we'll be in business."

John caught the bony hands moving toward his head. "Rodney." It was weird; he knew this was all a delusion, but he believed in Rodney anyway.

Rodney stared back, his eyes larger than ever in this youthful version of his face. He dropped the wires and cupped his hands around John's cheeks and leaned in for a kiss. It was John's first romantic kiss, and at the same time it was so familiar and comforting. Before he knew it he was standing, pulling Rodney close, a whirl of present/real and future/other sensations racing through his head until it all came to a head and his hips stuttered unevenly and he stumbled back, gasping.

Rodney gaped. "Did you just --?"

"Um." This was not exactly how John had imagined his first time with another person. His underwear started to go clammy.

"Oh my god, that is so hot." Rodney looked torn between reaching for himself and reaching for John; he took a step forward and tripped over the forgotten football and fell right into John's lap. Laughing, John tugged him up onto the bed, rolled them both to their sides, stared a moment and then moved in for another kiss. He started to reach down, but Rodney's hand was already there, rubbing frantically over the fabric of his own jeans until suddenly he groaned into John's mouth. His face, when they pulled back from the kiss, was adorably flushed.

Rodney was right; it really was hot, even if it wasn't anything like what you read about in your parent's books or heard about in the back corner of the playground, or saw in incredibly detailed and impossible visions of an alleged future. It would have been lame in a movie, but with another person right there on your bed, it was hot.

John gulped. He was scared, but there was no way he could not trust Rodney. "Do it," he said.

Rodney blinked at him, lips red from kissing and slightly parted.

"With the electrodes," John clarified. "Put them on."

Rodney stiffened and sat up, his face going businesslike and determined. "Right." His wavy hair was tousled, and John wanted to run fingers through it before it was too late, before he forgot and Rodney's hairline receded. But instead he sat still and let Rodney run fingers through his hair, looking for the right spot to place the electrodes.

"Okay, that's the last one." Rodney licked his lips nervously. "I promised it won't hurt and I meant that, but you might, um . . . black out for a second or two. Do you want to lie down?"

"Just do it," John snapped.

"Right. Yes. Okay." Rodney flipped his switches and turned some knobs, and nodded. "Here goes," he said, and threw the last switch.

John blinked up at the ceiling.

The boy bent over him. "John?"

"Ungh."

"Are you all right?"

"Yes?" John tried experimentally. He rubbed his eyes. "Yes. I'm fine."

"Do you, um . . . do you remember me?"

John bit his lip. He remembered the boy getting out of the cab, and talking to the gardener . . . and kissing, he remembered the kissing. "Rodney," he said, and heard the name echo through his head with half-known meanings.

"Do you remember Atlantis?"

That name had just as many layers of significance, but John couldn't quite focus on it. "The . . . mythical city."

The boy was silent for too long, his mouth tilted in a frown. "Yes, that's right." He stepped away from the bed, and coughed a little, and checked the digital watch on his wrist. "I should, um, I should get going, if I want to catch the six o'clock train. You're sure you're all right?"

"Yeah." John sat up and swayed. "Just a little dizzy." He tried to remember why the boy was here . . . something important, wasn't it?

The boy's hands were on his head, detaching electrodes. "The glue stuff will come out with hot water; I researched it. Um . . . I'll need to use a phone so I can call a cab?"

"There's a phone downstairs -- no, wait, you know what? I'll ask Gordon to take you to the train station instead. That will be a lot faster."

"Sure." The boy was packing this things away, not looking at John.

Gordon was about to leave for the day and reacted with his usual non-reaction to the request to give John's friend a ride.

Rodney stood by the door as Gordon went to bring his truck around. "Okay. Well. I'll, uh, see you again." He shifted the backpack and held out his hand.

"Twenty years from now."

"What?"

John shook his head. "I don't know why I said that."

"Well . . . yes. Um. I could give you my number in case you have any trouble, but, uh . . . I probably won't be able to help anyway, after I use the, uh, thing. Um. I hope you feel better soon."

"I'll be fine," John said, not sure if it was true or not. He shook Rodney's hand firmly. "Thank you for stopping by," he said, because it was what Mom had taught him.

Rodney ducked his head and swiped oddly at his face before stepping outside to get in the truck.

John went back upstairs, strangely exhausted, and ended up napping until dinnertime. Mom's knock woke him from an indistinct dream of someone's arms around him, holding him tight. For a moment he felt like he'd lost something precious, but the feeling faded and he headed down to another tense family dinner.

Cross Country, Part Four

2008-02-08T02:36:20Z

Fandom: Stargate: Atlantis, Stargate: SG-1, The Sentinel
Title: Cross Country, part 4
Author: Quasar
Rating: borderline R/NC-17
Pairing: John/Rodney, Jim/Blair
Date written: December 2006-February 2008 (whew!)
Length: ~20,000 words (whole story)
Summary: Salvage of equipment, people, and relationships.
Notes: This is the fourth story in my Criss-Cross series (thanks to jya_bd_cp_ttgb for the name suggestion!). Read the other stories first, or continue at your peril. You can also read a summary of the series, which does contain some spoilers for the stories.

Back to Part One, Part Two, Part Three

John pushed the little ship to its limits as he popped up above the atmosphere and then back down for landing on Atlantis barely more than half an hour later. They were within the 'Golden Hour' that had been drummed into his head for evac, but it still seemed like a damn long flight, with Ellison patiently squeezing every breath into Blair from a bag while he talked to Beckett over the radio, his voice tight and emotionless.

And then they got to sit in uncomfortable chairs in the infirmary for hours on end. Rodney jiggled his leg. John looked at the floor, not at Rodney's face with the lines springing out so it seemed suddenly older. Ellison paced at first, then sat next to them and stared at the wall as if his vision could bore right through it -- which, for all John knew, it could.

It was starting to sink in, that nasty feeling: This is going to hurt. This is going to be really, really painful. Last time had been bad because he was half in love with Rick Holland, and worse because he'd gone in to save Rick and ended up leading him straight to the enemy instead. This time John hadn't messed up significantly, had killed the Wraith and found the Gateship, and he wasn't even in love with Blair, but he still liked the guy and he could see what was coming. It was going to be long, and it was going to be painful, and it was going to be hard to keep Ellison from imploding completely. John remembered what Blair had said about the time he nearly died, and Ellison wouldn't give up until he was revived. And how the sentinel probably wouldn't do so well in the long term if Blair wasn't around to help him.

And through it all, his mind kept throwing up images at him: the Wraith throwing Blair down into the trees and Rodney up into the rocks. If it hadn't been for the shield, if it had gone down just a little differently, that could be Rodney in there with three doctors scratching their heads over him. And breakup or not, tens years together or three months, John would be feeling about as shitty as Ellison looked right now.

Actually, Ellison looked . . . sort of vacant. He had his mouth open again, which at least meant he wasn't grinding his teeth together, and he was staring off into space with a faint frown between his eyebrows. He was probably listening, John figured. It was one of those zone-outs Blair had told them about, where Ellison concentrated so hard on one sense he forgot everything else. They weren't harmful in themselves, Blair had said; it wasn't like Ellison would forget to breathe or anything, but he could get a nasty headache if he stayed under too long, and he wouldn't notice approaching danger, like when he had ignored the Wraith about to feed on him.

John swore, remembering, and got up to stand in front of Ellison. The man didn't react as John bent down and parted the tear in his shirt.

There was no mark underneath from the Wraith's hand.

"I don't get it," said John. "Didn't they tell us there should be a mark?"

Rodney frowned. "Maybe the Wraith didn't have him long enough?"

"It was only a few seconds, but it definitely had a hand planted on his chest. Look what it did to his shirt. But no feeding mark?"

"Let me see," said an accented voice behind him, and Dr. Beckett was leaning in to look at Ellison's chest.

"What's the word, Doc?" Ellison rasped, hoarse but evidently back in the real world.

"You'd a run-in with a Wraith?" Beckett straightened the torn flap of shirt to reveal a neatly excised oval from the Wraith's hand-mouth.

Ellison pushed him away and stood. "I'm fine."

"Aye, but the question is, why?"

"No, the question is, how's Blair doing?"

Beckett stepped back and bit his lip, choosing words carefully. "We've got him stabilized, for the moment. He's got a concussion, and there was a bit of swelling in his brain, but we got that under control soon enough --"

"I know the injuries," Ellison snapped. "What's the prognosis?"

Beckett swallowed. "His spinal cord was almost completely severed between the second and third cervical vertebrae. We've repaired what we can, but . . . there will be some loss of nerve function, both sensory and motor. We won't know exactly how bad it is for a few weeks, after the swelling goes down --"

"That high in the spine, that's really bad, isn't it?" said Rodney. "I mean, upper body paralysis, not just lower?"

Beckett rubbed his own neck and grimaced. "Aye, some of that, to be sure. We'll do what we can, of course, but it's not likely he'll have use of his hands."

"Will he even be able to breathe on his own?" John asked.

"Not at first. Perhaps later on, with therapy . . . or perhaps never."

"Shit," John murmured.

Ellison just stood still, staring over Beckett's shoulder.

"Now look, this doesn't have to mean the end of everything," Beckett said firmly. "Blair will be needing your support. This injury, it's similar to what happened to that actor fellow, Christopher Reeve? And you know he's led a full life even so --"

"He's dead," John said shortly.

"What's that?" said Beckett.

"He died a few years back," Rodney filled in. "Not too long after the Atlantis expedition left Earth. I remember since I was having, erm, some neural problems of my own at the time." His hands moved together nervously, checking each other's motions and sensations.

John glanced at Ellison, still motionless, and tried to think what would move the man. "When can we see Blair? Is he awake?"

"We've got him sedated, but sometimes people can hear and remember things that occur while they're --"

Ellison turned around and marched out of the infirmary without a word.

John blinked. This was even worse than he'd expected. He glanced at Rodney. "You think I should, uh . . . ?"

"Yeah, yeah, you go with him," said Rodney quickly. "I'll stay with, uh, with Blair."

John barely caught up before Ellison made it to the nearest transporter. He wasn't sure what to expect: a high balcony, the edge of a pier, the gym where they'd rigged up a sandbag for punching. But instead, Ellison charged down the corridor to his office. He lifted a metal box down from a high shelf and dialed a combination into the padlock, pulling something out and holding it thoughtfully for a minute.

John watched in puzzlement; what was the point of grabbing up some fancy jewelry -- was that a necklace or a bracelet -- now, of all times? It was a clunky thing, with big jewels that had to be fake, and John couldn't imagine either Blair or Jim wearing it. "Listen, uh . . ." he began, but he was really bad at this sort of thing. The talking thing. "You know you'll have the support of everyone here, right? And, uh . . ."

It probably didn't matter how bad John was at this, since Ellison didn't appear to be listening. His hand spasmed around the necklace thing, and he charged right back out through the door, pushing past John as if he weren't standing there struggling for words. Once more John was scrambling to follow, and completely clueless about what was going through his team leader's head.

Ellison led the way straight back to the infirmary, where Rodney was still talking to Beckett.

Rodney took one look at the jewelry held out in Ellison's hands and went pale. "Where the hell did that come from?"

"It was in with some of your science equipment when the expedition first shipped out."

John frowned. Rodney had been supposed to go with the first wave of the expedition, but he'd been pulled out at the last minute.

"No, no, no," Rodney was saying, with hands held up to fend the jewelry off -- hands that were actually trembling. "I have no idea how to use that thing."

"You were implanted," Ellison insisted. "You have naqadah in your blood."

"It was only for a couple of days!"

"That's almost as long as Carter had, and she can use one of these."

"Yeah, but, but that was a Tok'Ra actively trying to share information with her! Dyb-- my -- the one that -- he was trying to keep things from me."

"But he must have known how to use this, or he wouldn't have packed it!"

John had to step in. "Now, wait a second. Is that some kind of, of Ancient device or something?" he asked with a wave at the jewelry. Maybe he could operate the thing and save Rodney whatever unpleasantness he was expecting.

"Not Ancient," Ellison snapped. "Goa'uld."

Rodney had been pulled off the expedition because he'd gotten infected with an alien parasite that took over his brain. And apparently while it was in control, it had sent this device along to Atlantis.

"The device can be used for healing . . . " Beckett filled in uneasily. "But only someone with naqadah in their blood can use it. A Goa'uld host, or former host."

"A former host with knowledge of how it works! Seriously, I hardly remember anything from those few days!" Rodney pleaded. "I can't . . . I really can't do this."

John winced, knowing how much it pained Rodney even to think about having that alien in control of his mind and body. But healing? That sounded pretty cool, and useful.

"McKay . . . Rodney," said Ellison in a low urgent tone. "This could be Blair's only chance." He held Rodney's gaze for several long seconds. "Please."

It was obvious that wasn't a word Ellison used often. Rodney picked up on that as well, because his face crumpled. "I don't know what I'm doing! What if I make it worse? I could kill him with that thing!"

Ellison took a deep breath. "We'll take that chance. I know Blair would want it. Just . . . give it a try."

Rodney turned to Beckett in appeal, but the doctor just shrugged. "It may be the best option we have right now."

His brow creased unhappily, Rodney took the cluster of jewelry from Ellison and slipped his left hand into it. It draped like a sort of fingerless glove, with the biggest, fakest-looking jewel in the center of his palm. Beckett led them back into a room where Blair lay face-down with his back, shoulders, neck, and head all braced by various equipment. With all that and a breathing tube taped in place, it seemed half of Blair's head was obscured in plastic.

Beckett pointed to a computer display. "This is the most recent scan of his neck. You can see the damage in this region, here."

John could make a couple of vertebrae that weren't quite in line, and various other things highlighted in red that he supposed were not how they were supposed to be, but he wasn't completely sure what he was looking at. Rodney just looked over the scan with his shoulders drooping.

"Now, Colonel Carter hasn't been able to tell us much about how these devices work, but what she described sounds a bit akin to what we feel when we work with Ancient devices. Just . . . reach out with your mind and try to connect to the thing."

Swallowing hard, Rodney held his left hand out over Blair's body and squeezed his eyes shut.

Nothing happened.

John shifted and glanced at Ellison, who was watching intently.

"Try to relax, Rodney," Beckett coaxed. "Just let it flow . . ."

Rodney gasped and stiffened, and the big jewel on his palm began to glow. He moved the hand to hover more closely above Blair's neck, the jewel lighting the skin warmly.

A piece of equipment started to beep, and Beckett peered at it, then silenced the alarm. He tapped quickly on a computer, and a green grid of light began to play over Blair's body. "Aye, that's it, you're doing the right thing. Keep it up."

Rodney's breath was coming in great heaves now. John stepped up behind him, wanting to help but not sure how. He rested a cautious hand on Rodney's shoulder, then ended up grabbing him under the arms and supporting half his weight as Rodney rocked back against him.

"That's it!" Beckett was saying. "Looks like you've repaired most of --"

"Concussion," Rodney choked out between pants.

"Eh? Oh, y'mean Blair's head injury. It's here, on the left occipital lobe."

Rodney moved his hand up to the area Beckett indicated, held it there for a few seconds while the light pulsed, then started to reach down to the braced shoulder. Suddenly the light went out of the jewel and Rodney sagged in John's arms.

"Doc," said John anxiously, easing Rodney down to the floor.

Beckett was already there with a penlight to shine in Rodney's eyes. He took a pulse from Rodney's wrist, grimaced, and jerked his head to indicate John should help get him up on one of the beds in the other room.

"He'll be fine in a few minutes," said Beckett, disentangling the alien device from Rodney's hand. "Going to have a nasty headache, though, and I'd like his blood pressure to come down before I let him out of here."

"How about Blair?" Ellison asked, hovering between the two beds.

"From what I saw, the repair work looked good, but let me do an in-depth scan to be sure. I need to extubate him, as well."

John stayed with Rodney, rubbing a soothing hand over his shoulders as he curled on the bed. A nurse came by with a painkiller and a muscle relaxant and put a blood pressure cuff on his arm. John took one look at the numbers and winced; if even he could tell they were bad, Rodney was in trouble. But the next reading a few minutes later was already coming down.

Beckett headed back their way with Ellison. "With the sedatives wearing off, he should be conscious in an hour or two, and then we'll know for sure -- but I think we'll find his neuro function is good. I want to keep him overnight for observation, and he should wear a sling for a week or so, but it seems Rodney did a bang-up job on his neck and head."

Ellison nodded briefly and stopped next to Rodney's bed, looking down at him. "McKay."

Rodney squinted up, aware enough but apparently not wanting to speak.

Ellison swallowed, his jaw muscles jumping. "We owe you. Anything you want -- anything. You just ask." With one more, stiff nod, he headed back to Blair's bedside.

John gave Rodney's shoulder a squeeze. He would have liked to hold his hand, but that might seem too personal. "He's right," he murmured. "I'm really --" Proud, he wanted to say, but that wouldn't sound right. "Really impressed with what you did. Hey listen, I hear there's a Jell-O-like substance in the mess today. Want me to bring you some?"

Rodney just closed his eyes and turned his face into the pillow. Maybe he didn't want John's attentions.

"Okay," John whispered. "I'll stop bugging you, then. Hang in there, Rodney."

"Blue," said Rodney weakly.

"Huh?"

"See if they have any blue Jell-O. Red's okay too, but blue is my favorite. And some dinner to go with it -- I'm hungry. Maybe a sandwich, or a muffin?"

John grinned. "You got it, buddy!"

That night, John stood in the corridor outside Rodney's room, undecided if he should knock or just go in or maybe just go away. He'd actually been standing there for a couple of minutes already, but he wasn't getting much closer to a decision. A couple of times he'd turned away and turned back.

The door slid open, and Rodney stood there looking cranky in a worn T-shirt and boxers. "Will you come in already? You're driving me nuts, pacing around out there."

"I wasn't pacing," John objected, but he went in anyway. "How did you know I was there?"

"Because I heard you pacing," Rodney grumbled. He was squinting as if his head still hurt, though it had been hours since Beckett released him.

John shuffled his feet. "I, ah, was wondering if you needed anything," he said. "For your headache, maybe? I could run down to the infirmary for you."

Rodney waved irritably at his desk, and John blinked to see it piled with stuff. One of the lumpy pot-fruits was there, and a dish with some traces of blue jello in it, and a plate of --

"Are those brownies?" John asked in amazement.

"Made with the coffee-carob stuff, yes. Though I could wish it had more of the caffeine characteristics of coffee, in addition to the taste."

On the corner of the desk was a little cup with some pain pills in it. There were also some more exotic items: a Gameboy with several cartridges, a small embroidered pillow, a hat that appeared hand-knitted from some local yarn, a bottle that John suspected held a potent hooch, and another bottle behind that.

"This can't be real," he murmured, picking up the Coca-Cola bottle -- glass, with the cap still firmly stuck in place.

"It is. Bottled in Canada, so it has real sugar instead of that poisonous corn stuff Americans drink. Sergeant, um, whatsisname gave it to me." Rodney plucked it from John's grasp and put it back on the table.

"Why? Not the Coke, I mean -- why all of it?"

Rodney waved in a throwing-away gesture. "I think people asked Ellison what they could do for Blair, and he directed them to me."

John smiled. "Yeah, Blair's pretty well-liked around here. I stopped by the infirmary earlier; he's sitting up, talking to visitors."

"Yes yes, I know I'd never be this popular on my own merits," Rodney snapped.

"What? No, that's not what I meant. I mean, that's a hell of a good thing you did there, buddy. I know it was rough, but it turned out good. And hey, look, positive reinforcement!" John pointed at the presents.

Rodney made a sound somewhere between a sigh and a snort, but he picked up the little pillow and clasped it to his stomach. "Half of them are probably just trying to soften me up so I'll use the device to heal their bunions and hangnails."

John blinked. He hadn't really thought about the ramifications. "Is that likely?"

"For minor problems? No. I wouldn't do it, and Beckett would back me up. But he's already talked to me about trying to help some of his worst cases, like Colonel Caldwell, and that other guy -- Sloane, Dorn? No, Lorne. Him. And I'm dreading the next time a gate team comes back with injuries."

Yeah, John could see how that could get pretty bad, if every use of the device flattened Rodney for a few hours to a day. "If it's too much for you, just tell me. Us. Ellison and Blair and I will keep them off your backs. So will Beckett, I bet."

Rodney tried to smile, but it slid off his face.

"Still got that headache, huh?"

"What? No, not really. Look -- why are you here?"

"Oh. Um." John looked down at his feet.

"Come on, spit it out already. It's late and I want to go to bed."

"Yeah, I know it's late. I tried to sleep already." John swallowed. "That didn't go so well. And I thought maybe, um . . ."

"What?"

"Could I stay here tonight? I mean, not for, uh . . . not that I would say no, or anything, but . . . look, I can sleep on the couch."

"There is no couch!"

"Figure of speech. I'll sleep, um --" John looked around the room. "In the chair, that will be fine." It wouldn't, really; he'd have an aching neck and back if he tried it, but he'd probably still get more sleep than in his cold, narrow bunk. He wondered if he could drag a couch here from the movie lounge, or something.

"That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard!" Rodney objected. "Why do you want to -- oh. You're having those nightmares again."

John rubbed his jaw. "Something like that." Scenes of Blair or Rodney dying because he'd been too slow, too stupid, too directionally-challenged.

Rodney just looked at John, at the chair, at the bed, and back at John.

"Yeah, okay," John sighed. "It was a pretty dumb idea. I'll just go, uh --"

"No, it's not dumb." Rodney took a deep breath. "Okay. There's plenty of room on the bed. Just don't jostle my ribs -- they're still tender."

"Are you sure?" John peered at him. "I wouldn't want to keep you awake, or anything."

Rodney snorted.

"If I can, um, do anything to help you get to sleep . . . " John's face heated as he remembered the last night he'd slept in this room and how he'd helped Rodney sleep that time.

Rodney was apparently thinking the same thing. "No, thanks, the price for that last blowjob was high enough." He padded around to the rumpled side of the bed -- the left side, where he'd slept when they were together, except for the last night -- and climbed in.

John shifted from foot to foot. "Look, um, Rodney . . ."

Rodney glared. "Are you trying to hook up with me again, or something? Because you're not doing a very good job of it."

"I never wanted to break up with you in the first place." John hadn't meant to say that. He covered his confusion by climbing in the other side of the bed and fussing with the covers.

There was a long silence. "I'm pretty sure you were trying to break up with me," Rodney concluded.

"I didn't mean to. I was just . . ." John gulped. "It was too much. I got . . . too close, too involved. Too attached. It scared me, okay? I needed to get away for a while."

"So now, what, your 'while' is over, and you're finished freaking out?"

John leaned back on the mattress -- no pillow, since Bates would only issue one to a person and his was in the other room -- and stared at the ceiling with stinging eyes. "Not really. Still freaking out. Never stopped. But I guess I realized, it doesn't help."

"What doesn't help what?" Rodney demanded with an irritable edge to his voice.

"Being apart doesn't make me any less attached. I still, um, care about you." John's face was flaming now. "It would still hurt like hell if you got injured or killed -- especially if it was because of my mistake."

Rodney was silent.

"But I realize . . . maybe it's too late, anyway. I know I was . . . um, I know you were really hurt and upset, these last few weeks. And you had every right. So um . . . anyway, I'll still . . . either way." This wasn't working; he couldn't say any of the important stuff. "But whatever, I really appreciate you letting me, um, hang out here tonight. I haven't really slept too well lately. Tomorrow you can kick me out, or whatever."

Rodney was still silent, which seemed profoundly wrong. Maybe John had broken him. Or maybe he'd fallen asleep waiting for John to spit out his few pitiful words.

John sighed, willed the lights off, and closed burning eyes against the darkness. "Good night, Rodney."

It was a couple of minutes later and his breathing was just starting to ease without needing conscious control, when something hit his stomach.

"Here," said Rodney. He sounded awake enough.

"What --?" John groped for the object. It was the little pillow from the tribute pile, still warm with Rodney's heat.

"Since you left yours behind. You can go get your stuff tomorrow. And bring it back here." Then, just in case John had any illusions that he was out of the doghouse, Rodney turned onto his side facing away.

A long time after that, John was drifting through the vestibules of sleep, but he was pretty sure he didn't dream the soft words.

"I love you too, John."

Fic: Cross Country, Part Three

2008-02-08T02:31:10Z

Fandom: Stargate: Atlantis, Stargate: SG-1, The Sentinel
Title: Cross Country, part 3
Author: Quasar
Rating: borderline R/NC-17
Pairing: John/Rodney, Jim/Blair
Date written: December 2006-February 2008 (whew!)
Length: ~20,000 words (whole story)
Summary: Salvage of equipment, people, and relationships.
Notes: This is the fourth story in my Criss-Cross series (thanks to jya_bd_cp_ttgb for the name suggestion!). Read the other stories first, or continue at your peril. You can also read a summary of the series, which does contain some spoilers for the stories.

Back to Part One, Part Two

Sixteen days after the salvage mission, nine days after the day-long memorial service for the Daedalus personnel, and four days after his stitches were removed, John reported to Ellison's office for the team's regular weekly briefing. He was a little nervous about being in a small room with Rodney, and it only got worse when he found out Ellison wasn't there at all; it was just Blair perched on the edge of Ellison's desk, and Rodney sitting in one of the chairs with his laptop held out like a shield.

"I told Jim I would have a talk with you guys before the briefing," Blair said frankly.

John pulled the other chair closer to him -- and incidentally further away from Rodney -- before sitting. Even without looking at Rodney, he knew the physicist was uncomfortable.

"Talk about what? What do we need to talk about?" said Rodney, too quickly.

"Well, you know, Jim and I just want to be sure you two can still work together."

John shrugged. "Sure."

"Of course we can!" Rodney blustered.

"Yeah, see, that would be a little more convincing if either of you had looked at the other since walking into the room."

John glanced over and caught Rodney's startled gaze, then looked away quickly. "We're both grownups," he said at the same moment Rodney declared, "We're professionals!"

John nodded. "What he said."

"Uh . . . huh." Blair rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "And you've cleared up your little misunderstanding?"

John winced.

"Of course we -- wait, what misunderstanding?" Rodney demanded.

"John?" Blair prompted.

John sighed. "Blair thinks it's a big deal that you thought I was cheating on you. I tried to tell him that's not . . ."

"It is a big deal! I mean, okay, so we never discussed this in detail, but I was definitely under the impression that we were going to be exclusive." Rodney gave a strained chuckle that made John's guts ache. "Stupid of me, huh? You'd think I would learn, after all these years. It's not like I haven't had it demonstrated before . . ."

The pain in his voice was too much for John. "Rodney, I wasn't -- we were exclusive. You were right."

Rodney blinked. "So then who's this Rick guy? Because I checked, and there aren't any Marines or airmen who go by Rick. A couple of the scientists, but one of them's straight and the other? I just can't see you with a sociologist --"

"Rodney. It was back on Earth."

"Oh." Rodney considered that. "You said something about that, but --"

"It was years ago. And he's dead, anyway."

"But you -- why were you calling me by his name if it was years ago?"

"Because I just had a --" John bit his lip. "Dream. About him."

"Oh. Oh! One of those nightmare things? I wondered what those were. I figured it was PTSD or something. Well, I guess it still is, only it's from, what, seeing your lover die or something?"

"I'd really rather not talk about it, Rodney," John said through gritted teeth. He stared at the edge of Ellison's desk, not wanting to know what would be in Blair's eyes if he glanced up. Looking at Rodney was completely out of the question.

"Well, you should talk to someone! It might help you deal with this a little better."

John glared in the general direction of Rodney's knees. "Somehow I missed the part where you have a psychology degree."

Blair cleared his throat. "As a matter of fact, I do have a--"

Rodney ignored him. "I don't need a degree to see how messed up you are, Sheppard."

"Fine! If I'm so messed up, maybe it's a good thing you're not going out with me anymore, McKay." John was holding on to his temper, but only barely.

Rodney looked like he was about to retort, then paused. "Hold on, is that what this is about? You're trying to protect me from you, or something? I thought you were protecting yourself."

John rolled his eyes. "Whatever." He turned to Blair. "Misunderstanding all cleared up, and we haven't tried to murder each other yet. So can we hear about this mission?"

"Mission, what mission?" said Rodney. "I thought we were starting on the southeast pier next. Oh, wait --" He snapped his fingers in realization. "We're going back to that island to pick up Gateship Two, aren't we? I knew Grodin would admit he needed me on those repairs!"

Ellison was in the room suddenly; John hadn't even heard him coming. "We're going to the mainland," he said shortly. "Salvage operation."

Blair scooted aside to make room for his husband on the desk, but Ellison just stood in front of it, hands loosely clasped behind his back in a posture John recognized from every commanding officer he'd ever had.

"Salvage?" said Rodney. "On the mainland?"

Blair leaned forward. "Remember when we were on our way back to the planet, and Jim saw something that wasn't supposed to be there?"

"A scar," John recalled.

"I think it was from a crash landing," said Ellison.

"A crashed what?" John asked.

Blair shrugged. "Well, this scar wasn't there a couple of years ago, when we surveyed the mainland."

John considered what he knew of the expedition's history. "You think it happened during the siege?"

"They think it's a Wraith dart," Rodney snapped, looking nervous.

"Maybe," Ellison amended. "Also possible it could have been one of the 302s from the Daedalus -- they weren't all accounted for. But more likely a dart, since there were more of them around, and the 302s supposedly never entered the atmosphere."

"Whichever it was, if it was supposed to be heading for a ship in orbit and ended up on the mainland, it must have completely messed-up controls or propulsion." Rodney looked around at the rest of them expectantly. "Which means it probably crashed at very high velocity and there's nothing to salvage."

"We discussed it with O'Neill and Grodin," said Blair. "They think it's possible the dart was half-functional but couldn't quite achieve orbit."

Rodney frowned. "Well . . . possible, yes. And heading west against the planet's rotation wouldn't exactly help it reach escape velocity."

"Or maybe their sensors were down and they just couldn't find their ship."

"The point is, this is a scar and not a crater," said Ellison. "It came in at an oblique angle. Not a meteor, and not some ballistic piece of wreckage."

"You can't possibly think anyone -- or anything -- survived," Rodney protested.

Ellison shrugged. "Even if the pilot died, the people that got beamed up might still be recoverable."

"I've seen that," John said. "McKay -- the other McKay, in the other universe -- pulled this slimy thing out of a dart and brought it back to Atlantis, and they rematerialized his teammates out of it."

Blair nodded. "We've never done the rematerialization here, but that's a chance we can't pass up on. And also . . ." He looked a little sheepish. "Teyla's had some dreams. Not lately, but she said they lasted a while after the siege was over."

Ellison sighed. "Chief, I thought we agreed not to mention that. It could have just been regular dreams about the siege, end of story."

John blinked. "Dreams?"

"Teyla has a sort of telepathic ability to sense Wraith," Blair explained. "Especially hive ships, but one time she sensed a single Wraith that had infiltrated the city. It affected her dreams."

"And she also dreamed about this crashed ship?" Rodney demanded.

Blair grimaced. "Maybe. It isn't really clear. The dreams mostly stopped after a month or so."

"So you think the Wraith pilot lived a month after crashing and then died?" John said.

"Or Teyla was just dreaming. But the point is, we should check this thing out, and then we'll know instead of just guessing." Ellison looked at John and Rodney. "Beckett cleared both of you for missions, but if you're not feeling up to it we can go with another team."

John shook his head. He knew how Ellison felt about keeping the team together, and he generally agreed with that philosophy. Besides, he was itching to fly again. "We're good to go." He looked at Rodney.

Rodney was frowning. "How much danger do you think this will involve?"

"Rodney!" John protested, but Rodney just lifted his chin and kept looking at Ellison.

The captain shrugged. "Danger? Not much, probably. There might be some hiking. I heard you're up to speed on what little we know about Wraith technology, but Grodin could take this one instead."

Mention of his rival tightened Rodney's jaw, which may have been what Ellison intended. "No no, I can do it. Hiking is, is good. When do we leave?"

"Departure just before noon tomorrow should put us at the site around dawn local time," said Ellison. "That will give us the whole day to put the pieces together."

Ellison showed John the area he was talking about on survey records taken when the expedition had first explored the planet. It was north of the equator -- so early winter there -- in a desert region on the northern section of the main continent. Unfortunately, the weather satellite they had set up after a big hurricane that first year barely extended to the north part of the mainland, so they had only a rough idea of what the weather would be like. But from his exerience in Afghanistan John figured desert plus winter meant cold and dry. He hoped Rodney would dress warmly enough, but decided it wasn't his business to say anything. He planned to pack extra water, though.

The flight took a couple of hours, skimming through the upper atmosphere. Ellison rode shotgun, which made sense since he knew where they were going. Never mind that his guidance would only be needed at the very end; no one suggested that Rodney should take his usual seat.

When they got to the right area, it was overcast with high clouds, windy, but as dry as expected. The terrain was something more like scrubland or prairie rather than a pure desert with dunes; John was relieved to find that it didn't really remind him that much of Afghanistan. Isolated mountain ranges served as landmarks for what Ellison had seen; John was getting close to what he thought was the right area when Ellison said, "Over there" and pointed him further west -- by nearly a hundred miles, it turned out.

The grayish-brown earth and scrubby plants had been torn up over a track about half a mile long, revealing a paler yellow soil below. John was at once impressed with how long the track was (he couldn't see anyone walking away from a crash that left that big a mark) and how short, for Ellison to have seen it from space. Whatever had crashed had ended up in small enough pieces that they couldn't immediately tell what it was. Ellison didn't want John to fly too low over the wreckage in case the thrust from the drive pods blew sand over some of the evidence. Looking at the way the sharp-bladed desert grasses bowed and fluttered, John didn't think their drive pods would do anything that a year and a half of weather hadn't alredy; but he complied and landed a few hundred yards away from the messier end of the crash track.

Clipping his P90 to his vest, John cast a quick glance at Rodney to make sure his gear was all set. Rodney and Blair were both carrying P90s as well, at Ellison's assistance; if this was really a Wraith, they might need rapid, heavy, and lethal firepower. Rodney seemed uncomfortable with the weapon, but checked it over competently and looked ready to go.

Outside, at ground level, it did seem more of a desert. There were patches of bare ground in between tufts of grass and low, thorny bushes that carried no leaves at this season. Everything was a dull gray color, blending in with the sand that skittered across the ground. Some of the wiry plants inhabited a fine line between bush and cactus; Blair commented on them with interest, but John wasn't really interested in the botanical classifications.

Rodney was ready to go straight to the largest piece of remaining wreckage, but he agreed reluctatly to wait while Ellison paced around the area first with Blair two steps behind. Finally the captain summoned the rest of them with a nod. "Definitel a Wraith dart," he said shortly, jerking his chin at the debris. "But the pilot's not here now."

John took in that ominous comment and kept his weapon ready regardless. As they got closer to the big chunk of wreckage, John saw that it was the pilot compartment, stripped of almost everything that had been attached to it. It had either been good engineering, good luck (for the Wraith), or really incredible flying that ensured all the rest of the ship absorbed the energy from the crash.

"No radio or subspace signals at any frequency," Rodney said with an eye on his scanner, confirming what they already knew.

The pilot compartment was upright and had lots of footprints around it, or at least foot-sized depressions in the sand which had filled over time with a finer, darker silt than the surrounding coarse dirt. John could tell they were pretty old, but he wasn't a good enough tracker to judge if the Wraith had been injured or not; he figured just the fact of footprints was bad enough. He glanced at Ellison, but the captain was squinting away at something else.

Rodney leaned over the edge of the open compartment.

"Don't touch anything," John said sharply.

Rodney glared at him.

"They have a self-destruct," John explained. "I don't know if it's still intact, but it makes a nasty explosion."

Rodney blinked and looked more closely at the dust-streaked compartment. "There," he said, pointing to the console. "That must be where the self-destruct mechanism was. It's been disabled. In fact, a lot of this was disabled." He squinted. "Not wrecked -- ripped apart deliberately."

Blair pointed at some tracks on the ground nearby. "He was trying to get something working. Maybe the radio?"

Rodney turned and studied the fragments at Blair's feet. "Subspace transmitter, right. But it doesn't look like he had enough parts to fix it."

"I found the culling device," John said. He had circled behind the compartment and discovered the cage-shaped unit, naked, with sinewy Wraith wires hooking it into the remaining section of the ship.

Rodney came by and squatted over it. "He was trying to get power into the device. But I don't see why . . ."

"He needed food," said Ellison in clipped tones from the other side of the wreck. "And he got it. Over here."

A short distance beyond the pilot compartment were a couple of shriveled bodies dressed in expedition uniforms. And a few feet beyond that, another . . . and another . . . John grimaced, and Rodney made a distressed noise.

"The culling beam leaves the victims unconscious," Blair said softly. "Oh, man. He could have materialized them all at once and just gone from one to the other . . ."

"At least they wouldn't feel it," John said quickly, "if they were unconscious."

"Doesn't look like they tried to run, anyhow," said Ellison. He knelt by one of them to pull up the dogtags and closed his eyes briefly at what he found, then stood and dusted his hands. "Sheppard. Help me bring the body bags from the Gateship. McKay, try to figure out what resources that Wraith took away from the wreck."

"What? How am I supposed to --"

"Did he take the explosives from the self-destruct?" Ellison pressed.

Rodney looked down as if he expected to find the explosives lying at his feet. "Well, I suppose I can --"

"That's the sort of thing I need to know. Blair, help McKay." His significant look said that Blair should keep an eye on Rodney, keep him from blowing himself up or destroying evidence. John, who had an idea how tricky that could be, shrugged in sympathy.

By the time they had gotten the bodies stowed in the Gateship -- and John was thinking he was tired of "salvage" operations -- Rodney had some answers for them.

"Well, he didn't take the explosives." Rodney pointed at a gooey scorched residue at the rear of the compartment. "As far as I can tell, he set up a slow burn to provide the power for rematerializing people from the culling device, since the engine is a total loss."

"Okay, that cuts down on possible booby-traps," Ellison said.

"I can't really tell what weapons he might have," Rodney went on. "There are some empty storage bins, but I don't know what was in them, if anything."

"Where?" said Ellison, and studied the storage areas. "Maybe a handheld stunner, some knives. Nothing big, anyway."

"Hmm. But he might have a radio with him. I'm not positive, but I think that's what was removed from here." Rodney pointed at a niche on the far side of the compartment. "Possibly he cannibalized the short-range radio while he was trying to fix the subspace transmitter, but without an intact dart to compare against I just can't be sure what parts are missing."

"But you said there haven't been any radio transmissions," Blair put in.

"Not since we've been listening, no. But maybe he has a receiver and not a transmitter."

"Or maybe he just hasn't been transmitting," John suggested. "Saving power?"

"Yes, yes, also possible. My point is --" He looked at Ellison. "Our radio transmissions might be overheard."

Ellison frowned. "Can you scramble them?"

Rodney considered. "Well . . . yes, but it would take me an hour or so working with each radio. And the ones I've worked on won't talk to the others, and vice versa. It might cut the range of the transmissions, too. Oh, and he'll still be able to tell there's someone transmitting nearby, he just won't know what we're saying."

Ellison scratched his head. "Well, see what you can do with Sheppard's radio and Blair's. We'll keep the other two radios unaltered. And no communications with Atlantis until you get the scramble set up. If we can stay together, we'll avoid using the radios at all."

"There's more," Blair offered, glancing uncertainly at Rodney.

"More?" said Ellison.

Rodney grimaced. "I can't tell for sure. You understand that, right? I mean, I wouldn't want to get your hopes up --"

"Spit it out, McKay."

"There might still be some waveforms in the culling device."

Ellison just stared.

"People. He means people," Blair supplied.

"I'm not certain, because the power is gone. But see, that's my point. There was just enough power to rematerialize four people, and four people were, um . . . right. But there might have been more people stored in the device and just not enough energy to rematerialize them. Of course, it's also possible -- even likely -- that the waveforms have deteriorated over time, so they might not be recoverable. But . . ."

"So you're saying we should take that thing back to Atlantis with us?" said Ellison.

"That's right. It's sort of a slim hope, but, uh . . ."

"Better than no hope at all," said Blair.

"Right." Ellison looked down at the weird skeletal device. "Does it need power while we're traveling?"

"No. Or, if it does need power, it's already too late. A few more hours won't make a difference."

"Right. Disconnect it and stow it in the Gateship while I check out the tracks one more time."

Eliison did a long walk around the perimeter while Rodney removed the ligaments connecting the culling device to the pilot's compartment. John started to point out what the other Rodney in the alternate universe had done, but this Rodney just snapped at him impatiently so he stepped back. Seeing the direction Ellison was looking, he wasn't surprised when the captain came back and said the Wraith had gone east.

"Those mountains to the northeast are the nearest likely source of water, and that's where the tracks are heading."

"Do Wraith need water?" said John doubtfully.

Blair nodded. "We had a couple of captives that first year. They don't eat -- well, not food, anyway -- but they need to drink. Not as much as we drink, and they can go a few days without, but it's a pretty basic need."

"Okay. How do you want to do this?" John asked Ellison. "Those mountains are fifty miles away or more, and the tracks are over a year old. If we're tracking on foot, we're going to need more provisions than we brought." And a lot of time, he didn't say.

But Ellison shook his head. "I can follow the tracks if you fly low and slow, at least here over the desert. Once we see what the vegetation is like in those mountains, we might have to change our plans."

That was pretty much how it turned out. John flew a leisurely path toward the mountains, with Ellison adjusting his course a few degrees this way or that from time to time. In the foothills Ellison started having more trouble reading the rocky soil, and John had to hover a lot while he squinted. Twice Ellison got out covered a section on foot while John followed him in the Gateship, which was a little weird. Then they reached softer, moister soil and the tracking got easier again for a little while as the trail continued to climb. They followed a stream from the air for a few miles, and then Ellison lost the trail as the trees got taller.

"Set the gateship down near that last camp we saw," Ellison said at last. "It looks like he stayed there for a while. Maybe I can get an idea how long if we take a closer look."

"That's odd," said John as he settled the Gateship in the next clearing upstream from the camp.

"What's odd?" said Ellison, still gazing intently through the windscreen.

"These trees. They look like pine trees."

Ellison just looked at him. Blair said, "What's so odd about that?"

"I just mean, they look a lot like what we have back on Earth, but this is an alien planet. You'd think it would be more . . . alien."

Ellison's jaw flexed.

Rodney was the one who said what everyone was apparently thinking. "Hello, did you actually pay attention to any of those mission reports you read? Eighty to ninety percent of the worlds with Stargates have pine forests near the gate, and most of the rest have a pine forest somewhere on the planet. It's only been commented on by every gate team in two galaxies."

John's face heated. "I've only been to two other planets besides this one," he pointed out. "One was a desert -- at least, near the Stargate it was -- and the other had an unbreathable atmosphere. Excuse me for being the new kid on the block!"

"Okay, enough squabbling," said Ellison. "Look alive; the tracks I saw seemed old, but I won't be sure until I get a closer look."

John took up his P90 again, falling naturally into the rearguard position as the left the Gateship. Ellison was first, the obvious scout; Blair stayed close behind in case Ellison needed guidance with his senses. And Rodney was in the middle, the most protected -- which was only sensible since he had the least combat training and was also most likely to be distracted by his equipment. He had a scanner out now but apparently wasn't finding anything interesting.

Neither was Ellison, it seemed, because he relaxed a little as they reached the camp. It looked pretty bare to John; he could see where a fire had been built, and a pile of collected deadwood nearby, but there wasn't much sign of fishing activity or bones lying around. No food, because the Wraith didn't get nourishment from food, he realized. And correspondingly, no latrine. He'd known that, but hadn't known on a visceral level.

John watched from the edge of the clearing as Ellison checked out the fire pit briefly and then moved on to the tracks in the soft ground on the bank of the stream. "This place looks like it was abandoned a while ago," John said questioningly.

Ellison nodded. "At least six months. But before that, he went away and came back. There are signs here from two different periods."

John frowned. "What do you suppose that means?"

Ellison shrugged. "He went looking for a better place, didn't like what he found, and decided to come back here?"

"And then moved on again?" Rodney asked disbelievingly. "What for?"

Ellison shook his head. "I don't know."

"I have a bad feeling about this, man," said Blair in a low voice.

"You could be right, Chief. Look sharp." Ellison cocked his head and turned in a circle, weapon ready and mouth open. John didn't know if he was tasting the air somehow or if he could hear better with his jaw loose, or if it was just an unconscious habit. Then Ellison stiffened and crossed the clearing in three strides, with Blair on his heels.

"Jim? What did you find?"

Ellison crouched by a low bush, a cousin of the thorny ones down in the desert below. "Check this out, Chief." He was pointing at something that looked to John like a wisp of lichen, or maybe a heavy cobweb.

Blair hissed slowly through his teeth. "He cocooned himself?"

"Somewhere nearby. Came out of it, came back to this campsite, and then . . . left again."

"How come? I mean, why come out of the hibernation?"

"I don't know. Maybe an animal disturbed him? Or he thought he smelled food? Hell, maybe he had bad dreams about Teyla same as she did about him."

"Does it matter?" Rodney demanded, studying the fragment of webbing over their shoulders.

John had returned to watching their perimeter while everyone was distracted, but he listened with interest to the conversation.

"It matters if it affected what he did next," said Blair. "Because that's how we find him."

Ellison stood up. "From what we know, he had to be getting pretty hungry by a month or two after the crash. Even with four . . . meals under his belt, he couldn't go on indefinitely."

"So you think he holed up somewhere near here?"

"Obviously he did at least once. Came out of the cocoon for whatever reason . . . then maybe went back to it again?"

"Yeah, but where, man?"

"Nearby. Somewhere safe from predators." After a moment, Ellison looked up.

"The trees?" Rodney scoffed. "You think Wraith sleep in trees?"

"I don't know about that, Jim," said Blair, sounding doubtful. "It would be safe from most predators, but not windstorms. I mean, bears climb trees, but they don't hibernate in them."

"You could be right, Chief, but let's not rule out the possibility. We could be looking for a cave, or a hole, or a tree -- we'll have to keep our eyes peeled. Give me a minute, here."

Ellison wandered in widening circles around the abandoned camp, crouching often to check something on the ground, or lifting his head to sniff the wind. Finally he came back to the streamside. "No clear trail," he said. "At least, there's half a dozen trails and they're all old enough I can't tell which is the freshest. But the smart money says we go uphill."

"Remember when we were helping the geologists do those surveys?" Blair said, following his husband as they started to tromp through the trees. "And Dr. Alacki talked about the kind of formations where you could find caves?"

"Limestone," said Ellison shortly.

"Limestone worn by water, usually," Rodney added. "I could try to scan for the right minerals . . ." He fiddled with his device while they walked.

"Yeah! Water, like that stream?" said Blair, waving behind them. "Maybe we should be sticking close to it."

"That's nice, Chief, but our Wraith buddy wouldn't be looking for an extensive cave system -- just a good nook to hide out in. Something in the side of a cliff, maybe, with just one approach to it."

"I saw some cliffs before we landed," John said. "Off to the, uh . . ." He pointed uncertainly.

"Southeast." Ellison nodded. "That's where we're headed."

An hour later, they had gone about three miles on a meandering path that wound among trees and rocky outcrops. Rodney had suggested several times that it would be more efficient to go back and get the Gateship, with more elaborate references to his recently-healed ribs each time. Ellison didn't even seem to hear him, he was concentrating so hard on whatever clues he was finding in the ground or the air. Blair just gave an apologetic shrug.

"Hey Rodney, catch," John drawled, and tossed him one of the spare bottles of water he'd brought along. "Just think of it as exercise and fresh air. It's good for you."

Rodney walked backwards, gesturing with the water bottle. "If you're implying that I'm out of shape, I'll have you know --"

And that was when the Wraith dropped down from the rocks overhanging the path. With wild white hair and pale green skin, it was even more alarming than the one John had seen before. It landed between Rodney and Blair, so that the two of them blocked John's and Ellison's line of fire.

John had his P90 up and was yelling at Rodney -- he didn't even know what -- as the thing reached for him. Rodney was turning, too slowly, still in the way. There was the crack of a single shot from Blair or Jim, and the creature snarled, spinning to face the other way. It grabbed Blair's jacket with one hand and hurled him thirty feet or more down the hillside.

Rodney grabbed at the Wraith -- John yelled, "No, don't touch it, shoot it!" -- and was thrown aside himself. Now John had a clear shot, but Ellison was directly on the other side of the creature. Would the bullets go through? Why wasn't Ellison firing? John scrambled a few steps uphill, trying to get a crossfire angle, but his foot slipped. He fell and caught himself on his elbow, but now a tree was blocking his shot and he had to lever back to his knees, losing precious seconds.

Ellison was just standing, frozen, looking downhill where Blair had been thrown. His weapon was pointed at the ground; he didn't seem to care that the Wraith was right in front of him, didn't even react as it slammed a hand into his chest.

Then Rodney was there, in John's way again, grabbing the Wraith and hauling it off of Ellison. It spun and grabbed Rodney's wrist, then his throat. John was still yelling: "Rodney, no, get out of the way!" and Rodney was yelling back, "Shoot it, just shoot, just shoot!" and finally John noticed the flare of green where the Wraith was holding Rodney, realized what it meant, and clicked the P90 over to full automatic. It still felt wrong, wrong wrong to aim it at his teammate (friend, lover) and pull the trigger, but he did it. Bullets sprayed around Rodney in brilliant flashes, and the Wraith jerked again and again until John's gun jammed and the fire stopped.

Silence. John's throat hurt from the yelling, and his heart was thrumming up between his collarbones. The Wraith didn't move.

"Is it dead?" Rodney stirred under the creature, pushed it aside and stood up, looking down at it. "I'm okay -- I think I'm okay. Is it dead?"

John lowered his gun. "It looks dead." Did Wraith have a pulse, and if so where should he feel for it? He approached carefully, then decided to play it safe, took out his handgun and put three more shots into the Wraith's skull. It didn't jerk; its muscles were completely lax.

"It's dead," said Rodney positively.

John let out a shaky sigh. "Jesus, Rodney, why didn't you tell me you had the shield?"

Rodney unzipped his jacket and plucked the glowing green brooch from his chest, looking at it. "I didn't want you to -- well, it's not very -- I mean, I didn't know if I would even need it."

"Ellison --" John turned and froze.

Ellison was still standing where the Wraith had left him, ripped shirt flapping in the breeze, staring downhill.

John followed his gaze: Blair lay crumpled at the base of a tree where the Wraith had thrown him.

"Oh, shit," John breathed. "Rodney, try to snap him out of it!" he barked with a wave at Ellison, and scrambled down the hill.

Blair was folded over himself, head down, and at a glance, the angle of his neck looked pretty bad. "I don't think he's breathing," John said, afraid to touch. "Ellison, can you hear a heartbeat? Jim!"

Ellison groaned oddly, but then he was sliding down the slope as well. "Yes. Yeah, I hear -- his heart's beating. But it's getting weaker."

"Shit. We need to breathe for him, but we can't at this angle. Can you tell if it's safe to move him?"

Ellison's hands ghosted around his husband's head, neck, spine. "Concussion. Dislocated shoulder. Broken neck."

"Oh no," Rodney murmured from behind them.

"Right here," Ellison said, his hand curled too high up on Blair's neck. "The vertebrae might just be dislocated, not crushed -- I don't feel any bone fragments."

John's heart was ratcheting up again. If they moved Blair, they'd make the damage from the broken neck worse. But if they didn't move him, he'd suffocate. "Okay, okay, uh . . . what do we have that we can use to brace his neck while we move him?" He looked to Rodney, who always had the most junk in his pack.

But Ellison was already moving, disconnecting the straps of Blair's pack and lifting him with one sure hand cupped at the back of his head. John winced to watch it, but he had to trust the man knew what he was doing. Blair had said Ellison was a medic in the Army, and maybe his senses let him know what was safe and what wasn't.

It seemed forever but was probably less than thirty seconds before Blair was lying flat. "We have to keep his head turned, like this," said Ellison. "Something will pull if we straighten it."

"Here, here." Rodney shoved something soft at Ellison -- a spare shirt, John thought -- and the sentinel tucked it under his husband's head to keep it steady at the right angle.

"He still isn't breathing," John pointed out. It couldn't be attributed to the crumpled position anymore; more likely, the damage to his spinal cord had paralyzed the muscles responsible for breathing.

"We'll breathe for him," said Ellison, and bent down to match his mouth to Blair's.

It was amazing to see the pink come back into Blair's greying lips and cheeks within a few breaths. It was obviously helping, but Blair still didn't start breathing on his own.

"We have to get him to the Gateship," John muttered. "No -- we have to get the Gateship here." He looked around quickly, but it only took a moment to remember the last decent landing site he'd seen. "I can bring her in about two hundred yards from here, is that good enough?" There was a backboard and neck braces on board, he remembered.

"Do it," said Rodney decisively. "I'll stay here and, uh --" He waved. "Help Ellison."

John nodded. It was pretty clear the captain wasn't paying attention to anything but his husband. "You might have to take over. Don't let him hyperventilate."

"I got it, I got it. Just -- just go. Hurry."

John ran. The first part was easy: past the dead Wraith, around the outcropping, down this rocky slope . . . all too soon, he was among the thicker trees, and that was when he remembered his sense of direction wasn't so good on the ground. They'd been following a trail only Ellison could see, which made it hard to retrace.

John's gift for getting lost anywhere except in the air had been a joke during training, a source of ribbing among his buddies . . . and then Rick Holland had gotten killed because of it, and it wasn't so funny anymore. And now Blair was probably going to die for the same fucking reason. John cursed himself, paused and turned in a circle, then ran for a deadfall that looked halfway familiar.

He kept going downhill, since he remembered that much -- but had it been this steep on the way up? At least going downhill he could maintain a pretty good pace; he was thinking now that he should have pushed himself harder on those dawn runs. Then he tripped and rolled and came back up on an aching ankle and figured a sane pace was probably smarter than an extreme one.

He was wishing desperately that the Gateship had some kind of remote control, that he could make it chirp like a car in a parking lot so he'd know which way to go, when he broke out onto a bluff overlooking a stream. He thought it was probably the same stream they had landed near -- it was about the right size, anyway -- but should he go upstream or down? He turned a couple more circles, trying to reach for the Gateship in his mind, then ran downstream more or less at random. Ten minutes later -- which was ten minutes Blair couldn't afford -- he found the clearing with the Gateship in it.

Fortunately, finding his teammates was not a problem. Rodney was carrying an Ancient scanner; John just had to ask the Gateship to look for it, and then he had no worries about getting turned around. He slotted the ship in where the slope was shallowest and started rummaging through the first aid supplies in the back.

When John reached the site, Rodney had taken over the rescue breathing. Ellison looked bleak but immediately took the kit from John, got Rodney using a bag with supplemental oxygen, and directed John to help him with the backboarding. They had Blair secured and on the way to the Gateship within minutes.

Link to Part Four

Fic: Cross Country, Part Two

2008-02-08T02:19:18Z

At last! It is done, after much moaning and wailing. And after all that, I ended up cutting out some of the scenes that gave me the most trouble -- yet while I was writing them, I really felt I had to crawl to the other side and not skip over them. Anyway, it's done now and I thank everyone for being patient.

Fandom: Stargate: Atlantis, Stargate: SG-1, The Sentinel
Title: Cross Country, part 2
Author: Quasar
Rating: borderline R/NC-17
Pairing: John/Rodney, Jim/Blair
Date written: December 2006-February 2008 (whew!)
Length: ~20,000 words (whole story)
Summary: Salvage of equipment, people, and relationships.
Notes: This is the fourth story in my Criss-Cross series (thanks to jya_bd_cp_ttgb for the name suggestion!). Read the other stories first, or continue at your peril. You can also read a summary of the series, which does contain some spoilers for the stories.

Back to Part One

John was dreading the moment when Ellison would chew him out for disobeying orders, ignoring senior officers, and haring off on his own. The situation was so familiar John could picture it without even trying: Ellison would call John to his office -- or maybe Weir's office, maybe even with Weir or Caldwell present -- and put on that disappointed squint and shake his head with a sigh. He'd enumerate everything John had done wrong, all the rules he'd broken and the perfectly valid reasoning behind those rules and how it was bad for discipline if John was allowed to get away with such things. Or worse, maybe he'd make John list off his mistakes and transgressions himself. He'd say John was too impulsive, too arrogant and overconfident and all that jazz. Maybe he'd throw out some pseudo-psychological bullshit about John having a dislike of authority or subconscious suicidal impulses or whatever.

As for punishment, John wasn't sure what Ellison might do. He was pretty sure he wouldn't be fired for this first black mark, although he'd probably get warnings about what would happen the next time. Even if they wanted to fire him, they couldn't kick him off Atlantis because there was no way back to Earth right now -- so they might as well get some use out of him while he was stuck here. Grounding John would be an effective punishment in the sense that it would make him angry and miserable, but given the shortage of decent pilots around here it would essentially mean grounding the whole team. Likewise, kicking John off the team probably meant breaking the team up, and John was pretty sure Ellison wouldn't want to do that. Maybe he'd get a couple of unpleasant work assignments, although technically he wasn't in the normal duty rotations with the marines or the scientists. So he was guessing a stern lecture and a little ritual humiliation in front of his bosses would be all, this time.

He was thrown off-balance when Ellison didn't try to catch him that evening after John and Rodney were released from the infirmary. Ellison had been around earlier until Dr. Beckett assured him that both John and Rodney would be just fine. John had six stitches in his leg and some really impressive discoloration around the gash that wasn't as painful as it looked. Rodney had some ugly bruising on his ribs that he said was much more painful than it looked, especially when Beckett wrapped it up. They hobbled together back to their room and saw no sign of Ellison along the way.

Normally Rodney slept on the left side of the bed, but after much fussing and shifting and complaining, they established that he was least uncomfortable lying on the other half, curled on his right side, with John spooned up behind him. John had to keep his upper arm down by their hips and remember not to rest it across Rodney's aching chest.

John's leg didn't hurt -- much -- but he found he couldn't make himself relax. Every time he closed his eyes he saw Rodney floating untethered into space, or ripped apart by an explosion. He felt the explosion shivering through his boots, as Ellison must have done, and he tried to run only to find he couldn't get purchase on the deck. He found Rodney pinned by the split-open console as if it had eaten him, his skin gray and eyes dry and lifeless.

John jerked himself back from the brink of sleep for the third time, and Rodney groaned wearily next to him. "Would you cut it out?"

"What? I'm not doing anything," John protested. "I'm not even moving."

"You're not sleeping, either." With a huff and a whimper, Rodney turned carefully onto his back, twisting his neck to the side to look at John. "What's wrong?"

John shook his head. "I think my brain is just processing the day. Lot of new stuff -- all that bouncing around in zero gee, you know."

Rodney rolled his eyes. "That was free fall, not zero gee. There's no such thing, really, but the closest you could get would be interstellar space. Or intergalactic space, maybe."

"It was different, anyway. Just a couple of magnets keeping us stuck to the ship, and an invisible shield keeping us breathing?"

Rodney shuddered. "Don't remind me."

"I guess my brain's having trouble letting go of it." John flashed on an image of Rodney floating away, his arms windmilling, his face contorted as the helmet-shield failed and capillaries burst across his cheeks . . . "I don't know why it keeps bugging me," he choked, telling himself firmly that it wasn't true, it hadn't happened, it wasn't going to happen. He shouldn't have accepted those painkillers from Beckett -- maybe that was what was making his imagination so vivid, all of a sudden.

Rodney grumbled, "Well, your brain is keeping me awake. Can't you think about something else?"

"That's what I've been trying to do!"

"No, you've been trying not to think about the Daedalus," Rodney said.

How the ship had been bent back on itself, how the metal screams must have been carried along the girders as it was nearly torn in two, how the debris and air and bodies both dead and not-yet-dead must have streamed out into the monstrous nothing -- John bit back a pained gasp. He was definitely not going to be taking this drug ever again.

"That never works," Rodney went on, too tired or doped to notice his distress. "Believe me, I know about hyperactive brain processes. You have to give yourself something else to think about. Something interesting enough to hold your attention, but not too complicated. How do you normally get yourself relaxed to go to sleep?"

John didn't have to think about that very hard. His mouth quirked. "I can think of one thing . . ."

Rodney raised a brow. "Well? What is it?" Either he was in a very strange mood -- Rodney, coyly playing dumb? -- or the drugs were messing with his brain as well as John's, because he didn't seem to be getting it.

And maybe Rodney was right about the whole distraction idea, beacuse it was a relief just to show Rodney what he had in mind, to kiss away Rodney's murmurs of protest and get him to lie flat on the bed. A relief to think about nothing but his hands skimming tenderly across Rodney's bruised skin, about the taste of Rodney's cock and the optimum angle for sucking him deep.

When Rodney came with a groan halfway between pain and pleasure, he stared at John, waiting. "If you make me laugh, I'll kill you."

John shifted up the bed to lie next to him. "You won't laugh," he promised, and started petting Rodney's hair. For some reason, that always seemed to soothe his post-sexual hysteria. John had noted the trick even though he usually wasn't very interested in calming Rodney down.

"What about you?" Rodney murmured around an enormous yawn.

"I'm fine," John said. He was half-hard against Rodney's hip, but it wasn't a problem. This wasn't really about sex.

It wasn't until Rodney's snuffles were well on their way to full-blown snores that John realized, no, it hadn't been sex; it had been worship. It had been love.

That thought kept him awake long after his dick had softened.

John didn't see their team leader at breakfast the next morning. He wasn't sure if he should be nervous waiting for the other shoe to drop, or if maybe Ellison wasn't going to make an issue out of it. That seemed unlikely, but a part of him relaxed just a little. Later, when Ellison caught him in the weight room, he felt like he really should have seen it coming.

The exercise options in Atlantis were pretty limited, since the expedition had not had the capacity to bring along a lot of heavy, bulky machines with them just to keep people in shape. So there was running (stair-running when the weather was bad or the long circuit of the piers got boring), sparring (hand-to-hand, fake knife fights, various martial arts, and Teyla's Athosian stick-fighting technique), and weight-lifting with a variety of equipment people had cobbled together over the past two years. John thought it was a shame no one had set up one of the enclosed harbors for swimming, but the water here was a little cold by his standards in any case.

Beckett had ordered no running, stair-climbing, or any other serious exertion until the stitches came out of John's leg in ten to twelve days. That put a crimp in John's attempts to get himself back into decent shape, which he'd been working ever since he accepted Weir's job offer. This was obviously a dangerous place, and he had to be ready for anything, and besides that he'd be damned if he admitted he couldn't keep up with a man ten years older than he was. So when his preferred running and karate practice were ruled out, John headed for the weight room. Which -- surprise, surprise -- turned out to be one of Ellison's favorite hangouts.

He should have guessed, John thought. Ellison was just the kind of older gay man who'd be obsessed with his own body image. But no, that wasn't fair; Ellison didn't primp or pose. But a man in his late forties didn't keep a physique like that without plenty of work, and apparently a lot of that work took place here.

John sighed and headed over to the chin-bar to start out.

"Sheppard," grunted Ellison, just finishing up some bench presses.

"Ellison." John could still get his chin over the bar, but not as many times as he used to. He stopped when his arms started to shake, rested them a minute, then repeated the set.

"Don't usually see you in here." Ellison changed weights on a contraption that apparently let him do flies.

"Doc said --" John inhaled on the down-move. "No running."

"Hmm. When your leg is better, we should run together." Ellison apparently didn't need to time his breathing with the weight.

"Could do that." John dropped to his feet and rolled his shoulders, wondering if he was up to a third set.

"I go around dawn. Northwest pier, usually."

That was when most of the Marines ran, but they favored the piers on the east side. John had gone out a couple of times with Markham and Cadman, but they had jeered at his out-of-shape, ex-Air Force pace. And lately he'd been sleeping a little later anyway, his schedule gradually drifting into synch with Rodney's.

"Okay," John said, reaching for the bar again. Just a couple more reps.

"You might want to try some sparring, too. Teyla's got a killer routine with those sticks of hers, and Ford does judo sessions."

"I've been doing karate," John grunted. "With Bates, sometimes Cadman."

"Ah." Ellison was silent a minute. "Been trying to get Sandburg in on some practice sessions, but he says the testosterone makes him dizzy. Even in Teyla's class."

"Sounds like something Rodney would say," John gasped, feet back on the mat.

"Should get those two some defense training, though," said Ellison. "Gotta keep our geeks safe, huh?"

John didn't respond, since he had a bad feeling about where that was heading. Instead, he studied the row of machines. Leg presses, leg lifts . . . he headed for the bench press.

"Listen, about the other day," Ellison began, sounding uncomfortable but determined.

So John was right about where it was heading. He kept his eyes down, taking weights off the bar.

"I know what it's like when someone you love is in danger. I know what it's like needing to be there, needing to keep him safe."

Too light. John put ten pounds back on.

"But you have to keep your head. You need to stay present. This is a dangerous world out here."

John crossed to the other side of the bar, balancing it.

"You can't just throw yourself into trouble without thinking first. You hear me, Sheppard?"

John gripped the clamp tightly to keep his hand from shaking. "I don't leave men behind," he said in a low voice.

The pause then was too long. John realized he was responding to the last CO who'd reamed him out, instead of following Ellison's cues.

"Okay," Ellison said. "But you don't throw other men away just for a principle. You look for the best way to go at it, something that will work without getting more people killed. Am I right?"

That was the idea. That was the ideal John had tried to stick to, back when he had responsibilities and a command of his own. But sometimes it didn't really work out that way.

"Sheppard. Look at me."

John dropped his hands and came slowly, painfully, to attention.

Ellison looked more worried than pissed. "As an officer, you wouldn't throw men away on a hopeless situation. You wouldn't send men into danger without thinking about all the angles. Am I right?"

John nodded stiffly. "Yessir." Except for those times when he'd done exactly that, and gotten his men -- his friends -- killed.

"That goes the same for you. You don't throw yourself away. You don't jump into a situation without thinking about it. And you listen to me and anyone else who might have important information. I don't care who's hurt, you will keep your head and use reasonable judgment. You got that?"

"Yes, sir." John wanted to close his eyes against the images flickering there, but he knew it wouldn't help. His hands were fisted at his sides.

Ellison shook his head wearily. "Right. Fine. You can go back to --" He frowned at the bar John had been tinkering with. "No, forget it. You'll tear something if you try to press that much weight. Get out of here. Lie down and rest that leg. I'll talk to you again in a few days."

John wandered around for a while, but it was hard to walk far in Atlantis without climbing stairs, and transporters just didn't work for brooding. He did try a couple of flights of stairs, but the deep ache in his leg told him Beckett had been right. He ended up at the lounge near the mess hall (where he'd slept in the other Atlantis, where they'd confronted Hailey in this Atlantis) and collapsed on one of the Ancient sofa-things.

"John." A hand was on his shoulder. "Wake up."

"Huh?" He looked around. Oh yeah, the lounge.

Blair was bending over him. "You okay?"

John rubbed a hand down his face. "I'm fine. What's up?"

"Rodney's on his way."

"Rodney's here," said Ellison from the doorway.

And then Rodney was bursting in. "Oh my God, I thought you were dead!"

"Huh?" John sat up, remembered the cut in his thigh, and adjusted his position cautiously.

"You didn't show up for dinner. I thought you'd thrown a blood clot, or fallen down the stairs and broken a leg or your neck or something. I had half the science division searching, and Grodin was checking the sensors, and then finally I thought of asking Ellison."

"I was right here," John said blearily. "What time is it?"

"It's past twenty-one! What have you been doing all day?"

"Sleeping, I guess." John frowned. "I must have been . . . tired." It was true, he hadn't slept much last night, but there was more to it than that. Maybe a delayed reaction to the painkillers from yesterday? He felt fuzzy-headed from sleeping so much during the day, and he'd been dreaming about . . . something really important. He couldn't quite remember.

Blair thumped Rodney on the shoulder. "So, I'm glad he's okay. Let us know if we can help again." He waved cheerily at John and headed for the door, where Ellison was standing and watching John with a suspicious expression. They had a quick whispered exchange and then disappeared.

"Never do that again!" Rodney was exclaiming.

"You don't own me," John snapped reflexively. He felt guilty almost at once.

"What? No, I mean -- I was worried!"

"Yeah." John rubbed his face again. "Sorry."

"Well, you should be! That was pretty inconsiderate of you, disappearing like that without a word."

Now John was rubbing his temples instead. "Look, I don't think now is the best time for this discussion."

"I mean, when you weren't there at lunch, and you weren't there at dinner --"

"McKay . . ."

"-- and I checked the room and you weren't there either, and no one had seen you since morning --"

John felt a kind of pressure building inside him.

"-- the least you could have done was left a note or an email or something --"

John erupted. "Dammit, Rick, I don't answer to you! You can't tell me what to do!"

Rodney stared as if John had grown an extra head. "Are you --"

"I'm fine, dammit!"

"-- sleeping with someone else?"

"What?" It was a complete non sequitur.

"You just called me Rick."

"No, I didn't."

"Yes, you did."

"I called you Rodney." Except his ears sort of remembered hearing the word 'Rick' come out of his mouth. That was the dream, he realized suddenly; he'd been dreaming about Holland and that horrible fight they had, and then the make-up sex. And then the next week Holland's chopper went down, and John disobeyed orders to go after him. Only in the dream, it was like they were stuck in that last fight and never moved past it.

Rodney was talking. "-- sleeping with this Rick person?"

John sighed. "He was . . . from before. Back on Earth."

"Oh. I didn't realize you left someone behind."

And that was so ironic John had to laugh or he'd cry. "I don't leave men behind."

From the steepening slant of his mouth, Rodney didn't get it. "You . . . miss him?"

"God, yes." More than three years later, he still did. John buried his face in his hands.

Rodney was silent for an uncharacteristically long minute.

"Look, Rodney, I don't think this is going to work," John finally said.

"This, what?"

"What are we doing here, anyway? I mean, did we think about this at all? It seems like it just happened."

"This . . . ?"

"Us. You and me. Does it even make any sense? I mean, Ellison and Sandburg, they've been together more than a decade. They're married, for God's sake. Next to them, we're . . . what are we even doing?"

"I thought we were . . . lovers?"

John gave a half-laugh, half-sob. "Love? I don't even know what love is -- do you? I'm no good at this sort of thing, Rodney."

"Are, are you . . . breaking up with me?" Rodney said in a small voice.

"I'm just saying, maybe we should cool it for little. Take a step back and --"

"Oh my God, you are breaking up with me!"

Rodney's expression of horror congealing into resignation worked like a mirror, forcing John to pay attention to his own words. It really did sound like a half-dozen bad breakups he remembered. But where he was sure every one of those women and men had been lying when they used such phrases to let him down 'gently,' he really did mean it with Rodney.

"Look, Rodney, I don't mean to . . . I don't want you to think . . . it's nothing you've done wrong, you've been great, I just --"

Rodney's mouth twisted. "Yeah, yeah, you know, the old 'it's not you, it's me' routine sort of lost its credibility around, I don't know, fifth grade?"

"No, Rodney, I'm serious --"

"Right, and you hope we can still be friends. Well, you know what, Sheppard? You can shove that plan right up your ass, 'cause you sure as hell won't be getting any of my body parts up there ever again. And you know what else? I'm keeping the bed you got me. And the room. You can find your own damn place to sleep. Maybe Rick has room for you."

For a dizzying moment, as Rodney stomped toward the door, John thought he had just wished him dead. Then he realized Rodney hadn't picked up his clues about the real story, and thought he was having an affair right now with someone named Rick.

And that was bad enough. John knew only too vividly the hurt and betrayal Rodney was feeling now, knew how he would be reviewing every conversation they'd had, every occasion of lovemaking, and looking for lies everywhere. Except it wasn't lies: John had meant every moment of it, every tender caress. And that was what had scared him.

Maybe it was better for Rodney to think him a liar than to know him for the fucking coward he was.

That night, John stumbled back to the room where he (and Rodney) had slept for their first few weeks on Atlantis. He lay awake for hours on the bare mattress, mind going over everything he had said and should have said and wanted to say, and all the reasons why hurting Rodney a little bit now was better than what would inevitably happen further down the line. When he did sleep, John dreamed again of Holland and woke shouting.

"So what happened?" Blair demanded over breakfast -- an early breakfast, probably too early for Rodney to be up, but John was watching the entrance anyway.

He shrugged. "I'm not sure."

"What do you mean, not sure? You broke up with him, didn't you?"

"I don't know how it happened," John insisted. "It was . . . sort of an accident."

"Like a misunderstanding?"

"Well, sort of. I mean, I would say one thing and it's like he heard something else. He thinks I'm cheating on him with somebody here on Atlantis, just because I was thinking about . . ." John swallowed. "Somebody who's not around anymore."

"So clear it up! Tell him it was a mistake."

John fiddled with his fork. "I'm not sure that's a good idea."

Blair eyed him. "You want him to think you're cheating on him."

"No! But . . . maybe it's for the best, you know? Maybe, maybe we weren't really supposed to be together. It was just sort of . . . I don't know, convenient."

"But you guys were so good together!"

"Yeah, right. We have nothing in common."

Blair snorted. "You think Jim and I have a lot in common?"

"But you have this, this Sentinel thing keeping you together. You really belong with each other, like . . ." Destiny, John was thinking, but it sounded too much like a line from the back of a romance novel.

"We weren't always this secure, you know," Blair said. "I mean, from the start it felt like there was something, like we were really supposed to be together, you know? But it wasn't smooth and easy. One time, Jim kicked me out . . ." His eyes darkened. "He was having a reaction to the presence of another Sentinel in the area, but we didn't know that at the time."

John blinked. "Another Sentinel?" He'd had the impression it was like a superpower or something, completely unique.

"Yeah. There used to be lots of Sentinels in pre-industrial societies, but they've become less common. This was the first time we met one. Anyway, Jim got all territorial and he wasn't sure why, so he ended up throwing me right out of his territory."

"What happened?"

Blair grimaced. "Well, it's a long story, but . . . I died."

"What, just from being separated?"

"No!" Blair laughed. "No, it's not like that -- we're not tied to each other or anything. Although, I'm not really sure how well Jim could cope long-term without me around. But that time, it was the other Sentinel. She killed me. Jim got there just too late to stop her. He had some training as a medic in the Army, and he brought me back even when the EMTs were ready to give up. He just wouldn't let me go."

John thought about that for a while. "I don't think anything like that's going to happen to Rodney and me. Not as a result of being apart, I mean."

"You never know, man. It's a dangerous galaxy out there, even if you're not a Sentinel."

"I just think Rodney might be better off without me, no matter how bad it feels just now." And John . . . might not exactly be better off without Rodney, but he'd feel safer not having another person to worry about all the time.

After breakfast, John sought out Sergeant Bates and argued with him until the quartermaster grudgingly coughed up a set of sheets. He went back to the larger room (now just Rodney's room) and collected his meager set of belongings while Rodney was in the lab. And that was that; he was a single man again.

Being Rodney's ex-lover was surprisingly similar to being Rodney's lover in a lot of ways. John still spent a lot of time working on the Gateships with Grodin or Simpson, or with other scientists on other Ancient equipment, or ferrying people and equipment back and forth to the mainland. He still spent a lot of effort trying to keep track of where Rodney was, but now it was mostly so he could avoid him. That wasn't too hard, since Rodney was apparently working on the equipment they'd salvaged from the Daedalus, and John's ATA gene was no advantage with Earth/Asgard technology.

He didn't spend mealtimes with Rodney anymore, but he kept trying to figure out where and what Rodney was eating. When he discovered that Rodney was skipping meals, he spent a lot of energy trying to get food to Rodney through middlemen. Blair Sandburg was good for this a few times, but too often John couldn't find Blair or couldn't draw him away from whatever he and Ellison were busy with. John tried Hailey then (moving slowly, but mostly recovered from her adventure on the Daedalus), and that worked since she was rabidly curious about progress on the Asgard beaming console and used the food delivery as an excuse to get into the lab. But apparently Rodney said something rude to her (the phrase 'errand-girl spy' was mentioned), and after that she was less receptive.

John tried Cadman next, but she just raised a strawberry-blond eyebrow. "Didn't you break up with McKay?" she demanded.

"Yes, well . . . sort of." Accidentally, John didn't add.

"So why are you still taking care of him?"

"Somebody needs to," John retorted.

"He's a big boy, he can take care of himself. He's just skipping meals to get you to notice, to prove you still care."

It was possible; Rodney wasn't beyond underhanded emotional manipulation, when it occurred to him. But as angry as he'd been, he probably wouldn't believe John did still care about him anyway. It was really more likely that he was just throwing himself into work and forgetting about meals completely. Or so determined to avoid John that he wouldn't come to the mess, so the only food he got was junk and powerbars.

"He doesn't know I'm the one sending the food," John pointed out.

"Yeah, right."

"No, seriously. He wouldn't believe you even if you told him."

"Look, flyboy. Come to me if you're ready for a rebound," Cadman drawled. "No strings attached. But don't try to drag me into this co-dependent thing you have going on. I don't need that."

John's face was hot and he felt guilty for even considering the proposition -- he'd been in high school when she was born, for God's sake! -- and anyway he didn't need more complications in his life, even if she was sort of cute. He just shook his head at her.

Cadman gave an exasperated sigh. "Try Dr. Kusanagi," she said with a nod towards a diminutive Japanese woman. "She admires McKay for some reason, and she likes to take care of people. But go easy on her; she's still a little scared of men."

Ah, yes, a member of Heightmeyer's special therapy group. John carried the tray of Rodney-food over to Kusanagi's table and made sure to sit a careful distance away rather than looming over her while he made his request. And that was another meal delivered to the labs.

But if the days were only slightly changed, the nights were very different now. The bed was too small (even for John alone; how had they ever fit in it together?), and too hard, and too cold. He didn't sit awake waiting for Rodney to get back from the labs, or give up and go to sleep anyway only to be awakened by mutterings and putterings and blanket-rearrangings, then sleep too late every morning. Now he lay awake because he was half-afraid to relax into sleep, and he woke shouting from nightmares he barely remembered, and he got up most days before dawn.

Link to Part Three

Fic: The Lost Heir

2008-01-02T05:06:36Z

Fandom: C.S. Lewis: The Chronicles of Narnia
Title: The Lost Heir
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: ~2500
Warnings: interspecies union, possibly underage
Summary: The Kings and Queens of Narnia disappeared while on a hunting trip, leaving no behind no heir -- save one.

A/N: Written for Sternel for the Yuletide rare fandom secret Santa project. This was written as a last-minute Yuletide treat on December 24.

At that happy time in the land of Narnia there was not one ruler, but four: two Kings and two Queens. And for ten years they ruled well and wisely, but then while on a hunting trip they went astray and were seen never again. The land was thrown into sad disarray, for none of the four rulers had wedded, being but children at the beginning of their reign; and all thought they had sufficiency of time to get an heir, or that they should be each other's heirs, until all at once were gone, leaving no issue.

Or so it was believed, by all but a very few. This is the tale of how one of the Four Golden Monarchs of Narnia had an heir.

At that time, being shortly past Yuletide in the eighth year of Their Majesties' benevolent reign, King Edmund the Just was on retreat in his castle in the northern part of Narnia, hard upon the border of the Lantern Waste in the erstwhile realm of the White Witch. Many of the fine folk in this region felt a shadow upon their hearts each winter as they remembered how the White Witch had so long held sway there, and it cheered them to have their King at hand, with music and fine food and courtly conversation to drive away the winter cold.

Upon a snowy night the King was standing near a window which gave upon the North, thinking on the Witch and on transgression and redemption. There came to him then the head of his castle guard, Ranulf the talking Wolf, brother to that Fenris who had served the White Witch, and thereby shunned by many until he found an honorable place in His Majesty's service.

"Sire," said the great Wolf, his tall ears aprick, "a horse approacheth, with a rider."

"In this weather, they must be nigh unto freezing," said King Edmund. "Build up the fire. Let blankets and mulled cider be brought, and a hot mash for the horse." And he slung his fur cloak about him and went to wait upon the castle steps for this messenger.

Great was his surprise when he saw his young sister, Queen Lucy the Valiant, riding alone through the waste on this wintry night.

"Fair Sister!" he cried, "What brings thee hither in such haste, and so poorly attended? Tell me not that some ill has befallen our royal brother and sister."

"Nay," she said, alighting from her dappled mare in good cheer. "When last I saw them, they were well in Cair Paravel."

"Then come inside," said he, "if thou hast nothing of dire urgency to convey, and hold thy tale until thou be warm again." So saying, he pressed his cloak around her shoulders.

Seated in a chair piled with blankts, her feet toward the fire and her hands warmed by a goblet of cider, Queen Lucy said, "I came to visit thee, Dear Brother, and to share thy company."

"Only this?" he asked. "Why come all unattended for so slight a cause?"

Now the roses in her cheeks were from more than riding in the chill wind. "In truth, I have quarreled with our brother High King Peter. When he would not agree with me, I left Cair Paravel in haste."

"Would that I had been there to reason with the both of you!" he said.

"Nay, Brother, thou canst not be the peacemaker eternally."

"Of what like was this quarrel?"

"The High King would not grant me his permission to marry whom I wish," said she.

"Why, what swain is this?" he exclaimed. "I have not seen any man wooing thee!"

"Indeed, thou hast," said Queen Lucy, "For he has been the oldest and dearest of friends to us all. I wish to marry the Faun Tumnus."

This gave King Edmund pause, for although all manner of folk dwelt in Narnia in those times and dealt each other the respect of equals, yet marriage was reserved only for those of like form. "A maid -- a Daughter of Eve -- and a Faun? I have not heard of such a union."

"It is perfectly commonplace," said she. "Thou knowest that all Fauns are male?"

"Why, 'tis true, all that I have met are male," he wondered. "I had not thought on it overmuch. I supposed the females shy of company."

"Nay, for there are no females at all."

"Then how do they get --" he began, and held his tongue for propriety.

But Queen Lucy, not easily flustered, merely smiled at him. "How do young Fauns come to be?" she asked on his behalf. "Most often, they mate with naiads or dryads during the festivals of spring and summer. If the child be female, she grows to be another such nymph as her mother. If a boychild, then he is a Faun and goes to live with his father."

"Yet a nymph is not quite the same as a Daughter of Eve," said King Edmund.

"True, Dear Brother. But there have been such joinings, in Archenland and the southern parts of Narnia where dwell more men and women. Recall, nearly all such were destroyed or driven out by the White Witch."

"I do recall." King Edmund considered her words. "Though such a union be possible, is it wise?"

Here Queen Lucy sighed unhappily. "So spake our brother, saying that an alliance with a Queen of Narnia should be a privilege granted to some potentate who might return it in like measure. Yet I say that dear Tumnus has earned our gratitude, and more than that, my love."

"Love may not lightly be gainsaid," King Edmund mused, "and yet the High King may say us yea or nay and we must heed him. Perhaps I might speak to Peter on thy behalf."

"Indeed, thy intercession is most welcome, dear Edmund, but I fear Peter will not be swayed. Our words became quite rancourous upon the mattter, and it pains me to recall what epithets we used. Write to him if thou desirest, but I shall not expect a swift response. Meantimes, may I dwell here at thy castle, until such time as our brother sees fit to call me back?"

Thus it was that Queen Lucy joined the northern court during the harshest days of winter, and all were much cheered by her laughter and sweetness, and the light of her golden hair which recalled the Sun. Yet King Edmund perceived betimes that her spirits were downcast, and asked her if it was that matter on which he had written to High King Peter which troubled her heart.

"Indeed, I miss my dear Tumnus," she said sadly, "but there is something more I must tell thee, dear Brother. I am increasing."

Much astounded was King Edmund at this news, for the warm furs she wore had concealed his sister's figure from him. "Is this why thou wished to marry Tumnus?" he asked.

"Indeed, for he is the father of my babe. We had joy of each other last Midsummer's eve, when the dancing was over and the mead was all gone. I love him most warmly, but I fear our brother and sister would count it a terrible thing that I have done. And so I came to thee, Dear Edmund."

She did not say it, but it was in both their thoughts: Edmund knew only too well what it was like to make a dreadful mistake, and to be forgiven in spite of it. "Does Aslan know of this?" he asked at length.

"I am sure he does," said Lucy. "I saw him in the late summer, and he bespoke me most perplexingly. Later I guessed he had spoken of what I did not yet suspect myself."

"If this is a girl child, she will be a Daughter of Eve, even as thou art," said Edmund. "What then?"

"Why, then our royal brother and sister must know, for I shall keep the child with me and love her dearly. But if the babe be a young Faun, he shall leave with his father and I shall see him little if at all."

King Edmund thought on all these matters. "It is not for me to say whether it be well done or ill," he concluded at last. "Only Aslan may judge on that score. Yet well or ill, this venture will come to its fruition in due time, and we shall know then what else must befall."

It was not long after this that the Faun Tumnus arrived at the northern castle and begged an audience with Their Majesties. And King Edmund looked upon him with suspicion as one who had used his sister ill, but Queen Lucy wept for joy and embraced him, asking him what had delayed him in returning to her side. And he replied that he had been preparing a place for the little one in case of need.

King Edmund entrusted a small number of his retainers with the news, that they might care for Queen Lucy in her time of need. When the days began to lengthen and winter's hold on the land was near to breaking, Queen Lucy took to her bed, attended by Mrs. Beaver, the wise Dwarf Brimble, and the Unicorn Sabinet. Full three days she laboured, while the last great storm of that winter shook the castle stones about them, and King Edmund and Tumnus and all the folk of the castle crept about in dismay as they waited. At the end of the third day a tiny Faun was born into the world, but Queen Lucy lay direly ill and heeded him not.

Then King Edmund begged a favour of noble Sabinet, for no mount in his stables could overleap the drifts of snow that hemmed the castle about.

"Dearest Majesty," said Sabinet then, "it would be my pleasure to bear you. For when the White Witch broke my horn, I was too shamed to be seen so disfigured. But Your Majesty caused a new horn to be fashioned for me out of moon-silver which will not tarnish, and gave me a place in Your Majesty's court, and for this I am forever in your debt." And she consented to wear a light saddle for the King's comfort, and bore him upon her back while she leapt lightly over the drifts of snow, and ran tirelessly all the day and into the night until they reached Cair Paravel.

"Why, Edmund," High King Peter exclaimed, "What brings thee here in such haste and disarray?"

"Our beloved sister Queen Lucy is laid low by a terrible fever," said King Edmund. "I have come to fetch her cordial, which alone might make her well."

"Indeed, she shall have it," High King Peter declared. "We shall convey it thither together, and Queen Susan along with us, for we have dearly missed our fair young sister all this long winter."

"Come in full train and you both shall be welcome at my castle, and more than welcome," said King Edmund. "But Dearest Lucy cannot wait for the cordial. Let me take it to her at once, and you follow after."

Then King Edmund mounted again upon Sabinet, refusing all offers from other mounts, and she ran the width of the land once more, through the remainder of the night and all the next day, over snow which had not yet receded, until they arrived at King Edmund's castle at sunset near to collapse with exhaustion. Sabinet curled her legs beneath her next the hearth and lay her head upon the stones and slept; but King Edmund, staggering with weariness, carried the cordial to the chamber where his sister lay near to death and placed a drop with trembling hand upon her ashen lips.

And Queen Lucy opened her eyes and smiled, her face flooding once more with colour. "Dearest Edmund!" she cried. "Oh, where is my babe? Tell me that he is well and safe!"

And the young Faun was brought to her bedside in the arms of Tumnus, who was much overjoyed to see her well. The infant was named Vernal in honour of the season, and he brought great happiness to both his parents for two weeks. But when the snows were melting and the rivers full to their banks, word came that High King Peter and Queen Susan were on their way with great train of folk from the court in Cair Paravel. Then Queen Lucy kissed her tiny son upon his head and embraced Tumnus once more, and bade them both farewell. And King Edmund and Queen Lucy reunited with their brother and sister amid declarations of joy, but they never revealed what had transpired that winter.

And thus, when Their Majesties went out hunting one day and never returned, there were only five souls left in all the land who knew that they were not entirely without issue.

Edmund Pevensie wondered sometimes how much his sister remembered of that time in Narnia. All four of them had found that their recollection was hazy, but they bolstered it by talking often among themselves. Lucy spoke fondly of Mr. Tumnus, of the music that he played and his love of dance, but she never said anything improper or revealed that she knew about matters which young girls should not know. And Edmund, of course, could not ask her about it, so he let it be.

More than one thousand years later, upon the first day of the reign of King Caspian the Tenth, a young Faun came before the Kings and Queens and made an elegant bow to Queen Lucy.

"Your Majesty, my name is Bauran," he said. "Perhaps Your Majesty is aware that we Fauns keep track of our lineage from father to father, going back many years?"

"I did know that," said Lucy, listening to his words with anticipation.

"I thought it might interest you to know that I am descended from the Faun Tumnus, who was recorded in history as a special advisor in Your Majesty's court."

Lucy hugged the Faun, and her siblings did not wonder at her tears, for they all felt sadness at the thought of old friends they would never meet again. Only Edmund realized that Lucy was embracing her own descendant, and knew that she wept also because she had never been allowed to know her own son.

Soon after, they had to depart Narnia. And though Edmund and Lucy were able to visit once more, there were no Fauns among the crew of the Dawn Treader, and Lucy never saw her descendants again.

Not, at least, until after the Last Battle, when she was reunited with Tumnus, and Vernal, and all that was beautiful and impossible.

Fic: The First Time is the Hardest

2008-01-02T04:53:22Z

Fandom: Martha Wells: The Fall of Ile-Rien
Title: The First Time is the Hardest
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: ~8400
Warnings: het, non-con, scary stuff
Summary: Ilias and Giliead had to do things for the first time, and learn from their mistakes.

A/N: Written for marycrawford for the Yuletide rare fandom secret Santa project. This was a pinch hit I picked up on December 17.

Ilias pushed himself up on an elbow as he heard the door creak. "Gil?" He glanced toward the window; still dark. "What time is it?"

"Don't know." Giliead shucked his outer clothes, lifted the blankets, and curled toward his foster-brother's warmth although the night was only cool. "Late. Go back to sleep."

Ilias turned up onto his side and tried to make out Giliead's features in the dim light. They probably wouldn't have told him much even if he could see; Gil was hard to read sometimes. You had to know what he was thinking about already, and this time Ilias wasn't quite sure. "Who did you go with?"

There had been a couple of young women showing interest in Giliead at the Harvest Eve celebration; Ilias had stayed out of the way so Giliead could have a free hand. It was past time the girls paid attention to Gil, who was turning into a handsome young man, strong and faithful and everything that was good. But apparently most of them were put off because Giliead was their god's Chosen Vessel. And that was silly; Chosen Vessels couldn't marry, but no one their age was ready to marry yet anyway. There was no reason Giliead couldn't enjoy a good tumble.

Ilias had tumbled with his brother on occasion, but that was just play-sex, boys learning about their bodies. He wondered sometimes if Giliead took it more seriously than that, but he wasn't sure how to ask.

And Gil still hadn't answered the question.

"Was it Cienalla?" Ilias pressed. "She's nice. Fun to be with." He'd been sort of rooting for Cienalla, except that he'd gotten a funny feeling watching her joke and flirt with Giliead. It couldn't be jealousy, since he'd only been with Cienalla once and that was months ago and he hardly ever saw her anyway. But it almost felt like jealousy. That was when Ilias had decided he'd better clear out so he didn't ruin Giliead's chances somehow.

Giliead just grunted and turned onto his side, presenting Ilias with his back.

"Fine, don't tell me. You know I'll find out tomorrow anyway."

Giliead sighed. "It was Visolela."

"Oh." Ilias didn't like Visolela much, but he didn't know her well, either. She was very beautiful, but he wouldn't choose her for a first time. "Was it good?"

"Yeah. Wonderful," Giliead mumbled into the bed.

Ilias leaned closer. "You don't sound like it was good."

Giliead slumped to his back and stared up at the ceiling. "It felt great, but it was too fast. I don't think it was very good for her."

"First times are usually pretty fast. She had to be expecting that." Ilias frowned when there was no reply. "Really. Even later, when you get used to how good it feels and learn to slow down, it's still awkward with a new partner. Visolela has to know that."

"She didn't seem to . . . I think she was expecting something more."

"Did she ask for something else?"

"No . . ."

"What did she say, then?"

Giliead's eyes squeezed closed. "It's not important."

Bitch, Ilias thought angrily. "If she doesn't tell you what she wants, she shouldn't blame you for not giving it to her."

Giliead just lay still, eyes closed, breathing slowly and evenly.

Ilias bumped him on the shoulder. "Look, you can practice with me anytime. Learn to hold off a little, keep it from ending too soon. And next time, try Cienalla."

"Cienalla's afraid of me."

"No, she's not, she's just . . ." Ilias sighed. He knew being a Chosen Vessel was a great responsibility, but he wished people wouldn't treat Giliead as if it made him some kind of freak. Sometimes they acted almost as if Giliead was a curseling, instead of being invulnerable to most wizards' curses thanks to the god's protection. "All right, try Darinna, then. She's nice too."

"Darinna sleeps with everyone."

"So why should you be an exception?" Ilias joked. "You think you're special or something?"

Everyone knew Giliead was special.

"Come on," Ilias urged. "You want to practice now?" His body had reacted predictably to the topic of conversation and was ready to go. He nudged Giliead's hip hopefully.

"Not now. I'm tired." Giliead rolled away.

With a sigh, Ilias squirmed back to his own side of the bed and took care of the matter himself.

Ilias went out with a fishing boat the next day due to a complicated labor trade his foster-mother Karima had made in return for help with their own harvest. It was chilly and wet, but this time of year the fishers only went out for a few hours at a time, so it wasn't too bad. Karima had sat down with him a few years ago and discussed how she wanted to make sure he was learning plenty of skills that could come in useful later on -- not just so that he would fetch a good price in marriage (though he knew that was important, since Giliead couldn't marry and that made him the family's best chance to earn a good marriage-price), but so that he would have as many choices in his life as possible. Ilias was positive he wanted to be a warrior, but Karima insisted he needed to know other things for when he retired from that.

Ilias supposed he probably would make a profitable marriage someday, since the girls giggled over his looks and warriors were always popular. Karima wouldn't force him into an unpleasant alliance; she would probably even try to get him a place as first husband, or at least something in a wealthy household with an understanding wife. But that was still years away, and it was hard for Ilias to picture himself in that role. He'd be the male head of a household, possibly jostling for status with other husbands or other men in the extended family -- and eventually a father. It made him feel strange to think about it. For now he was happy to be one of two sons in a small household.

When he got back to the Andrien house, he found Giliead in the kitchen arguing with his parents -- which was unusual -- while his sister Irisa looked on with an unhappy frown. They all shut up and looked away as Ilias entered the room.

"What's going on?" he asked, setting his portion of the day's catch on the table and pulling a chair close to the stove as he stripped off his wet overtunic.

"There's a wizard," said Giliead shortly.

Ilias went still, his heart speeding. "Where?"

"Near Sardon, about two days' ride inland."

Ilias breathed. So no one was directly threatening them. "There was a messenger?" he asked.

Giliead shook his head. "The god showed me."

"You see?" said Karima sharply. "If you're young enough that the god can still speak to you so easily, you're too young to be hunting wizards yet."

Giliead's father Ranior grimaced, but said nothing.

"If it's two days away," said Ilias slowly, "isn't there someone else who could go?"

"Our god is the nearest," Giliead said. "And it showed me. That means it's my responsibility."

"Menander --" Ilias began, naming the Chosen Vessel from the Uplands, who had been helping to protect this area ever since Giliead was Chosen as a boy of eight seasons, too young to do the job.

Ranior shook his head. "Still recovering from his injuries from that last wizard he fought."

That had been a bad business, last year -- an entrenched wizard clever enough to slip past the notice of local gods for a few years. A lot of people had been cursed to death or madness, bringing him down. Giliead had been alternately furious and despairing for weeks afterward, though he tried to conceal it just because that was how he was.

"And that one should have been my responsibility, too," said Giliead. "I'm old enough, Mother. It's time."

Karima's face showed lines in places where they weren't supposed to be. She turned away sharply and addressed her daughter. "Irisa, have you started the dinner yet?"

"The fish just arrived," she protested.

"Well, start cleaning them, then!" Karima demonstrated by pulling one of the larger fish over to the chopping block and severing its head with a thump that made everyone flinch.

Ilias turned to Giliead. "When are we leaving?"

"What?!" Karima turned from the fish.

"You're not coming with me," said Giliead.

Ilias crossed his arms and glared. "You're not going alone."

"This is my job. The god chose me, not the whole family."

"We talked about this, Gil!" Ilias had joined in as much of Giliead's training as he was allowed. They had learned to fight together, with and without weapons. They had studied strategy and the tales of past Chosen Vessels and the different kinds of curses wizards might send at them. "You might be protected against most curses, but you can still be killed!" That was what happened to most Chosen Vessels, at an earlier age than anyone liked to acknowledge.

"And you think it would be better for you to get killed along with me?" Giliead returned the glower.

"Remember our plan? One person to distract the wizard while the other sneaks up from behind?" They had actually come up with several variations on that plan to meet different situations, but they all came down to the same basic strategy.

"You expect me to take you along as bait?" Giliead protested. "No!"

"You're the bait, idiot!" Ilias retorted. "While the wizard is trying to figure out which curses will work on you, I surprise him and kill him!"

"Neither of you is going to be bait!" said Karima darkly.

"Ilias is right." Ranior's firm, quiet tone made everyone shut up and look at him. "Giliead shouldn't go alone. And Giliead is right -- Ilias doesn't need to be in danger. I'll go with him."

"Ranior --" Karima began. Ilias could see the fear for her sons that had been haunting her spread to fear for her husband, as well. It was a love match between them; Ranior was a former warrior and former lawgiver, but aging, past his prime. Marrying him had been a step down in status for Karima. Andrien was a respected old family, but dwindling. Karima had no sisters, and with Ranior she'd only had two children, and then Giliead was Chosen by the god -- a prestigious calling, but not one that tended to boost a family's wealth or popularity. Andrien was respected in council meetings but no one's first choice for an alliance. Irisa was going to have to choose her husband carefully and would still pay a higher price than another family might.

"I was hoping that Giliead could work together with Menander, his first time facing a wizard," said Ranior, resting his fingertips on the tabletop. "That might have worked if Giliead had gone with him when we got the reports last year --"

"He was too young!" Karima flared.

Ranior nodded. "Then, perhaps. That was a bad one. But it's been nearly a year. He's reached his full growth now, and he's becoming a man. He's been shaving long enough that he hardly ever cuts himself anymore," he teased with a half-smile, but Karima still looked haunted. "Karima, we knew this was coming. It's time to let him go. I'll go with him, since it's his first time."

"It's not my first time," Giliead muttered stubbornly. But the wizard he had faced as a child -- the same wizard that had killed the previous Chosen Vessel -- had been killed by the god itself. That wouldn't be possible once Giliead started traveling about the countryside in search of wizards beyond the influence of the god of Cineth.

Karima still didn't like it, but she couldn't deny what they had all known for years. Ranior was right: it was time for Giliead to go out and take up his calling, however dangerous it might be.

Ranior was obviously wrong, though, that Ilias shouldn't accompany him.

"So what do you know about this wizard?" Ilias demanded, arms folded as he leaned against the doorway of their shared bedchamber. The house was more than large enough for them to have separate rooms, but it was customary for siblings to sleep in one bed. Ilias had come from a large family and was used to sharing with three or four others, so he had said no when Karima offered him his own room. Irisa used to join them on colder nights, until she grew old enough to find other bedmates.

"It's a woman," said Giliead, stuffing two shirts into his pack and then pulling one out again.

"That's unusual," Ilias commented.

"Yes, most woman wizards don't survive their apprenticeship, or slavery, or whatever you call it. But that just means when one of them does, she's even more crazy than most."

"Wonderful."

"She hasn't been in this area for long, though. And she was clumsy enough to attract the notice of the god even from that far away. So I think she's inexperienced. A good one to start with." Giliead glanced up from his packing. "I don't need help."

Ilias scowled. "So, wouldn't this be a good one for me to start with, too?"

"No. Ranior's going with me, and that's already too many at risk."

Ilias watched darkly as Giliead checked over his sword -- the nice one that Ranior had bought for him just a few months ago, when they knew he was as tall as he was going to get. "If this wizard is so clumsy and inexperienced, why are you afraid we'll get hurt?"

The line of Giliead's back went stiff, and Ilias knew he'd hit on something important.

"What's she doing that has you so worried?"

Most wizards just killed people; some, especially the older more clever wizards, enslaved people and used them to carry out their dirty work, or just as a way of gathering power. The worst wizards enslaved lots of people, including other, weaker wizards they could use to conceal what they were doing. All of that was bad and a reason to be afraid, but something about the way Giliead was acting told Ilias that this wizard wasn't like most of them.

"She makes people do things," Giliead said in clipped tones.

"Like what? Bring her things, do chores for her, act as lookouts?"

"All that, yes, but also . . ."

"What?"

Giliead straightened sharply. "Sex things, all right? She makes people have sex with her. And with each other, while she watches."

"Oh." Ilias could see at once how that would upset Giliead, especially if the visions he got from the god had details. Stupid of Gil to think he needed to protect his brother from such things, but at least Ilias understood now. "Crazier than most, huh?"

"Right." Giliead buckled the sword around his waist, hoisted the pack, and stepped up to the doorway.

Ilias was still blocking it. He took a deep breath, ready to argue more, then just shook his head. This was one of those things where Giliead wasn't going to back down, he could tell. And Ranior was almost as stubborn. "Right," he returned, and stepped out of Giliead's way. "Just . . . be careful, all right?"

Giliead nodded and gave Ilias's shoulder a squeeze before he moved out.

Watching his father and brother ride away, Ilias was plotting what time he should sneak out after them.

Nearly three days later, Ilias was looking down at the campsite Giliead and Ranior had abandoned, and swearing at himself for not getting here earlier. Of course he'd been delayed, traveling on foot while the others were on horseback, and they'd had half a day's lead on him, and the moon was a crescent that only gave a few hours' light -- but he should have been faster.

One thing that hadn't been slowing him down was a need to search for food: Irisa had caught him sneaking out and pressed a package of bread, cheese, and smoked fish into his hands. He wouldn't have taken any food otherwise because he didn't want anyone to think he was stealing. Bad enough his first family claimed he had run away when in fact they'd abandoned him to die on a hillside. He wasn't going to give anyone a chance to say such things about him again. He'd also refused to take the household's last horse, but the elderly mare wouldn't have boosted his speed much anyway, even if she didn't go lame.

Now, the Andrien's two best horses were grazing a short distance away, unharmed; the grey mare pricked her ears at Ilias briefly, then decided he hadn't brought her anything. He picked up Ranior's carved bow, caressing the familiar grip uneasily as he tried to read the signs of what had happened. A bedroll was spread out beside the ashes of the fire: Giliead had been asleep. Something must have lured Ranior away while he was on watch -- or forced him away, more likely, since that was what it would take to make him leave his bow behind. Ilias couldn't tell if Giliead had woken immediately afterward or not, but he had left the camp in a hurry.

Ilias's stomach was tight with anxiety, but he remembered Ranior's lectures and forced himself to nibble on a bit of cheese to keep his strength up for the next few hours. He picked up the bow and quiver, selected a string of sinew from the three wrapped carefully in cloth, and strung the bow loosely. He settled the bow and quiver on his shoulder and dropped his own pack here; if he didn't make it back to the campsite, he wouldn't be needing what was in the pack. He followed the trail slowly, careful not to miss anything. Ranior and Giliead had struck out away from the trade road, across the fields and into the woods.

By the time the sun set, Ilias had found the wizard -- and Giliead and Ranior, her prisoners.

She had taken over a medium-size farmhouse some distance from the larger roads. The buildings looked a little neglected, but far from falling down. Under cover of the dimming twilight, Ilias had found his way around the back of the house to a window that let him see into the large common room.

The wizard had set up a sort of court for herself, reclining on a comfortable couch with her profile to the window, her expression hard to see. She was . . . not old, Ilias decided, but worn. Her face had lines and a leathery texture he could pick out even from here, and there was something odd about the shape of her cheekbone and nose, as if they'd been broken in the past.

The room was large enough that four wooden pillars, each as thick as a man's torso, were set in a square to support the rafters. Giliead was tied to one of these, the furthest from the wizard and from the window Ilias was peering through. In the flickering light from the hearth and the oil lamps placed about the room, Ilias could make out bruises and abrasions on his foster-brother's arms showing that he'd put up a struggle; his arms and legs were heavily bound, his forehead pressed against the wood. Apparently Giliead was immune to the wizard's control curses, so she'd had to tie him up.

The others present in the room were obviously under the wizard's control, though, for they were kneeling quietly in a line, facing the wizard's couch. There were three children -- a boy and a girl not more than eight seasons in age, and another girl perhaps ten or twelve. Then a dark-haired young man, a little younger than Ilias, and a woman near Karima's age who resembled him around the eyes and chin.

In the center of the room were two naked people. Ilias gulped as he realized what he was seeing. Ranior was making love to a woman there, his face buried in her crotch. No, Ilias realized: not making love, merely having sex. The woman was making small noises, but they didn't sound right.

Ilias had overheard the sex act in progress innumerable times since he was a small boy -- in his first family's house, at celebrations, or when they traveled and stayed in smaller accommodations. Although a certain respect for privacy was considered polite, no one worried too much about keeping quiet. When he was little, Ilias had found it hard to distinguish the sounds of pleasure and pain. He'd stopped asking about it after the first time, when his brother Castor punched him; but he had taken a while to learn the subtle differences.

These sounds weren't pained, but they didn't seem exactly happy, either. The woman was facing away from the window so Ilias couldn't see her expression, but he would bet it was terrified.

The wizard stirred on her couch. "She doesn't seem to be having very much fun," she commented languidly. Her accent was odd, not one that Ilias was familiar with.

She flicked a hand, and there was a cracking noise like the sound of a whip. Ranior raised his head and gasped, chin glistening with moisture. Ilias saw a red stripe starting across his father's back and realized it was only one of many.

"Do better, or you know what will happen," said the wizard in a sing-song.

With a small sound of frustration or pain, Ranior lowered his head again. The woman he was working on threw her head back and moaned loudly, but it still sounded fake to Ilias's ears.

He was starting to understand why Giliead had his head turned to the wood of the pillar.

The wizard stood up and prowled around the couple. She bent briefly to stroke a finger along one of the welts on Ranior's back, then stepped over him and crouched, straddling his legs. She squeezed his buttocks tightly. "Are you getting ready? Are you warm for her? Are you longing to bury yourself inside her?"

As sick and frightening as the reality of the situation was, Ilias heard those words and the woman's cries of pretended pleasure and felt himself come suddenly to aching attention. He bit his lip on an oath, damning his young, stupid body. He tore his eyes away from the scene and ducked below the level of the windowsill, trying to think.

If the wizard was using threats and punishments on Ranior, did that mean he wasn't under curse control either? Ilias couldn't think why that would be, unless the wizard didn't get as much sick satisfaction out of watching mere puppets copulate. Would Ranior be able to take advantage of some opportunity if Ilias could give him one? Or would the fact that he'd been under a curse earlier make it easy for the wizard to get him under control again quickly?

Ilias considered trying to pull the window open enough to get a shot through it, but it was likely latched for the cooler weather of the season. And the doors were probably cursed to let the wizard know if someone approached -- perhaps even to freeze anyone who touched them; that curse had been mentioned in some of the old stories.

Perhaps he could cause a diversion, something that would make a noise and draw the wizard out of the house. Then he could go in through the window and untie Giliead or just get a good shooting vantage for when she came back in.

He raised his head to peer through the window again and judge how distractable the wizard might be. She was still straddling Ranior, grinding her crotch against his thigh while her fingernails scraped down his back, and now he was fucking the unfamiliar woman below him. The woman had her head turned to one side and Ranior, too, looked more strained than pleasured.

Ilias concluded that shortly after the moment of climax -- the wizard's climax, however that came about -- would be the best time to trigger his diversion. What the diversion would be was another question; it was a shame he'd left the horses behind, since they might have been useful that way. Perhaps he could find a goat or cow lurking somewhere around the farm, something that would move about and make a noise if alarmed.

Then the wizard turned her head and looked straight out the window at Ilias. She didn't seem surprised at all, just smiled at him sweetly -- and he felt the curse come upon him like an iron hand clamping down on the back of his neck.

Without really thinking about it, Ilias had expected that Ranior would be furious when the wizard called him into the room. Instead, his ward-father looked almost ready to cry, which was a strange and disturbing expression on his features. It couldn't be from the whip-marks on Ranior's back, or the anticipation of Ilias receiving similar punishment. So it must be about the other things the wizard was making people do. Ilias wished he could reassure Ranior that he wasn't afraid of a little sex, but he couldn't speak.

The soft noise of surprise from the other side of the room sounded furious enough for two, but Ilias couldn't turn his head to see what was on his brother's face. He didn't care if Giliead was angry or disappointed. Ilias had made a stupid mistake and gotten caught, but obviously the other two had made mistakes also, so they had no business pointing fingers.

Ranior and the woman he had been fucking were standing naked in the center of the room, lit by the light of one fire and several oil lamps. It was unpleasantly warm with a strange smell to the room, and Ilias couldn't help thinking he might have gotten his shot off if he'd just waited for the wizard to open a window. But perhaps she wasn't uncomfortable with the temperature.

The wizard stood waiting with crossed arms as Ilias marched into the room with his legs under the control of another's will. He could see now that her face was oddly asymmetrical, as if it had healed imperfectly after a bad beating many years ago -- probably from her wizard-master, he supposed. His feet stopped before her, just a few steps away from Ranior, and the wizard walked around him assessingly, as if he were a bull for sale at market. Ilias told himself the heat in his face was from the fire.

"So, we have another pretty young thing!" the wizard said at last. "Walked right in to join my party, didn't he? Must have heard about it and couldn't keep himself away -- boys are like that, you know," she confided to Ranior. She stroked Ilias's cheek; he realized her fingernails had been trimmed or filed to sharp points, and hardened somehow -- by a curse, presumably -- so they felt as sharp as bone chips scraping his face.

"Now, what shall we have the pretty boy do? He looks about the age to be forcing girls to do naughty things, doesn't he?" The wizard gestured with one sharp-clawed hand, and the two girls stood up from the row of kneeling people and stepped forward.

Now that Ilias could see them more clearly, he realized the younger girl was no more than six seasons old. Her eyes were red and her face streaked with tears and snot, and his heart stopped at the idea that he might be forced to violate a child's body like that.

The older girl wasn't out of the category of childhood yet, either, her chest still flat and her toes grubby. Her expression was distant, her eyes dead and uncaring as she stepped forward, and suddenly Ilias realized that her shirt was torn down the front.

"Selima here," said the wizard, laying a hand on the older girl's shoulder, "has already tasted the joys of manflesh. She said it wasn't so joyful at the time, but we know what she was really thinking. Of course, the man who gave her that first taste is gone, now." The wizard waved a hand toward the corner.

It took Ilias a moment to realize the gesture wasn't part of another spell; the wizard was pointing at a heap of clothes over there. No, not clothes -- a body, or perhaps more than one, strangely crumpled in the shadows. Ilias finally recognized what the faint rotten odor was in the room and felt his stomach heave.

Behind him, creaking ropes and small grunts said that Giliead was struggling again. One of the boys sniffled off to the side.

"Shall we have the pretty boy give Selima another lesson? Or perhaps he's really naughty and would prefer little Ancia?"

Please, no, Ilias thought. Hurt me, not them. It was my stupid mistake! He understood that expression on Ranior's face now.

"Take off your clothes, pretty boy. Let me see what the spirits of Harvest Eve brought me."

Ilias's body began mechanically to disrobe. First the bow and quiver came off his shoulder, then the sword belt. He noticed that his fingers were a little clumsy and wondered if that was a flaw in the wizard's control of delicate motions. But even if it was, he had no idea how to take advantage of it. He'd been trying to resist the control over his bigger motions and hadn't even manage to hesitate or stagger a little when the wizard made him walk.

"Oh, my my," said the wizard, clucking her tongue when Ilias's pants came off. At least his traitorous body wasn't hard anymore, but it wasn't completely quiescent either. "Not just a pretty boy after all, but a pretty young man.

"I know!" She clapped her hands joyfully. "I have two pretty boys here, one dark and one light. Let's see them together." She waved her hands like a captain directing a ship, and everyone moved to her bidding. The two girls, thank the luck, went back to kneeling in line, and so did Ranior. The woman he'd been forced to fuck picked up Ilias's weapons and clothes and tossed them aside with a clatter, then joined the others. The boy with the unevenly cropped brown curls stood up and began to strip.

"Oh, yes, they do look fine together, don't they?" said the wizard, and Ilias found himself embracing the shorter boy. He was bony, and too young to have been shaving for long, and he smelled of sour fear-sweat and urine. Ilias wondered if the wizard had kept them all kneeling in one place for too long, or if what the boy witnessed had just been that frightening.

This boy also had tears on his face, but they might be more because of the dead bodies in the corner than because he was terrified of sex. Ilias couldn't be sure if he was old enough to have had more pleasant experiences with sex already, but at least he wasn't a small child -- that wasn't much consolation, but it was something for Ilias to hold on to.

"Tell us your name, pretty fair boy," the wizard cooed.

Ilias found his mouth moving without permission. "Ilias." He hoped she wouldn't ask him about his family; learning of his connection to Ranior and Giliead would just give her another weapon to use against them.

"Ilias, how sweet. And this is Arites. I think you two should get to know each other."

Ilias's mouth kissed young Arites -- very clumsily; the wizard's lack of fine control showed here, but it might not be very obvious to an onlooker. His hands swept restlessly up and down the other boy's back, and Arites clasped him back. Ilias heard a rustle, and from the corner of his eye he saw the wizard hoisting her skirts and reaching underneath. He shuddered at the thought of those clawed fingers on sensitive flesh, which didn't make sense given that it was the wizard's own flesh and she didn't seem to mind -- but everything about this place, this night was appalling to Ilias.

The wizard touched herself and made small hungry noises while Ilias and Arites mashed their lips together and rubbed numb hands over each other's bodies. Ilias kept trying to resist the curse that controlled him, tried to move just one finger by his own will; but while the wizard's rule was not perfectly precise, it seemed unbreakable. Only his breath was under Ilias's conscious control, and all he could think of to do with that was to hold his breath until he passed out, which would probably result in some form of punishment -- maybe for him, mabe for one of the children -- when he woke again.

They had been embracing for a few minutes when the wizard made a frustrated noise. "No, no!" she said petulantly. "It's all wrong. You make a pretty picture together, but it's all sweetness -- no spice. We need something a little more . . . piquant."

The wizard, Ilias reflected darkly, had not been tasting Arites' tears or feeling him try to suppress his sobs. But he realized he was just trying to distract himself from what she might consider 'piquant.'

"Oh, I know!" she exclaimed suddenly, and waved at the children. The little girl, Ancia, stepped forward, and Ilias felt his heart sink. But instead of making the girl a sick participant in their embraces, the wizard pulled her close and produced a knife out of nowhere to hold against the girl's throat.

"Now, Ilias, I want you to untie that big one over there. The Chosen Vessel. He won't let me control him, but he's not going to risk the little girl's life, now is he?"

Ilias's arms released Arites, who stepped back into line with his eyes still squeezed shut. Ranior's gaze held the same restrained hope that Ilias was feeling as his feet turn toward the pillar where Giliead was bound. The leather straps holding him in place had tightened until the knots were unmanageable with curse-clumsy fingers, but the wizard, unfortunately, was not stupid enough to come near Giliead with a knife. Instead she told Ilias to keep working on the knots, and released him from the curse.

For a moment he stood blinking, hardly able to comprehend that he had control of his body. Then he looked where he wanted -- at Ranior and the others still kneeling stiffly in a row, at Giliead who was watching him expressionlessly, at the wizard who made a show of squeezing the little girl's throat until she gave a choked whimper. Blinking, Ilias got to work on the knots. Slowly the numbness of the curse bled out of his fingers, but even so he had to use his teeth a few times. The clean, familiar smell of Giliead's sweat was a surprising comfort after being forcibly pressed against an unknown, unhappy boy.

"Leave his feet bound!" said the wizard quickly when Ilias crouched and reached for the hobbles. "He doesn't need to have them free. Now both of you come over here." She pointed with her chin at the open space where she'd been making people act out her wishes.

She looked over Giliead assessingly, but didn't step closer for a better look. "You're a fine strapping young man, aren't you?" she commented.

Ilias mentally rolled his eyes. Everyone was always underestimating him just because he was slighter than Giliead and his fair beard didn't show stubble so obviously. So he was the 'pretty boy,' and Gil was the 'strapping young man.' Ilias knew that he should be plotting to take advantage of the wizard's mistaken assessment, but he was also simply annoyed by it as he had been by similar statements over the years.

"A Chosen Vessel. And just recently come to flower, from what I can sense."

Ilias wondered if she meant that Giliead was finally old enough to be seeking out wizards to fight them, or if she knew somehow that he'd had his first time with a woman just a few days ago.

"I bet you think you're on top of the world, don't you? Like a Chaean king on his throne, sneering down at all the rest of us."

Giliead didn't say anything; Ilias was startled for a moment to realize that either of them could speak, if they wanted to, unlike the cursed puppets over to the side. He moistened his lips experimentally but kept quiet, since it seemed safest.

"How distressing it would be for the great Chosen Vessel to kneel before our pretty boy -- or to get fucked by him. Does that bother you, hmm?"

Ilias blinked rapidly and suppressed an urge to laugh in relief, and his manhood actually began to unfurl a little. That was perhaps the least awful thing the wizard could possibly have chosen. Maybe. He glanced over at Giliead, who was frowning faintly. Maybe the idea did bother him? It wasn't as bad as being forced to fuck little girls, or his father -- Ilias's brain stuttered to a stop. Could the wizard already have done that to them, last night? His eyes flicked toward Ranior, who was also stiff and expressionless. What the hell had that this bitch done to them before Ilias arrived to distract her?

"Strip for me, you big, muscular Chosen Vessel."

Giliead removed his clothes so mechanically that one might almost have thought he really was under a curse. He wouldn't look at Ilias, either, but kept his eyes on the floor.

"Now . . . if you don't want this little girl to die -- and you don't, do you? No, of course you don't. Hands and knees then, big little man -- no, make that elbows and knees. And face to the side so I can see properly."

Giliead went down to the floor gracefully, with perfect control, and Ilias recognized it for the only form of rebellion he dared make. They had their free will, yes, but they were too far away. They would never be able to reach the wizard fast enough to keep her from slashing the girl's throat, or throwing a curse like whatever had killed the man in the corner. So Giliead did as the wizard ordered, and both of them waited for their chance.

"Excellent," the wizard purred with her eyes narrowed as if she'd noted the subtle protest in Giliead's body language. "And now, pretty Ilias, I want you to fuck this fine tall young man. Make it good. I want him to feel it in his throat. I want to hear him howl with despair when he realizes how good it feels to submit to another."

Ilias swallowed, dry-throated. He was nearly at full mast by now, so he couldn't claim he'd be incapable. But it wasn't eagerness that made his hands tremble. The wizard's words were curling through his mind like some poison smoke, making him wonder: would Giliead truly find it so awful to submit to his foster brother? Was that why he'd pushed Ilias aside the other morning?

It was nonsense, of course, but as he crouched behind Giliead and caressed the dear, familiar length of his back, Ilias was beginning to fear this might do irreparable harm to their friendship after all. Maybe it would have been better to be forced into joining with the strange boy, or with one of the women -- someone he didn't know and wouldn't have to deal with again. Of all the things that he had never guessed could be harmed by a wizard, the bond between him and Giliead topped the list.

He wedged his knees in between Giliead's and stroked the smooth skin of his buttocks. This wasn't going to work. He couldn't do this.

"What are you waiting for, pretty boy?" the wizard snapped.

"I -- I need . . . " Ilias licked at his lips. He hadn't tried sex with a man, but he'd heard the talk. There was a lewd saying that those who wished to sneak in the back door had better make sure the hinges were well greased. "I need something to . . . to make it easier. If you want it to be good." Maybe she really wanted him to hurt Gil -- and would that be worse or better than trying to make love properly before such an audience?

The wizard stared at him as if she couldn't believe that any fragment of reality would dare to intrude upon her twisted world. Then a sly look came over her face. "Very well. Let him suck you first. No, wait -- not him." She turned to the line of hostages, considering each in turn. She paused longest on Arites, and Ilias winced to think of using the boy that way. But it was better than some of the other options.

"You," she said at last, and it was Ranior who stood and stepped out of the line.

That was one of the worse options, Ilias realized, his heart sinking. It wasn't that Ranior was vulnerable or needed protection like the little ones -- but Ilias would never be able to look him in the eye again after this. He'd have to move out of Andrien house, maybe find himself a place in Cineth's city guard, or a berth on one of the ships that did pirate patrol.

"Yes, the father who gave his son up to a god, that will be perfect," the wizard said. "Come suck this pretty boy, make him nice and wet so your son doesn't suffer. But don't finish him, or it will be the children who suffer then!"

Ilias saw the moment she released the curse on Ranior; he hesitated a moment, and he glanced about the room just as Ilias had done when he got the chance. Then, bowing his head in submission, Ranior headed toward where Ilias was standing, passing between the wizard and his two sons.

The only warning was one sharp glance from under Ranior's brows; then he spun and lunged at the wizard. One hand dashed the knife out of her grip while the other pulled the little girl free. With a heave, Ranior sent Ancia flying through the air on a frightened wail to land safely on the couch out of the way.

Throwing the girl had cost Ranior his critical moment of surprise. The wizard threw her hand up, and Ranior slumped to the floor with a strange whuff. Ilias was also moving now, heading for the knife that had been cast aside. He'd taken one step when he saw the wizard point to him --

-- and his foot tangled in Giliead's leather hobbles. He went down hard and felt the curse pass over his head like a wave of heat. The children were shrieking, the older hostages scrambling to get out of the way.

Then Giliead was moving, launching himself across the floor in a move that should have been awkward but instead looked like a great cat pouncing. The wizard cast at him, but whatever it was didn't make Giliead go down as Ranior had.

Ilias rolled, groping frantically for the knife. He heard choking noises that meant Gil had the wizard by the throat, but she could still cast curses without her voice, and some of them would probably work on Giliead.

Ilias found the knife under his hand, yelled "Gil!" as he rolled and threw. Giliead twisted, and the knife buried itself to the hilt in the wizard's back.

Ilias was on his feet and most of the way to the wizard when he realized it was over; Gil was letting her fall to the floor, her eyes open and staring. It was the first time Ilias had ever killed someone, and he didn't know where to look.

Then the figure on the floor caught his attention. Ranior had slumped like an empty wineskin, his body folding in on itself. One arm was outflung in an impossible S-shape, twitching and shivering like a horse's hide when the flies bit. This was why the bodies in the corner looked like a heap of clothes; Ranior was naked but seemed more like a discarded man-suit than a real body.

"What did she do to him?" Ilias breathed, as Giliead knelt by his father's body and began to straighten it out carefully.

"She melted all his bones. We saw it last night."

Ranior's head flattened grotesquely on the floor, and the pulse glugged through his neck. His eyelids were half open, but Ilias couldn't tell if he saw anything.

"He's not dead!"

"Not yet, but he can't breathe without ribs. It takes them a few minutes to die. I . . . don't think it's painful." Giliead's voice wavered for the first time, as he carded through his father's silvered brown hair.

They sat there, crouched naked over the naked and distorted body of their father, until he stopped twitching. It seemed to take a long time.

Ilias heard sobbing and looked around. A similar scene was taking place behind him, where Arites hunched over the slack flesh of the woman who had resembled him. "Is that his mother?" Ilias asked in a low voice.

Giliead nodded. "His father was killed last night; so was Faria's husband, the father of the little ones."

Dealing with the aftermath kept them up the rest of the night. Faria, the woman Ranior had been forced to have sex with, alternated between bouts of tears and frantic activity. She herded them all into the kitchen, piled blankets into a nest for the children where she could keep an eye on them, heated some broth and found some flatbread to go with it.

"It's just as well," Giliead said carefully over his bowl of broth, "that the wizard used threats and hostages to make people do her bidding, instead of curses. You wouldn't want to have to get curse brands."

The girl Selima, curled on her mother's lap, looked as if she might protest at this. But Faria just nodded, thin-lipped.

Ilias and Giliead laid out the bodies in the common room, with Arites looking on.

"What do we do with them?" Arites demanded.

"You can take your parents home to bury them," Giliead suggested.

Arites shook his head. "They -- we were traders. We were just traveling by on the road, when . . ." He gulped. "I don't even know what happened to our wagon. I don't know where I'll go, or what I'll do."

"Your parents can lie here," said Faria firmly, carrying in some sheets to wrap the bodies in. "Next to my husband and my parents. What about that?" She pointed at the wizard's body.

"I'm supposed to take the head," Giliead said. "You can burn the rest, or bury it if you want."

"And your father?"

"We'll take him with us."

It was a solemn journey back home, with Ranior's unnaturally limp remains draped over one horse and Arites sniffling on the back of the other.

It was more than a week before Ilias found the words to talk to Giliead about what had happened. They started with a frank, businesslike discussion about the mistakes they had made, and what they might do differently another time. Giliead tried to insist that Ilias shouldn't come hunting wizards with him, but Ilias was adamant on that point. They had planned and practiced for years to do this together -- and anyway, it was what Ranior would want.

That shut Giliead up for a few minutes.

Then he said, squinting toward the sun, "I want to try it."

"Try what?" Ilias asked.

"What she -- what we were going to do. I want to try it without an audience."

Ilias had to think a little about the best thing to say. "I want to try it, too. Do you want to, um, be inside me?"

Giliead shook his head. "Maybe another time. First I want to know what it's like." A faint echo of a smile crossed his face. "If it's good enough to make me howl, I won't care about submitting."

"Come inside, then."

Ilias took him gently and used all the tricks in his limited arsenal to make it last, to make it good, to take Giliead out of his mind for just a little while. Afterward, when Gil was sleeping soundly for the first time since Harvest Eve, Ilias figured he must have done it well.

Ilias stared up at the water-reflected moonlight playing over the walls and overhang of the Ravenna's Sun Deck. He concluded, "So that's why Gil can be a bit . . . shy, about sex."

Tremaine frowned in consideration, her face close to his since she was using his arm for a pillow. "And I thought I had discovered the worst sort of first time a person could have."

Ilias blinked. "You'll have to tell me about that."

"Later, perhaps." She yawned. "I see now why you wanted to get the curse mark."

"I didn't want to -- I had to." Actually, Ilias probably could have gotten around the law if he'd tried; he'd done it before and helped others do it as well. Giliead had argued with him endlessly, it seemed, about the stupidity of getting the mark.

Tremaine snorted as if she'd heard all of Gil's arguments on the matter, and poked Ilias's chest with one finger. "Because of the curse mark, no one wanted to marry you. So no one could take you away from Giliead. Simple." The poking turned into a caress on his cheek where the crescent brand had been set.

That was a reason Ilias hadn't thought of, and he couldn't have used it on Giliead even if he had. But it made a kind of sense. He really wasn't sure what had been going through his mind at that time.

"And then I came along and married you anyway," said Tremaine, and he couldn't tell if she sounded regretful.

"But you promised Karima you wouldn't take me away."

"That's true. Maybe, when this is all over, we can have our own household -- you, me, and Giliead."

Ilias thought that sounded perfect.

Fic: That Which Creates, Part Two

2008-01-02T04:45:09Z

Kothifir, 40th of Autumn, Interregnum Year 28

The first time Hollens, Lord Danior met Torisen was in a Kothifir brothel.

"Merry birthday!" he called expansively as he saw two Kencyrs enter the opulently-furnished room. "The celebration is on me!"

The two -- one burly Kendar and one Highborn near Holly's age -- looked rather grim, for customers in such an establishment. Also overdressed, one in the sand-colored uniform of the Southern Host and the other in dusty black leather.

"Please come with us, Lord Danior," said the Highborn flatly.

"What? But the party's just getting started. Joyous birthday!"

"It's not my birthday," said the Highborn. He gave the Kendar a nod and started to retrieve Holly's clothes from the floor -- and the divan, and the side-table, and the wall sconce (that stocking was slightly scorched).

"No . . . it's mine! Only two more years and be twenty-seven, full legal age, then I get to take over from Uncle Borsen in those dreary Council meetings! Happy birthday!" This last was muffled as the Kendar pulled a tunic firmly over Holly's head.

"It's not your birthday, either," said the Highborn, waiting for Holly's pants to be pulled up so he could start jamming boots onto his feet.

"It's not?"

"Not anymore. That was yesterday." The Highborn waved at the bright sunlight streaming around the edges of the red velvet curtains. "Your Kendar have headaches, and your, er . . . companions are tired."

"No they're not. Give them some more gold -- that will wake them up!"

"And you're spending gold that your Kendar bought with blood. Time to leave, now." The Highborn turned away to exchange a few words with the madam while the Kendar hustled Holly out into the muddy street.

"Oh, that's no fun!" Holly protested. "And why's it so bright out here, anyway?"

"That happens, during the daytime," the Kendar said drily.

"Uncle Borsen sent me south to learn the ways of the world!" Holly declaimed to the spinning buildings.

"Funny," said the Highborn as he rejoined them. "I thought he sent you to learn discipline and command with the Southern Host."

"I haven't reported in yet, so that doesn't count."

"Doesn't it?"

Holly peered at the black-clad figure. He hadn't taken a good look at that collar before. "Oh. Are you Tori?"

"Commander of the Southern Host. All gates and hands are open to you. This is Burr," the Highborn greeted him.

"Honor be to you and your . . . lovely . . . street . . ." Holly retched into the gutter.

"Feel better?" Tori asked, as the two started to chivvy Holly down the street in the direction of the great barracks complex where the Southern Host were housed.

"Not especially. So you're an Ardeth, then? Welcome to the family, cousin!"

Tori blinked at him. "You're related to the Ardeth?"

"I'm related to everyone. Danior, like Ardeth and Caineron, makes many marriage alliances. Unlike Randir and Knorth, who keep -- or kept, in the case of Knorth -- mostly to themselves. Though, actually, I have the honor of a recent connection to the house of Knorth myself." Holly beamed and stood a little straighter. "My grandmother was a Knorth. In fact, I probably have a better claim to the Highlord's chair than anyone this side of the Ebonbane!"

"Is that so?" Tori murmured.

"Certainly better than old Caldane's claim. Not that I have the political power to back it up," Holly added ruefully. "For anyone but a pureblood Knorth to be Highlord, it'd take years of political maneuvering, and I just don't have the taste for that sort of thing. Caldane does, though -- he's been gathering the power for it."

"Caineron wants to be Highlord?"

"He wants anything that involves power. I don't think he'll ever be satisfied."

"Hmm. So, Lord Danior . . . are you this astute when you're not drunk?"

Holly laughed. "Astute? Hardly. Uncle calls me a featherweight. Brain. Featherbreight. I mean, um . . . "

"Perhaps he hasn't seen enough of you when you are drunk."

"Not what he says!" Holly crowed.

"Well, since you're in the mood for political pontificating --" Tori guided Holly carefully around a steaming pile of manure too large to have come from a horse. "What would it take if a pureblood Knorth wanted to be Highlord?"

"Oh, that's easy," said Holly, eyeing the manure pile doubtfully. "What made that?"

"A rhi-sar, I expect; some folk put them in harness around here. But you were saying, about a pureblood Knorth?"

"Oh yes. All he'd need are the symbols of the Highlord. The ring, the sword -- everyone would fall in line. They're already sick of having no one to lead, but they just can't agree on any of the current lords."

"But suppose the ring and sword were lost with Ganth Grey Lord?"

"Then I guess it would take some political backing. Less than for a Caineron, more than for a Knorth with the symbols of power." Holly considered a moment. "It would help if he wasn't mad, I suppose. Desperate as they are, no one wants another mad Knorth in control of everything."

"You seem to have a good grasp on the politics," said Tori. "Perhaps your uncle should see more of you when you're drunk."

"Did he write to you?" Holly demanded, suddenly suspicious.

"He requested that I keep an eye on you," Tori admitted. "Though I would think your own Kendar would be better for that."

"Oh, they don't know what to do with me," said Holly airily.

"So you slipped away from them and went to a brothel, eh?"

"Oh no, that's just good sense. It was one of my Kendar who told me where to find it."

"It was?" Tori paused, making Holly lurch.

"Young man needs to learn these things," Holly said earnestly. "Well, maybe not you; you're not going to be a head of a house. But I'm going to have beautiful Highborn ladies trying to turn my head and follow their father's lead in Council, or give their house a better deal on grain, or what have you."

"The lords send their daughters to do their negotiating for them?"

"Yes. Only one at a time, of course, and with proper contracts up to and including full marriage rights. But some of those girls are . . ." Holly shuddered. "Frightening. I'd almost rather face the fathers. Some of them, at least. Depends on the father, I guess."

"And so you go to a brothel rather than face the Highborn ladies," Tori concluded.

"Well, yes -- I wouldn't be allowed to lay hand on a Highborn lady just yet, you understand. I haven't come of age, so I don't have full rights myself. But the important thing is, the lovely girls at that brothel were teaching me all about how to indulge in manly pleasures without losing my head and trading away my house and all my heirs in perpetuity. See?"

"Considering all the gold you threw away, I'm not sure the lessons were working," said Tori.

"That's because I've only just started. That's it -- I need more lessons!" Holly tried to turn around, only to be corraled and straightened out by his two captors.

"Maybe after you've recovered from the first set of lessons," Tori said wryly. "But, um, aren't you worried about, um . . ."

"Picking something up?" said Burr from Holly's other side.

"I was going to say, leaving something behind."

"My money-pouch, you mean?"

"No, more like . . . a child?"

"Oh! A bastard, you mean?" Holly shrugged. "Between a Southron and a Kencyr? It's possible, I suppose, but not likely. And these girls do have their tricks to prevent it, you know."

"You'd trust a prostitute to protect your honor? Your house's honor? What if she wants to extort money or . . . something out of you?"

Holly blinked. "Hadn't thought of that. But I wouldn't have to acknowledge the bastard, y'know."

"Now, that sounds like something Lord Caineron would do," Burr offered.

"It does, doesn't it?" Holly frowned. "Could always try for a Kendar bed-mate, I suppose. Though one doesn't like to think of ordering someone to have sex."

"Yes, paying them is so much nicer," said Tori.

"What am I to do, then?" Holly demanded. "I'm not the sort to go for the boys!"

"It's your honor, Lord Danior," Tori said, a little more stiffly than he'd spoken before.

"Yes. Yes, it is. And this is the best solution I've found. I don't think Uncle Borsen disagrees, either; he said something about it, in a roundabout sort of way."

"But perhaps you should stick with just one night at a time," Tori suggested. Ahead, they could see the wall of the barracks complex. Two of Holly's Kendar were chatting casually with the gate guards; they looked up as the trio approached.

"Fine, fine. Just be glad you don't have to deal with the problems a head of house faces. You're fortunate to be out of it, I tell you."

Southern Waste, 12th of Spring, Interregnum Year 31

The first time Burr finally admitted to himself that Tori was a Shanir was when he fled into the Waste trying to avoid a dream.

Burr's family had been sworn to the house of Ardeth for generations. The Ardeth were more tolerant than most of those Highborn who possessed the mystical gifts of the Shanir. Even the Randir, who bred themselves deliberately to bring out Shanir traits -- and who contributed most of the students to the priests' college they ran -- looked upon the Shanir with a mix of fear and scorn, as if the gifts themselves might turn the bearer to betray the Kencyrath as Gerridon of Knorth had done thousands of years ago. Tori himself had an almost involuntary disgust of Shanir, and could scarcely bring himself to speak civilly to the Healers after a battle. More than once he'd referred to a Shanir by the old term, 'child of darkness.' But the Ardeth recognized that many of the most essential traits of the Highborn -- including that inimitable command presence and the ability to bind Kendar to service -- were closely related to the gifts of the Shanir, and strongest in those who possessed other Shanir gifts as well.

Burr had wondered, more than once, if Tori's occasional vivid nightmares were memories of his past or, instead, some kind of Shanir far-seeing which took hold of him. Of necessity -- since it was a part of his orders -- he had included these speculations in his reports to Lord Ardeth. Tori insisted they were only bad dreams, and refused to discuss their content. But when he felt such a dreaming episode coming near, he would sometimes stay awake for days at a time. He had done that at Urakarn, and afterward, while Burr lay in healing dwar sleep. By the time Burr woke, Tori was already past the worst of it, and Burr hadn't guessed that it would prove to be a pattern.

Now, after several days of growing more and more snappish and haggard, prowling restlessly about the complex by night, and refusing all Burr's possets and urgings to rest, Tori had slipped away, taken a horse, and ridden out of Kothifir. Harn would have it that their young commander had gone north, along the River Road. But Burr felt something indefinable pulling him toward the south instead.

"What's this?" said Harn, when Burr mentioned it to him. "Are you telling me now you're bound to him and not to Ardeth?"

"No," said Burr slowly, just beginning to feel out the shape of it himself. "I'm not sworn to him, but I do feel . . . some kind of connection. I'm sure of it."

Harn glowered at him. "He did carry your soul for over two weeks, while you were healing after Urakarn. D'you think that has aught to do with it?"

"It might," Burr conceded, but in fact he was sure this connection was more recent.

He'd felt protective and even somewhat possessive of Tori for years, but had noticed an increased sensitivity to his master's moods and needs starting just last Autumn, after . . . after their stay in Mensar, he realized. They had stopped at the village to set up a posting station for Tori's new system to get dispatches from the Southern Host to the Riverland more efficiently. While they were there, someone (very likely that Caineron idiot Nusair, who somehow blamed Tori for successfully commanding the Southern Host after Nusair's older brother Genjar had failed so spectacularly) had slipped an adder into one of Tori's boots as they returned from being cleaned. Tori had been bitten, and half-swooned despite Highborn resistance to poisons. Burr had, perhaps unwisely, tried to suck out some of the venom even though it was more likely to kill him than Tori.

Burr had felt something change that night, though he'd been too worried about Tori and too sickened himself by the venom to give it thought right away. He realized now that it almost did feel like his link to Lord Ardeth, but deeper somehow. It was a tether to his very soul, where the Ardeth bond was more of a guiding hand upon his shoulders.

If he was bound to Tori without making an oath or first breaking his bond to Lord Ardeth -- and this had happened when Burr sucked at Tori's wound -- that must mean Tori was a blood-binder. That was one of the rarest and most ancient Shanir traits, portrayed even in romantic tales as dangerously prone to abuse; yet some of the greatest Kencyr heroes had been blood-binders, as well.

And Burr, all inadvertently, had betrayed his vows to Lord Ardeth by becoming blood-bound to Tori. But he had no time to go looking for a White Knife; he had to find Tori first and help him. And he felt positive, in his bones, in his soul, that Tori had gone south. He persuaded Harn to head that way with him, while they sent a few other trusted searchers (veterans of Urakarn) to try further north.

Once they were out of the city, beyond the most heavily trafficked roads, it was easy to pick up the trail of a Kencyr-shod horse. Two days into the desert it led them -- at least, two days if they spared their horses. Tori evidently had not been sparing his; the tracks showed signs of stumbling, and even the occasional splash of blood from spurs. It made Burr worry all the more, since Tori never pressed animals or people beyond what they could bear. Was this the famous Knorth madness, infecting Tori just months after he came of age? What was Burr to write in his report to Ardeth -- or where did his loyalty lie now?

"Is the boy going to lead us all the way back to Urakarn?" Harn demanded roughly on the second day.

Burr had hardly paid attention to their direction. "His mount will never last that long."

"Neither will ours," said Harn.

"Longer than his, anyway," said Burr. "Look!" The trail they followed had become more erratic, and not far ahead the carrion-birds were circling.

It was indeed Tori's horse, or a half-fleshed skeleton with Tori's gear on it. Tori himself had evidently leapt clear of the fall, which made Burr sigh in relief; but then the boot tracks staggered off to the south yet again.

"Blackie'll run himself to death as well as the horse," Harn muttered, retrieving a waterskin -- still half full -- from the abandoned gear.

"He can't be that far ahead," Burr insisted, and spurred his mount to follow.

Just a few miles further on they found the ruins of an abandoned village, bones of houses bleaching in the sun. It was impossible to tell now if the inhabitants had left because their wells dried up or because of some conflict, perhaps with the Karnides not so far away.

Tori was curled in the shade of a crumbling wall, alive and asleep. "It's about time!" Harn growled, but it soon became clear that this was anything but the healing rest Tori needed. He twitched and muttered and cried out fearfully, but couldn't be roused from the nightmare. They tried to make him comfortable and coaxed a few sips of water through his cracked lips, but they couldn't risk more or he would choke.

"He needs a healer," Harn said, squatting back on his heels.

"It would take days to bring one," Burr pointed out. "Anyway, you know how he feels about healers."

"Aye, and it's a load of manure so far as I can tell."

Burr grimaced. "Perhaps not entirely." Most of the healers with the Southern Host were Randirs, longtime political opponents of the Knorth. Those not directly sworn to the house still had an obligation to the Randir for their training.

Tori's head thrashed back and forth as he muttered, and words were coming audible now: "Attack" and "betrayed me" and "climb!"

"Is he remembering Urakarn?" Harn demanded doubtfully. They had been in other battles since, but none so large or so grim. None where Tori might have felt betrayed; he had triumphed in every conflict since he became commander.

"I don't think so," said Burr slowly. "Something older, perhaps."

Harn listened some more to the gravelly voice emerging from Tori's lips, so unlike his normal speech and yet carrying a faint echo of it.

"Unnatural . . . darklings!" Tori croaked.

"That voice . . . does it sound familiar to you?" said Harn.

Burr remained mute, afraid he knew what Harn was guessing. He had heard a few address from Tori's father, Ganth Grey Lord -- the voice had been something like this.

"Damn you all, fight them!" Tori barked. "If they won't die, cut off their arms and legs!" Then he subsided, his words becoming unintelligible.

Burr groaned inwardly as he mopped Tori's brow. It sounded like Tori was reliving the attack of the haunts upon his father's keep -- the attack from which only Tori had escaped.

"You know what's going on, don't you?" Harn growled. "Why is Tori talking in old Ganth's voice?"

Burr ducked his head and tried to squeeze a bit more water from a rag into Tori's mouth, but the young man tossed his head and the droplets spattered his cheek.

"I've heard him make the old rathorn war cry a time or two as well," Harn mused. "Didn't think someone his age would know that one. It was Ganth's war cry."

"It's the Knorth war cry," Burr corrected shortly.

"He looks a bit like the old lord, too."

Burr sighed. Harn had guessed most of it; time to tell him the truth and see if he would promise to keep it secret. "He's Ganth's son."

"His heir?" Harn demanded at once.

"Yes."

Harn let the breath trickle out through his lips on the shape of a curse. "So . . . he's remembering the old lord's death, is he?"

"I think so. He told us haunts attacked the keep, and he was the only one who made it out."

"God's claws. And he came here to command the Southern Host? He should be Highlord!"

"It wasn't safe -- he was still too young. He's been waiting to make his move until he comes of age."

"But that was a few months ago, in the wintertime, wasn't it? What's he waiting for now?"

"I don't know," Burr admitted.

Harn considered all this information while their commander and rightful Highlord panted and whimpered between them. "So Ardeth knows, does he, and sent you along to keep the boy in line?"

"Not to control him," Burr said quickly. He wouldn't have been able to do that, and his lord knew it. "To watch. To spy on him." And Tori would never forgive him for that. "To see if he has the Knorth madness in him." Burr mopped his young master's brow.

"Hmmph. This doesn't look the same, you know," Harn said shortly. "Not like what happened to old Ganth. That madness . . . it affected all of us. All who followed him. This is different."

Burr whuffed out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. "It isn't right, though, this dreaming. He hasn't slept or eaten for days; he's too weak to fight this -- whatever this is. Perhaps you're right and we should take him to the healers. There's an Ardeth trainee healer we might be able to trust."

"Right." Harn nodded. "I'll shift the gear on the horses. My mount's heavier; he can carry a double load." He frowned disapprovingly at the black-clad form. "Not that the boy weighs much more than a full waterskin, anyway." He tromped off to prepare the horses.

Thus it was that Burr alone witnessed the end of Tori's dream: the grunts of a man who has taken a mortal blow, the defiant words against his opponents, and finally the old lord's voice rasping, "Damn you, boy, for deserting me. I curse you and cast you out. Blood and bone, you are no child of mine!"

He didn't tell Harn what he'd overheard, as they made their way out of the desert with Tori limp and unresisting in Burr's arms. When Tori woke clear-eyed from dwar, Burr said nothing of his suspicion that Tori had delayed making a move for the Highlord's seat because, as an outcast, he couldn't truly be considered Ganth's heir. When they got back to Kothifir and Burr sat down to pen the hated report to Lord Ardeth, he felt something like physical pain at the thought of betraying this, the very deepest of Tori's secrets. And there was still the question of his own loyalty, bound to two masters at once. He had to break with one of them, but would even that be enough to salvage his honor?

Then Tori knocked on his door and announced that he'd handed command over to Harn for the moment. They were heading north to the Riverland.

Burr would make his last report to Ardeth in person.

Gothregor, 1st of Summer, Interregnum Year 31

The first time Jedrak, Lord Jaran met Torisen was when the young man addressed the High Council to claim his birthright as Lord of Knorth and Highlord of the Kencyrath.

The Jaran sent as few as possible of their four thousand Kendar to serve in the Southern Host; the service brought in money and food that the house needed desperately, but it took time away from their scholarship, and no one wanted that. Nevertheless, Jedrak had received some very detailed reports over the last few years concerning the young upstart Lord Ardeth had instated as commander of the Southern Host. And so he wasn't entirely surprised when that commander announced that he was the son and heir of Ganth of Knorth, newly come of age and ready to claim his house.

"Come over here, boy," Jedrak said, while other lords stared agape -- all except for Ardeth, of course, who had probably planned this to the least detail. "My eyes aren't what they were. Come here, let me have a proper look at you."

Jedrak clasped the young man's hands. He hadn't the Shanir gift to read mysteries in a man's blood or palms, but he trusted his instincts. This boy was a Knorth, to be sure. There was even a touch of that family's madness about his eyes -- but only a touch.

"How was your father, when you saw him last?" Jedrak asked. "Still quite mad?"

There were murmurs about the room at his rudeness in asking so plainly, but the boy swallowed and answered, "Yes, sir. Getting worse each year, suspicious of everyone around him."

"Such a terrible tragedy, that was," Jedrak reminisced. "He's dead now, is he?"

"Killed by darklings that invaded from the Haunted Lands," the boy said firmly.

The mention of darklings brought a scoff from the direction of Caineron's chair, but Jedrak paid no heed. "So you came to lead us in our time of need, eh?"

More scoffing, but the boy took Jedrak's example and ignored them. "Yes, sir."

"Quite a job you've done with the Southern Host, I hear. My randons tell me it hasn't had such a fine leader in generations."

"He's had an easy time of it," Caineron objected. "No pitched battles."

"Because he had the wits to avoid them," young Danior returned stoutly. "The Southern Host is fifteen thousand strong now, thanks to his negotiations with King Krothen. And the posting system he set up to bring the dispatches is brilliant!"

Before the argument could go further, Jedrak patted the boy's hands and released them. "He's a born leader. A builder, a drawer-together. Engenesis, they called them in the old scrolls. An embodiment of one of the aspects of god: Torrigion, That Which Creates. What did you say your name was, boy?"

"Torisen."

"You see? Even his name -- a fine old Knorth name, by the way. Someone must have guessed when he was born. One like him will be part of the Tyr-Ridan one day."

"That will be a Shanir," Tori pointed out. "I'm not a Shanir."

Jedrak smiled and nodded to humor him. "You'll be a fine Highlod, though. You have my vote."

Caineron stood. "As diverting as these . . . scholarly flights of fancy may be, there are some very serious questions to be considered here."

Jedrak let his head droop for a short nap while the other lords argued. He surfaced when the voices grew too loud and acrimonious to tune out.

"What's all this, then?" he murmured to Lord Coman, seated next to him. But he misjudged his volume or his moment, and everyone heard his question.

"How can you believe him when there's no proof?" Caineron thundered. "He doesn't have the ring, or the sword, or any token at all to show he is what he claims."

"He's a Knorth -- isn't that good enough?" Danior countered.

"And what of the other half of his bloodline?" Randir said. "A mysterious lady who claimed to be a Knorth, appearing out of nowhere? What was the marriage contract? Does the boy even have the full rights of an heir?"

"Oh, pish!" said Jedrak loudly, ignoring the wavering of his voice. "The proof is right there on Ganth's chair. Have him put on the Kenthiar!"

Everyone looked startled.

"The Kenthiar is hardly proof," said Brandan slowly. "We don't even know where it comes from."

"Of course we do!" Jedrak retorted, in his element on any point of scholarly debate. "Have none of you read your history? It was an artifact of the Builders, left behind when they prepared this world for our retreat. Now, the original purpose of the thing, that's a matter of great dispute. But it's been worn by Highlords -- and none but Highlords -- for generations."

"It's not a reliable indicator," said Caineron, but the others around the table seemed intrigued by the possibility.

"In recorded history, the Kenthiar has never suffered a pretender," Jedrak averred. "As the Lords Edirr well know." He waved to the twins who jointly headed that house. "It was their cousin who tried the thing on a bet and was decapitated for his hubris!"

"But haven't there been --" said Essien.

"Three Highlords --" said his brother Essiar.

"Who were also decapitated, even though --"

"Their claims were legitimate?" Essiar finished.

"Legitimate, but perhaps not the best possible choice," Jedrak said. "In each case, there was dispute about who should be the heir, and the Council's first choice died. The second choice -- succeeding to power, you understand -- proved a good and honorable leader, each time. Here there's no jostling between candidates because there's only one to choose from, yes or no."

Jedrak's eyes were not what they once were, but still good enough to pick out the scheming looks on the faces around the table. Caineron, at the very least, was thinking the Kenthiar might relieve him of an irritant. Ardeth was plainly alarmed, Brandan thoughtful, Danior excited. And the boy himself, the Knorth, looked sharp, jubilant, fey.

"I'm not certain this is a good idea," said Ardeth slowly. "Highlord or not, Torisen is the only surviving member of his house. To risk the last of the Knorth bloodline in such a way --"

"I'll do it," said Torisen, standing straight before them all. "If everyone agrees to acknowledge me when I survive, I'll wear the Kenthiar."

Gothregor, 1st of Summer, Year One in the Reign of Torisen Black Lord

The first time Torisen put on the Highlord's torc was the moment he took his life and fate into his own hands at last.

Tori stepped into the Great Hall to find it full of people: Kendar lining the walls and loading the overhead gallery to groaning, Highborn men and masked ladies thronging the center. Even in the absence of a Highlord, Gothregor was still a seat of power and politics, with representatives of all the major and most of the minor houses of the Kencyrath living and working here. Rumors must have gone out quickly about the reason the commander of the Southern Host had come here and requested to meet with the High Council in full. Everyone was watching Tori as he descended the stairs from the Council chamber.

The Kenthiar waited for him upon his father's chair, in an iron box. Tori stepped up to the dais and lifted the box from the seat, then turned to the face the assembled Kencyrs, as the members of the High Council fanned out in a half-circle around him. "My name is Torisen of Knorth," he announced, and a sigh went around the room. "I am the son and heir of Ganth Grey Lord, come to claim my position as lord of the house of Knorth and Highlord of the Kencyrath."

Tori opened the box and found inside a narrow silver collar with curious runes engraved upon it and one jewel pulsing with strange light in the center. It was nestled in a bed of white silk: the scarf of the Edirr randon who had retrieved the torc from the neck of his slain master. There was no blood; apparently it cauterized as it killed. The thing was surprisingly delicate for an object that carried such a weight of history and death.

Tori hesitated. He had already considered and rejected the idea of having Adric place the Kenthiar around his neck; it would be attributing even more power to a house to which he already owed an enormous debt -- and he hoped to be a just lord to all Kencyrs, not just the house of Ardeth. But if he put the thing on himself, there would be the inevitable awkwardness of trying to manage a clasp he couldn't see.

He glanced up and found his eyes immediately drawn to a face at the side of the hall: Burr, who was now truly Tori's servant, having taken oath to him just hours before.

Adric, who had been out doing some last-minute politicking on Tori's behalf, had been one of the last lords to arrive at Gothregor for the Council meeting. He had closeted himself first with Burr, which jangled Tori's stretched nerves. He imagined Burr delivering the tale of his flight into the Waste and his incapacitation.

Tori still didn't know how much Burr had grasped of the dream which sent him fleeing. Apparently both Harn and Burr had gathered that it involved the attack upon the keep and Ganth's death. What they didn't seem to realize was that the attack had not happened before he left the Riverland. In the face of Ganth's deepening paranoia, Tori had run away without the permission of his lord and father -- but with the consent of every Kendar in the keep, which the scrollsman had said could outweigh a lord's word.

In his darker moments, Tori feared that the scrollsman had been wrong, or perhaps even had lied and smirched his own honor to save Tori's life. Thus the dream: a phantasm born of Tori's fear that he had deserted his lord and his honor, and his frustration at the impossibility of claiming the Highlord's seat while his father yet lived. It was only a dream.

And yet . . . he believed it. It was too vivid not to be real. Only Shanir had true dreams, and Tori was no child of darkness -- but for an event as momentous as the death of his father and the breaking of whatever tattered bond might remain between them, perhaps even a non-Shanir could dream true. Or partially true. Tori had to believe that his father had not actually disowned him; that part of it must have been his own imagining. But he felt the truth of Ganth's death strongly enough to give up command of the Southern Host and come here to claim his birthright.

And so, pondering on dreams, he paced outside of Adric's chambers and wondered what Burr was reporting about him. Then he was called in himself and told Adric what the old lord must have guessed already: Tori was ready to take power in his own name, with acknowledgement to the help that Ardeth had given him. And it seemed that whatever Burr reported about Tori's dreams had not convinced Adric he was unfit for command; Ardeth pledged his full support.

After that conversation, when Tori went to prepare for the Council meeting in his own room -- a guest room in the Ardeth complex, where he would never sleep again -- he found Burr waiting for him. "What will you do now?" he asked the Kendar who had been his constant companion for nearly twelve years.

"Lord, I hoped to serve you here at Gothregor," said Burr, strangely stiff and formal. It was the first time he or anyone had used the title, and it gave Tori pause.

"Does my lord Ardeth still need someone to spy on me?" he asked, thinking bitterly of being left to pace while Burr saw Adric first.

Burr swallowed. "Lord . . . I broke with Ardeth this morning."

Tori looked more closely and saw how pale Burr was, the tremor in those strong hands that had soothed and steadied him through wound-fevers and battle rages and hells of nightmare. "I see. You never were much good at planning for retreats, were you?" he said gently.

Despite Burr's courtesy, Tori was not a lord yet, of the house of Knorth or of the Kencyrath. But he could bind Kendar as a Highborn in his own right.

"Well then, I suppose you'd better swear to me," Tori said at last, holding out his hands, and was surprised at how eagerly Burr fell to his knees, and the hint of moisture in the Kendar's eyes as he said the words of binding.

It felt . . . right. Proper and natural, to accept Burr's oath of obedience and return it with his own vows of honor and justice. However he might regret their god's warping of the Kendar into a people who needed to serve a lord's authority, Tori was planning to make use of that need -- and to let it fill a hole inside himself, as well.

He met Burr's eyes now, inside the Great Hall with several hundred pairs of eyes upon him, and smiled. The Kendar -- Burr and Harn and others who had served with Tori, as well as all those in the keep where he'd grown up -- were just as responsible for his presence here as Lord Ardeth was. And it was only proper for a Highborn to let his servant help him dress, wasn't it?

A gesture brought Burr to the foot of the dais, holding out his hands for the iron box. Instead, Tori lifted the Kenthiar from its silk bedding and placed it on Burr's palms. "Help me put this on, will you?" he said, casually but clearly enough to be heard around the hall.

Burr went white. Tori could see he was envisioning a gory scene, and being responsible for his lord's decapitation. And Tori couldn't swear it wouldn't happen; there was that dream of being disowned by his father, after all. He smiled firmly, unworried -- if it did turn out that way, Tori wouldn't have to deal with the aftermath -- and waved Burr to step up behind him. At least for Burr he didn't have to stoop, he reflected as he pulled his shirt collar aside.

Tori faced the assembled Kencyrs -- Kendar and Highborn, councilors and ladies, randons and artisans -- with his head high and his feet on the road to destiny.

Fic: That Which Creates, Part One

2008-01-02T04:42:10Z

Fandom: PC Hodgell's Chronicles of the Kencyrath
Title: That Which Creates
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: ~11700
Warnings: mention of gore and torture
Summary: Tori can do anything he has to, even forge a union among the feuding Highborns of the Kencyrath. But he needs the Kendar to keep his secrets, especially from himself.

A/N: Written for teaotter for the Yuletide rare fandom secret Santa project. This was my official assignment, and I loved it! Story includes a couple of quotes from PC Hodgell's books.

Omiroth, 14th of Autumn, Interregnum Year 20

The first time Adric, Lord Ardeth met Torisen was when he came to the Riverland as a boy.

It had started as another difficult day in a series of difficult days that were only likely to get worse. He was already embroiled in a blood feud with the house of Caineron, kept short of open warfare only by the fact that their respective home fortresses were separated by over two hundred miles along the length of the Riverland. A previous feud with the house of Coman had only been ended by selling one of Adric's daughters in marriage at a ridiculously low price in return for a promise that any male offspring would become heir to the house; the boy in question was half grown, but the conflict between the houses was merely in abeyance, not truly resolved. And now it appeared some of the Kendar from the house of Randir, his neighbors across the river, were encroaching upon farmland traditionally reserved for the house of Ardeth. With arable land so scarce in these parts, it was a provocation that could not go unanswered.

Honor demanded that he respond quickly and harshly, and yet he was beginning to fear for the Kencyrath as they broke into squabbling factions. Ardeth was not the only house facing conflict on multiple fronts; with each year that passed, almost as many Kencyrs died in feuds among themselves as in conflict with other races. For a people who regularly hired out as mercenaries, this was a bad situation to be in. The houses had been fragmenting apart ever since their mad Highlord, Ganth of Knorth, went into exile twenty years ago. Without a Highlord there was no one to arbitrate disputes, and the feuds just got worse.

If Ganth was still alive . . . if he could be persuaded to return from exile . . . if his madness was gone, or controllable, or at least concealable -- but no. The other houses would never accept the return of a lord who'd gotten half the Kencyr Host massacred in a hopeless battle -- never mind that nearly as many had died since then in reasonless feuds.

Meanwhile, the Kencyrs' God-given mission of fighting the spread of Perimal Darkling was all but forgotten. Adric remembered that mission well enough, but as head of house it was his duty to uphold the honor of the Ardeth. How could he act for the good of the Kencyrath as a whole without sacrificing the dignity of his house?

While he was contemplating this paradox of honor, his man Burr was announced, bearing dispatches from the Ardeth serving among the Southern Host. The letters had taken some water damage, despite being sealed in an oiled pouch. Stiffly, Burr described how he'd been attacked by hillmen along the road and had ended up retreating into the river itself to escape the superior numbers.

Adric frowned, checking over the letters. Only the outer ones were badly marked, and of those it seemed only the outermost pages -- bearing addresses and salutations -- were illegible. Almost all the content was still intact. "Relax, man. The letters are well enough. I'm not going to order you to use a White Knife!" Some forms of failure could only be expiated by ritual suicide; this was not one of them.

Burr sighed, and his shoulders eased. "Thank you, lord."

"You say you went into the river? I didn't know you could swim," Adric commented idly as he leafed through the stained letters.

"I can't, lord. I nearly drowned. But I had help from someone passing along the road -- a Kencyr from east of the Ebonbane, traveling to the Riverland."

Adric blinked. There were only a few minor Kencyr houses on the other side of the Ebonbane mountains, and almost no one traveled between them and the great houses of the Riverland. The only Kencyrs who went that way regularly were -- "Is he a priest?"

"No, lord. A boy, looking for . . . well, I said he could speak to you."

Adric sighed. "Burr, you know I can't offer a place to every houseless Kendar who comes seeking protection."

"I made no promises, lord. But he saved me -- and the dispatches -- and scared off the hillmen who attacked me."

"By himself?" Adric's eyebrows rose. "He must be quite a fighter."

"Well, yes, lord, but he . . . I think you'll want to speak to him."

Adric set the letters aside on his desk. "Very well, send in this fearsome fellow."

It wasn't, as he had envisioned, some precociously-large Kendar who stepped through the door, but a slender boy dwarfed by Burr's bulk. As he came into the room and the light from the great windows, Adric's breath caught. The triangular face, the dark curls, the silver eyes: this looked like any Knorth youth from the last hundred years, distilled into one -- with something more ancient still lurking behind that level gaze.

Adric came to his feet slowly, eyes fixed on the unknown yet familiar features. "What's your name, boy?"

"Torisen," he said, and the voice, young as it was, had the same ring Adric remembered. "Torisen of Knorth."

Burr, standing beside the door, choked a little. He must not have guessed; but then, he had only been a boy himself when Ganth went into exile.

"Your parentage?" Adric demanded.

"I am Ganth Gray Lord's son," said the boy, chin raised defiantly.

Adric nodded slowly. "And your mother?" By the look of him, the boy was full-blooded Highborn, but it was always possible he was part Kendar, unsuited to head a house.

Here the boy faltered a little. "She left when I was very young. But I'm told she was a Knorth also."

That was a surprise; there were supposed to be no Knorth females left, after the Shadow assassins had killed them all and started Ganth on the road to madness. But if there were a Knorth lady remaining, she would surely wish to keep her existence a secret for fear the notorious assassins would come after her as well. In fact, the tale of her 'departure' might have been to conceal something far more sinister.

So it was possible . . . but was it provable? Well, the mother's true bloodline was little matter so long as she was Highborn, and properly contracted. "She was contracted to your father, I trust?"

The boy blinked. "Sir?"

"Are you legitimate?"

A flush began to rise up the boy's neck. "I am no bastard, sir."

It had the ring of honesty. "Good. Excellent." Adric considered a moment. "Your father, is he dead? Ah no, never mind -- I can't imagine he'd let you leave if he still breathed."

The Knorth boy swallowed hard. "We lived in a keep up in the Haunted Lands."

Adric knew the place the boy referred to; he'd seen it on maps. But that keep had been abandoned generations ago as too dangerous, too close to the border and their eternal foe, Perimal Darkling.

"It wasn't a nice place to live. We were attacked more than once. Haunts, darklings, strange creatures with no name . . . " The boy ducked his head. "I . . . was the only one that got out."

"Do you have any token of your father's, to prove you are who you claim? His ring . . . his sword, Kinslayer?"

"No, sir. Only myself, and my word." The boy stood straight in the center of the room, looking as if he could anchor the world against all dishonesty. It was impossible to disbelieve him, yet Adric knew there were some who would take the lack of proof badly.

He began to pace as he considered all the implications. So old Ganth was no longer a concern, but against all expectations he'd left them an heir. This could be just what the Kencyrath needed to keep them from falling apart -- if only the boy could live long enough to take power.

"How old are you?" Not more than eighteen, Adric guessed.

"Fifteen, sir."

Adric nearly groaned. Scarcely more than halfway to coming of age! They would have a long wait before them, with the blood feuds growing in number and intensity all the while. Perhaps it would help to announce that there was a Knorth heir ready to take power? No, no; Adric dismissed that thought almost as soon as it came to him. The boy would be assassinated without a doubt if he revealed his existence before a network of protection was ready. Then too, while he remained a secret, known only to Adric and a few select conspirators, he would also be beholden to them. When he made it to power, with considerable help from the house of Ardeth, he would owe this house -- and Adric himself -- a very great debt.

And what if he wasn't fit to be Highlord? What if he carried the Knorth madness in his blood, waiting to overtake him at the least opportunity? He would have to be tested first, then. He would need to face trials before Adric decided whether to support his claim -- though of course, he would make a show of support from the very beginning; honor demanded it, after all. And if the boy turned out to be unstable, Adric would have a hold over him that might prove all the more useful. Or possibly an accident could be arranged, though the idea was distasteful to all sense of honor. No, the Knorth line was too important to all the Kencyrath; better to keep the boy alive for breeding to some more stable line -- one of Adric's own daughters or granddaughters, for a preference.

Adric looked up thoughtfully from his pacing, aware of the boy watching him uncertainly. Burr was watching also: Burr, who obviously liked the boy, and who was a reliable messenger capable of operating independently and writing a fine hand (unlike many Kendar). Burr could be Adric's tool to keep track of the boy from a distance.

"Come," he said briskly, rubbing his hands. "Let's get out of this fortress. It's a lovely day, and there are so many ears inside, have you noticed? Let's go for a ride. There's much to discuss, much to plan -- and I want you to meet my Whinno-Hir mare, Brithany."

Urakarn, 39th of Winter, Interregnum Year 20

The first time Harn Grip-Hard met Tori was on the eve of the assault upon Urakarn when Genjar of Caineron, new commander of the Southern Host, promoted Harn to one-thousand captain and gave command of his old one-hundred unit to a green boy. The first time he really got Tori's measure was during the battle before the gates of Urakarn, and that was ironic since Harn usually didn't notice much during battle.

The hell of being an officer, Captain Harn had learned, was not being able to give in to his berserker instincts. He had to concentrate on what was going on all around him, see where his randons were weakening or overcrowded, issue orders to correct each situation. And now that he had a thousand-command, they insisted that he command from horseback. Horses, even battle steeds, tended not to like it when their riders went into berserk rages.

But beyond all that, it rankled that they'd given his old one-hundred command to a half-Highborn bastard who'd never even laid eyes on the war college at Tentir and probably didn't know which end of a sword to hold, much less how to do justice to Harn's friends and former fellows in the unit. Harn had put this deadweight in the center where he could keep an eye on him. His other one-hundred commands, with less familiar to him personally but with experienced randon commanders, went to either side.

Rather than being house-oriented units, Harn's tenth of the Southern Host was composed of Kendar (and the occasional expendable Highborn or halfblood) from various houses, neither trained nor motivated to work together. Most of them were yondri-gon, threshold-dwellers, serving a particular house without actually being sworn to its lord, in hopes of one day earning a place. They were the misfits and rejects of the Southern Host, often given far longer tours of duty than the sworn Kendar who rotated back to more peaceful service in the Riverland -- an experienced lot, but weary and aging. As a group they were on the right flank of the line of battle, in the front line, a position that promised to be hot.

Harn had seen the child before the battle -- truly a child, since he must be years shy of coming of age -- white faced and shaking, hand clenched on the hilt of a sword too long for him but probably the shortest the armorer could come up with. Just come down from the north, he wasn't bronzed by the sun yet, and he looked all the paler for the black clothes he had chosen to wear. He was right-handed, too, unlike most Kencyrs -- this day was just full of foul omens. Harn wasn't completely devoid of feeling; he was sorry for the boy, but he was more sorry when he thought of the fine randons who would suffer for lack of a better commander.

As it turned out, the boy should have been the last of Harn's worries. He'd listened gravely to Harn's suggestions on deployment and followed every one. He addressed the ten-commanders before the battle in a clear, high voice, holding them back from premature action.

Then the word came for the charge.

Off on the left flank, the elite house units bogged in heavy sand and couldn't hold the line. The Karnides must have known it was there, for they had only placed token forces on their right side, peppering the Kencyrs with arrows and the occasional spear. The heavy forces, pikemen and armored units with battle waggons drawn by vicious horned rhi-sar, were on the Karnides' left, directly in front of Harn's command -- who were attacking in a disciplined line, perfectly arrayed until the crack of that first contact.

After that, everything was tinged with red mist for Harn, but he held on, shouting commands and encouragement he was hardly aware of. He saw his right-front one-hundred overrun by waggons and decimated within minutes; even as he ordered the second rank forward, three tens from the center-front unit moved to assist at the word of the black-clad boy -- had Harn told him to do that? Then the waggons reached him, and Harn gave in to the red tide.

He surfaced once to the sound of a high-pitched cry and saw the slender black form make a Senethari fire-leaping move to clear a pike thrust. Apparently little Blackie did know which end of a sword to hold. And then Harn was swept away to one scene of carnage after another, some of his own making but too many that were not.

He woke with a roaring headache to find himself in chains, his arms slung over the backs of two other Kendar who were also chained. Karnides were urging a line of them along at spear-point toward the buildings in the distance. At intervals they stopped to murder people on the ground -- Kencyrs or their own kind, they seemed not to care. Kencyrs had an honorable tradition of easing the passing of those too badly wounded for care, but some of these needed only a day or two of dwar sleep to recover.

Harn tried to protest the killings, but with little effect until they came to a small figure in dusty black pinned beneath an overturned waggon. The boy was awake, watching with cool silver eyes as the battle-harvesters approached.

"Not him!" cried one of the Kendar in Harn's group as a Karnide stooped with knife in hand. "He's an officer!" The speaker was randon Larch, commander of the one-hundred unit to which the little Highborn had sent aid. "Officer!" Larch repeated in the Karnish tongue.

The religious fanatic looked to Harn, evidently recognizing him as the highest ranking in the group.

"Aye," said Harn. "The boy's a Highborn. You understand?" He didn't have the common Kencyr gift for language, and struggled to remember a few foreign words. He gestured to the boy's collar of office, already stained with blood and dirt after one day on the job. "Officer. One-hundred officer. Very big man." Which was a ridiculous description of a slip of a boy, especially coming from someone Harn's size; but it got the point across.

The Karnide looked at them all skeptically, then gestured to the prisoners to heave the waggon away. Beneath it, they found the boy's servant -- an Ardeth, Harn recalled, and a decent fighter even though he wasn't a trained randon -- stirring groggily.

"You spare him too," the black-clad boy said coldly to the Karnides, and incredibly they held their knives while the servant was hauled to his feet and dusted off.

"Come on, Blackie," said Harn, as their captors doled out another length of chain to bind the two newcomers. "Looks like we're going to Urakarn."

Restormir, 61st of Winter, Interregnum Year 20

The first time Caldane, Lord Caineron heard about "Tori" was in a letter from his eldest son Genjar.

Dear Genjar had finally taken command of the Southern Host, the Kencyrath's largest body of mercenaries. He spent some paragraphs outlining for his father and lord how this command would enable him to promote the glory and power of the house of Caineron, eventually propelling Caldane to the position of Highlord with Genjar, of course, as his heir.

As the first step in this grand scheme, Genjar detailed his plans for a strike upon the stronghold of Urakarn, a city of religious fanatics in the Southern Waste which had been a thorn in the side of their ally King Krothen of Kothifir for many years. The Karnides, who were pitiful cowards and insanely confident of support from their false god, would fold at once under the assault of trained Kencyr mercenaries. Genjar also planned to manipulate the order of battle to preserve the Caineron forces while allowing some of the more expendable yondri units to take the brunt of the attack.

In a hasty postscript to the letter, sent out the night before the assault was to begin, Genjar added that Lord Ardeth had sent along a green Highborn boy -- apparently a bastard of Ardeth's, or perhaps of one of his sons -- with orders that the boy be trained to command. Genjar had given this "Tori" a one-hundred command, enough to show up his incompetence without letting him undermine the entire battle strategy. And he'd promoted a Kendar berserker above the boy; the otherwise capable randon would notice no details once the fight was joined, and so wouldn't be in a position to come to the boy's aid.

It was all most sensible; Genjar was quite the strategist, almost as brilliant as Caldane himself. Ardeth would be distressed by the loss of his protégé -- perhaps distressed to the point of failing health -- and Caldane wouldn't have to worry about interference from that quarter again.

That letter marked the last time that Caldane's glorious plans appeared to be moving forward as expected.

Urakarn, 47th of Winter, Interregnum Year 20

The first time Rose Iron-Thorn met Tori was in the dungeons of Urakarn.

The rest of the prisoners in the cell were experienced randons, Kendar who dwarfed the boy in their midst and dreaded the approach of his torture as much as their own. After they brought Captain Harn back with his chest mutilated and his head dented even worse, and took the young Highborn away, the atmosphere among the remaining Kencyrs in the cell grew even more oppressive.

He was rumored to be an Ardeth bastard -- how else to explain the sworn Ardeth servant (a bound member of that house and not a yondri-gon as Rose was to Caineron), and the letter Ardeth had apparently sent along with him? But he was no half-Kendar, Rose was certain of that. At most he might be one-quarter or one-eighth Kendar blood. Or he might be full-blooded Highborn; bastards were rare among that race since most Highborn women could control conception at will, but they weren't unheard of. The thing was, he didn't look like an Ardeth. If Rose had to guess, she might almost have thought he was . . . something she shouldn't even be thinking about, far less voicing out loud. Better to let it lie, especially if they were all destined to rot in this dungeon.

As a Caineron, she wasn't really welcome in the group tending to the Captain's wounds, so Rose sat impassively in the corner of the cell and watched the boy's Ardeth servant pace. This man, Burr, seemed very fond of the boy even though he'd only been in service with him for a few months. Rose had felt the same pull of that Highborn command presence when she spoke to the boy earlier. That was part of what made her certain the boy -- Tori, he had told them to call him -- was full Highborn; he drew Kendar to him like moths to a particularly brilliant flame. Even the sworn ones like Burr and Harn weren't immune.

There was also the boy's slight build. Rose had teased him that he was scarcely taller than her own five-year-old daughter. Her stories of Brier had seemed to interest him, and he'd let slip the information that he was barely sixteen years old. More than ten years short of coming of age -- what had his parents (whoever they were, or however unwise to have begotten and borne him) been thinking, to send such a child off to war? But likely his parents were gone, or had no say in where he was sent. He had the air of someone alone in the world, and a little lost. But then, they were all lost, here in the dungeon.

A day after he was hauled away, Tori was tossed back into the cell with scorched and bloody hands curled protectively against his chest, and another one-hundred captain by the name of Rowan was taken away instead. Tori breathed in little choking gasps but didn't weep or scream as they pulled his burned fingers apart and wrapped them in what rags were available.

Afterward, Burr cradled the boy in his arms, practically in his lap, but Tori refused to sleep. Captain Harn woke briefly from the depths of dwar, murmured something about "Good, Blackie's back," and subsided again. But still Tori was awake, trembling in Burr's clutches.

Rose was mostly asleep herself, in the deepest watch of night, when she heard his young voice whisper, "Burr?"

"Shhh, Tori, just sleep."

"Burr, if they ask you -- if they ask you to recant, say yes. Say you believe in their god. Say you never liked the Three-Faced God anyway."

"You know I can't do that, Tori. The lie would stain my honor."

"Not if . . . not if . . . give me your soul."

"What?"

Rose caught her breath. Here was proof, if she had needed it; only a full-blooded Highborn could carry another Kencyr's soul.

"I can hold it for you, keep it safe. They won't haul me out again soon . . . I don't think so, anyway. Give me your soul, then you can lie to them and, and it won't touch your honor."

"Tori, I . . . I can't . . . you're fevered, that's all. It wouldn't work."

Rose opened her eyes and leaned closer to them. "Maybe it would work," she breathed. "Tell them you recant and they won't torture you, well enough -- but they might also give you a bit of freedom. Chance to wander around. Maybe . . . a chance to grab the keys?"

Burr's eyes gleamed wide in the darkness. "That's madness. It wouldn't work! The place is crawling with Karnides."

"And a Kencyr with no soul is nearly impossible to kill. We can fight our way out!"

"We?" Burr hissed. "He's too young for this! How many souls do you expect him to carry?"

"I can do it!" Tori insisted, loudly enough that the others in the cell stopped pretending to sleep. Rose could hear him struggling to sit up, and guessed that Burr was restraining him.

"Better we should wait. They'll ransom us back," Burr said.

Rose shook her head. "I doubt it. My lord Genjar is dead." She heard breaths catch and mutters of surprise around them. "Last night. I felt it." Though she was only a yondri temporarily in service to Caineron, the Highborn of that house kept a heavy hand on their Kendar.

"Was he captured?" someone asked from the other side of the cell.

"I don't think so," said Rose. "It must have been the White Knife." Despite her enforced loyalty to the house, she knew that it had been folly for Genjar to use his command of the Southern Host to attack Urakarn -- and it had failed. If Genjar had survived the battle that cost so many Kencyr lives, he could only redeem his honor by ritual suicide.

"They've given up on us," someone said. "There'll be no ransom."

"Even if there were, could we wait for it?" another said.

"No, we can't," said a rough voice that Rose recognized as Captain Harn's. He sounded alert enough, so he must have emerged from dwar some time ago. "We have to try to escape. Blackie's plan is as good as any. How many souls can you carry, boy?"

The answer was simple and immediate. "As many as I have to."

Southern Waste, 50th of Winter, Interregnum Year 20

The first time Rowan Bitter-Shield got Tori's full measure was when he led them out of Urakarn by their souls.

The fight to get free of the dungeons was short, bitter and bloody. The long trek that followed was worse. The sun of the Waste beat down upon them powerfully, though most of them cast no shadows. If it were not winter, they would have had to stop and seek shelter during the day. As it was, they kept shuffling across the sand, but Rowan knew they had little hope of avoiding recapture. It was incredible that they had even made it this far. But the young Highborn told them to walk, so they walked.

She was the slowest of them still upright, with the infected wound she had taken in battle griping at her leg and the burn on her forehead from the torture feeling as if it must eat through her skull. Two others were being carried: a randon with both feet ruined by torture clinging to the back of one-hundred commander Larch; and Burr, the Ardeth servant, who had taken a pike-thrust through the chest and was left by the Karnides for dead. Yet Tori had insisted the man was still alive and started digging through piles of rotting bodies with wounded hands to find him.

When they had disentangled Burr from the carrion, he certainly looked dead. Captain Harn said, as gently as his gruff voice would allow, "Give him back his soul, lad, and let him go."

"He's not dead; he can heal," said Tori, stubbornly denying the obvious truth. "Anyway, there isn't time." He cupped his filthy bandages around Burr's face and ordered, "Sleep." And impossibly, the shattered chest began to rise and fall in the healing rhythms of dwar.

It couldn't be good for Burr to be slung over Captain Harn's shoulder now, but apparently refusing to give him up to death helped Tori, for he kept marching steadily across the sand with his hands curled in front of him. His shadow marched northward before him, deepened and enlarged eightfold, yet somehow not distorted out of shape. Rowan could scarcely conceive the strength that would allow this slender boy to carry seven souls besides his own, all intact and undamaged. It was like something out of the most ancient legends, the ones full of pageantry and tragedy and honor. She wondered, a little distantly, where the tragedy would come in, and where the honor.

Without her soul, she felt strangely light and uncaring. She was aware of the pain in her leg and forehead, but it didn't seem to matter much; all that mattered was walking, as she'd been commanded, and not letting her leg collapse beneath her. Even the sun didn't make her sweat -- though that might have been her fever, rising again. Tori wasn't sweating either.

Then Rose Iron-Thorn stumbled into sink-sand, and disappeared within seconds. Tori, being the closest, clutched at her. He fell prone, his legs on the dry surface and his arms descending into the sink-sand with Rose.

Rowan went after him, catching him by the legs and holding. He was so slight it seemed her hands could wrap right around each of his thighs. Others came to brace her or to reach for Tori themselves.

"I can't hold her," Tori was sobbing, his face almost lost in the sink-sand. "I can't hold on. Rose!"

Rowan sighed and pulled him back onto dry sand. His bandages, filthy with blood and grit, raveled free to show hands that looked like raw meat several days past edible.

"No, she's still in there! I couldn't hold on, she slipped away --"

"She's gone, Blackie," said Captain Harn gently.

"She's still alive!"

Rowan gulped. It was possible; without a soul, it was unlikely a mere lack of breath would kill Rose Iron-Thorn. She might languish there under the sand, suffocating, for days. Rowan began to think how someone might be able to go down after her, with a rope -- but they had no rope.

"She's gone. Will you release her soul now?"

"There isn't time!" Tori panted. "We have to keep moving."

So they marched. Privately, Rowan wondered if the boy was just reluctant to lose whatever consolation their souls brought to him. It was even possible he had some plan for making use of them; some of the old stories whispered of such horrors -- stolen souls, devoured souls, souls turned to evil use. Yet seven tough, experienced Kendar had entrusted their souls to this unknown boy on his bare word, without knowing his history or motives. It hadn't been easy to give her soul up; it had felt like peeling her skin away, except that it was something inside her that pulled free and went with Tori.

On they marched, until Rowan's leg gave out. She tried to tell them to go on without her, but an Edirr yondri pulled her arm over his shoulder and hauled her along. Now there were as many of them being carried or supported as walking.

Near nightfall they found shelter: a boat so ancient that its wood had turned to stone, or something like it, in the strange environment of this dry sea.

"We have time now," said Captain Harn, and Rowan could hear in his voice some of the suspicions that nestled under her own heart. "Will you release our souls now? Or do you have some other plan for them?"

The boy sat straight, flushed with fever. "I gave you my word. Is that not enough?"

Harn grimaced. "We've only known you a few days, Blackie."

"What are we coming to, if you can't trust the word of another Kencyr?"

Harn shrugged and turned away, but Tori, closing his eyes and muttering under his breath, began to release their souls -- Harn first, then Larch, then Rowan, and on down the line. As he'd said, it took time -- more than they could have spared while escaping. Rowan's soul felt so heavy when it was back inside her, weighting her down, that she wondered how Tori had been able to stand while carrying them. She had expected him to release Rose's soul first of all, but for some reason he clung to that one, as he did to Burr's.

Rowan lapsed into dwar sleep and missed what followed. When she woke, they were safe at the northern shore of the dry sea, and a Kencyr scouting party had found them. Tori was near delirious, muttering about Rose Iron-Thorn towing their boat from below the sand (or was it water he spoke of?) His shadow was merely doubled now; he was only carrying Burr's soul in addition to his own. And Burr was breathing more easier, the gaping hole in his chest smaller. He was healing faster without his soul; Tori had been right about that, too. But still the boy refused to sleep.

Rowan, remembering the strange dreams that had haunted her on the edges of dwar, could understand his reluctance.

Part Two

Yuuuuuuletide!

2008-01-02T01:36:39Z

Soon I will be posting my own Yuletide contributions here, now that the reveal has come. I don't like to do Yuletide recs because it really seems to be about the popularity of the fandom. But I do want to plug the story that was written for me: Entanglement, by adina_atl, which is a beautiful fulfillment of my rather difficult request for Sharing Knife fanfic. Thank you, Adina!

Fic: Inflated Frogs, Part Four

2007-12-04T00:51:00Z

Fandom: Stargate: Atlantis
Title: Inflated Frogs, Part Four
Pairing: Sheppard/McKay
Rating: borderline between R and NC-17
Word Count: ~18,700
Warnings: character death
Spoilers: Second half of Season 3, from The Return through Submersion

Part One
Part Two
Part Three

The infirmary room where the stasis units had been set up was a shambles: no lights, acrid smoke that burned the lungs, flashlights waving wildly, debris (some of it appallingly red and slimy) all over the floor.

"What the hell happened?" Rodney yelled as Beckett came into view hovering over a gurney. John had to look twice to realize the patient was Dr. Watson, bloody and oxygen-masked.

"I don't know," Beckett coughed, waving the nurses ahead with the gurney. "Hewston's dead. The explosion destroyed her stasis unit and damaged Dr. Watson's. We have five more injured, two of them badly. Dr. Torrenz is all right, but his unit lost power -- we have to get him out of there." He turned back into the smoke.

"How the hell did this happen?" Rodney demanded. "We confirmed that the tumors stopped growing under stasis."

"I know that, Rodney!" Carson's patience was apparently limited.

"I had scanners on all of them! Where's the computer that was monitoring the output?"

"Look for it yourself, man, I have patients to tend to." Carson joined Zelenka, who was holding a mask over his face and working on the one remaining stasis unit, scorched and scarred by shrapnel.

Rodney grabbed a flashlight from a passing Marine and played it over the other two stasis units -- a very gory one obviously destroyed from the inside out, and one blackened and partially caved in by the explosion. "The computer was right here," Rodney muttered to himself, standing in front of the destroyed unit. He suppressed a cough as he turned and played the flashlight over the opposite side of the room.

"There," John said, spotting a flash of plastic beneath an overturned metal table. He pulled the warped metal aside to reveal a very battered and dead tablet computer.

Covering his mouth with one hand against the smoke, Rodney crouched beside the computer as if it were an injured person too delicate to move. "Damn. It's not going to be easy to recover any data from this."

Carson turned to them as the medics started to wheel Dr. Torrenz away. "I checked the scans just a couple of minutes before the explosion," he said. "Dr. Hewston's tumour was less than 250 grams, hardly different than when we put her in there. How could this happen if the organ was still so small?"

"I don't know!" Rodney protested, cradling the dead computer carefully. He trailed after Carson out of the smoky room, and John followed.

"I think I know," said a new voice. Dr. Biro was standing in the doorway of one of the infirmary's other rooms. "The overflow has been set up in room five," she told Carson. "Dr. Cole is seeing to the other casualties. They're prepping room eight as an OR, since it's further from the others."

"Right, that's where we're headed, then," Carson said. "Make a display with the details of that procedure we were discussing; we'll have to make up the rest as we go." He hurried after the loaded gurney.

"You said you know what happened?" Rodney asked Biro.

"Yes, come in here," she said. The room was a lab, undamaged by the explosion except for some smoke lingering near the ceiling, eerie in the glow of the emergency lights. "Dr. Beckett and I have been reviewing what the database has to say about these growths, and I think I can extrapolate what happened." She typed quickly on one laptop, then turned it to face them. It had a schematic of something that looked a little bit like a misshapen heart. "The organs develop two chambers, which hold chemicals isolated from the blood and altered by some unusual enzymes. The chemistry of it is quite fascinating, actually. One chamber holds the fuel and the other holds an oxidizer, similar to nitrogen tetroxide --"

"We don't need all the details, Doc," John put in.

"Oh, right. Anyway, the oxidizer is quite corrosive. It gradually eats through the thin membrane that separates the two chambers, and when it combines with the fuel -- boom. That normally happens, as Dr. McKay found --"

John realized she didn't know that Dr. McKay wasn't really Dr. McKay. But he was trying not to think about that himself, anyway.

"-- about a kilogram," Biro was saying. "By putting the patients in stasis, we slowed down the heart rate and therefore the blood flow. The organ was unable to grow or to isolate more fuel. So the scans quite correctly showed no significant change in the mass of the organ." She pointed at the narrow line between the chambers in the picture. "But the oxidizer which had already been isolated continued to eat at the separating membrane. Eventually it broke through and the explosion happened on approximately the same schedule it would have if the patients hadn't gone into stasis, except with a much lower yield, of course."

"That was a low yield?" John demanded, thinking of the destroyed stasis unit and the damage to the room.

"Yes, it was -- maybe three or four times as powerful as a typical grenade, I'd say?" Rodney answered, looking up from his disassembly of the damaged computer. "Certainly not enough to severely damage a Wraith ship, which is what these things were intended for." He coughed and wiped at his smoke-reddened eyes. "Dammit, I liked Hewston! She had potential. She reminded me of myself, when I was -- younger," he caught himself just in time.

When he was a woman, John realized. "Yeah, shame you couldn't have swapped her into Torrenz's body before hers blew up," he drawled.

Rodney stiffened. "That's not funny."

"Wasn't intended to be." John glared at him.

Biro was oblivious to the byplay. "Dr. Beckett and I were working on a procedure for removing the organs safely. They have quite an extensive blood supply, considering how quickly it had to be grown. It will be tricky to remove them without the patient bleeding out -- especially in Dr. Watson's case, since he's already lost some blood. And of course, any pressure on the organ itself could hasten the dissolution of the membrane --"

"And boom," John finished.

"Exactly. Now, I have to get these plans up on a display for reference during the operations. Excuse me." She bustled out of the room.

Rodney had the hard drive out of the dead computer now. "This looks intact, at least. I might be able to get something off it." He started hooking up connectors between the hard drive and another computer that he must have just grabbed off someone's lab table. "So, uh, look . . . I get that you think I'm a different person now, but I'm not. I haven't changed."

"You changed years ago."

"Before we even met! As far as anyone on Atlantis is concerned, I'm still the same person."

"You never were the person I thought you were," John growled. "You've been lying to us all along!"

"It wasn't a lie! Not really. I am Rodney McKay now, as much as I'm anyone. Maybe I'm not exactly the man he would have been, but . . . I've been in this body, using this name, for half my adult life. Even if I had the chance to go back now, I . . . I'm not sure I could, or would want to."

"That's what worries me," John said.

"No, you don't get it!"

"Oh, I get it all right, Ingram. You weren't all that unhappy with the change, were you? I bet you were a tomboy as a kid. I bet kids called you 'dyke' in school, am I right? I bet you thought it was just great to have a chance to fuck your own body, and you weren't in any hurry to change back."

"Oh, so we're back to the sexual slurs again," he spat. "Only now I like having a dick too much? What happened to wanting to be fucked because I grew up female? Make up your mind, Sheppard -- am I a gay man, or a lesbian?"

"Dammit!" John gritted out, wishing the walls of Atlantis were punchable. He needed to do something to get his temper under control. "Look, this discussion is not helping anything. Why don't you just . . . get back to work."

"You want business? Fine." He started typing ferociously on the jury-rigged computer. "You know, they're going to need some pretty strong containment when those things come out. Chances are good they'll explode after removal, if not, um, during."

"You worry about your job, McK-- and let me do mine," John snapped.

He slammed the computer closed with a snarl. "Whatever you say, Colonel. I have to get this information to Carson." He carried the computer and salvaged hard drive down the hall toward the rooms where the victims of the explosion had been taken.

John strolled slowly in the same direction, controlling his voice with an effort as he called for an update on the progress of the explosives team. Standing at the intersection where the emergency lights ended and the normal lighting began, he could see Dr. Cole checking over one of the nurses who'd been helping out earlier, stitching a cut on her forehead. After a moment, John frowned. If that was room five . . . . He turned and looked down the empty hallway Rodney had just taken. Even as he was looking, the door to the hall slid closed.

"Oh, tell me he didn't," John breathed to himself. He waved at the sensor and it flashed yellow -- the Ancient sign for no access. He slammed his hand into the door. "McK-- Ingram! Open this door up right now!"

-----

Not surprisingly, Zelenka couldn't override the lockdown on the door, and given the reinforcement of Ancient shielding, it would take several hours to get through with cutting equipment. It seemed like a couple of lifetimes before anyone in the improvised OR would answer the radio. "Busy here," Rodney's voice finally snapped.

"McKay, what the hell are you doing in there?" John growled.

"Oh, so I'm McKay now? Does that mean you're not angry at me any more?"

"Why don't you come out here and I'll show you how angry I am?"

"Sorry, got work to do."

"What work? You're not a surgeon!"

"I found something in the records of those scans. It might be enough to give us some warning before the next explosion. Unfortunately, the data on disk was only being updated at one-minute intervals, so I can't tell if it's a minute of warning or five seconds, but it's better than nothing."

"Can't someone else do the scans?"

"Well, seeing how both Beckett and Biro are up to their elbows inside my scientists right now, and only one nurse insisted on staying to help them, that doesn't leave a lot of hands free for running a scanner."

"I can send in a volunteer with protective gear."

"It would take too long to explain what to look for. Anyway, I am a volunteer. They're part of my science team, you know."

"Is this about what Torrenz said? You realize no one believes him."

"Is that so? I had the impression you didn't believe me anymore."

"I . . ." John didn't know what to say to that.

"In one day, I've lost my name and reputation, maybe my job, and you -- your trust and, and friendship. So I might as well go all in and bet the farm, right? If nothing else, it proves this wasn't a plot to kill my scientists."

"No one thinks that, Rodney," John protested.

"Isn't that what you were implying earlier? I stole Rodney McKay's body, why not kill off all the witnesses as well?"

"Um, is this an open channel?" John asked weakly.

"Genius here, remember? All the headset signals go through a central control program. I encrypted this one."

" . . . Oh."

"So I'm in this until the bitter end. Might be my last chance to save Atlantis before I get shipped off, right?"

"Rodney . . ."

"Eh, what's that?" Apparently he was talking to someone else; there were sounds in the background. "Okay, hang on, Biro's almost done removing the tumor from Torrenz. Is that blast container ready?"

"There's a Marine waiting at the door."

"Okay, I'm opening the lock. He can come into the hallway."

John had an urge to run and slip through that door as soon as it opened.

"I'm not unlocking the OR. And I am watching lifesigns, so don't get any ideas."

"Dammit, McKay!"

"Okay, I have the box with the . . . thing in it. No warning signs from the scanner so far, but I have to move slowly."

"Someone else can carry it," John said.

"They're busy stitching."

There was a long wait, made worse by the fact that John kept trying to hold his breath.

"All right, I've made the handoff. It's in the containment vessel. I can't scan it in there, so I don't know how long it will take to --"

BOOM! sounded along the halls and over the headset.

"Oh. That was . . . a little closer than I wanted to cut it. Sounded like a bigger yield, too, but the blast container held. Um . . . are you still there? My ears are ringing."

John had to swallow twice before he could speak clearly. "I'm still here, Rodney."

"Right. I'm heading back to the OR. Watson seems to be taking them longer, I guess because he was bleeding so badly already. But they're both working on him, so maybe it will go faster now. You'd better get that second blast container into the hallway and ready to go. Scans are still okay . . . Carson, you're not squeezing that thing, are you? Don't squeeze it!"

Beckett's reply wasn't really audible, but John caught the sarcastic tone.

"Listen, uh . . . John. I'm really sorry if, um, if you feel like I deceived you or something."

"Never mind that now, Rodney."

"See, it wasn't my choice to keep it secret in the first place, and by the time I did have a choice a couple of years had passed. And it didn't feel like a lie."

"I get that, Rodney. Maybe I overreacted."

"Would it help if I let you call me Meredith? Or even Mer? I thought maybe . . . maybe that would help. If you want to, that's okay."

"Just forget about it, okay? Concentrate on your scans."

"The scans are . . . oh."

"What?"

"The scans are starting to change."

"Grab the doctors and get out of there!"

"No, they're almost done. They are done. Okay, okay, come on, just get it into the box and give it to me. He's not going to bleed to death in the next three seconds, is he?"

A faint beeping came over the headset.

"That's the warning signal, it's about to blow. Give me the box. No, just -- give me --"

John could hear Beckett yelling something in the background.

"Rodney, just throw the damn thing and get out of there!" he shouted.

"The yield is bigger, it might take out half the tower! I can get it to containment, just tell your man to get out of the way!"

"You get out of the way!"

"Almost there, I -- oh shit --"

BOOM!

-----

John's back hit the mat again -- hard -- and he groaned up at the ceiling. At least the flag was still under his butt, so Ronon hadn't gotten it. "Don't your people have any customs that don't involve beating the crap out of each other?" he griped breathlessly.

In his quarters afterward, with the sweat washed off and an ice pack applied to his aching head, he watched Ronon fidget with the tab of a beer can for several minutes before saying, "Why were you so mad at McKay?"

"What? I wasn't mad at him."

"Yes you were. I saw it."

"Okay, look . . ." John sighed. "I can't really tell you, all right? It involves some secrets that aren't mine to give away."

"Weir already told us."

"What?"

"She called me and Teyla into her office and explained the whole story about the body-swapping . . . thing. Said McKay wanted her to."

"Oh."

"So?"

"So, what?"

"Why did that make you mad at him?"

"Well, doesn't it bug you?"

Ronon shrugged. "Not really. Should it?"

"Finding out he wasn't always a man?"

"Teyla's not a man. Doesn't seem to matter when she beats you up."

"That's different. Rodney's not . . . he wasn't who he said he was!"

"He was the same as I ever knew him. Why should something that happened before I met him bother me? 'Specially since it was an accident."

"He lied to us. To me!"

"So? You people lie all the time."

"What? No, we don't."

"You lied to me just a minute ago, when you said you weren't mad at him."

"That's different."

"No, it's just the same. You think emotions are ugly and messy, you think you have to keep them hidden all the time and be professional -- but you can't do it forever. So it all comes out as anger." Ronon quirked an eyebrow. "I know a lot about being angry."

"I don't see what that has to do with McKay lying about who he was!"

"Doesn't it? You weren't honest with him, so why should he be?"

"I never lied to McKay! Not about something important like that."

"You didn't tell the whole truth, either, did you?" Ronon eyed John keenly. "On Sateda, if we wanted someone, we'd tell 'em so. Not stand around and watch while they date someone else and pretend we don't care."

"Is that what you did with Teyla?" John shot back.

Ronon just shrugged again, letting the jibe roll off. "I told her I was interested. She said it wouldn't work out. I disagreed. Maybe I'll get her to see it my way someday, maybe I won't. But at least I'm up front about it."

John shook his head. "It's different. McKay lying about who he was . . . it's not the same thing."

"Why? Because you were fucking him?"

John winced. "You know you're not supposed to talk about that, right?"

"Figured you knew about it already," Ronon said drily.

"Okay, fine, if that's what you want to hear, it matters because it affects what we do . . . what we did together. I want to know who I'm really sleeping with, okay?"

"And maybe he wanted to know someone really cared before he told all his secrets."

"Well, you know, that being up front thing only works if both people do it."

Ronon just raised an eyebrow.

John's words played back in his head and he felt his face grow warm. "Fine, so maybe we both made mistakes. But that's all over now, so can we stop please talking about it?"

"Don't know. Can you stop thinking about it?" Ronon asked sharply.

It was true, John thought about it a lot, and it bothered him. He was haunted by the image of Rodney in the infirmary, dazed and lonely and hurting. He'd asked John a couple of times if Elizabeth would be letting him stay on Atlantis, if there would be any disciplinary action taken for concealing the events at Area 51. But he hadn't asked the question that hung between them with every silence that fell.

If he had asked, John couldn't have answered. He couldn't really put words to what he was feeling, the sense that everything that happened between them had been false, a flimsy structure undermined by that one sin of omission. And he wasn't ready to try to describe the other half of it, the growing suspicion that if he met the real Rodney McKay he would choose Rodney-nee-Mary in his place. And where could they go from there?

But was something that happened years before they met really a reason to give up what they had? No one else seemed to be bothered by it much.

"He's coming back tonight," Ronon said into John's reverie. "You better figure out what you're going to do about it."

-----

Rodney stepped through the wormhole looking far better than when he left. His eyebrows had grown back, his stubbled hair looked more like a military cut than a casualty, and only a few red patches remained from the burns on the side of his face. He was walking easily and carrying his luggage rather than pulling it, with no sign of discomfort from the metal fragments that had gouged his side.

"Welcome home, Rodney," Elizabeth said warmly.

Rodney kept looking around until he caught sight of John, watching from the balcony. "Oh, uh, thanks. Good to be back."

"How was your trip?"

"It was . . . um, well, sort of fraught. We should, um, probably discuss this in your office?"

"No rush. You can get settled in first." She looked around. "John will help you take your things back to your quarters."

John rolled his eyes at being assigned the role of bellhop, but he knew what Elizabeth was doing and appreciated it. He descended the stairs and reached for the heavier of the bags. Rodney tried to catch his eye and John gave a short nod of reassurance before leading the way from the control room.

"So how was it, really?" he asked when they reached Rodney's quarters and privacy at last.

"Pretty awful," he said, wincing. "Jeannie was . . . well, upset would be an understatement. She lost her brother, just when she thought she was getting him back, you know? And she was angry at me for not telling her -- seven years ago, six months ago, any time in between. I couldn't really argue with that."

"So what did she decide?" John asked. Elizabeth had resolved that they should let Jeannie have a say in what they would do about the name and reputation of Rodney McKay.

Rodney sat on the corner of the bed with a whuff. "She's letting me keep it. The name, the pretense, the whole thing. She said . . . she said I'd better win a Nobel in her brother's name, that's what she said. And I think she wants some nieces or nephews . . . um. I told her about how I offered to let you call me Meredith, if that would make you feel any better about it. But that won't work for her, since she always called her brother Mer. Actually, by the end of the visit she was calling me Rodney exclusively."

"And what about your family?"

Rodney shook his head. "There's just my brother, and he thought I died years ago. He doesn't have clearance to know about alien technology, and even if I could tell him he'd never really understand. I think . . . I think it's best to let him go on believing Mary Ingram is dead. It's not that far from the truth, anyway."

"Then there's the IOA," John concluded.

"Yeah. Well, fortunately we were able to recover most of the documents surrounding the death of Mary -- of, of my body. It corroborates what I said, and one or two people on the committee had prior run-ins with Colonel Simmons so they believed me about that. I got a reprimand -- and a pay cut, can you believe that? But they're not going to fire me, anyway. I think they think I'm too valuable to the expedition."

"They're right about that," John said, and it felt good coming out of his mouth.

Rodney blinked. "So . . . does that mean you . . . I mean, am I still on the team?"

John sighed and pulled the desk chair forward so he could slump into it. "If you want it, yeah, you're still on the team."

"If I --? Yes, yes I still want it!"

"Ronon said Elizabeth told them the whole story."

"I asked her to. I couldn't do it myself -- I mean, obviously I couldn't do it while I was on Earth, and I didn't really know if I'd be allowed to come back -- but I sort of chickened out and asked her to do it for me. Are they, um, okay with it?"

"They seem to be. We'll find out soon -- we've got a mission planned for a few days from now."

"Oh yeah? Anything interesting?"

John grinned. Rodney would like this. "How about an Ancient power generation station on the sea floor?"

Rodney's eyes widened. "Of what planet?"

"This one. Zelenka found it last week."

"We have to check it out!"

"We will. We wanted to give you time to get settled in again, read the database entries, that sort of thing. And get cleared medically, too." John sobered. "Beckett says you saved his life, taking that box out of his hands. But you nearly got killed yourself."

Rodney looked at the floor. "It was . . . it was the right thing to do. They were my responsibility. How are they doing, by the way? Torrenz and Watson?"

John shrugged. "Torrenz went back to Earth, didn't you hear? Elizabeth got him reassigned inside the SGC because he didn't have the 'temperament' for intergalactic exploration. Watson's still here, recovering okay, I think. He hasn't decided whether to stay or not, but I think he wanted Beckett overseeing his care because it would be too hard to explain to the doctors on Earth."

Rodney chuckled faintly. "He could be right about that." He stood and looked around the room vaguely. "So . . . I guess I should get unpacked, talk to Elizabeth -- oh, and I need to go see Katie, tell her I'm back."

"Don't." John stood up and caught him by the arm. "Don't go to Katie. Stay here." He looked down as his hand slid to grasp Rodney's and give it a squeeze. "Stay with me . . . Mer."

-----

Final note from author: Wondering about the title? It's from H.M.S. Pinafore by Gilbert and Sullivan:

Things are seldom what they seem;
Skim milk masquerades as cream.
(...) Storks turn out to be but logs;
Bulls are but inflated frogs.

Fic: Inflated Frogs, Part Three

2007-12-04T00:46:28Z

Fandom: Stargate: Atlantis
Title: Inflated Frogs, Part Three
Pairing: Sheppard/McKay
Rating: borderline between R and NC-17
Word Count: ~18,700
Warnings: character death
Spoilers: Second half of Season 3, from The Return through Submersion

Part One
Part Two

When the door to Rodney's quarters opened, John was surprised the scientist wasn't standing immediately on the other side, demanding news. Instead, he was at the desk in the corner, typing at warp speed on his laptop. Teyla was sitting cross-legged on the foot of the bed (which had been made sometime in the last couple of hours, and John knew it wasn't by Rodney), watching with a bemused expression. She glanced up, met John's gaze, and tilted her head toward Rodney with a canted eyebrow that held more resignation than worry.

"Hey, buddy," said John carefully.

"What? Oh, yes, you're here," said Rodney, swiveling his chair. He was fully dressed now, the bathrobe tossed over a corner of the desk. He did a double-take as he noticed Elizabeth standing in the doorway also. "We need to talk."

"Yeah." John rubbed his chin nervously. "Torrenz's so-called evidence is pretty bogus, but there are a couple things we thought we should clear up." He really didn't want to ask Rodney about a former lover's last hours, but it had to be done.

Rodney just blinked. "What are you talking about?"

"Hello? Dr. Torrenz? The guy who insists you cook your colleagues and eat them for breakfast?"

Elizabeth's elbow jostled John's. It might have been an accident, except for how it wasn't. "Rodney," she said gently, "we'd like to ask you just a few questions about Dr. Ingram."

Rodney froze, and for a moment John saw panic in his eyes. "Wait, you're still talking about something that happened over seven years ago? Nonono, we have much bigger problems than that."

There went the hairs on the back of John's neck again, insisting that Rodney's reaction was all wrong.

"All right," said Elizabeth with a stiff calm that told John she had noticed the same wrongness. "But this will just take a few minutes to cover -- why don't we get it out of the way first, and then we can discuss what else you've found."

"No, we need to deal with this right away!" Rodney insisted. "Look, I've been checking the Ancient database, and I found out what that machine was supposed to do."

"Which machine?" John asked, his mind on the array of alien devices in the video of the lab in Area 51.

Rodney made an impatient noise. "The one Dr. Hewston activated just a couple of hours ago! The weird radiation that they detected?"

"Oh, right," said John, slanting his eyes toward Elizabeth. She looked back at him with a certain wild desperation, and he bet she was thinking the same thing he was: they would all get wrapped up in this latest crisis, and the Torrenz issue would fall by the wayside only to come back and bite them all in the ass later.

"I'm telling you, these Ancients were nuts. I have no idea what they were thinking when they built this thing, but it emits a particular focused radiation that causes--"

"Hang on," said John. "This sounds like something Zelenka should hear, don't you think?"

"Huh? Yes, I suppose --"

"He's going to be working with you on it, so you might as well explain it just once," John urged. "He can be here in a couple of minutes."

"Well, I --"

"I can go and alert Dr. Zelenka, if that will help," Teyla volunteered on cue. John nodded at her gratefully and shifted aside so she could get out the door.

"All right, but we should --" Rodney began.

"We should use this opportunity to clear up those last few questions," Elizabeth said firmly.

"Oh, no, we don't have to --"

"Come on, Rodney, this will just take a minute," John pressed. "You know Torrenz has these theories about the day Dr. Ingram died, right?"

Rodney swallowed and nodded.

"But there must be simple answers for this stuff, since of course you weren't really responsible for -- what happened. So why don't you just tell us what was going on, and we can put this behind us before we move on to the next thing?"

"What do you want to know?" Rodney's chin was high, his mouth tight with worry.

Elizabeth picked up the thread. "For one, how was it that Dr. Ingram knew the combination to your desk, and where your gun was kept?"

Rodney blinked and rocked on his feet, like someone braced for a blow that doesn't land. "What? She . . . I don't know, I guess she must have, have seen it sometime. I mean, we, we shared a lab, we worked together a lot -- she could have seen the combination almost any day. And I might have mentioned the gun or something. Does it matter?"

"That's not the only question," Elizabeth continued. "Dr. Torrenz thought you and Dr. Ingram were behaving oddly that day. I gather it was very unusual for you to be late to work?"

Rodney was blinking rapidly, still seeming confused by the questions. "We were late because we had, uh -- we spent the night together. We were, um, up late, and we, we did some things together in the morning -- shopping and, you know." Rodney grimaced as if he realized how incomplete that explanation sounded. "Look, it was, it was a romantic night out, okay? We didn't, uh, didn't actually formalize anything but it was sort of implied -- I mean, we discussed the possibility of, of marriage --"

"Okay," John broke in, unable to listen anymore. "We get the picture."

"Is that really relevant?"

"It was just something that was out of the ordinary on that day," Elizabeth soothed. "There is one last thing, though." She glanced at John.

"Rodney. What was in the drink you gave Dr. Ingram that day?" John asked.

"Huh?"

"We saw . . . Torrenz had a video. You brought in a couple of drinks and you were about to sip from one but you stopped and then gave it to her instead. Was it, uh, what was in it?"

"Oh!" Rodney snapped his fingers in memory. "It was orange juice. I almost drank from it by accident but caught myself in time."

John considered that. "Why were you giving her orange juice?"

"Oh. Well." Was Rodney actually blushing? "She -- Mary liked it, but she hadn't been drinking any because we were going out. It was part of that romantic night we had; I found out . . . she'd been giving up something she enjoyed for me, and I never realized. So the next morning I got her a glass and explained it would be safe so long as, you know, so long as we didn't kiss for a couple of hours afterward. Which we wouldn't anyway, at work."

This explanation, even as awkward and halting as it was, rang true to John's ears. The contents of the drink had been the only really serious question Torrenz brought up, and it all made sense in this context. He found himself relaxing and giving Rodney a reassuring smile.

"She didn't seem to like it, though," Elizabeth pointed out. "She didn't even drink it all."

Rodney shrugged. "Uh, well, maybe it was bad or something. I got it out of the break room refrigerator, and, you know, I'm not really a judge of quality in orange juice." Then he frowned. "Wait a second. Are you saying Torrenz thought I drugged her drink?

"We didn't really buy it," John said quickly. "It just looked kinda weird on the video, you know, with you refusing to drink it but giving it to her instead."

"And supposedly there was no toxicology test done on the contents," Elizabeth said. "Is that true?"

"Well, they probably couldn't recover enough to test," said Rodney. Catching their puzzled looks, he said, "What, you didn't see that part? The mug of orange juice got shattered in the, uh . . . by a stray bullet. It splattered all over me, my face and eyes. I didn't even realize at first, what with, um, being shot and . . . everything else. When the allergic reaction started, it was, well, the worst I'd ever had. I was in the hospital for several days."

"So you missed the funeral."

There was a glitter of moisture in Rodney's eyes. "The funeral was on the other side of the country, but I missed . . . her mother came, and I wanted to talk to her, but I couldn't. It was . . . a bad time for me."

"I can see that." John hesitated and cleared his throat, looking to Elizabeth.

She nodded; they were both satisfied with the answers to the questions Torrenz had raised. Before Elizabeth could deliver an executive summary, though, Teyla reappeared with Dr. Zelenka in tow.

-----

John had thought the ascend-or-die machine was the craziest thing the Ancients could have come up with, but it seemed he was wrong. Exploding tumors were worse.

"I don't get it," Dr. Watson complained, as John hustled him toward the infirmary in his pajamas. "I don't have the Ancient gene. So it couldn't have affected me, right?"

"We're not sure, that's why we need to check," said John soothingly even as he kept the guy moving with a hand at his elbow. "That radiation you detected, was it directed specifically at one or two people?"

"Uh . . . no, not that I know of."

"So there you go. You may have been affected, so we have to make sure." Privately, John thought the Ancients were perfectly capable of turning random Pegasus humans into involuntary suicide bombers, with or without their knowledge. So the tumor-inducing machine probably didn't give a damn if Dr. Watson had the gene or not.

"But Dr. Beckett scanned us, and we were fine!"

"And now he knows exactly what to look for, so he's going to do another scan." John sighed in relief as the infirmary came into sight.

Teyla had apparently been faster in her people-retrieving, because Dr. Hewston was already under the scanner. Torrenz, who'd been in the infirmary anyway, was standing back in a corner frowning deeply at Rodney, who was typing on a computer and pretending to ignore him.

"Here he is, Doc," John said, urging Watson into the scan room just as Carson gestured to Hewston that she was free to move.

The stiff set of Carson's face said the news wasn't going to be good, but he nodded politely at Dr. Watson as a nurse guided him into position. "Thank you, Colonel. I'll be ready to discuss the results with you in just a few minutes." He bent to his computer again to start another scan.

Radek was just directing a couple of Marines through the front door of the infirmary with a large . . . something on a pallet. Radek pointed them over at a corner where a similar unit was waiting already, then bustled off while the Marines got busy unloading.

John frowned, reminded of the stacked units on the Aurora. "Are those stasis pods?"

"Hmm," said Rodney, still typing.

"Did I know we had those?"

"Yes. Old Elizabeth from the other timeline, remember? But we haven't tried using them yet -- the control interface is not the same as what we saw on the Aurora. And now I'm trying to rewrite the interface basically from scratch, so it would help a lot if you stopped distracting me." Rodney snapped and pointed. "You -- um, Hudson."

"Hewston," she said darkly.

"Yes, yes. Help those Neandertals get the power hooked up."

Torrenz stepped forward, scowling as much as he could with his eyes swollen half shut. "You're not seriously planning to put us in stasis, are you?" he demanded.

"It's an option," said Rodney shortly.

"Are you going to let him get away with this?" Torrenz demanded of John.

"With what, trying to buy some time to save your sorry life?" Rodney demanded.

"He's trying to shut us up. Get us out of the way so he can, can . . ." Torrenz trailed off, imagination apparently failing him at this hour of the morning.

"So I can what?" Rodney turned from the computer. "What exactly do you think I'm trying to accomplish here?"

"He's trying to get away with murder!" Torrenz blurted.

"Okay, that's enough," said John. "Break it up. Rodney, get back to work. And Torrenz . . . shut up."

"Thank you," Hewston muttered where she was crouched, connecting a maze of cables with assistance from Teyla.

"Has Dr. Weir arrived yet? Ah, good, here she is," said Carson. "I have the results of the scans. If you'll step in here?"

John, Rodney, Elizabeth, and the three irradiated scientists all crowded into the scan room to see the displays there.

"It's confirmed," said Carson. "Just as the database described, each of you has a mass behind the breastbone." He waved at a display showing something highlighted in red tucked behind someone's lungs and heart.

"Wait, even me?" Dr. Watson said. "I don't even have the gene."

"That seems to make no difference," Carson told him. "Dr. Hewston's is the largest, probably because she was closest to the machine."

"But I feel fine!" Hewston protested. "I just had a few hiccups, and they've stopped now."

"They might have been caused by an irritation of the diaphragm from the growth nearby," Carson explained.

Torrenz pressed his hand to his chest and looked like he was about to throw up.

"Dr. Hewston's growth is nearly two point five centimeters in diameter, and the others are about half that size. We actually did see a shadow on Dr. Hewston's earlier scan from two hours ago, but didn't identify it as abnormal at that resolution. Now that we know it was real, that gives us an estimate of the growth rate." Carson pointed to another chart that showed a couple of rising lines shaded in red. "Rodney, did you find out from the database how large the growths are when they, er, go off?"

Rodney swallowed. "I don't know about size, but the mass would be around one-half to one kilogram, depending on how quickly the explosive chemicals can be isolated from the person's blood."

Carson frowned. "So not much larger than, say, a heart, allowing for denser tissue. Dr. Hewston could reach that point anytime in the next six to twenty-four hours. The others will likely take a bit longer, perhaps another few hours."

"Wait, you're saying I have six hours to live?!" Hewston yelped.

Torrenz gave an odd sort of moan. Watson looked paler than his complexion should have allowed.

"We're working on extending that, lass," Carson soothed. "In the meantime, it's probably best that all of you stay calm -- not too much activity, and no food."

"Right," said Rodney. "Deny the tumors the raw material to grow -- good thinking. I'll just, ah . . ." He opened his computer and set it on a medical tray, making little metallic sounds as he typed.

"Hang on," Torrenz objected. "Your answer to all this is to put us into stasis? Why not just remove the tumors?"

Carson grimaced. "The word 'tumour' is a bit misleading -- these are actually new, functional organs growing inside you. We expect we will be removing them, but there are a few things we need to understand first: how they become explosive, what kind of blood supply they've built . . . whether we need to do something to prevent them growing back, for goodness' sake. So we need to buy a bit of time to study the database, and take more scans. If we remove the organs now, we'll be doing three experimental surgeries simultaneously without knowing what to expect for the recovery."

"Take mine out now," Hewston said quickly. "You can learn what you need about the recovery process from me."

"No, wait, why does she get to go first?" Torrenz protested. "If you do it while the thing is smaller it should go more smoothly, right? Delaying our treatment will make it harder."

Carson held up his hands. "It's meant to be a rest day today, y'know. One of my doctors and a couple of nurses are already off on the mainland -- I was planning to head there myself for a bit of fishing. I'm not sure I can put together three surgical teams at the drop of a hat, especially for an unknown procedure. Give us some time to get the details worked out, that's all I'm asking."

"This was his idea, wasn't it?" Torrenz demanded, pointing at Rodney. "He wants us on ice so we can't object to whatever he has planned."

"Oh, give it a break, already," said Hewston wearily.

"Actually, it was Zelenka's idea," said Rodney, turning from his computer.

"Aye," Carson confirmed. "And I'm the one who wanted time to study the growths better. Dr. Zelenka suggested stasis to slow the metabolism, pause the growth of these organs while we figure out how best to deal with them."

"Assuming, of course, that stasis works normally on these things," Rodney added. "They're designed to go off on a Wraith ship a few hours after culling. That means they might keep growing when the vic-- person is in a Wraith cocoon."

Carson sighed; they must have discussed this already. "Cocooning isn't quite the same as stasis, Rodney."

"But some of the processes are similar," said Rodney. "I'm just saying --"

"You wrote the interface?" Torrenz asked, then turned to John and Elizabeth. "You let him write the control system? He could set it up to fail, and then claim it wouldn't have worked anyway!"

"Oh yes, because I really want to have three deaths on my conscience just when I've gotten you halfway trained," Rodney snapped.

"See?!" said Torrenz triumphantly. "He admits it!"

"Have you heard of the concept of sarcasm?" Rodney retorted. "For the billionth time, I don't murder my subordinates!"

"You've already done it once. I don't want to be another Mary Ingram!"

"I did not kill Mary Ingram!" Rodney yelled back, getting in Torrenz's face. "It was an accident -- I never wanted that to happen!"

John was stepping forward, trying to say something calming and laying a hand on Rodney's arm, but no one paid attention to him.

"What, because you were in love with her?" Torrenz sneered.

"No, dammit, because I am Mary Ingram!"

John would have assumed he'd misheard, except that everyone else seemed as shocked and bewildered as he felt. Carson's scanner fell with a clatter. Elizabeth dropped her crossed arms and her jaw simultaneously. Torrenz just stared, his mouth framing the word 'What?' but no sound coming out.

John was frozen. His hand was still on Rodney's arm, but it had gone lax.

"Oh, bloody hell," said Carson into the silence. "The body-switching machine? You used that?"

"It was an accident," Rodney said, quiet now. "It was all an accident." He stepped back from Torrenz and out from under John's hand, wiping his eyes wearily.

"So, you're . . . not . . ." John was having trouble wrapping his mind around this idea. Rodney wasn't Rodney?

"You swapped bodies," said Torrenz, "and then she -- he? -- was . . ."

"My body was killed," said Rodney (not Rodney?). "So there was no way of swapping back."

"And you never told anyone?" Elizabeth asked.

"As a matter of fact, I did," Rodney snapped, life coming back into his (her?) face and voice. "I told my boss, Colonel Simmons. Who used the information to blackmail me into doing things I didn't want to do. It took me years to get enough dirt on him to get out from under his thumb. Are you surprised I didn't tell my next boss?"

"But . . . you . . . how . . .?" John really wasn't getting this.

McKay's eyes rolled. "It was an accident. I was working on Machello's inventions. I asked Rodney to help me move the body-swapping machine, and the precautions that had worked before didn't work for some reason -- we got swapped. You can't just switch back; the machine has an interlock to prevent it. You have to get other people involved. It was already evening, not many people around, and . . . well, we were embarrassed by the mistake. We thought maybe we could find a way around the interlock. And anyway, we, um, we . . ." His face reddened.

"You wanted to experiment with your new bodies," Elizabeth guessed. Apparently she was grasping this faster than John.

"Well, yes. So we, um . . . right. We got in pretty late the next day. We discussed if there was anyone we could trust to help us switch back without getting us into trouble, but it was a pretty cut-throat environment at Area 51. We didn't trust Colonel Maybourne or Colonel Simmons -- which was later borne out, I might add. So we were trying to figure out how the interlock worked, and next thing I knew Rodney was yelling and shooting . . ."

"It was his desk," Torrenz said wonderingly. "Of course he knew the combination, and where the gun was."

". . . and I got shot and then my body was lying dead on the floor in front of me, and then I had my first round of anaphylactic shock -- which is not something you ever want to experience, believe me -- and I was in the hospital so I didn't even get to speak to my mother when she came to claim the body, and I would have spilled the whole story to everyone except I told Simmons first and he threatened me, held the non-disclosure agreement over my head and said he'd put me in prison . . ."

"How do we know it's true?" said Torrenz, recovering some of his usual belligerence. "Can you prove it?"

Not-Rodney sighed. "How? I know things only Mary Ingram would know, but there's no one who can corroborate it. Certainly no one on Atlantis!"

"No, wait -- try this. What did I say to Mary in the break room the day before, um . . . the day before?"

"I don't remember! You were being an asshole, that's what I remember. And you tripped me, right onto the floor."

"Only to keep you from kneeing me in the crotch!"

"You deserved it!" Not-Rodney paused and looked surprised. "I never told anyone about that. Too embarrassing."

"I thought you probably wouldn't." Torrenz's eyes went haunted and his voice deepened a register. "Mary?"

"Oh, nonono. Wait, stop, don't get any ideas. I'm a different person now. I've been a different person for seven years. You're not going to start this again. I never wanted anything to do with you in the first place!"

"So, you just . . ." took over Rodney McKay's entire life, John was going to say, but he was speaking too slowly, absorbing it all too slowly, and Hewston spoke over him.

"This is all fascinating," she inserted, "but some of us are dying here?"

Rodney jumped and reached for his computer. "Right! Yes, working on it. The interface is almost ready. Go see if Zelenka has finished the initialization and self-checks on the stasis units."

"What if the stasis doesn't work, like you said?" Watson asked while Hewston headed out the door.

"Then we'll try something else, but it will happen faster if everyone stops distracting me!" It looked and sounded just like Rodney, just like the man John knew. But it was really someone completely different.

"McKay . . ." he murmured uneasily.

"Later!" snapped the person pretending to be Rodney McKay. "We can talk it to death later."

"That sounds like a good plan," Elizabeth said firmly. "For now I think we should clear out and give them room to work." She waved Watson and Torrenz out of the room; Carson was already back at work reviewing the scans. "John?"

He blinked and followed Elizabeth from the infirmary in a daze. She took the transporter first, and when the door opened again John just stood there staring into the empty chamber. "Okay," he said at last. "Didn't see that coming."

-----

John succeeded pretty well in not thinking about it for the next few hours. He went for a run in the gray pre-dawn light, his feet pounding the piers in mindless rhythm. Then he showered, letting himself just enjoy the heat and the streaming water and getting clean. It was easy enough, like that, to avoid thinking of Emily and their last confrontation, where she told him tearfully that she couldn't be what he expected, and anyway she'd never fallen out of love with her ex. Or Scott, when John had tried really hard not to expect anything at all, explaining that it had been great but he was engaged to a pretty girl now and wasn't really like that anyway. John wasn't thinking about any of that.

But when he went to the mess -- too hungry to skip breakfast after being up all night and then running -- it was harder in the presence of people to forget what had happened, how he'd been screwed over yet again in a way he he'd never even known was possible. He chose a table out on the far end of the balcony, where he could watch the sunrise, but it still felt like heading back into a combat zone after not enough leave.

Then Rodney -- or Mary, or whoever -- plunked a loaded tray down across from him, and any hope John had of avoiding the issue faded away.

"Finally!" the scientist said, and bit into a muffin with a hum of satisfaction, chasing it with a swig of coffee. "They're in stasis now, so we have a little breathing room. Which is good, because I'm starving."

"Yeah, good," John murmured, separating his hash browns with a fork and then mashing them back together again.

"So what did you want to ask?" he said, after putting a thorough dent in his breakfast.

John shrugged. "Nothing important. You were right the first time. Why talk it to death?"

"Huh." It was a very Rodney sound, and John felt his gut react despite what his head was saying. He'd always loved Rodney's little noises. Including the eating noises, and the food-appreciation noises that usually followed. Hearing those normal, everyday sounds from across the table now was really messing with his mind.

"'Sfunny," the scientist said around a mouthful of egg. "I would have thought I'd be right there with you. Y'know, in the why-talk-about-it-if-you-can't-change-it camp." A pause for another big bite. "But, I don't know, maybe it's because I had to keep it quiet for so long, now I almost feel like I want to talk about it."

"Look, I'm not really into that sort of thing, R--" John caught himself.

"What sort of thing?"

"That, you know." John gestured at the figure across the table and lowered his voice, even though no one was near. "Sex changes, identity changes, total body makeovers. Why not just be who you are?"

He clunked his coffee cup down too hard. "Come on, it's hardly the same thing. I didn't choose this!"

"Didn't you?"

"No! That's what the word accident means. None of that was planned or intended."

"But, if you had just done the reversal thing right away --"

"Since when do you get hung up on might-have-beens? If we had done the reversal, maybe Rodney wouldn't have died, but there's no saying he would end up at the SGC, or at Atlantis. Maybe he would have died anyway, or I would have died instead, and how much trouble would this expedition be in without me here?"

"Still --"

"Still, nothing. God, you sound like Torrenz! It was an accident. It happened. And once it was over there was no way I could undo it. I just had to go on and learn to live with a new body, a new name, a new life."

"Yeah, you were kinda quick to take over the guy's life and career, weren't you?" John drawled. "Did he get more awards than you, or what? Is that why you're always looking at all those diplomas?"

His face reddened with annoyance. "I look at his diplomas because I'm trying to honor the life I fell into. I was forced into this, John. When I stepped into Rodney McKay's shoes, I gave up my own life. I never saw my mother again; she died the next year. My brother mourned me as dead, and I'll never speak to him again. So don't talk to me about what I got out of this. Those things are just consolation prizes compared to what I gave up."

"And what about Jeannie? Is she a consolation prize too?"

He sighed and swiped a hand down his face. "God, I was so terrified she'd figure out something was wrong, but it's true, she and Rodney never were that close. I saw how they interacted the one time she visited Area 51, and it wasn't that hard to fill the part. It was a lot worse when Rod showed up."

"Huh?" John hadn't even thought about Rod.

"He's more Rodney than I ever was. I mean, everyone always said we were just alike, and hardly anyone noticed when I ended up in his place -- the ones who did notice anything just put it down to grief. But Rod, he was the real thing, what Rodney McKay should have been, and I just couldn't imitate it that well. I was sure Jeannie would figure it out then, but she never did."

And that left John wondering if he would even have liked the real Rodney McKay. Would he have gotten the same oily feeling he did whenever he talked to Rod, instead of being attracted? "What about me?" he asked, turning it around.

"What?"

John checked the area for eavesdroppers again. "Are you really gay? Or just a straight woman in a man's body?"

He rolled his eyes. "Does it matter?"

"It matters to me."

"All right, then, I guess I'd say this body is still more attracted to women than to men, but my mind is more attracted to men than to women. Samantha Carter was the first woman I met that my mind and body could agree on, but she wanted nothing to do with me."

"What about Katie?"

He grimaced. "She's . . . sweet. Very understanding. She might even understand the real story. But mainly I'm thinking the best way to honor Rodney McKay would be to pass along his genes. I would need an understanding woman for that. Understanding and, um, patient."

"And me?"

A small, crooked smile. "Well, I can't pass along genes with you, but . . . you're like Carter, for me. You're the first man that appealed to my body as well as my mind. I know -- that is, Rodney told me he'd experimented a little in college, but I don't really know how far it went."

"So is that why you like to be fucked? Because you're really a woman?"

He went white and thin-lipped, just staring at John. And before John could decide whether to take it back or grab his sense of betrayal and push harder, their tense silence was broken by a resounding BOOM.

Part Four

Fic: Inflated Frogs, Part Two

2007-12-04T00:41:40Z

Fandom: Stargate: Atlantis
Title: Inflated Frogs, Part Two
Pairing: Sheppard/McKay
Rating: borderline between R and NC-17
Word Count: ~18,700
Warnings: character death
Spoilers: Second half of Season 3, from The Return through Submersion

Part One

John reached the infirmary before Elizabeth, and found Carson fussing over several members of the science team. Rodney was nowhere in sight.

"Where's McKay?" John asked.

"I've put him in there, to cool off," said Carson, waving to the door of the isolation room. The video screen by the door showed Rodney pacing back and forth inside, wringing his hands.

Cool off? "Wait, he has a fever? He was fine a few mi-- hours ago. What did he get exposed to?" John frowned at the scientists milling around, only now noticing that one of them was Dr. Torrenz.

"No no, it's his temper I wanted to cool," said Carson. "He was getting a bit obstreperous --"

"He punched me!" Dr. Torrenz blurted, pushing Carson's hands down to reveal a red and swollen nose.

"What? Rodney?" John glanced again at the isolation room video and realized Rodney wasn't wringing his hands but cradling one in the other. John turned to the other two scientists and one of them (Dr. Watson, who golfed) shrugged in bewilderment. The other (Teyla sparred with her sometimes -- Hudson? No, Hewston?) just looked annoyed.

"He wants me dead!" Torrenz insisted.

"Oh God, not this again," said Hewston.

"Now, lad --" Carson started.

"No, it's true! McKay set me up! He told us to check out the abandoned labs, and then when we encounter something dangerous he acts like it's all our fault!"

"Look," said Hewston, "we took reasonable precautions --"

"But we don't know what that radiation was," said Watson. "We might get sick! Not that I'm saying McKay wanted that to happen or anything, just . . ." He subsided unhappily.

"He did want it to happen, and I bet he knows exactly what the radiation is!" said Torrenz. "McKay's had it in for me since day one!"

"Now, wait a second," John objected, remembering how weirdly provoking Torrenz had been at that first meeting. Something was obviously not right here.

And of course that was when Elizabeth arrived, in time to hear everyone arguing about whether Rodney had or hadn't sent three of his own team to die. "What is going on here?" she demanded, raising her voice enough to cut through the babble.

A pause, and then John, Carson, Torrenz and Hewston all started to talk at the same time.

"Wait, hold it!" Elizabeth held up a hand to silence them. "Carson, you called me here. Why don't you tell me what's going on?"

Looking harried, Carson started to explain. "It seems these three thought midnight was a good time to carry out some exploratory work --"

"I had commitments during the day," said Hewston defensively.

"I have other work to do!" said Torrenz. "Important work!"

Hewston snorted.

"We get to sleep in tomorrow," said Watson with a shrug. "I figured it wasn't a big deal."

"I take it you found something dangerous?" Elizabeth asked, crossing her arms.

Hewston looked away with a grimace.

"An unidentified machine got, uh, activated," said Watson with a glance at the others.

"Hewston did it," said Torrenz. "She has the gene."

"It wasn't deliberate!" she countered.

"All right! We're not blaming anybody, here," Elizabeth cut in.

"McKay is," said Torrenz at the same time that Hewston said, "Dr. Torrenz is."

"Enough," Elizabeth snapped. "I would like Dr. Beckett to explain, without interruptions."

"Aye, well . . ." Carson ran a hand through his hair. "They detected some radiation, so they turned off the device. Then they quite properly came to the infirmary to get themselves checked out. They appear fine, by the way, but I'll want to follow up with them. Anyway, I called Rodney since the science team is his bailiwick. When he got here, an argument started between Rodney and Dr. Torrenz."

"He's trying --" Torrenz started, but Hewston slapped him on the arm and shook her head sharply.

"Go on please, Dr. Beckett," said Elizabeth, her tone clipped with annoyance.

"Right. Dr. McKay accused the three of them of being careless and violating procedure, and Dr. Torrenz accused Dr. McKay of sending them all into a dangerous situation -- deliberately, he seems to think -- and matters deteriorated from there. Dr. Torrenz made some reference to someone from Dr. McKay's past, I forget the name --"

"Mary," Hewston supplied, at the same moment Torrenz said, "Dr. Mary Ingram."

"And that was when Dr. McKay punched him."

Elizabeth blinked. "Rodney? Threw a punch?"

"Aye, right on the nose. It's fractured but not displaced, fortunately. I got a nurse to help me separate them, put Rodney in the isolation room, and called you two. I should check on him --"

"In a moment, please. First I'd like to hear more about exactly what Dr. Torrenz was claiming." She gave the scientist a dark look.

Torrenz stiffened. "He wants me dead. He chose me for the most dangerous --"

"That's ridiculous!" Hewston interrupted. "McKay wasn't even the one who assigned us to those teams; it was Zelenka."

"I understood that there would be strict safety protocols in place for these explorations," said Elizabeth coldly. "Was that not done?"

"Yeah, yeah it was," said Watson hastily. "We got all these lists of procedures and stuff to follow --"

"Except it's impossible," Hewston added. "It would take years to get through all the labs if we followed those steps for every one. McKay doesn't take those precautions himself!"

"And that almost got him killed a few weeks ago!" said Torrenz. "He knows this is dangerous! Clearly, he shouldn't have been sending us to do his dirty work --"

"You mean the same work he does himself whenever he gets a free hour?" John put in. He moved forward, catching Torrenz's gaze. "Aside from it being a stupid way to try to kill someone -- and McKay's not stupid -- what motive do you think McKay would have for setting you up?"

Torrenz swallowed. "I told you, he's had it in for me ever since I got here --"

"Because you've been provoking him ever since you got here," said John. For Elizabeth's benefit, he added, "I've seen it myself, and heard about it from at least two other sources. Calling him by the wrong name, needling him about his dead girlfriend -- you've been trying to get under McKay's skin for a couple months, and now you accuse him of attempted murder. Why? What's your game, Torrenz?"

"It's not a game! He's done it before, at Area 51. I was there. McKay murdered Mary Ingram. I can prove it!"

-----

When Carson went in to check on Rodney, John accompanied him.

"Finally!" Rodney exclaimed, jumping up from the cot in the isolation room. "I've been waiting in here for hours!"

"It's been under an hour, Rodney, don't exaggerate," said Carson in tones of exaggerated patience. "Let me see your hand."

"What's going on out there?" Rodney demanded, and "Ow!" as Carson uncurled his fingers gently.

John shrugged. "Well, Torrenz is flinging around a bunch of accusations --"

"Oh, please!" Rodney rolled his eyes.

"Yeah, I know. It sounds pretty far-fetched to me. But Elizabeth figures we should give him a hearing. That way, when we tell people he's blowing smoke out of his ass, they'll know we know what we're talking about."

Rodney frowned. "What's he saying about me?"

Carson exchanged glances with John. "Primarily that you set him and the others up to run into trouble tonight."

"But I didn't make the team assignments! Zelenka did! And how was I supposed to know they'd go do their exploring in the middle of the night?"

"Exactly," John pointed out. "You've got plenty of witnesses to back up your side of the story -- including Dr. Hewston and Dr. Watson, who don't seem to think you had anything to do with this radioactive thing they turned on."

"Of course I didn't!"

"So we're just going to listen to what he has to say, and then he'll get sent to Heightmeyer for some counseling about his paranoia problem, and that will be the end of it."

Rodney looked suspicious. "You're being too reasonable. What aren't you telling me?"

John put on his best innocent face, but Carson spilled the beans. "He's also made some accusations concerning your time at Area 51. This Dr. Ingram?"

"Oh God, not that again. He keeps bringing that up. It's just like seven years ago, when he kept harassing m-Mary to go out with him."

John stiffened. "He was harassing her? Was there any documentation of that?"

Rodney shook his head. "No, ah -- she never told anyone."

"Except you," Carson pointed out.

"Yes, right, because . . . because we were dating."

"So Torrenz was jealous that she was with you and not him?" John asked.

"Yes, that must be it!"

John bit his lower lip thoughtfully. There was something off about Rodney's reactions, and John didn't like it. But he supposed it was all going to come out in the open anyway. He'd just prefer if they had a little warning rather than getting blindsided by whatever Torrenz had as 'proof.' John knew there was no way Rodney had arranged the death of Mary Ingram -- not to mention fatal accidents for Drs Torrenz, Hewston, and Watson -- so whatever came up couldn't be that bad. He just wished Rodney would stop trying to hide whatever it was, so they could deal with it.

Carson finished putting ointment on Rodney's bruised knuckles and gave him a cold pack to keep the swelling down.

Rodney massaged the cold pack nervously. "All right, where are we doing this?"

"Doing what?" said Carson.

"Hearing Torrenz out?"

"Ah, that'll be just us, buddy. Me, Carson, and Elizabeth."

"What?"

"Teyla's going to take you back to your quarters and keep you company --"

"What, now I'm under guard?"

"If I wanted you under guard, I would have called Ronon," John said drily. Elizabeth had suggested a Marine outside Rodney's door; he was glad he'd insisted on Teyla instead.

"Oh yes, because Ronon can flatten me in one second, where it takes one and a half for Teyla!"

"She'll keep you from going nuts while we talk to Dr. Torrenz, and then we'll come hear your side of the story."

"Why shouldn't I be there? You could get both sides of the story at the same time."

Carson sighed. "Based on your previous actions, we thought you'd have trouble keeping your opinions to yourself."

"By opinions, he means fists," John clarified. "And you know, you could be in the brig for that -- be glad you aren't."

Rodney scowled. "Don't I have the right to face my accuser in person?"

"Rodney, this isn't a criminal trial." Yet, John thought to himself.

"We don't even have a protocol in place for anything like that," said Carson. Which wasn't exactly true, but John figured it wouldn't help to correct him. Their sketchy plans for possible disciplinary inquiries had never been put into action, anyway.

"But if you want to look at it that way," John began.

Carson glared at him.

"I'm just saying, there's a reason the defense gets to speak last. In a criminal trial. Which this isn't. But see, we're doing you a favor by talking to Torrenz first."

"Doing me a favor, by confining me to quarters while Torrenz maligns me behind my back?"

"Come on, trust us, buddy. You know we're on your side. We're your friends."

"That's not what Elizabeth would say, is it? I bet she'd say it isn't a matter of friendship or 'sides,' and you have to consider the matter impartially."

Since that was pretty close to what Elizabeth actually had said when John objected to the plan himself, he couldn't think of a good comeback.

"Ach, come on, Rodney," Carson growled. "You know we don't believe a word the man says. But it's a serious accusation, and we've got to treat it with due consideration."

"Right!" said John. "And really, the guy's obviously nuts -- it's just a matter of letting him prove it. We're going to give him enough rope to shoot himself in the foot."

Rodney groaned. "And you say he's nuts? I just hope your cross-examination makes more sense than your metaphors -- otherwise I'm completely screwed!"

----

Elizabeth and Dr. Torrenz were seated on opposite sides of the conference table. John took a seat at the end; Carson wavered and headed for the seat next to Elizabeth.

"All right," said Elizabeth. "So you all know, this is an investigation to gather and evaluate evidence -- not any kind of a formal proceeding."

"We don't even know if any laws were broken," John said.

Elizabeth nodded. "I looked up what official information we have available on the incident." She called up a file on her computer and angled it toward Carson so he could see it if he wanted. "Dr. McKay and Dr. Ingram worked together in the same department at Area 51 for nearly two years, researching alien technology recovered through the Stargate program. Dr. Torrenz overlapped with them there for a few months."

"Just over three months," Torrenz confirmed, looking earnest and reasonable -- an effect that was somewhat negated by the big white splint over his nose and the bruises starting to come out under his eyes.

Elizabeth continued, "The official account of Dr. Ingram's death in early 2000 -- or at least, what we have available without opening an unscheduled wormhole to Earth -- says that Dr. Ingram was adversely affected while working on some devices built by Machello."

"Wait, I recognize that name," said Carson. "Wasn't he the one who made the, er, the body-switching machine?"

"That's right. After SG-1 ran into trouble with some of the devices they recovered from Machello's lab, they packed them off to Area 51 in 1999. Then, in 2000, SG-1 found some more of his technology and discovered that it had been intended to deliver Goa'uld-killing technology around the galaxy. The method involved inserting devices --" She frowned at the laptop "-- I'm not quite clear on whether they were mechanical or biological --"

"Great," John muttered. "Our favorite kind."

"In any case, these devices would kill Goa'uld while leaving the hosts alive, but even though they didn't cause permanent harm to humans, they induced temporary symptoms of extreme paranoia and schizophrenia, including hallucinations."

John looked at Dr. Torrenz. "And you were working with this stuff?" Maybe that explained why the guy was so paranoid.

"No, I was working on Tollan technology," said Torrenz. Belatedly, he realized what John had been implying and frowned at him.

Elizabeth went on. "No one knows how exactly the devices were triggered, or why none of the previous work on these particular devices had shown the contamination. What the account does say is that one day, while working at Area 51, Dr. Ingram began to act irrationally. She obtained a gun and started to shoot at something only she could see, claiming that 'they' were after her. One of the security guards, not knowing what was going on, reacted --"

"With lethal force?" John guessed.

"That's right. At least, according to the official story. Dr. Torrenz appears to think there are some holes in that story." Elizabeth looked across at him expectantly.

Torrenz cleared his throat and opened his laptop. "Yes, yes, that's it exactly," he said. "Dr. Weir summarized it very nicely, but I just don't think that version makes sense. For one thing, no one who was there saw any of these supposed insanity-inducing devices. When SG-1 encountered them, the devices exited the bodies and were seen."

Elizabeth frowned. "As I recall from my review, no one died in that case -- the devices were tricked into leaving living bodies. Perhaps when the host dies, they don't exit."

"But the devices weren't found in the autopsy, either. So where did they go? If they were ever even there."

"Was anything else found that could have accounted for Dr. Ingram's behavior?" Carson asked.

"No. Or at least, not that they told us. But they might not. The labs at Area 51 were administered by the NID back then, and they liked to keep secrets. Even from their own employees and colleagues."

John leaned forward. "Why did you say 'no one who was there' saw the things? Weren't you there?"

Torrenz swallowed. "My lab was down the hall. I heard the shots and yelling, but the security guy told me to stay in my lab. I didn't really know what happened until it was all over." His computer beeped readiness, and he started typing. "But even aside from that, there was something strange going on that day, and Dr. McKay knew about it. Let me show you."

He turned the computer around so they could all see the screen. "This was Mary Ingram." A photograph came up of a woman around thirty with straight brown hair, well-endowed in the chest but also somewhat thick around the waist. She was wearing jeans and a T-shirt with a flannel shirt unbuttoned over the top, and frowning thoughtfully at the camera. The background was a parking lot and some nondescript buildings that might have been anywhere.

Torrenz pressed a key and another photograph appeared, of the same woman sitting at a desk or lab table and half-turning to make an impatient grimace at whoever was taking the picture. "This is what she was like," Torrenz said. "She wore casual clothes almost all the time, stuff she wouldn't hesitate to get dirty while working. She was very dedicated, very conscientious -- a brilliant scientist, and usually annoyed whenever something distracted her from work."

"Sounds like McKay," John murmured.

"Aye, I'm sure they made a lovely couple," said Carson.

Torrenz scowled at them. "That was what everyone said. I just couldn't make her see that he wasn't good for her. He was using her, riding her coattails and passing off her brilliance as his own."

John coughed. "You're talking about McKay?" He'd never known Rodney to act impressed by anyone else's brains, much less try to steal their ideas. Even with Zelenka, whom Rodney actually respected (to an extent), it was always a collaborative or simply competitive relationship rather than exploitation -- and with the women in his group, even when he made them cry Rodney was generally scrupulous about giving them credit for their own ideas. John just couldn't picture Rodney doing what Torrenz was talking about, especially if this Mary Ingram had enough force of personality to stand up for herself.

"No one believed me, but I kept trying to tell them," Torrenz insisted. "But see for yourself." He reclaimed the computer and called up something else. "I obtained copies of the security videos from the day Mary died. She came to work late that day -- almost noon. She came in with Dr. McKay. Look at this."

There was some grainy black-and-white footage of a hallway with two people coming along it. As they neared the camera, John could see that one of them was Rodney, and the other was a woman in high heels. She didn't look much like the photographs they'd seen earlier -- she was in a low cut dress that showed off her curves to best effect, her hair was up in some kind of elaborate braid, and she was smiling broadly. As they watched, she wobbled and nearly fell off her spiked heels; Rodney caught her arm and said something smilingly that made her throw back her head and laugh.

"Are they drunk?" Elizabeth asked, incredulous.

"Some of the people who met them that morning thought so," Torrenz said. "But supposedly the autopsy didn't find any alcohol in her blood, or only trace amounts."

Torrenz typed some more. "This is from the camera in their lab. McKay's desk is this one in the corner, and Mary's desk is down here, almost underneath the camera." There were computers and banks of electronics and some more exotic-looking devices on tables and shelves around the walls of the lab. Rodney and the high-heeled Dr. Ingram entered, paused briefly near Rodney's desk, then continued through the room to the bottom corner of the camera's view. They were apparently examining or discussing something on a bench in Dr. Ingram's work area, but all that could be seen were the tops of their heads and the occasional gesturing hand.

"This isn't exactly showing us much," John complained.

"Just wait," said Torrenz.

"What's down there?" asked Elizabeth. "What are they looking at?"

"Some of the alien devices Mary was studying."

"The ones Machello made?" Elizabeth pressed. John could follow her train of thought: those were the ones that had supposedly been booby-trapped. It would be nice to see if either scientist was touching them.

"Some others as well. I'm not sure which particular one they were looking at just then. But here, look at this." Torrenz waved at the screen as the couple moved back into the camera's view. Rodney left the room, while Mary Ingram sat and began typing furiously into a computer.

"Uh . . . huh," said John. "And what's wrong with that?"

"Just a second . . . here."

Rodney reappeared with two coffee mugs in hand. He walked up behind Dr. Ingram and started to extend one of them to her while sipping from the other, then visibly reversed himself and held out the second cup without actually drinking from it. Dr. Ingram turned away from the camera to look at the offered mug, and clearly shook her head.

"She doesn't want it," Torrenz narrated, "but he talks her into it. Look!"

Rodney gesticulated, and Dr. Ingram accepted the mug after a minute, taking a gulp and then making a grimace that could be seen even on the blurry footage.

Torrenz hit some keys, and the last few seconds replayed: Ingram shaking her head at the mug, Rodney insisting, Ingram drinking from it and then making an unhappy face before she set the drink aside.

"What was in the cup?" Carson asked.

"I don't know, but whatever it was, Mary didn't like it."

"Well, didn't they check out the drinks after the incident?" John said reasonably.

"When I asked about it -- after I saw this footage -- the security guy said they tested one mug of coffee and it was clean, but he didn't remember any second mug," said Torrenz.

"But you didn't actually see the forensic reports?" Elizabeth insisted.

"No, I didn't have clearance for that. The people who were in charge of the investigation basically told me to shut up and stay out of the way. I only heard about the autopsy and the other tests second-hand."

"Hang on a second," John drawled. "You got those security videos, but you're telling us you couldn't steal a couple of reports?"

Torrenz's bruised face flushed dully.

"Yes," said Elizabeth with a quelling glance at John. "While I can't condone breaking into secured files -- even with the most altruistic of motives -- it does seem your investigation was less than complete."

"These videos were stored on a computer with minimal encryption," said Torrenz. "The investigation and autopsy notes were on paper, behind doors that were locked and guarded. Computer files, I can hack. Breaking into a secure vault? Not so much."

"And the reports were never emailed to anyone?" asked Carson.

"If they were, it was under too much encryption for me to find them."

"Well, if you're trying to make out that he drugged her drink or something, you're a long way short of proof with what you've got," said John. On the screen, Rodney and Dr. Ingram had settled down to typing on different computers, looking like colleagues (drinking buddies? lovers?) and not much like murderer and victim.

"Come on, it's pretty suspicious, don't you think?" Torrenz rallied. "First they show up late, acting so weird people think they're drunk. Then he makes her drink something she doesn't want. And then, half an hour later . . ." He fast-forwarded until the little clock in the corner showed that twenty-odd minutes minutes had passed.

The two scientists were still working at their computers, but after a moment Dr. Ingram stopped typing and turned her head as if watching something on the floor. She spoke, and Rodney peered in the same direction, seeming confused. Ingram pointed, stood up, spoke some more with an attitude of increasing alarm, but Rodney still looked baffled about what she was indicating.

Then Ingram ran to the desk in the corner, tapping hastily on a keypad before bending to a lower drawer.

"Wait," said John, leaning forward. "Didn't you say that was McKay's desk?"

"That's the next suspicious thing," said Torrenz. "Why did Mary know the combination to Dr. McKay's desk? Why did she know exactly where he kept . . . that!"

Ingram stood up from her crouch by the desk, brandishing a gun. John winced at the way she waved it around, pointing it right at Rodney several times. The muzzle flashed as Ingram fired at something off to the side.

Rodney's hands were out, his mouth moving rapidly as he tried to reason with her. He stepped in her direction but tripped on the chair she had abandoned. Ingram turned toward the flailing limbs, and John saw the gun flash again.

"Shit!" he gasped. "Did she just shoot McKay?"

"Well, yes, but he wasn't seriously hurt," said Torrenz.

Rodney was on the floor, hand clamped to his side and face contorted in a grimace. Ingram looked surprised; she started toward him, bending over him while she kept throwing glances at whatever it was that had frightened her. As she moved, one high-heeled shoe twisted beneath her and she threw her arms out for balance, the gun she still clutched pointing briefly in the direction of the doorway --

And another figure appeared in the door, uniformed and armed, firing at Ingram. John counted three shots, obviously center mass from the way Ingram convulsed as they hit her. Any one of them might have been fatal.

Rodney was yelling at the guard, crawling to Ingram's side, reaching for her with a hand already visibly smeared with his own blood. Even in the grainy soundless video, his anguish was clear. John felt his throat ache as he watched Rodney cradle the body of the woman he'd been laughing and joking with just a short time before.

Swallowing hard, John looked up. Carson seemed a little dazed, as if he wasn't quite sure what he'd just seen. Elizabeth was frowning deeply. Torrenz was watching the three of them expectantly, the maroon bruises around his eyes making him look like some alien raccoon.

"That's it?" John rasped. "That's your 'proof?'"

"Yes, that's it." Torrenz blinked his swollen eyes. "Don't you see? It makes no sense. It just doesn't add up."

Biting down on his anger, John turned to Elizabeth and kept his tone light. "Can we go back to bed now? 'Cause I was in the middle of this really awesome dream . . ."

"What?" Torrenz yelped. "No! You all saw it. He drugged her! He set her up!"

"I don't think we saw the same thing you saw, lad," said Carson gravely. "It looked to me like a terrible tragedy, and Rodney suffered as well as Dr. Ingram."

"The proof is right there!"

"That isn't proof," John growled, "and you know it. If you really thought that video proved something, you would have taken it to the authorities a long time ago. Instead you farted around making insinuations and weird little threats, blackmailing McKay into giving you extra lab space --"

"I was trying to get him to admit the truth, but he doesn't have a conscience. He never really cared about her. He was just using her! He didn't even go to her funeral!"

"How soon was that after he was shot?" John snapped.

Elizabeth lifted a hand slightly in John's direction, warning him to keep his temper leashed. She didn't look very happy herself, though. "I agree with Colonel Sheppard. There was nothing particularly incriminating about what you've shown us."

"But -- the drinks!" he insisted.

"There are some anomalies, I admit, but none of them come close to proving that any wrongdoing happened, much less that Dr. McKay was responsible."

"But what about the out of character behavior? And how did Mary know his desk combination, and exactly where that gun was? We weren't supposed to tell anyone our combination!"

"Maybe he broke the rules because they were dating," John suggested. "Maybe he showed her the gun to impress her. And coming in late -- you know, Torrenz, most people, when they see two co-workers come in at noon, laughing and dressed in fancy clothes, they don't immediately think 'conspiracy to commit murder.'"

Torrenz sputtered.

Elizabeth went on, "This doesn't constitute proof beyond a reasonable doubt; in fact, it doesn't even raise my suspicions much except concerning the NID's management of Area 51, which is in the past anyway. But just to make sure this matter is completely settled, I will request copies of the official documents concerning Mary Ingram's death. If they weren't destroyed during the NID purge, we should have the autopsy and forensics reports within a couple of weeks. However, in the meantime, I see no need to hold Dr. McKay under suspicion or arrest."

"He tried to kill us!"

"He will receive a reprimand for striking a co-worker," Elizabeth continued coldly, "but there will be a note that he was provoked. You, Dr. Torrenz, will be off-duty for the next two weeks. You're not confined to quarters, but you will stay away from Dr. McKay and his lab."

"I can't believe this!"

Elizabeth's voice was rising steadily. "You will also have several sessions with Dr. Heightmeyer. I'll consider further measures once we have the official reports in hand. And now I think it's past time that we all get back to our beds."

"You're just sweeping this under the rug. I should have known you would take his side."

"Come on, lad," said Carson wearily. "Let's get you some more analgesics. I think the pain from your nose is making you a mite tetchy."

John was too angry to appreciate Carson's gentle humor; he was more inclined to finish what Rodney had started with the alterations to Torrenz's face. He slipped out of the conference room quickly to get away from Torrenz and his computer, frozen on the image of Rodney cradling his girlfriend's corpse.

"John, wait!" Elizabeth called behind him as he was halfway down the hall to the transporter. "Are you going to talk to Rodney now?"

"Yeah, he's probably just about stewed himself into a fit," John said. "Must be driving Teyla crazy, too."

"I'll come with you; I'd like to speak to him about this."

"You're not really worried about those 'anomalies,' are you?" John asked skeptically. But even as he said it, his mind replayed Rodney starting to drink from the one mug, then stopping himself and holding it out to Ingram instead.

"Not worried, no. But I do think that getting an explanation sooner rather than later might help us nip this in the bud."

"Hate to tell you, I think it's past the 'bud' stage already."

"Well, better now than never," said Elizabeth. "I don't know how long it might take them to scrounge up those papers on Earth. Dr. Torrenz was right about one thing: the NID was not exactly known for their eagerness to share information. A lot of paperwork apparently just disappeared."

John sighed. "Do you think anything McKay says will change Torrenz's mind?"

"I don't know -- that's partly why I want to see exactly what Rodney will say."

"Fair enough." John waved her ahead of him into the transporter.

Part Three