And Be One Traveler

by Amireal and Trinityofone

NC-17, RPF

It was always cause for concern when a cry of "Medical emergency!" went out across the city-wide channel. It was particularly disconcerting to hear Major Lorne announce, "Med team to corridor E! Doctor McKay is unconscious but he appears to be breathing," when John could in fact confirm that McKay was breathing. In fact Rodney was sitting right across from him, working his way through a plate of veal parmesan.

They stared at each other for several seconds, Rodney's fork held aloft, dripping sauce onto the tabletop. Then Rodney blinked and tapped his earpiece. "Major," he said, the query of Were you dropped as a child? unspoken but no less present. "I'm in the mess."

There was a pause, then Lorne's voice again, expressing what was, for him, a great deal of bewilderment. "McKay?"

And a moment later, Doctor Beckett: "Rodney, please meet me in the infirmary. Quickly, now."

Unsurprisingly, John went too.

They got three strange looks by the time they made it from the doors of the infirmary to the patient in the back of the room.

"Okay!" Rodney barked the second they saw the figure unconscious on the bed. "Who's been playing with a quantum mirror device without my approval? Approval I would have been perfectly willing to grant, oh, never."

Beckett looked at John, who shrugged. It was a little surprising that Rodney was handling this so...well, not well, but without the freak-out that could be expected considering that there were now two of him.

Oh, God, John thought, suddenly feeling a bit faint. There were two of him.

A similar look of horror was rippling right below the surface of Lorne's expression, but he kept himself composed. "There wasn't any device," he said. "He was just lying there in the middle of the hallway."

Rodney frowned. "Please do not tell me that there's a universe where I would be stupid enough to play with a quantum mirror -- "

"Let's not jump to conclusions," John said, and tried to look innocent when Rodney shot him a glare. "I'm sure you'll figure out how he got here; hell, when he wakes up, we can just -- "

Ask him, he'd been going to say, but just then Pegasus' special brand of cosmic synergy went into effect, and the figure on the bed groaned. Everyone in the room leaned forward expectantly. Beside him, John was aware of Rodney narrowing his eyes.

The other Rodney opened his. Winced. Immediately closed them again.

"Um," said John. It was a bit of an anti-climax.

But the other Rodney was still awake. He just didn't seem very happy about it.

"Jesus Christ," the new Rodney whined, "Joe, what was in those shots Torri fed us, and don't pretend you weren't watching her the whole time."

John blinked a few times, looked at the Rodney next to him, and sighed. "So now we can have different names in the alternate universes?"

"Shit." Rodney-on-the-bed blinked and cracked one bloodshot eye open. "Did I pass out on set? Martin will never let that go. Hell, Rachel and Jason will be talking about it at conventions forever."

"Well -- " Rodney next to him gave him a tight look, discomfort clearly written on his face. "Considering the usual practicalities of chaos theory, I'm quite surprised it hasn't happened before now." He shifted, rolling his eyes upward like the universe was personally calling him out.

"Joe?" Rodney -- or possibly not-Rodney -- was saying. "Did we by any chance find the best stunt double ever?" He looked perplexed, but it was missing the large dose of 'Oh God, who rewrote the laws of physics when I wasn't looking?' "And hey, fourth wall, cool. I read a story like this once . . ." His voice faded out and he did a reasonable facsimile of bug-eyed. "Jesus, what is this, Star Trek?"

"Hey!" Rodney snapped.

"Yeah," John said, getting the feeling that this wasn't your usual visit from a parallel dimension. And the fact that there was a usual was just about as weird as the no-pants thing the Asgard liked so much. "No need to get insulting."

Oh sweet -- two unerringly entertaining frowns in one blow.

"Never mind," maybe-not-Rodney muttered. "I believe you, like they'd spend money on an actual stunt double; they like my girly scream too much." Rodney made an indignant sound but not-Rodney went on. "Besides, at the rate Joe keeps tripping over his own two feet and a pile of dirt -- extreme sports my ass -- he's far more likely than I am to need a stand-in the next time we end up in a middle-of-nowhere forest place."

John frowned, eyebrows drawing together. "Joe," he said, trying it out. "Hi, I'm..." No, it just wasn't him.

Not-Rodney rolled his head back onto the pillow, losing the height he'd achieved when he'd braced himself on his elbows. "God, I hope this is a bad hangover." He flung an arm over his eyes and sighed. "I'm too young to get by on my dodgy reputation alone."

"So." John elbowed Rodney in the stomach, a preemptive attack based on the fact that he'd already opened his mouth. "What's your name?"

"David." He moved his arm enough for one red-rimmed eye, almost pink with color, to peer over his elbow. "I swear to God, Joe, if this is payback for the furries thing, your wife is so getting a phone call from my sister pretending to be some drunk fangirl."

"Wife?" John's voice did not crack and if, from the look on Rodney's face, the subject was going to be brought up later, there were some recordings made during their last crisis that Rodney might be interested in.

"Lovely woman," David said, staring at the ceiling, "lives far away, very smart."

"Because she lives far away?"

"Possibly." David smirked just a little and there was a strange second of dichotomy because it was the first moment where John really saw the shadow of Rodney in the other man's face. Sure they looked alike, but David was just different enough, in all the ways that mattered.

"Well, I see he's awake." Carson stepped around the curtain. "And how are you feeling today?"

David made a face, quickly put it away and made another face, then shook his head and finally pushed himself up into a sitting position. "Okay, I'll go with it for now," he closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Shaking his shoulders and arms, David even cracked his neck before opening his eyes again. "I've got to confess, Doc, not quite myself."

"Please," Rodney suddenly cut in. "Tell me you're Canadian."

"You know -- " David blinked, "I actually took all that patriotic pride as a way to mess with the Americans."

"Well, yes," Rodney hedged, "but I still, it just seems so, I don't know, there's something fundamental about where you come from, you know, and I guess what with having a different name it might not be the same thing -- "

"I'm an actor," David smiled brightly. "Or so they tell me. I can be from anywhere I like. Zed. See? That was my Canadian accent, how'd you like it?"

"Oh God, an actor?" Rodney went ghost white and searched blindly for a chair to sit in.

"Wanna hear my Scottish?" David said, unrepressed. If John didn't know better, and maybe he didn't, he'd think David had gotten over his initial shock and was now just having fun.

"What, no? How about American? Repression! Repression!"

A lot of fun.

"Now," Carson said slowly, watching the byplay, "I know that quantum physics and all that muck isn't exactly my purview..." He stopped, obviously ignored Rodney's snort and waited for David to stop chuckling; he only got a handwave to go on, which he did. "But this doesn't exactly sound like the usual," David's laughter reached a sharp point before being muffled again, "sort of thing that happens when this sort of thing happens." Carson paused and made a face. "You know what I mean."

John watched David press his lips together, eyes bright with mirth, shaking his head minutely. "No, please, Rodney," he snorted, "you go first, all I've got is 30-some-odd years of Doctor Who under my belt."

Rodney glared at him. "Actually, I find I'm much more interested in figuring out where our universes diverged so hugely that -- "

David let out a loud guffaw and then waved his hands, attempting to say something along the lines of "carry on," only it came out in broken syllables.

"Why is this so funny?" Rodney glared and then paused, narrowing his eyes further. "You're an actor?"

David nodded, eyes round and open, but completely unsurprised as Rodney turned the conversation on a dime. "And?" he wheezed.

"But we're all familiar to you?"

David looked at Carson, then at John, eyes crinkling slightly, and then back at Rodney. "Oh yes, definitely familiar." He looked at them all again. "Though with a few extras thrown in." He snorted to himself. "That is, small differences in appearance."

"And this place?" Rodney pressed, hands starting to zoom wildly as John could see him start to get onto a hysterical roll, only the questions he was asking were very good questions indeed and John was starting to become a little more curious than amused. Also, he was starting to get annoyed that he hasn't gotten there first.

"Oh yes, this place does have a certain familiarity to it." David smiled and looked around, for a brief moment losing all his hysterical humor and going slack-jawed as his eyes reached the ceiling. "But again, certain cosmetic differences."

"How?"

John was brought up short by the abrupt question. He blinked and watched David be surprised by it as well before the more familiar amusement slid firmly back into place. "I'm an actor." He said like it explained everything in the universe.

"You're an actor," Rodney repeated. "You're an actor." He stepped forward and poked David in the stomach; David just watched the finger with almost detached amusement. "A well-fed one at that."

"Hey!" David gave a perfunctory slap of annoyance, but otherwise looked utterly patient as Rodney reasoned something out.

"So an actor with a job." Rodney started pacing. "A job that puts you in contact with us, or rather, people who look just like us, but with different names and -- " Rodney stopped, throwing David a wide-eyed look.

"Go on." David made a motion. "I'm not gonna say it."

"Oh God." Rodney sat back down abruptly. "You play me, don't you?"

David nodded mutely, waiting patiently.

"How much do you get paid?" Rodney asked.

"Well." David blinked rapidly. "That's actually not the question I was expecting. Also? Can we rewind a little and work around the assumption that I'm the one going insane?"

"Wife?" John couldn't help bringing it up again. He really couldn't imagine a place where even a likeness of him -- a man who obviously knew him well enough to...you know -- would end up with the white picket fence and the 2.5 kids. Oh, wow, kids. Did this Joe person have kids?

"Girlfriend, actually, and she's totally going to kick my ass if I have another lost weekend."

"I thought you said I had a wife." John frowned.

"Lost weekend?" Rodney prompted.

"Oh, no." David pointed to John. "Joe has a wife, couple of kids, long distance bill the size of my arm. I have the girlfriend who gets annoyed if I can't remember what happened for two consecutive days at a time."

He seemed decidedly less than bothered at the prospect himself. But, John reminded himself, actor. He'd have to keep an eye --

"So." David blinked flippantly at Carson. "How'm I doing?"

"You're a wee bit hungover," Carson said. "Electrolytes, fluids, all could use a good pick me up."

"Typical Sunday then." David nodded.

"Except it's Wednesday," Rodney corrected, crossing his arms. "What the hell were you doing last night?"

"Orgy," David replied cheerily. "Need to get a little soused before I can bring myself to cheat on the Missus."

John watched Rodney flap just about everything in his power, from his arms to his gums to his entire body.

"I thought you said girlfriend!" Rodney accused.

It had all started to calm down again, once Rodney got over the entire girlfriend fiasco, and then the dogs were mentioned and that was another five minutes of hysteria, but finally all was calm and under control and David was submitting to all sorts of medical tests with a strange aplomb that looked wrong on Rodney's face. His continuous ribbing of Carson, voice speeding up as Beckett prepped the needle, was just a tad more normal -- and yet still subtly different. David's teasing was gentler, yet something about it seemed to ruffle Carson far more than even Rodney's more acerbic moments ever did.

Then Elizabeth walked in and David was down for the count, watching Rodney try and explain it all again without sounding like a complete lunatic.

"I call not explaining to Ronon what a soap opera is," John eventually said into the silence that followed David and Rodney's overlapping and harrying explanation. David apparently couldn't help but throw in his own little tidbits now and then, possibly because Rodney's eyes kept getting impossibly huge and he kept saying things like 'What? No!'

Elizabeth coughed politely behind her hand and shook her head. "I think maybe we can skip that important bit of information in his next debriefing."

"I'll tell him!" David volunteered, looking positively giddy at the thought. "Though I may pretend to be Rodney while I do it."

"Hey!"

John pinched the bridge of his nose and watched David and Rodney dive back into it, oddly compelling bookends who looked equally perplexed when they both snapped their fingers at each other at the same time.

Okay, maybe this was a little funny.

***

David was following Elizabeth -- Elizabeth! -- to the briefing room, or he was supposed to be. He could tell by the subtle impatience she radiated (So different. Wow. So different!) that he was taking far too long, but he really couldn't help himself. He trailed his hand along the wall and it was just...so, so different. Cool and thick and solid -- yes, solid; the material unlike anything on Earth. Which made sense, as he wasn't on Earth. His stomach did an excited little flip at the thought.

Okay. Okay. Assuming that he wasn't having some sort of psychotic episode where he was either a) lying in a gutter somewhere, choking on his own vomit, or b) locked in a white soft-walled room while men with clipboards peered at him through a thick pane of safety glass (possible, possible -- he did have that one aunt who went a little funny, and really what was in those shots; they were purple). Anyway, yes, assuming that neither of those things were true -- or, ooh, that he wasn't in a coma, because that was also a possibility; right, so putting all that aside -- and hey, he was willing . . . Then this was really fucking cool.

He paused, laying his hand against the wall. He could feel a slight hum from beneath the surface -- all those Ancient systems, probably, the ones about which he had to reel off pages and pages of dialogue and act like he knew what he was talking about. Not that the writers knew how it worked, either, but...wow. It all really worked here. It was all really real.

He pressed his ear closer to the wall, listening to the hum.

"Oh my God, is he retarded? He can't even walk down the hall like a normal person!"

His own voice, whispering far too loud. David bit back a smirk -- and the urge to do something really outrageous, like lick a random patch of floor. You know, just to prove that he was really and truly Canadian.

"Rodney," said Joe -- John. God, that was weird. But like the Elizabeth/Torri divide, it was easy to spot the differences. In the infirmary, there had been a glint to Sheppard's eyes, a vague echo of, of something, something hidden just behind them, beneath the surface. Joe had that too, but with Sheppard it was just so much more intense.

He needed to get Sheppard alone. He had a sudden, burning desire to pick his brain.

All right. So, briefing; do the briefing. Those scenes always took forever to film, crammed into that hot, tight little room, and him with dialogue chunks as big as his hand. But the actual room, when Elizabeth beckoned him inside, was airy and light. He moved to sit and was immediately called back by an indignant "Ahem." Ooops. Apparently (unsurprisingly) that was Rodney's chair.

Both Sheppard and Elizabeth were giving Rodney looks that David could easily read as variants on, Nice -- mature. There was an odd undercurrent to Sheppard's expression, however -- bemused, maybe, even affectionate. How would Joe play it? No, that didn't help. He (when he wasn't himself) had been on the receiving end of similar looks many times, and he still wasn't sure. Anyway, it didn't matter; he told himself it didn't matter if he didn't know what every nuance of every expression meant, because neither did Rodney. Rodney didn't know.

It mattered even less, now. Sheppard wasn't even looking at him.

Elizabeth pulled out a chair. "Here," she said, and a little hesitantly, "David? Please, take a seat."

He sat. Bounced in the chair a little. It felt...different. He smiled to himself -- not surprised. Pleased.

"Right," Rodney said abruptly. "So what brilliant thing did you do to land yourself here, hm? What did you touch? Did you touch the big red button that says 'Don't Touch'?"

Okay, he really needed to train himself not to laugh every time Rodney spoke. He had a feeling it was kind of rude, not to mention the fact that it would be really painfully ironic if he got the crap beat out of him by a fictional character.

Wait, scratch that. He could totally take Rodney.

"Sorry," he said, sensing that Rodney was set to simmer, "but don't you realize? This is impossible! Where I come from, there are no quantum mirrors outside of, well, television shows." He winced a little at that; it felt like he was rubbing their noses in it. "I didn't do anything because there was nothing I could do!" He sat back in his chair and folded his arms. "Your physics," he concluded, "does not resemble our Earth physics."

Rodney was scowling at him; he looked like he wanted to whine, Well, your physics sucks. David was only slightly disturbed to realize that they were both holding their bodies in exactly the same position, though Rodney's shoulders looked tenser. Elizabeth's eyes were flicking back and forth between them, like a spectator at a tennis match.

"So you're saying that the level of technology in your universe is significantly below ours?" she surmised, and Rodney's eyes flashed. Ha!

David couldn't help himself. "Yeah," he said, gesturing expansively at the room, the city, everything around them. And he couldn't help a little bit of awe creeping into his voice, too. "This is science fiction."

"It is not!" Rodney was standing so suddenly it took several eye-blinks to process the movement.

Sheppard was sitting up straight as well, eyeing Rodney warily, and David could see the energy just waiting to be used; it was like watching Joe before action was called. "Rodney, maybe you're taking this a little personally."

David blinked, reading character motivation as easily as a script. Sheppard was worried about the outburst, and frankly so was David. Last time he'd had McKay use that much energy there'd been drugged food involved.

"Rodney," Elizabeth (and God that was still going to catch him at odd moments) said, "sit down, please."

Rodney sat, not looking very happy. "Maybe it's all just classified and you're not important enough to know about it."

Wow, it really was going to come back to the actor thing. Maybe this was what it was like to have disapproving parents.

"All right, maybe," he admitted, because seriously, he knew better than to try to argue. "But if I'm not important enough to know anything, I'm certainly not important enough to touch anything. I don't get many opportunities to wander into secret government facilities and make random things light up." He smirked at Sheppard. "Unlike some people."

Sheppard stuck out his tongue, a spit second move that left David wide eyed and blinking. It was just -- Actually it was the sort of thing he would have attributed to the character -- Jesus he really had to start letting these people be people, if only for the time being -- and yet, the tongue thing was really disturbing, because it gave John Sheppard, military man, anti-hero extraordinaire, the sort of character depth the producers would never allow. A small niggling of resentment on Sheppard's behalf started in David's stomach.

"Well," Rodney smirked. "Yes, I suppose you're right."

"Also, our laptops are Dells," David said, apropos of nothing. He just couldn't stop pointing things out. It was something he'd noticed on set first thing and also the first thing he'd noticed about Rodney's computer was that it didn't resemble that one at all. The little things kept tripping him up.

Rodney, too. "What?" he said, going red and shaky.

"Gentlemen," said Elizabeth, trying desperately reel them in. "I think we should focus on determining what has brought David here, and what that...means for all of us."

Sheppard leaned back in his chair, tongue still busy, licking across his lips. "Oh," he said, lightly, "we're gonna discuss philosophy now?"

His eyes darted to David's, locked there. David blinked first, looked away.

"Oh, God," Rodney said, sitting down, oblivious to this interchange. "It's like the chicken and the egg."

Elizabeth frowned.

But David knew how his mind worked (did he ever); he got it. "You can be the chicken," he offered, and was pleased to see Sheppard stifle a snort.

"Focus, Rodney," Sheppard said. "Save the existential crisis for later, okay?"

"Save it for later?" Rodney demanded. "The ramifications for the perceived ideas of self -- not to mention the intricacies of quantum theory -- are astronomical! You can't just set it aside like a, a half-eaten Powerbar! We have to, to -- "

"Relax," Sheppard said, and David watched the casual way he brushed the other man's arm, could almost feel the touch. "You're obviously thinking, so therefore you are." He grinned; Elizabeth subtly rolled her eyes. "Now don't we have real issues to discuss?" His fingers circled, absently. " What about that..." He paused for half a second, looking thoughtful.

"Temporal distortion," David supplied quickly, getting the words out just before Rodney could. He grinned in the face of Rodney's stunned expression. Well, what do you know, he thought, preening. The actor is a geek.

"Yes. That." Rodney looked about two breaths away from steam pouring out his nose; David took mental notes for later, wondering if he could reproduce the look in a future episode. "And the possibilities of cellular -- "

"Cascade failure stuff," David interrupted. "Damn, I forgot about Amanda's whole thing. At least our hair is the same."

"Amanda?" Rodney asked, and then stopped and grinned. "Sam?"

David nodded.

"SG-1's on a TV show, too?" Rodney's eyes had a gleam -- a scary interesting gleam, the sort he'd been thinking about for filming on Thursday during the gateroom scene.

"Yes."

"That actually makes me feel better." Rodney at once relaxed into his seat.

David eyed him and watched everyone in the room shake their heads slightly. "Well yes, but don't forget, we're the spin-off." And Rodney was up and sputtering all over again.

"Oh, that's just not fair!"

David decided that this was probably not the best time to tell him that he'd originally been written as a guest star, a one-episode foil for Sam. He'd save that for later.

Although McKay had certainly been given a lot of backstory for an annoying one-off. That was...newly interesting.

"Anyway." He waved his hand. Everyone in the room watched the motion of his fingers, like it was something familiar taken out of context and thus made strange. Well, he always had liked to talk with his hands, and it was something that he had grafted right onto Rodney. "Anyway," he said again, resisting the urge to sit on his restless digits, "I don't think we have to worry about any of that."

"Why," Rodney said, all beautifully crafted condescension, "because where you come from, the laws of physics apparently do not apply?"

"Because we're not the same person," David said, and maybe felt slightly guilty as he thought, Thank God for that.

"Thank God for that," Sheppard said, smirking at Rodney, then flashing Elizabeth a wide-eyed innocent look.

"Of course we're not the same person," Rodney said with a huff. "Obviously, there's a vast difference between -- " He gestured between them, giving the others encouraging looks, almost as if he were expecting them to chime in with reasons they preferred their usual model.

David hoped that several years of talking the fake science talk had given him sufficient preparation to take it out for a stroll. "Genetically we're not the same. I mean -- "And here he'd take a cue from Sheppard and go with a simile, an example. And boy, did he have the perfect one. "Last night? Before the seriously dubious shots -- " He turned and glared at Elizabeth, who looked surprised and a little bit hurt. "Oh, right, sorry, that wasn't you." Her eyebrow crooked. "Anyway, before that, I was doing tequila shots at the bar. Proper tequila shots," he emphasized, looking Rodney in the eye. "With salt. And lime."

Rodney paled, his fingers scrambling a little on the tabletop, as if some sort of bizarre transference might be a dangerous possibility.

"No citrus allergy?" Elizabeth clarified.

"No citrus allergy," David confirmed, feeling oddly proud. "And as much as I dislike it, I can go more than a few hours without passing out from manly hunger. Unless -- " He paused, suddenly curious. "That's not actually hypochondria, is it?" He'd always been willing to give Rodney the benefit of the doubt on that one.

"No, it is not hypochondria!" Rodney snapped, going red in the face. "I have several serious medical conditions -- "

"Like high blood pressure," David supplied. "I don't have that either. I jog," he confided to Sheppard.

This did not provoke the stunned reaction he had sort of been hoping for. "Really?" Sheppard said, coolly. "You should come running with me and Ronon sometime."

Before he could deal with that flattering, but also truly frightening, possibility, "And I'm much smarter than you!" Rodney declared, folding his arms, a silent, So there.

Elizabeth put her face in her hands.

"That's true," David admitted, because he wasn't going to be jealous of the IQ of a fictional character. "And yet, somehow I have still managed to survive the last thirty-seven years. Possibly because I have better social skills." He smirked.

"So no dying horribly just 'cause your presence here is going to make the universe collapse," Sheppard concluded, like dismissing such possibilities was simply part of the daily grind. Which it was. "Well, that's one bullet dodged."

As if on cue (and David couldn't help but wonder -- did this whole universe operate like that? With no awkward pauses unless they were scripted that way, with everything lining up, scene slotting into scene, forty-plus minutes with room for commercial breaks, nice and neat and don't forget to tune in next week?), as if ushered by an off-screen nod, Pau-Carson burst into the room, looking nervous and upset. Pretty much his default mode. But his worried, frightened gaze was fixed fully on David himself, and he couldn't help but wonder if all those tests had revealed he had some sort of horrible pan-dimensional space cancer. Or rapid cascade failure, after all.

Now look who was the hypochondriac.

Carson caught his breath, positioning himself, with an odd deliberateness, behind Sheppard. "Yes, Carson, what is it?" Elizabeth prompted.

The good doctor straightened his shoulders. "I just got back some test results," he said, looking anxiously at Sheppard's...gun? "DNA tests." He pointed an accusatory finger straight at David's chest. "He is not who he claims he is. He isn't Rodney."

David bit his tongue, and therefore did not say, I told you so.

And hey, in this universe, he didn't need to; he had someone else to take care of all his lines. "You're late to the party again, Carson. Obviously he's not me, and obviously his genetic makeup would be different. The universe he comes from is so removed from ours that, that travel between them really shouldn't be possible!" Or allowed, he seemed to be saying.

"And yet he's here," Sheppard said, eyes raking over him, and David shifted, uncomfortable again.

He looked over at Carson, smiling and offering a little wave. All he got back was an awkward head nod. Carson was obviously not Paul, and for a moment that rankled -- he was already missing his best friend. But Sheppard was also not Joe: eyes shifting down, he was looking at David calmly, no strange nervous ticks, no eye shifts. Just a lazy glance now and again.

David could feel his own nervous energy curving upwards once more. He was a good actor, though. So it was with perfect calm, and not the tumult of emotions he was actually feeling, that he met each wide-eyed, curious, skeptical gaze and said, "Yep. I'm here."

***

John caught Elizabeth's eye as he got up to leave the briefing room; her nod was subtle, his answer even more so. His shoulders set, he sidled up to David, who was still looking at everything through wide eyes, his fingers twitching at his sides like he could barely restrain himself from running them across every table, all the walls; the consoles, chairs, the panels of stained glass; even the last remaining crusty Ancient plants. As John watched, he gave in to temptation once again, reaching out, ghosting a hand across a squat little column, set against one wall.

Nothing happened. John shook his head, seeing his in. "You have to have the gene," he said, stepping up. He didn't even need to gesture; a tiny trickle of water shot up from the top of the column, forming a gentle arc. David's eyes went wide with wonder. John had seen that expression on Rodney's face from time to time, but never over something as simple as this.

"It's an Ancient water fountain!" David said, delighted.

"Yup," John said. He paused, then added, "You don't have those? On the show?"

"No," said David, grinning with Rodney's big, crooked mouth. "I'll have to have a little talk with the set designers, won't I?"

John nodded seriously, even as he was thinking: set designers, costumers, lights. So many people, expending so much effort, all to -- create? recreate? -- his life. It seemed like such a --

He remembered those ads, from back on Earth; he thought they were for a car or something. "If your life were a TV show," the slick announcer said in his slick announcer voice, "would anybody want to watch?" And John knew that his life was pretty exciting; definitely above average, what with the aliens and the spaceships and the crazy madcap adventures in another galaxy. But it was also...his life. Their lives. His life.

He flashed David a smile. "Want me to give you a tour?" he asked. "I bet your sets aren't anywhere as big as the real thing."

"The real thing," David said, grinning broadly, rubbing his hands together. "Oh, yes."

It was hard to resent enthusiasm like that. "Where do you want to start?" John asked.

"Um." David thought. Then his fingers snapped, decisive. "The jumper bay! Where there are working jumpers."

"A man after my own heart," John said, his lips quirking upward, no prompting required.

For the fun of it, John opened up his favorite jumper, sitting casually in the pilot's seat.

David trailed in after him, walking backwards and looking around avidly. "Okay, I rule. There really is an airplane-sized bathroom back there."

John chuckled and thought about some of his longer rides in a jumper. "Well, it makes sense, doesn't it?"

"Yeah, well, thirty-five years of Star Trek and only one bathroom." David sat down in the copilot's seat absently, hands skirting the edges of the console. "Can you uh -- " He gestured casually to the empty window in front of them. "I don't know, bring something up?"

John smirked, keeping a firm eye on David's face as his skin went a blue/green from the HUD John called up. Slack-jawed, David reached out, fingers skimming the visual interface. "Yeah." John nodded. "That's about how I felt, too."

"I just -- " David said. "I grew up with this stuff -- Star Trek, Star Wars, Doctor Who -- and I work around it every day. But past a certain age, I never thought -- " He turned to John, suddenly, sharply. "Can we take it up?"

It surprised John -- worried him, too -- that an emphatic yes rose eagerly to his lips. But he bit down on it; he had to. "Maybe later," he said, cautiously. "Gotta keep you close by for now." His grin took a good stab at reassuring. "In case we figure anything out about sending you back home."

David looked at him, long and hard. "Or in case I'm a murderous psycho, suckering you in with my -- admittedly considerable -- charm, before turning on you just in time for the exciting climax." He sighed, sinking back in the seat. "I wouldn't be surprised. I've played it before."

John blinked, for a moment disconcerted, not only because David had apparently stretched his acting muscles, but that he'd read through John's own unspoken motivations. "Can't blame a guy for being paranoid."

"Paranoia doesn't get good ratings." David grinned. "Sometimes there's a sacrifice in the name of creative license." He stood, stretching, his t-shirt riding up slightly, showing the evidence of jogging as clear as day.

"So," John said, eyes quickly turning to the controls, turning everything off, ignoring that he didn't actually need to look, "any other places of interest?"

"Well," David pushed his hands into his pockets, "there's this catwalk we keep reusing..."

He showed David the catwalk. They had to take a transporter to get there, and David exhibited no shame in asking, "Ooh! Can I press the button?" like a bouncy five-year-old. After the catwalk came the gym, a selection of living quarters, and a couple of the smaller, safer labs (hello, botany!). They were on their way to check out one of the less frequently used piers when David's stomach emitted an insistent growl. "Ahh," David said. "And that would be the manly, post-hangover hunger."

"I'll show you the mess," John said, leading the way, thinking how odd it was that every time it started getting easy to separate David and Rodney in his head, David would say something or do something to bring them snapping back together, like opposing magnetic poles. He would quote Rodney like that -- and there was another weird thought, that maybe there were people out there, in David's world, quoting him, watching every week.

He made a mental note; he should ask David about the show's fans.

Then again, he thought, a second later, maybe not.

There were some things you were just better off not knowing.

Walking through the halls together was unique. The gossip chain obviously hadn't made it all the way through the base so the number of bug-eyed people who were the result of a careless wave by David, or witness to another moment of Atlantis-groping was mounting, and pretty entertaining.

"Okay, I used to wonder how 'our characters,'" and David made quotation marks for the last phrase that John found disturbing because it looked exactly like the time Rodney had said 'lipstick lesbian,' "never got lost in this place."

"And now?" John stopped at an intersection, pointing the way.

"Now I see how it all makes sens -- oh." David stopped, staring.

Of course, they were right next to one of the observation balconies. "I think," John came up behind him, voice hushed so as to not interrupt the gaze, "that if there hadn't been the pesky thing of our lives being in danger, all of us would have walked into a wall at least once, having gotten distracted by the view."

David nodded, not even trying to speak at first. "The atmosphere, the air -- it's so... alien."

John gave David a friendly elbow in the side, arm connecting with a flash of warmth. "Duh."

"Can we -- " David asked. He hesitated, then moved a step closer to the rail. "I know I said I was hungry, but, shockingly, I think my stomach can wait. Do you mind...?"

"Take your time," John said. "Enjoy yourself."

John was. To his complete surprise, he was.

******

If this is what it's like to be crazy, David thought, then I don't want to be sane.

He ran a finger across the balcony railing, then gently pinged it with his nail. It chimed, softly, the sound resonating. Even the acoustics here were good. He just-- He couldn't believe this was happening; the (small) part of his brain that was rational and adult just couldn't accept it. These things didn't happen. That was why people wanted, why they needed science fiction in the first place: to give them what they couldn't otherwise have. But he had this, had been given it, and he didn't want to let it go.

Jules Verne, he thought. H. G. Wells. Georges Méliès.

Some science fiction became fact.

He leaned out over the water, that lovely, gentle, alien wind sweeping across his face, feathering his hair. He looked down, saw the waves breaking against the docks, against the piers that were really there--not matte paintings, not CGI. He grinned again, feeling like the expression had been permanently emblazoned, tattooed across his face.

Then he looked up and saw that Sheppard was frowning.

"What?" he said, surprised to see just the tiniest hint of down-turned lips, of extra lines of seriousness beside his eyes. "What is it?"

Sheppard shook his head. "I was just thinking," he said, then paused, like he was expecting David to jump in with an, Uh-oh. Did you pull something? Instead David motioned for him to go on. Sheppard was such a puzzle--to everyone, David thought, in both their universes; he'd love to be the one to find the missing piece.

Sheppard licked his lips. "What season did you say you--we?--were in?"

"Uh, the second," David said, wondering where this was going. "We just got back from the mid-season break."

Sheppard just blinked at him. Of course; that was meaningless to him.

"Um," David said. "What--where are you at?"

There was that frown again, and something dark and heavy behind his eyes. "Why don't you tell me the last thing you...the last thing that you filmed?"

For a moment David was taken aback. Did Sheppard still not trust him? Jesus. And yet...he could respect that, he could, and besides, it didn't cost him anything to admit, "The last episode that aired, you had flown the captured Wraith dart onto the hive ship and were being held prisoner by the queen--the slightly less Marilyn Manson-esque one--and um..." He trailed off, catching something once more unreadable on Sheppard's face. "Ah. That has--" Thinking of timelines he could screw up, history--canon--he could undo. "Has that happened already?"

Sheppard nodded.

Then he said, "Huh."

Whatever David had seen in his face a moment ago was gone.

David tore his gaze away, looking back out at the ocean and its pearly, pinky-blue reflection in the sky. "We recently filmed the exciting conclusion," he said, dipping into a mock-announcer voice as the words warranted. "In case you were worried, you make it out okay."

Sheppard did not look particularly worried--or, David was concerned to note, amused. But he just said, "What's that like?"

"Filming an episode?" David grinned. "It's great! And I've got some really juicy..." He trailed off, flushing, suddenly aware of what he was saying, the fact that juicy material for him usually meant something truly unpleasant for Rodney. He thought of his fervent excitement when he'd received the script for 'Grace Under Pressure' and felt suddenly guilty.

"Anyway," he said, shifting, trying to hide his discomfort, "these last few have been a lot of fun. Challenging. And of course, it's nice to get to work with Rainbow again..."

Sheppard made a choked sound. "Rainbow?" he said; it almost looked like tears of laughter were springing to his eyes. "You work with somebody named Rainbow?"

David grinned, shrugged. "Hey, it's not Hollywood, but it's still the business."

Sheppard smirked. "And what does Rainbow do?"

Even before the words were out, David regretted them, regretted the whole last five minutes of conversation. He wanted to go back to Sheppard elbowing him casually in the side, to the two of them staring out at the wonder of the waves.

But still he said, "He plays Lieutenant Ford."

Sheppard went stiller than a stone, emotion flaring in his eyes. "Ford."

Jesus, David shivered, he usually didn't have to be on set when Joe got those moments. In person it was shocking. "Yeah," he said, not that Sheppard had actually asked a question.

"Any plans to bring him back?"

Adrenaline, fast and sharp to his heart and stomach. David looked away, the emotion too confusing. A season and a half worth of scripts wasn't enough to understand Sheppard's motivations in a situation like this. Well, not all of them. "I don't know." David gave an open armed shrug before leaning heavily on the railing. "There's always sweeps." The words slipped out before he could bite it back.

"Right." Sheppard leaned next to him. "I'm not really sure how that makes me feel."

Subject change, David thought. He really needed a subject change to help distract from the strange, preternatural actor's instinct that seemed to be taking over in regards to Sheppard. He could feel Rodney pressing beneath the surface, wanting to speak, to gesture, to snap his fingers. Sheppard was looking off into the distance, eyes hard, but sad; maybe he could use a subject change too. The carefully causal slump of shoulders had David telling himself never to talk about Ford again. "So I've gotta ask..." He swallowed, searching his mind for something to ask. "What's the big secret?"

Sheppard didn't move from his slouch. "What secret?"

"The, uh--" Yes. "Wristband."

Sheppard shifted, a slight adjustment of his stance, but his expression didn't change. "Why don't you ask the writers?" he asked, his eyebrow quirking.

David waved his hand, dismissive. "They don't know; it's Joe's thing. He's real coy about it, but I think he's just teasing the fans. So." He stared at Sheppard's profile. "What's the real story?"

Sheppard seemed to think about it, then turned in toward David, leaning forward. "If I tell you, will you do me a favor?"

David knew better, but he was really curious--even more than he'd thought--and caution lost the battle to enthusiasm. "Sure. Anything."

"I love this city," Sheppard said suddenly, and David blinked, following without following.

"I love this city," Sheppard repeated, his knuckles white on the rail, "and I'd really appreciate it if you people stopped fucking with it for entertainment value."

"It's not like that," David said.

Sheppard's eyes were dark and hooded. David remembered watching the dailies for the episode where Sheppard executed the Wraith in its cell, remembered feeling a bit of a chill and congratulating Joe afterward, buying him a beer.

"It's not like that," he repeated. "We don't--I don't understand how this works. You're ahead of us, your timeline..."

That dark gaze flickered over him, judging. "This is my life," Sheppard said. "It's not--"

David nodded. "I understand." Then: "Christ!" he said. "You're supposed to be having the existential crisis, not me!"

There was a tense moment of silence. Then maybe Sheppard cracked a grin. A small one.

"I am, you know," David admitted. "I mean, not that I don't enjoy when a script stretches me a little."

Sheppard eyed him warily, expression guarded. "I guess I can understand that, like a wave with a little volatility makes for better surfing."

"I mean, other than opportunity, there's a reason I end up playing the characters," and he had the grace to wince at that, "a little, or even a lot, to the left of normal. You start to get a complex after the second mainstream cop show makes you a pedophile, even after you've spent your career being not quite sane and getting paid for it."

"Do you think those places exist too?" Sheppard asked, his back lengthening, relaxing slowly.

"God, I hope not." David shivered. "Forget the psychopaths, Grant Jansky deserves better."

Sheppard shrugged off the reference. "Are you any good?"

"At acting?" David asked, eyebrow raised. "I keep getting jobs, which I suppose means something."

"Be McKay," Sheppard said. "I want to see."

David frowned and then slowly his posture changed, shoulders reaching out and back, hands loosening up, eyes narrowing. "Shouldn't you be off somewhere attempting to plan or strategize or something? I mean I can understand the urge to rely on my amazing intellect but even I am not above a completely unneeded backup plan."

Sheppard's eyes bugged out more than just a little. "Okay, okay, stop," he said, and David leaned again against the railing, his body relaxing, his lips quirking inevitably upward into a smirk.

Oddly, he thought Sheppard's reaction was one of the best compliments he had ever received.

"No, really, you can stop," Sheppard said.

David blinked. "Oh, right, the smugness. No, right now, that's all me."

Sheppard looked like he couldn't decide between being disturbed and amused, which seemed about right.

"You're not what I would have expected," he said, after a minute. "I mean, not that I would have expected any of this."

"Right." David chuckled. "Aliens, intergalactic space travel, yes, check. This Is Your Life airing Fridays at nine on the Sci-Fi Channel, not so much."

Sheppard frowned. "Wait, we're on the Sci-Fi Channel?" A nod. Sheppard's lip jutted out. "I think I'm vaguely insulted."

David rolled his eyes, used to this. "We're on The Movie Network in Canada."

Sheppard was scratching at his head, absently. "What about us?" he said casually, like he was a little curious, not needing an answer. "Are we what you would have expected?"

"Yes," David said, decisively. Then just as decisively, "No."

That seemed about right, too.

***

John couldn't stop staring. Across from him David's fingers made rapid twirling movements. Like Rodney, there was a certain dexterous grace to all his gestures, but John had known Rodney for almost two years now, and he had never seen said dexterity so applied. He could not stop staring.

"What?" said David, and popped a slice of freshly-peeled orange into his mouth.

John resisted the urge to lunge across the table or, failing that, make a frantic call to Beckett. Rodney, it seemed, had trained him well.

"Nothing," John said, twisting his fork into his spaghetti.

"Genetically altered tomatoes have nothing on this." David ate another piece, fingers following fruit into his mouth as he tilted back so that the small running rivulets of juice didn't escape.

A forkful of food went down John's throat with a barely concealed cough. "I'd like to see you do that in front of Rodney--well across the room from him, so the 'Oh God, I'm going to die just from watching you eat that' rant doesn't get lost in the 'I'm in the same room as citrus!' rant."

David chuckled through a full mouth.

"I see you're enjoying yourselves," Carson said, surprising them both. "May I join you?"

David waved a welcoming hand. John just nodded, stuck watching David move around, in and out of his personal space, his foot kicking John's as he shifted over some. God, he couldn't get past it. It was all the same, until it wasn't and then it was just a shock and an itchy feeling under his skin.

Carson was sliding into place next to David, his own eyes bugging out when he saw what David was doing to the juice coating his fingers--the concentrated lapping of his tongue. David met John's eye; smirked. He turned and grinned at Carson. "You want some, Paul--damn it."

"Ah, no," Carson said, looking like whatever he had already eaten was starting to disagree with him.

David's eye-roll was clearly directed at himself. "Sorry," he said, the apology--just as clearly--not citrus-related.

"That's all right," Carson said, putting on a cheery face (John would bet David would have a thing or two to say about his acting skills). "It must be confusing. So I'm Paul, eh?" He turned to John. "Do ya think I look like a Paul?"

John held up a hand and let it waver. Meh.

"Actors sometimes do that, don't they?" Carson said, turning back to David. "Mess up and call their co-stars by their real names on camera?"

"I don't," David said, looking mildly offended. "It's just...Paul and I hang out a lot when we're not working, and right now I'm not working. Possibly because I'm having a psychotic episode, but still. I'm not in that headspace. Add to that the fact that he sometimes does the accent, just for fun--"

Carson dropped his fork. "Accent?"

David did a little wince thing that John found endearing, if creepy; Rodney's winces were usually post-something monumentally rude--or stupid.

"Ah, yes...Paul is Canadian." David waited, slowly leaning away from Carson.

"Accent?" Carson straightened up and took a deep breath. "Okay. Fine. Actor. Just a bit strange." He made a face. "And oddly insulting."

"His was born outside Glasgow?" David said, hopeful look spread across his face.

"Aye lad, it's a nice effort."

David nodded, smiling again, and moved on to something else on his plate. Well, it was. John was just sidetracked by an inappropriate thought about an incident involving Rodney, Carson, and Lieutenant Cadman. All things considered, he couldn't decide if that moment would have made it to TV.

"So," Carson said, appearing to finally get over the accent insult, "I'm Paul, Colonel Sheppard is Joe, Rodney is David...who else?"

John tensed just a bit, but David turned his head a fraction of an inch and winked before he settled into a near comical thinking pose. "Well, Elizabeth is Torri," he said. "I think I--"

"You already mentioned that, yes," John said, bemused. Elizabeth was so not a Torri. Hell, the one time he had jokingly tried calling her "Liz," she had been seriously unamused.

"And Teyla is Rachel," David said, obviously enjoying himself, "and Ronon is Jason."

John held onto the incredulous Jason? that wanted to slip out; Carson took care of it for him, anyway. "Oh! You mean they're--they're from Earth."

"Well, of course; there aren't any--oh," said David suddenly, echoing Carson's perturbed expression. "That's...that's really weird, isn't it?"

John inclined his head. It was just...yeah. He couldn't even imagine how Ronon and Teyla would react, once they got back from M2X-767.

Carson snorted. "No weirder than a Canuck playing a Scot," he muttered quietly.

Not quietly enough. "Torri's Canadian, too," David said, smirking again. "Rachel as well, actually. Of the six of us regulars, Joe and Jason are the only ones hailing from south of the border."

John reduced the angle of his slouch. Forget the vast Canadian conspiracy. "Regulars?" he said.

"The ones who get to do that embarrassing frozen headshot in the credits," David supplied.

Of course John was a regular. That made sense in a derrang-- "Wait, don't tell me I'm--"

"The lead," David said with a flourish, head tilted up in enjoyment.

John dropped his own head in embarrassment. "Oh, that's--making far too much sense and making me just a little paranoid."

"I'm a regular?" Carson asked, surprised.

"Yeah. Well." David frowned. "You weren't at first, but Paul totally kicked ass in this one episod--" He stopped, made a face. "You fit in, and really, at the rate you people accumulate injuries, it was probably cheaper to push Paul over to a regular salary than keep paying guest-starring fees."

John blinked and nodded slowly. Their entire lives dictated by ratings and budgets and special effects, sitting right there looking so-- There weren't words, actually, as David nodded, apparently agreeing with something.

"Oh wow," David said, "now all I can think of is Chris."

"Chris?" Carson asked.

"Teal'c," David said, already starting to snicker.

John had seen Teal'c precisely once, at the far end of a corridor at the SGC. And yet that was still enough to make him choke on the noodles he was, for no reason he could discern, still trying to eat. He pushed his tray aside. "Just when I thought the universe couldn't get any weirder."

"I know what you mean," Carson said, although John could see from his eyes that he hadn't yet fully gotten it, that if the chicken hatched from the egg and not the other way around, then all their near-escapes, all his brushes with death, the ones he had avoided as if by the grace of God-- Well, it was all due to some higher power, after all: a bunch of screenwriters, sitting around in a room, deciding that his face would test well, play well, and granting him immunity.

Immunity that so many other people--his colleagues, his friends--didn't get.

He looked up at David, whose smile had shifted somewhat, turned unsure, and once again, he wanted to hate him. And once again he couldn't, quite.

He didn't know what to make of that.

"Joe's written an episode," David blurted suddenly, mouth all twisted. "I mean, I just wanted to say that--" He stopped, shrugging.

"Which one?" John asked, leaning in, understanding a little. The actors cared about them on some level, enough to create around them at least.

David shifted. "The uh, time dilation one."

That took John aback, that the person who played him had-- He shook his head because that one was going to give him a headache.

"...It is not funny, Radek!"

John looked up to see Rodney and Zelenka enter the room and Carson start to stand.

"Well, I'll be off. It's been--" Carson shrugged. "Well, you can probably guess."

John nodded his goodbye, absently; he was watching Zelenka, who was peering curiously at them from across the mess. Well, not at them, at David, who was peering back, a--fond?--expression on his face. "Let me guess," John said dryly, "Radek's Canadian, too."

"Oh, well, yes, actually," David said, his expression shifting, turning odd. When the two scientists approached, John saw why. Rodney's arms were folded; he was scowling.

"Had a fun afternoon playing show and tell?" he asked, addressing John, though his eyes kept flickering back to David. "And what stunning discoveries have you made, hm?"

John scratched at the back of his neck. "Well, turns out Carson, Elizabeth, and Teyla are all countrymen of yours, Rodney." He nodded at Zelenka. "Radek here, too."

Radek's mouth opened in indignant horror; "But David was born in Prague!" David said quickly.

"Actors," Rodney scoffed, while the rest of them were still trying to parse that. "Always talking about themselves in the third person. It's so pretentious!"

David's wrist swiveled, indicating Radek with an expository finger. "He's David." He leaned forward, like he was confiding a great secret. "Where I come from, two people who know each other can sometimes have," dramatic pause, "the same name."

"Thank you for educating us about the 'real world,'" said Rodney, who had the impressive ability to form air quotes without actually using his hands. Then he blinked and said, "Everyone's Canadian? Really?" His gaze snapped to John. "Is Sheppard Canadian?"

"No," John said sweetly. He nodded at Zelenka, who was looking, if anything, a bit more frazzled than usual. "Hey, Radek," he said. "How're you doing?"

Zelenka blinked. "It is...intense, yes?" he said, looking at Rodney and David in turn.

John felt affirmed in his assessment that Radek was a real smart guy. Intense was definitely the word.

Rodney pushed in and shoved his tray down next to John. Radek shrugged and took a seat next to David. "So I am a David?"

"Yep."

"Does David have an accent?" Radek asked curiously.

"Personally," David said, leaning back, "I can hear it in both Paul and David when they speak, but technically you-- They have a North American accent with various regional dialects."

There was a moment where John could see it, see the profession coming through, the years of knowledge and experience shading his answer. Talent, sharp and clear, simmered under each word and John could hear David slipping into that tone, the one used with colleagues who knew all the right words. Intelligence hidden behind humor and awe and a little bit of self-deprecation. Like that, John knew David was no slouch in his chosen field, his disturbing rendition of McKay notwithstanding.

"It is not unexpected," Radek nodded. "Guest star, right?"

David smiled, which really wasn't too different from his face at rest, just a wider spread of lips. "Sorry, but true."

"It only makes me worry for my life a little," Radek shrugged. "After all, I work closely with Rodney."

John laughed as Rodney sputtered past a gratified look.

"Hey, Rodney," David leaned forward, "I've gotta ask..."

John pulled a little further out of his slump. The last question like that hadn't ended well.

"Please, God, tell me your computers use UNIX."

Rodney blinked and coughed and then blinked some more.

"Yes and no," Radek answered for him.

"Let me guess." David poked at a nearby closed laptop which John assumed was Rodney's by the way he snapped his fingers, slapped David's hand away and appropriated it to his lap. "All the ancient interfaces you had to literally program from scratch just changed the nature of the OS too much to really call it UNIX?"

"And," Radek nodded, "technically it is open source."

This was beyond John. Far beyond, and he was both surprised and impressed that David had no trouble--was in fact burbling along with Radek, occasionally inserting some sort of tech joke that John was sure was completely hilarious, if you were into that sort of thing. Radek was certainly laughing. But Rodney...his mouth had turned down into one of his slanted, half-moon frowns, yet he didn't look angry. He seemed...nervous? Lost? And unlike the computer talk, John was pretty sure he could figure this out. Rodney was such an open book if you knew, like John did, how to read him; he would bet that Rodney didn't like seeing proof that David was his own person, with his own identity and knowledge and intelligence outside of what it took to play Rodney. It must be hard to see that when Rodney could find no such outside confirmation about his own existence, about who he was, beyond what David had made him.

John wanted to reassure him, but he was still reeling from his own existentialist angst. Instead he turned his head and stared at Rodney's set mouth, knocking his foot lightly with his own. Rodney started, and turned to him, his frown taking on a quizzical bent. John inclined his head in the direction of David and Radek ("...burnt RAM offering," David said, and Radek chuckled). Dorks, John mouthed, and Rodney's lips quirked upward, just a bit.

They fell, almost instantly, as David broke away from his geek-off with Radek to ask, "So. What did you figure out? What's caused the wackiness to ensue this week?"

Rodney expelled an impatient breath. "We are, of course, still exploring several possible angles, which, considering how completely unheard of and improbable this whole situation is, can only be expected, especially since you have given us nothing useful about what happened on your end, and it seems likely that this...fluke originated with you."

"In other words, you know nothing," David translated. John was surprised to see that some of the amusement was also gone from his face. "And I told you. There's nothing I could have done. My universe doesn't work like that."

"But must it not work like that a little?" Radek said. "Even if what caused this is based in our reality--even if, Rodney," he added, preempting that rant, "it must have strong enough foothold where you come from, or it would not have been able to--" He made a plucking motion above David's head, as if he were sucking David out of another reality with a snap of his fingertips.

"Which is all moot anyway," Rodney said, "because the laws that govern the universe--any universe!--are not optional or case-specific! They just are, and it's hardly my fault if no one where you come from has been smart enough to figure them out." Rodney looked like he felt vaguely sorry for David's entire dimension.

David did not take this to heart. "But the point remains," he said, a little of Rodney's condescension creeping into his voice, and John found this was getting more surreal by the second, like listening to Rodney argue with himself. One dose of that had been enough, thank you. "You have no idea how or why I'm here."

Rodney's face suggested that he had his theories about the latter question. Probably, they mostly involved the universe being out to get him.

"Fine," Rodney ground out. "Right now there is nothing in this universe to explain your appearance." He frowned and added quietly, "Or your existence in general."

David pushed away his tray, slumping back in his seat. "All right, but you're not the one talking to what you used to think of as fictional characters." He heaved a large sigh. "So, what's next on the tour?"

John looked back and forth between David and Rodney, the crackling of tension simmering between them, but David just looked tired, dark smudges starting to make themselves apparent under his eyes. He blinked and looked at Rodney again, then at David. That was just strange. Rodney of all people had more color on him. David looked pale in comparison.

"I think you've had a long enough day already," John said, tidying his tray. "Come on, let's see about getting you a room."

Rodney mumbled something that sounded like, "Get a room is right," but John was going to take the mature option and pretend not to have heard.

Well. And accidentally knock Rodney in the head with his tray when he stood.

"Sounds good," David said, either less adept at hearing than John or likewise more mature than the man he played. "I feel like I have inter-dimensional jetlag."

"Get some rest," Radek advised, nodding at him. Then he smiled and said, "I have very much enjoyed meeting you."

Rodney scowled, but David's mouth curved upward into a grin--that vaguely surprised one that John had seen on Rodney's face a few times, when people were unexpectedly nice to him.

"Me, too," David said. "Meeting you," he repeated, emphasizing the newness of it. That it was genuine this time.

For the first time, John thought not how strange this was for him right now, or even how strange it must be for David. Instead he could suddenly picture, even feel, how odd and disorienting it would be for David to return to work, when they finally did manage to send him back.

It didn't cross his mind that it might not be a question of when, but if.

***

David waved again to Radek, almost wistful; he always had liked the character, enjoyed the back and forth he and Rodney had--he and-- He shook his head; too weird.

"Something wrong?" Sheppard asked once they were out in the hallway.

"Just thinking," David said, put off by the actual earnestness in Sheppard's voice. "Where are we going?"

"To see where Elizabeth put you for the night," Sheppard said.

They walked, David slightly behind Sheppard, because while the layout seemed to make some sort of strange sense, he had no idea where anything was. Eventually they made it to another in a string of long corridors with lots of doors. However, David knew exactly where they were before he even stepped inside the seemingly random room Sheppard had picked. He knew even though he'd never actually been called to this set, and he had to resist the urge to run his fingers over each small piece of John Sheppard scattered around the room.

Sheppard, meanwhile, was bent over a computer, typing quickly. David blinked at that too, because it was so...normal. So subtle and tiny and something they'd never do on the show because it was extraneous--it would only happen in a crisis, but even then, not really. Typing easily into a laptop was David's--Rodney's thing.

"Got it," Sheppard announced just as David had given in to poke gently at a nearby iPod.

"I bet," David said, pulling his arm back quickly, "Rodney mocks that thing to high heaven, and he doesn't even know what's on it." He blinked. "And got what?"

"Your room assignment," Sheppard said, smiling a little at the puzzled surprise David was pretty sure must be written across his own face. "Hey, when we're not fighting the Wraith or making invaluable scientific discoveries, Atlantis also doubles as the most efficient bureaucracy in two galaxies."

"Sweden must be heartbroken," David said. "All right, show me to my digs." He followed Sheppard out the door, shooting one last, lingering glance at the shadow-cloaked corners of the room. He wondered how much more of it Rodney had gotten to see. How much less.

"So do I get an ocean view?" he asked.

Sheppard smiled. "All our honored guests get ocean views," he said. "Of course, that may be because pretty much all the rooms have them."

They rounded a corner and passed Major Lorne, who was coming the other way. Sheppard nodded at him, and he nodded back, intoning "sir," even as his eyes swept warily over David. "Hey, wait a sec," he told Sheppard, then turned and called, "Major!"

Lorne stopped, the slightest hint of annoyance evident in his posture. "What can I do for you?" he asked, turning around, the words coming out sounding somewhat unbalanced, for lack of a proper title to affix to David.

David grinned. "You can tell me your name."

Lorne's eyebrows rose incredibly high. "Excuse me?"

"Your name," David said again, aware on some level that he might be having just a little too much fun, but it was as good a distraction as any. "We, uh, in production, things don't get set in stone until they absolutely have to. So there are a couple people who--" Right, Chuck, he'd have to look into that. "You know, don't have names."

"I don't have a name?" Lorne was dangerously close to petting his sidearm and he was eyeing Sheppard, who was casually leaning on a wall, looking amused.

"Well, you do: Lorne. But I was wondering if you could give me a first name. Kavan would be thrilled. Anything would be better than that 'Marcus' rumor."

"Kavan?" Lorne asked, looking painfully like a man who was attempting to already forget the conversation that was taking place. "Marcus?" He dropped his head and muttered something about SG-1.

Too much fun, check. Still: "If you tell me, then when I get back--" And okay, he was just going to ignore the stab of panic he felt there. "I can make a 'suggestion' in your favor."

Lorne glanced up at Sheppard, then said, "Do you want my mother's maiden name, too? The street I grew up on? The name of my first pet?"

"Marcus," David said, pointedly.

"Nick," Lorne said quickly. "Daly. South. Zukie. Sir," he said to Sheppard, and with an impressive amount of dignity, fled.

"Zukie South," David mused. "You know, that's not a bad porn star name."

Sheppard chuckled--far from a full-out laugh, but still an odd, surprising sound. David wondered what the full version would sound like. But Sheppard had tilted his head, back to looking pensive as he walked. "You know, that doesn't make any sense."

"What?" said David. "Name of your first pet plus the name of the street you grew up on equals porn star name. Everyone knows that." And David knew that wasn't what Sheppard meant.

Sheppard knew it, too. "Lorne's always had a name. It's always been Nick. But what happens if you go back and your people don't listen to you? If they go ahead and name him," he wrinkled his nose, "Marcus? Does our reality just shift to accommodate--"

"Hey," David said. "These are not appropriate questions for the inter-dimensionally jetlagged man." He paused, then added, "Anyway, you should really ask Rodney."

Sheppard said, "I'm asking you."

David stopped and blinked, feeling like they'd just stumbled back into that incredibly bizarre conversation where Sheppard said things like 'be McKay' and made him feel a strange tingle of electricity with that much soft attention focused on him. "I think that if I never see a script about an actor showing up on Atlantis, I won't be all that surprised. You people have 10 years of momentum--the universe, that is. God knows how we're connected, just that we are."

Sheppard nodded and gestured to a door with his shoulders. "We're here."

God, when had they started talking in sexless double entendres?

Inside was pretty much the same as Sheppard's, pretty much the same as on set, except where it wasn't. "Also, while you're remarkably the same," David continued the point, "you're also--more real." He shrugged. "You people live real lives, have all those little details we either hadn't thought of or don't deal with due to the conceit of the medium."

Sheppard nodded slowly. "Looks like someone left you a gift." He pointed to the pile of things on the larger-than-David-was-used-to bed.

"Cool." He sat down and poked at the pile. "I mean, the beds are the best example; with people as decadent as the Ancients, I don't know what they were thinking sticking us with those prison cots they did." He bounced gently on what he could already tell was a comfortable mattress and noted the size actually resembled a queen-sized bed.

"That's Rodney's," Sheppard pointed, looking at the t-shirt that was in David's hands.

"Of course it is," David said, holding it up to his chest. "See? Perfect fit."

"I mean, I think he left it here," Sheppard said.

Of course he did, David almost said. After all, he wasn't surprised. But Sheppard was. It bothered him, suddenly, that Sheppard wouldn't suspect Rodney of possessing even his own brand of bizarre, backwards generosity. That he wouldn't know him well enough for that.

"Well," said Sheppard, with an oddly anxious bob of his head; it was still a shock to see even the smallest break in his cool, and maybe David didn't know Sheppard that well, either. "I'll leave you to it. Are you going to be all right to find your way back to the central part of the city in the morning, or should we send someone to collect you?"

David suspected that, no matter his answer, Sheppard would assign a Marine to discreetly watch his room. But he said, "I'll be fine."

Sheppard nodded, and turned toward the door.

He was halfway there when David said, "Wait, Col--Sheppard, ah," the possibilities for the proper form of address tangling on his tongue. "Wait."

"You know," Sheppard said, turning back, smiling a little half-smile. "You can call me John."

David felt himself flush, which was ridiculous. "Force of habit," he said. "Rodney never--"

"Uses my first name. I know." He raised an eyebrow. "I'd be interested to hear your thoughts on that sometime."

Oh, Jesus. He really didn't want to go there. Not here. Not (light low, looking up at Sheppard from where he sat on the edge of the big, white bed) now.

But Sheppard gave him an out. "It would help, actually, calling me John," he said. "If I've got two identical voices screaming in my ear, it'll give me something to distinguish them by."

David didn't know whether he was most bothered by "identical" or "screaming," so he decided to let them both slide. "All right," he said. Touched his tongue to his lips. "John."

The answering twist of lips seemed a little slow. "So," Sheppard--John--John said, "What did you want to ask me?"

"Oh," said David, blinking, trying to think back. "Nothing. Just--thank you. For showing me around. For, for everything."

"My pleasure," John said, inclining his head in a gentlemanly fashion, making his exit. In the doorway he paused, then with an odd deliberateness added, "David. Goodnight."

The door slid shut with a quiet click. After a moment, David realized that he was still staring at it.

John, and wasn't that weird? Really weird, with a side of wrongly intimate, really wrongly intimate and maybe that was why only Rachel and Torri ended up with Shep--John's first name.

And that goodnight. When had his name ever sounded like that? 'David'--good God, what was that. Something he was going to ignore. Instead he went through the stuff on the bed. A few pairs of pants, some shirts, and (was that a blush he felt on his cheeks?) underwear, some toiletries which were pleasant-enough smelling, a book? Huh. Two power bars, a few other odds and ends.

Wow, care package Rodney McKay-style. David noted none of the clothing was in any way related to any uniform style at all. Not even the horrible beige things Rodney had initially worn.

He was actually sort of curious about the showers but he was strangely worn and a little leery of trying out the ancient technology without asking a few questions first. However, the thought of finding Shep--John and watching him explain how the shower worked wasn't really up there on his list of ideal choices.

A chime rang out, smooth and subtle and David blinked and spun around looking for the source. It rang again and behind the colored glass he could see a shadow lurking. Resisting the urge to yell out "Come!" for a number of reasons, he walked to the door and took great pleasure in waving his hand in front of sensor. That at least he could handle.

The door swooshed open (that was pretty cool; on set it occasionally clunked loudly or made a strange mechanical fart) to reveal Rodney, arms crossed and scowling.

"Well, well," David said, grinning into the face of his grimace, "business or pleasure?"

Rodney rolled his eyes and tried to push past David into the room. Feeling oddly stubborn, David refused to budge. They stood for a moment, framed by the lines of the doorway, and it was almost like looking in a mirror.

Of course, mirrors--outside of Harry Potter, and, judging by the way his life had been going lately, God knew what next--didn't usually snap, "I don't have time for this," and physically shove you out of the way. Still somewhat amused (Rodney was so much easier to deal with; he knew how to handle Rodney), David followed him back inside. Rodney was watching him--his every move, eyes flickering, analyzing--but for once, he seemed disinclined to speak. As David was (and so he would swear to his dying day) the more mature one, he decided to grant him an opening: "Thanks for the stuff, by the way."

Rodney looked a little flustered--at being found out? At the compliment? At everything? But, "It was nothing," he said. "Can't have you running around naked, can we?"

"Not since secondary school," David said, an easy grin.

David recognized the expression on Rodney's face as the one he made when he wanted more information. On streaking? he thought for a second, before realizing: no, of course, this was Rodney, after all.

"St. George's College Choir School for Boys," he said, and waited until Rodney had finished squeaking, "Choir?" in an amusingly high-pitched voice before adding, "I dropped out."

"Dropped out?" Rodney looked ready to faint. "And went somewhere else, right?"

David shook his head, knowing he shouldn't enjoy it this much, but a small part inside him was trying desperately not to feel inadequate, and how really in need of therapy was that? So he pushed. "Didn't really fit me," he shrugged. "Did just fine without it." Except for that one sore spot that occasionally got rubbed when working with those writers or producers who'd managed to make it through years of University, with strange stories and interesting tales of all-nighters and semi-illegal group mentality, the woes of a large bureaucracy controlling your every--wait. Acting was a little like that. Sort of. At least the really rocking parties always sounded familiar.

"Didn't. Really. Fit. You." Rodney sat down hard on a nearby chair. "So." He swallowed. "What happened after that?"

David blinked and resumed his previous seat on the bed. "Acted, did IT work, acted some more, worked for a web development company, got promoted, started my own company, acted more." He shrugged. "The usual."

"The usual?" Rodney repeated. David wondered if he was going to keep doing that: echoing his words, changing the emphasis, like someone running lines over and over. Maybe he would, maybe it was his only way to make sense of it. He could see it written clearly across Rodney's face, and still he couldn't shake the oddness of it. To Rodney, his life--David's life--was the alien one, the one almost inconceivable in its strangeness.

"But," Rodney said, gesturing helplessly, "but you play me."

"Yes," David said.

Doing it again: "You play me."

"Yes."

"But."

For a moment, David was tempted to show him, but then he remembered John's reaction and...no. Scrap that.

Besides, Rodney was still full to bursting with questions; David could see them bubbling up, beginning to spill out. "It's not," Rodney said, "it's not a bad show, is it? Be honest. It's not like--like--" An actual wince. "Wormhole X-Treme?"

David's laugh was pure relief. "No," he said. "SG-1--the um, show, they played that for comedy. It was their hundredth episode--a joke."

"Oh, thank God," Rodney said, leaning back, his spine for the first time, David noted, scraping the back of the chair. Well, that was good, that he was relaxing. But--

"Was there something you wanted?" David had to ask. "Not that I mind answering questions, but..." Was he really going to try employing tact with Rodney? "But can't it wait till morning? I'm sort of, you know, completely exhausted."

"Right. Yes. Sorry." Rodney stood. "Just...wanted to make sure you found the stuff." And wow, he really was a terrible liar.

David sighed. "Just ask me," he advised. "Won't do that blood pressure of yours any good, not getting it off your chest."

This earned him a glare, but not one Rodney was able to hold for very long. "Um," he said. Fidget. "Do they...the show's fans, do they. Um." A breath. And a whisper: "Do they like me?"

David felt heat creep over his face and he ducked his head, nodding, biting his lip. "There's a fair share of fans who have taken a liking, yes." He stopped there, because you don't just take apart a man's psyche in front of him. Especially a man like Rodney McKay.

"They do?" Rodney shook his head. "Of course they do." He didn't sound all that convinced.

David sighed and eyed Rodney seriously, the humor bleeding off. "You are," he said carefully, "you are the geek everyman, who does these super awesome things. The fans, and these are sci-fi fans, mind you, know what I mean?" Rodney nodded, eyes wide, eyebrows still somehow conveying a frown. David reached out, hands landing on Rodney's tense shoulders. "You are in another galaxy, but you make Star Trek references as easily as any of them...follow?"

Rodney nodded, flush staining his cheeks. He pulled away a little awkwardly, and David let his hands drop. "Uh--so," Rodney said. "That is, I'll just leave you to your sleep. Sleep is very important--for your--health and--uh--thanks?"

David nodded and tried not to smile fondly as Rodney fumbled his goodbyes. The door slid quietly closed and David felt his shoulders slump, so very, incredibly tired. He moved the pile of things to the desk, stripped down and slid beneath the covers, fiddling with a convenient light control right near the headboard.

Alone in the dark, with the gentle noise of the ocean and the low hum of Atlantis, David blinked absently at the ceiling and waited to sleep.

******

John wasn't surprised to get the call in the middle of the night. The guard who had been instructed to remain hidden at all costs told him that David had stumbled out of his room around midnight and started wandering. He tried to think about what he would do, were their positions reversed. . .and even though that wasn't what he had meant, he couldn't help imagining what it would be like to walk in David's world. Imagining what kind of person he would, could be there.

He found David standing in the middle of an unremarkable stretch of hallway, a vague, abstracted expression on his face. But John got it: "You want to see where they found you?"

David spun around, startled but likewise, not surprised. "Yeah, that'd be good."

In silence, John led him around a corner and down another level. "Here," he said, pointing to the exact span of floor that Lorne had shown him. There wasn't a chalk outline or anything like that, but from Lorne's description (and to be truthful, his own imaginings) he could almost see exactly how the body had been laid out: on its side, slightly curled in on itself. David.

"Oh," David said. "It's just...hall."

John nodded. "Yeah but I'm sure you know, nothing is 'just' on Atlantis."

"Oh," David said again.

"You should probably get some sleep," John said, after a minute. So should he, for that matter, but it was far from his first priority at the moment.

"I know." David briefly touched his hand to his face. "I tried. I just--"

John waited.

Vaguely embarrassed, "I just keep waiting for the plot to start, you know what I mean?"

John did, a little, but he wanted to hear David say it--felt like he needed to, maybe. He inclined his head, signaling that he should go on.

"Like," David shifted his feet, "when you found me--that was the teaser. And, I don't know, we probably cut to our first dramatically-timed commercial break when Rodney revealed that he doesn't know how I got here or how to send me back, or perhaps at some point when my potentially nefarious motives were questioned..."

He coughed. "It would have played nicely," he said, off John's raised eyebrow, "with a dramatic musical sting."

"Oh, I'm sure," John said.

"But, uh." David glanced, again, at that empty patch of floor. "Time plays differently here. Less intercutting. No B-plot that I can see. So, um, I guess I'm wondering...what am I doing here? What does it mean?"

John didn't know. He didn't know, so, "You just never stop with the existentialism, do you?" he said, because he didn't know.

Both at once, David flushed and rolled his eyes. "Sorry. I know I'm being... Vincenzo would kick my ass."

"Vincenzo?" John asked, wondering if that was, hmm, maybe Caldwell or someone.

"Oh." David waved his hand--so like Rodney--and leaned back casually against the wall (not like Rodney at all). "No one on the show. He's an old friend of mine; we've made a few movies together. All very high-concept," he waggled his eyebrows a little. "All very deep. Exploring the futility of existence and whatnot. Like, in Cube, we've got--"

"Wait, Cube?" John frowned. "I think I've--is that the one with the weird futuristic prison and all the booby traps and that one guy getting chopped into little bits and an unholy number of vaguely familiar-looking actors running around?"

"Yeah," David said, looking more than mildly disturbed. "I'm one of those actors."

"I think I would have remembered if you--if someone who looked like Rodney was crawling through a booby-trapped maze in his boxer shorts," John said, the tips of his ears going pink almost instantly. Possibly, that was not his best choice of phrasing ever.

David didn't seem to notice, however. "Are you sure?" he pressed. "We made that in, what, '97? Almost ten years ago. And while I have of course kept my girlish figure, you might...there's a chance you just didn't recognize me."

"I'm sure," John said. "I just saw it a couple years ago; someone had a copy at McMurdo."

"Man," David said, his head thunking back. "Vincenzo wrote that part specifically for me. I can't imagine anyone else playing it."

He let out a breath. "I guess it makes sense, though," he said finally. "I mean, you know how that Kevin Bacon game works? If anything any of us from the show had been on was removed from existence, half of Hollywood and pretty much the entire Canadian film industry would be wiped out."

Suddenly, David's mouth cracked open and he emitted something that sounded suspiciously like a giggle. "You--Joe was on Dawson's Creek."

John's "What?" may have been a little loud, but it still didn't need to echo through the halls like that.

David laughed quietly and nodded. "And uh-- Profiler and that show-- Cupid. And of course, everyone and their sister has done a one-episode guest stint on ER; they're turning into Law and Order."

"Dawson's Creek?" John asked, because wow, that was just--a children's soap, or so he'd heard. "As what, a parent?" Not because he paid too close attention, but way back in 1996, there was a an out-of-the-way base with three whole channels of TV that came in with only half a dozen lines through the picture. So maybe he knew a little more than he should.

David made a face, the now-familiar expression of poorly restrained laughter, while at the same time looking like he was trying to figure out a way to deliver uncomfortable news.

"Never mind," John dismissed with a friendly pat to the shoulder, "I don't want to know."

David nodded, twitching slightly, going tense then relaxing. "I don't blame you." But something in his voice had changed. He shifted uncomfortably, swinging towards one of the walls of windows nearby.

"So, what's with the wandering?" John asked, blinking softly as David slipped into the evening moonlight reflected off the window, going even paler than John had noted earlier.

"Can't sleep," David said shortly. "Clowns will eat me," he added under his breath with a quiet snicker.

John may have gone a bit pale himself. "I was kidding about that," he said--convincingly, he thought. But David just shook his head, plunging his face back into shadow.

"There's a story there," he said. "A good one, I bet."

There was a hint there, John thought--a not-so-subtle reminder of their earlier conversation, of the deal they had made, the promise John had given. And he liked David--he really did; trusted him, too, odd as that might seem. But he wasn't ready for that. Not yet.

"You're a betting man?" he said instead. Had the pleasure of seeing David look completely disarmed, utterly confused. He smiled brightly into the face of it. "You up for some poker?"

"Poker?"

"Yeah," John said, warming to his own idea. "Relax you, help you to wind down." He smirked. "Allow me to wipe the floor with you."

David smirked right back. "That's what you think."

Two-man poker was an entirely different game than getting a group together; groups, John knew, even professional groups, had a different atmosphere, especially in the beginning, when no one was losing and the war hadn't really begun.

But alone, two people in a quiet room? Well that was just intensity from the start. It involved staring sharply, taking long breaths, and learning your opponent as quickly and efficiently as possible.

It took twenty minutes for John to sort through all of Rodney's tells, which David seemed to be employing without even blinking. It of course occurred to him that David was an actor, and he might be aware of certain things like facial ticks and body movements. On his own, maybe not, but playing another man playing poker, he was smooth.

No, John thought, it was going to take more than just the luck of the draw to enable him to win this. And he wanted to win.

A dozen hands in, and he still had failed to spot any sort of pattern to what David was doing. Sometimes his eyes would go wide like Rodney's did, catching sight of a charged ZPM, and sometimes it would seem genuine: David would lay down sixes and jacks, full house. But other times, the wide-eyed look and David's unsubtle flicking of M&Ms into the pot would seem slightly off to John, although usually only after he'd given up, thrown in his cards. He started playing recklessly, never folding, even when he had queen-high garbage. He wanted to force David to show his hand.

David kept up an admirable flow of banter throughout all of this, asking John careless questions--questions that John found himself answering, just as carelessly. The dog he'd had when he was seven, that he'd had to give away because his father turned out to be allergic; the one summer he'd watched The Great Escape thirty times, because some network had decided to air it every night at ten for a month (there had been one showing that he'd missed; he still remembered--a Tuesday); the crush he'd had on Lara Greene, the girl next door, even though (because) he was five and she was seventeen. All of these things, he found himself sharing--trading, tale for tale, with David. And all the while, David would squint and rub his lip, scratch his chin--his inability to lie the greatest lie of all.

The contradiction made John dizzy. It also made his pile of M&Ms decrease at an alarmingly rapid rate.

Finally, some couple dozen hands in, John got a really good hand, one he could play without feeling ashamed. Only he was very far away from having nearly enough M&Ms to really play the pot. David looked as calm as ever, fingers flicking unevenly on the table in an imitation of Rodney's fluttering nervousness.

John licked his lips. "All in," he said, sweeping the candy forward.

David blinked, eyes losing focus for a half second before flicking to his cards and then back at John. A tongue darted out and moistened David's lips, leaving them gleaming in the low light. 'Mood' one of them had said when they'd lowered it. John didn't remember who, too intent on David's next move.

"All in," David agreed with a sharp nod.

Trying to shake the feeling that they were playing for more than just candy, John sucked in a breath, then laid his cards flat on the table.

"Oh, man!" he said, looking at David's hand, likewise spread out. "No way!"

David chuckled. "Only on television." He scratched at his head, looking down at the two identical straights in front of them. "What are the odds?"

"Nine point one percent," said John, almost-instantly, the delay due only to his split-second decision not to bite it back.

David's eyes went wide, and this time John knew it was really him, really real. Then he grinned, and that was real, too. "Why, Colonel--were you counting cards?"

"No," said John. He hadn't been; he'd been too distracted.

"But you could?" David pressed.

"I told you to call me John," John snapped and frowned, shrugging. "You start with blackjack and the rest is cake."

"What's your degree in?" David asked, gathering cards and shuffling them like second nature, sure competent hands arranging and rearranging, flipping and moving cards. He wasn't even looking.

John thought about his answer for a long minute. There were people who knew--Elizabeth he was sure, she was the type to do her reading; Sumner probably had, and it probably hadn't helped make a good impression at all. Rodney didn't, he'd bet his life on it. "Fluid dynamics," he said finally.

"Well, that makes an odd sort of sense." David nodded, a yawn punctuating the movement.

"Tired?" John asked, happy to change the subject.

David shrugged uncomfortably, shifting. "Sleep wasn't as long or as restful as I would have hoped."

"Want me to--" tuck you in, he'd been about to say, but that suddenly seemed wildly inappropriate. "Um. Want to stick around here? I can sing you to sleep?" He grinned, not sure how sarcastic he was being, and gestured at the guitar in the corner.

"Oh, you can?" Not quite sarcastic. "No, seriously," David said, blinking copiously, as if that could somehow aid his eyes in staying open. "Can you? Sing?"

"Um, not really," John said, reasonably disarmed by the question. "I can play the guitar a bit, though." He snagged it by the neck, then gestured to the bed. "Lie down."

David stood up and walked liltingly over to the bed. John swallowed, watching as he sat, toeing off his shoes. "Ah-ha!" David said, raising a sleepy but emphatic finger. "So that's not just for show." He yawned again, deeply. "Joe can't play at all."

David turned his head, assessing the bed as if he wasn't quite sure how it worked. "You sure?"

He just looked so tired and now, without the bravado of poker, just a little bit lost. "Yeah." John nodded. "I'll take the couch; this place makes a lot of creepy noises if you're not prepared for them. Maybe you'll sleep better in a room that's not completely empty."

For a few long moments David just blinked at him. Then he yawned widely, shrugging and lying back in an uncontrolled flop before rolling onto his side so that he could still look John in the eye, even if his were half-closed. "I play," he said. "You and me," slight finger wag, "we should play sometime. Duet." He snorted. "No kissing though."

John made a choked sound, hand slipping on the guitar.

"No, no!" David said hastily, propping himself up, seemingly torn between embarrassment and amusement. "That--'Duet'--that's an episode title. The one where Cadman hijacks Rodney's body to plant a wet one on Carson. Sorry, my brain's apparently already turned in for the night." He punctuated this last statement with another yawn.

Well, that answered his question about whether or not it had aired, at least. And 'Duet' made a strange sort of sense, but thinking about it meant replaying the incredible display of affection Cadman had exhibited. Of course David seemed to regard the Lieutenant with not much more than tolerant amusement; then again, it had probably just been a fun stretch for him. John remembered Rodney's fuming afterwards, and the strange disquieting way he'd spent an entire week trying not to be seen.

He strummed the guitar lightly, some slow Johnny Cash tune coming out by rote.

"Nice," David murmured, eyes already drooping. John felt bad, because the circles were deep enough to count as grooves and he'd been enjoying the poker too much--had been too fascinated by watching the man slip in and out of character--to really call a stop to it.

John just hummed an acknowledgment and strummed a little more. Maybe he'd ask about that thing--'Duet'--later. David seemed to understand Rodney better than anyone and there was something about it all that just-- He shook his head, watching David take even breaths, already out like a light.

He continued playing softly, wondering if David might be up for a little bait and switch at tomorrow's officer's poker night.

***

He awoke feeling intensely disoriented, with bells going off in his brain.

"Bwah?" he said, sitting up. "Jane?" But the person he saw rolling off the couch with an odd sort of grace was John and--

John.

Holy crap, it was real.

"I'm here," David said, looking around, taking in his surroundings--Sheppard's room, John's room--as if for the first time. "I'm still here."

"Yup," said John, walking stiffly toward the door like he had slept badly--probably because he had stolen John's bed and forced him onto the couch, David realized, feeling a sharp stab of guilt. But it was nothing like what he felt when the door opened and Rodney stormed inside, blustering, "You have a radio for a reason, Colonel, not to mention--" and stopped short, seeing David: clothes rumpled, hair mussed, still half-tangled in John's sheets.

Rodney ran through an impressive array of fish-faces before finally managing to spit, "What's he doing here?"

David had to resist the urge to stutter stupid excuses, because seriously, what was there to stutter stupid excuses about when all he'd done was sleep in the guy's bed? John had been a nice guy. John was a nice guy. Except, of course, if you did something stupid like threaten the people he cared about. "Waking up," David slurred, surprised to find it hard to talk.

Rodney's eyes narrowed, suspiciously laser beam-like. "Yes, well, that was patently obvious."

"Rodney," John said, limping back to the couch, and boy did David realize what that had to look like, "was there something you wanted?"

David turned his head just in time to see something-- He blinked and it was gone. But the impression was burned into his retinas. Oh yes, there was something Rodney wanted all right and David was pretty close to freaking out over it. Because he was Rodney, or he played Rodney, and he never, well he didn't think that--not on purpose anyway. He scrubbed a hand through his hair, as if somehow the action would help descramble his brain.

Somewhat more collected--at least on the surface--he forced himself to get up slowly, each motion careful, unhurried, deliberate. He felt Rodney's eyes on him, sweeping over him, taking in the fact that he was still fully dressed. He thought about how he played Rodney's gaze, allowing his eyes to give away what he would never permit himself to say. Had he done this? Had he looked at Sheppard, looked at Sheppard in a certain way and--and done this?

That was ridiculous, he knew, but it still bothered him. Just as it bothered him that something this, this huge could be true about a character he liked to think he fully embodied, lived and breathed when necessary, and he'd...not known. Not noticed.

He couldn't help noticing now. Rodney's little downturned frown as his gaze swept back and forth between him and John. The way his hand half-reached out, then drew back, stopping short of Sheppard's arm. The slight quaver in his voice--haughty overtones aside--as he said, "Yes, well--considering that you neither turned up at breakfast, nor answered your radio, and Major Lorne reported that...our guest here was no longer in his assigned quarters, perhaps you can forgive me for wanting to ascertain that he hadn't murdered you in your sleep and stuffed your body in the trash incinerator."

With effort, David forced himself to say, "No, I'm saving that for after lunch."

John let out a sigh, and David's gaze flickered immediately back to him: his eyes on John's eyes on Rodney's eyes. "I appreciate your concern, Rodney," David watched John say, never before so frustrated by how difficult John could be to read. "But I'm a pretty self-sufficient guy; I can take care of myself."

Yes, David thought, running over every angle, every facet of the tableau in front of him. Yes. He doesn't know.

He wasn't sure whether or not to be relieved.

"Evidence has occasionally proven otherwise," Rodney said, eyes running over John, as if visually checking for evidence of okay-ness.

David blinked and then nodded in agreement. John could take care of himself, when he thought it was a good idea. "Seriously, Rodney," he said, because something in him wanted to assuage, to soothe whatever precarious emotion he could see in Rodney's--his own-- face so tellingly blank, except for the eyes and the chin and oh God, John was supposed to have the creepy hair. "Atlantis was creeping me out, so I wandered around, someone tattled and John--" oh, he had to hide a mini-wince at the name now, not that it had even occurred to him that Rodney might find something to be hurt about in that yesterday, though it really should have, "came and found me and we played poker till my brain fell out."

"Oh?" said Rodney, looking around like he might see David's brain propped on a chair, or lying under the desk, and like he thought that would seriously explain a lot. "Oh."

"See?" added David, pointing at his chin. "I remain goatee-free."

Rodney harrumphed quietly at that, his gaze flickering back up to John, and Jesus Christ. David tried to tell himself that it was like what happened when you bought, say, a shiny new yellow car: suddenly everywhere you looked there were yellow cars. This was like that, like a yellow car (and great; one day and he seemed to have picked up John's propensity for bad similes). He was just hyper-aware now, because there was no way that Rodney could actually be that blatantly obvious.

"Well, I'm sorry to break up the slumber party," Rodney said, pasting on an impressive scowl, "but Radek and I need to borrow," he waved a hand in David's direction, "him for a while." There was a sharp edge to his mouth, to the twist of his lips, as he turned to David. "We may have found a way to send you home."

"Oh," said David, and waited for the relief to come flooding in.

After a moment he said, "Can I get some breakfast first?"

John turned to him, blinking. David didn't flinch under his gaze, but he--he didn't smile into it, either.

Ignoring this--or, more likely, oblivious to it--"Powerbar," Rodney said, flinging one at him. "Come on. I don't have all day."

David went, but protested enough that Rodney allowed them a quick detour to David's room for a cursory change and maybe some cold water on his face. But after that it was merrily off to the labs they went.

Radek didn't even look up when they came in, just pushed gently and spun gracefully in his chair towards another console. "Good, you are here, David please stand there," he pointed to a spot in front of something that looked suspiciously like a laser beam, "and do not move."

David blinked rapidly, dragging his eyes away from Rodney, because the change was a sight to behold. Without John in the room and with a problem to tackle, Rodney was--well more the Rodney David thought he knew. Intense, focused, surprisingly good with the staff, equipped with the ability to concentrate on a moment's notice.

Gingerly David moved into place, hands in pockets, feeling up the Powerbar waiting inside. He was still waking up and the wafting aroma of coffee was doing just enough to tickle his stomach and poke annoyingly at his brain.

Talking, muttering, conferring, more talking, muted curses and--did Rodney really hit things like that? The loud clang of hand on table still reverberated through David's skull, even as he watched Rodney cradle his own palm.

"Go away," Rodney said to him, already glaring at his computer. "We don't need you anymore."

"So I'm guessing whatever it is, didn't work?"

Rodney's eyes weren't revealing anything other than frustration now. "No, it worked perfectly, and you're not here and I'm not stuck having to answer your stupid questions!"

"Okay then..." he said, catching Radek's sympathetic look but not hanging around longer than it took to nod in acknowledgment. "So I'll just--"

And there was the relief, finally, when he both saw and heard the door slide shut, with Rodney and his device safely on the other side of it.

He stood there for a moment, and then he did the only thing he could think to do, that he could do, really. He went to find John.

And find him he did, in the mess, working his way through an omelet. The sight made David's mouth water, despite the omelet's somewhat alarming purplish tinge; he grinned at John's quirked eyebrow, then went and got himself a tray, a large cup of coffee, some toast, a couple of satsumas (this earned him an anxious look), and an omelet of his very own.

Sliding into the seat across from John's, "Miss me?" he said.

"I was real torn up," John said, chewing. "Thinking you'd left without saying goodbye."

"Nope." David took a large bite--purpleness was apparently not an impediment to good taste. "Despite Doctor McKay's best efforts, it seems you're stuck with me a little longer."

And that got him a look he didn't want to think too hard about. So he just blinked a bit and then took another bite of the omelet. "Oh hey, they were out of the muffins. Can I?"

John dropped a mini-muffin neatly onto David's plate where he scooped it up and popped it into his mouth. "Mmmm," he said, chewing. John made a vague gesture to his plate and David took that as an invitation to grab a few more of the little morsels. Totally, of course, ignoring the sudden awareness that yes, he was eating off the guy's plate. And the guy didn't seem to mind all that much.

"Got any plans today?" John asked, watching him with an amused glint.

David shrugged. Other than trying to figure out which came first, Rodney's chicken crush or David's egg acting, nothing much, and he'd really rather not be left all alone with those thoughts anyway. "Are you my babysitter again? Don't you have better things to do?"

John shrugged and took a deep sip of coffee, leaning back easily into his chair. "That's what I have underlings for."

"So." David blinked, because John kept looking at him and now that he was looking himself, he could see John's eyes constantly tracking, as if studying the lines of something unfamiliar. "Did you have something in mind?"

"A bit more of a tour," John said casually. "Maybe setting up a poker game..." He trailed off meaningfully.

David felt guilty, because apparently John had caught on to his little trick from the night before...but then the idea caught fire in his head and he leaned in to whisper conspiratorially. "Think you can sneak me something to wear, maybe in science blue?"

"When I'm done with you," John leaned in further, "you will look fabulous."

***

John pitched it to Lorne this way: Rodney was a little upset, what with that freakish thespian double of his running around; he needed something to take his mind off of it, and letting him join their poker game worked to all their advantages because, let's face it, this was McKay they were talking about--he couldn't bluff his way out of a paper bag. Plus, John added, Rodney had the best stash of coffee of anyone on the base. Lorne's eyes lit up a little at that, and John knew he had won.

With a spring in his step and a wicked glint in his eye, he went to collect David, whom he'd left to change into some of the clothes he'd "liberated" (Atlantis let him into all sorts of places if he asked nicely). It wasn't until John was back inside his room that he realized the one flaw in his brilliant plan.

"What?" said David, looking up at him, looking--

He swallowed. "Nothing," he said. He gestured, a motion encompassing David's (Rodney's) blue shirt and slate grey pants, the uniform jacket with the familiar blue panels that David was just pulling over his shoulders. "It's just--a little creepy."

David opened his mouth, then shut it again, his expression subtly shifting. "Don't be ridiculous, Colonel," he said, and maybe it was that the words were a little more clipped, or-- "What could possibly be creepy? You see me every day."

"John," John said, without really meaning to; he was already nodding when David said, "No, Colonel." Sounding somewhat amused, "You're going to give us away."

"Don't worry," John said, "I can manage a pretty good poker face when I need to."

"I'll say," David remarked, and before he could elaborate--or be asked to--he was already off, pacing like Rodney paced, and John wasn't sure if that was part of the act or not.

"Right. Is there anything important I should know about the people we're playing against?"

John shrugged, "You probably know the basics, stick to military designation for anyone whose name you don't know, and even for most you do--uh." He stopped worried for a moment. "You do know how to read brass, right?"

David blinked at him, "What, do I look like an idiot?" He paused a beat and shifted minutely into a different sort of panic, slower, less frenetic or maybe just as frenetic, just on a different wavelength. "Only officers; I can't even read Mountie rank."

"Only officers tonight," John nodded, "so no worries." He paused before giving the rundown of names, just in case, and considered David carefully. "Do me a favor? Take Cadman for all she's worth?"

David's cackle and the mischievous gleam in his eye gave John perhaps a bit too much insight into why he was often asked to play psychopaths. But hey, it had been John's idea to use their powers for evil rather than for good. He would have to live with it.

He was far from experiencing pangs of conscience when he saw how his fellow officers reacted to David's arrival: like a bunch of spiders, polishing their glimmering strands of webbing and inviting the hapless fly into their parlor. John felt a stab of indignation on Rodney's behalf as he watched Lorne take David's stash of goods (borrowed from John) and exchange them for chips. He let it show on his face as a smile.

David was playing it perfectly, dividing his time between flashing his opponents looks of condescension and superiority, and glancing nervously at the table, at the crisp decks of cards and stacks of poker chips, brow furrowed, like he didn't quite know what to make of them.

"Now remember, Rodney," Cadman said, as David and John sat down, "no using that big brain of yours to count cards. That's cheating."

"I'll try to keep my intellect under control," Rod--whoa, David replied. Then he flashed John a look, a tiny hint acknowledging who was the real card-counter at the table, and it was suddenly very clear to John who he was looking at, that this was another secret that was theirs, something just between them.

The first couple of hands David flexed his muscles, talking loudly, making brash statements, staying firmly away from anything too scientific, but throwing in a large word here and there. But somewhere around hand six or seven, it slowly began to change and John took pleasure in charting it in his head.

One win, where David did an incredible "I won? Of course I won!" followed by a grand sweeping gesture to pick up his loot. Then he lost again, and the rest of the table took great joy in it, only they weren't paying attention to the fact that the biggest pots were coming more from John's stash than David's.

Then another win, off Cadman no less, and John had to hide behind a cough while she berated Rod--David with reasons why he was lucky.

"Luck has nothing to do with it," David said snidely. "Poker is about averages and percentages. I'd think it wouldn't be too hard to stretch that brain of yours to realize that's something I know a little bit about."

Oh, it was perfect: the hands, the shoulders, the uncertain lilt of his mouth and chin. John had to resist a small pumping motion with his fist. He didn't care that his pile was growing smaller by fractions; he'd make it a point to win a hand soon, possibly David would let him too since part of the plan involved making sure John had enough to keep the pot happy while David lost a blue streak without actually losing too much.

Slowly though, David got at least one good hand off each of them, and while Lorne was frowning a little, David turned his sights on Cadman. "You know, I had planned on counting cards as an extreme backup," he said nonchalantly and John could see Cadman gearing up for something special, "but apparently I won't need it." To punctuate he took a long swing of beer.

Oh yes, John might have mentioned that Rodney was a shit beer drinker, a two drink drunk and that was a well known fact.

It was a brilliant touch on John's part (if he did say so himself), and David played it perfectly. The more he drank, the looser he let Rodney's playing become: he started taking more risks, betting more extravagantly, and on one occasion that had John stifling a laugh behind his own beer, bluffing outrageously badly. John allowed himself to snicker when Rodney was forced to show his poor hand--the hand he'd thrown away almost a third of his chips on--because everyone else was snickering, too. But John's sneer had an extra edge of glee to it; he knew, as David knew, that whenever Rodney's hand evoked even a glimmer of excitement for the rest of the night, Cadman and Lorne and the rest would believe him, would fold in fear of the pair of deuces David had pressed tightly to his vest.

David never tried anything flashy. He was waiting, John knew, for the perfect moment, and before long, John realized that he had to get out of the way and allow him room to make his move. Winning a not-particularly-impressive (and thus perfect) pot, John saw his out. "Well, gentleman, I've just about broken even again; I think that's it for me tonight."

Lorne made some grumblings about how John's poker strategy was as risk-free as his field maneuvers weren't, but they were drowned out by a perfectly-timed, "Wait, Colonel, don't leave me!" complete with a drunken, lurching wrist-grab.

John shot the others a long-suffering look. Then he sighed, sat back down. "I suppose," he said, eying Rodney's dwindling stash, "that I can wait with you until the inevitable occurs."

"Fair enough," David said, and proceeded to wipe the floor with them.

He started subtly enough, slowly but surely accumulating enough chips to have a real position of power at the table--he wasn't going to let anyone force him to go all in before he was ready. John watched him with an unabashed delight he thought he did a good job of passing off as amusement, smiling with the edges of his lips as David rotated through expressions of worry, surprised joy, and blatant smugness. It was a pleasure, a real pleasure, just watching him work, seeing him do his thing.

Almost too soon, then, that that moment arrived. Cadman was a very good poker player and had very few tells, but John thought the Rodney rollercoaster must have gotten to her, because she let her relief at her promising hand, and her subsequent new resolve, show in a slight touch of tongue to lips. John glanced over at David, to make sure he had noticed it; his face was a study in Rodney-like obliviousness, but his leg moved, under the table, calf pressing warm against John's. It took all of John's self-control not to jump--and what a special way that would be for this to all come crumbling down around their shoulders--but his confused muddle of reactions stayed just below the surface. After the space of a breath, he even allowed himself to press back.

The pot grew and grew, and David gave a singularly perfect nervous headtilt after the final card was dealt and Cadman, bless her heart, said the magical words that made John's pulse stutter and trip and his leg press harder into David's in anticipation. The answering pressure in return had John needing another swig of beer to tamp down the excitement and he had to force himself to release the bottle because he could start to feel the slow tingle of alcohol in the back of his mind; his drinking had picked up since he'd stepped out of the game.

"All in," Cadman said with innocence that wouldn't even fool the real Rodney, but by then, John supposed it wouldn't have mattered.

David, in a pique of possibly the most evil thought ever, dropped all pretense and shrugged easily. "Okay."

Out of the corner of his eye John saw Lorne bite back a smile, possibly understanding exactly what was happening, or at least knowing the Lieutenant was about to get it handed to her. She was a great kid, knowledgeable, helpful in a tough spot, but really, she needed to learn a little humility. No, John wasn't still chafing about anything at all.

With a flourish, she revealed her cards and to be fair, it was a pretty good hand, and if it had actually been Rodney, it would have probably been more than enough to win.

David, however, just gave a shark-like smile and flipped his cards over like a pro. "I'm pretty sure this means I win."

"What?" She was gape-mouthed, sincerely shocked, so sure she'd read him right.

"Me," David pointed at himself, speaking overly slow, "winner. You," he pointed at her, "loser."

Under the table their legs crossed in excitement, David's calf warm and heavy over John's ankle, bouncing like mad.

"And that?" David said carefully, "I believe is a night for me." He stood carefully, finished his beer in a three quick gulps, sweat gleaming off his neck as it worked to swallow.

"Goodnight, David," Lorne called just as they both left the room, arms filled to the brim with loot.

"What?" Cadman's shriek of indignation could just be heard as they rounded the corner.

John turned to David to smile his congratulations, but David was--not looking so hot actually, walking fast, long legs carrying him with a speed that John was familiar with. They finally stopped at David's room, the door sliding shut behind them. David dumped his goods on the desk and proceeded to pace rapidly.

"Oh God, never done that live before." His fingers flexed and stretched while he moved, shifting his shoulders, trying to shake out his entire frame.

"What?" John asked, frowning, putting his handful down next to David's.

"Live, acting. Well okay, on stage yes, but this was different," he said, still moving frenetically. "Like, pure adrenaline, or," he snapped his fingers and then blinked at them numbly before shaking the hand out, "drugs. Feeling a little high here."

"Too much beer?" John asked, going for some water. Couldn't hurt, anyway.

David shook his head. "Are you kidding me? That was child's play compared to--" He stopped himself, breathed, rolled his shoulder's again. "Crap, I uh--I can't get out of character."

The panic in his voice, the wobble of the chin, the slight cracking at the high notes. John swallowed roughly, watching the man try and be himself again. Quelling shaking hands, constantly fisting and flexing until abruptly he starting tearing his clothes off.

David got as far as his shirt before John's brain caught up. Right, the uniform probably wasn't helping.

He turned around anyway, his own body buzzing. Beer; definitely too much beer.

"So I'll just..." he said, starting for the door.

"No, wait," David said, and there was no hand on John's wrist now, but still he stopped, arrested. "Just stay with me for a few minutes while I come down," David was saying, John turning back toward the sound of his voice. "If you leave me alone right now, I might...

"...start thinking like him," David finished, belatedly, and at the words--low, dull whisper--John tore his gaze away.

Bare curve of David's shoulder, he could still see--

"On second thought, maybe it's time for bed. Time for me to go to bed," David repeated, and though he was nervous and stuttery, he no longer sounded like Rodney at all.

"Good idea," John said, voice surprisingly level, though his breath felt sharp in his throat. "I'll, uh, see you in the morning."

"You bet," David said--far away, distant.

John had to pause for a moment once he was out in the hall, the door safely shut. What the hell, his brain insisted. What the hell was that? But the truly frightening part was that that was only the static, the extra layer of noise rippling over the part of him that already knew.

***

Once John had gone, David sat down shakily on the edge of the bed. This had gone beyond chickens and eggs. This was, he would go so far as to say, no longer a poultry problem.

David shook his head again, feeling Rodney under his skin, twitching nervously, angry and sarcastic. The urge to look, to smell, to glean any information from John all evening had been-- That thing with the leg was stupid, only John had not even blinked, had switched to talking in silent leg gropes with only a startled gasp.

God, he needed a shower. Sweat and beer and Rodney was all over his skin, and maybe something nice like a metaphorical cleansing would help his brain remember who exactly he was.

The shower, despite being a little intimidating, was easy to handle; his own brain occupied with other things, he completely forgot about his earlier anxiety. Hot water, hot and clean water poured over his head and beat onto his sore shoulders, stiff with emotion, down his chest and stomach, and as it slowly took away the worst of the jitters David felt the ache somewhere in his chest and the matching throb just below his abdomen.

He slid to the floor in shock, too dazed, too dizzy to really do much else for several long moments.

He'd been here for two days, for less than forty-eight hours. Before that, he'd never--

It was Rodney, he thought wildly. Yes! It was, this was all just very, very method--

But he didn't really believe that.

Still, he thought, pulling himself back up to his feet, fingers skating across the wet tile, like waterbugs dancing across the surface of a lake. It helped to, to--

Rodney did this, he thought suddenly, knew suddenly, knew. Rodney did this. He stood in the shower and he--he indulged--

One hand sweeping down, over his stomach, grasping, grasping.

Shuddering into the move, unconscious, easy, and God he could see it, it fit perfectly into Rodney, even though he'd never really considered it this deeply before. Having his moment alone, away from-- Jesus, one slow stroke and he was already leaning heavily on the wall, knees weak.

He shouldn't, he shouldn't take this away from Rodney, cheapen it in his own head--God knew how he would ever be able to play the man again.

But tonight, tonight was awesome and amazing and God he'd just watched John take it all in, learning and the freedom of not needing to be surreptitious, because Rodney already had that-- His hand moved again, mind caught on the line of John's throat as he swallowed from the cold bottle of beer in his hands. All Rodney, he just needed to get Rodney out of his head, lie, lie lie, he chanted, breathing hard.

But in all honesty, this was something larger, so much larger, so far beyond (John's wrists, pale against the balcony rail, against the dark fabric of his uniform jacket, just slightly rolled) any of them, it was the whole goddamn universe that had him in its grip (rotating his palm just so, squeezing); it had enchanted him--with its wonder and its mystery, yes (John's hands, light on the jumper's controls, eyes still full of awe, awe), but also with its ordinariness: playing cards after midnight, strumming a few casual chords on the guitar; waking up with a crick in his neck because he'd let him have the bed--

It flashed in his mind, suddenly, another use that bed could be put to, and it wasn't, he couldn't even lie and say it was anyone but him and--him and--

His mouth opened, silently, the word (name) still unspoken.

Then: shuddering breaths, the aftershocks still rolling through him, and the water beat down, clean and hot, hot and clean, and washed it all away.

He sank to the floor again, knees too Jell-o-like to hold him, the weight of his orgasm pulling him down, guilt and shame and oh God, Jane's face, and he was firmly back in his own head, his skin tingling and his muscles lax and lazy and his mind spinning a mile a minute.

God, maybe it had been him, his own awe, his own admiration of-- Oh, little aftershocks up his spine, delicious little shivers. Wisps of steam floated before his unfocused eyes and the water didn't even have the consideration to eventually turn cold.

When he did stumble out of the shower, pruned and dazed, his entire body was still strung out on endorphins, shaking slightly. He changed and slipped into bed, falling into the same half-doze as the night before. Only this time, he remained firmly in his own strange bed.

******

Too, too much energy, and although he needed the rest--especially after last night--there was no way John was going to be able to handle bed right now. He needed to...to burn off some steam, so--a run, probably; yes, a run. And he even went so far as to change into his running clothes, to start off from his room at a light, warm-up jog, but from the very beginning his route was suspect. Down one of the long halls of laboratories, most sensibly shut down for the night, the lights off, the machines humming quietly. But not Rodney's, no. He was still there, the only concession to the late hour the shutting off of the overhead fixtures. So he sat, bathed in yellow desk-lamp glow, papers spread out before him like a--like a hand of cards, chin propped on his elbow and his eyes downcast.

John took a deep breath (he hadn't been running for very long, and clearly he was out of practice, because he was showing a far too advanced level of respiratory discomfort and heart-rate elevation); a deep pull of air into his lungs, and he went inside.

Rodney glanced up, startled. "Oh," he said, eyes flicking across his face, then away. "It's only you."

There was perhaps a bit of an emphasis on only.

"Yes, only me," John nodded, breathing slightly hard; the run had only just gotten started.

"Don't you have a pale copy of me to croon to sleep?" Rodney asked, gaze returning to his screen.

John shifted uncomfortably, electricity crawling under his skin, "We had a full night, he's--" sleeping it off was probably not true; when he'd left, David had looked, well, wired didn't even begin to cover it, "--taking some alone time."

"Oh, and what wacky hijinks did you get up to this time, hm?" Rodney asked, assessing him with another cold, blue sweep. "Frankly, I'm surprised that the city's still standing."

Rodney deserved to know; hell, he'd probably have Cadman on his case first thing tomorrow morning. "Playing poker," he said, and before Rodney could scowl, Again? or even, Oh, so that's what they're calling it these days?, he added, "I told Lorne that you needed a break, so they invited you along to the officers' game. David came. He, uh, pretended to be you."

Rodney's eyes widened in shock, then in indignation. "You hustled them? You sullied my reputation with a scam and you hustled them?" He gasped, leaping to his feet and pointing an accusatory finger. "I knew it! He--that man is a con artist, and he's, he's...seduced you into a life of crime!"

Really, it was funny, so why did John's laughter feel so forced? "Rodney, it was my idea."

"Oh, I'm sure that's what he wants you to think!"

"Rodney," John said, resisting the urge to place a reassuring hand on his arm--or possibly smack him upside the head. "I've spent the last two days with David, and believe me, he's on the level. I understand why this is freaking you out, but--"

In an odd move for him, Rodney didn't answer or interrupt; he simply turned his back to John, hands at his sides, tight, balled fists.

If Rodney had any idea what an effective conversation-stopper it was, he would probably use it a lot more often.

"Rodney?" John tried, tone altered. "Listen, Rodney--"

"Still me," Rodney said, turning back around. Eyes steady and cool, too tired to glare. "You can stop saying my name over and over; it's been well-established that you know who you're talking to." Rodney was not an expert at the penetrating gaze, not when it came to people, but he was doing a pretty good imitation now. "Unless you're experiencing genuine confusion in that area, in which case I'd recommend that you speak with Heightmeyer."

John recoiled at the suggestion, which seemed to satisfy Rodney somehow. He folded his arms. "What do you want, Colonel?"

"Want?" John said dumbly; he'd definitely spent too much time lately pondering philosophy.

"If you can cast your mind back that far--if you have enough of a mind to cast--you might recall that you're the one who interrupted my work. Hence my inquiry into why that is."

For God's sake, he had just wanted to see if Rodney was okay. So why couldn't he say that?

He could have said it to David.

Rodney saw his hesitation; maybe saw too much. "Never mind," he said, dismissing him with a wave of his hand. "Go. You're obviously in the wrong place."

Feeling stunned and oddly speechless, John turned and left. His legs felt like lead, the beer making a return appearance, sloshing in his stomach. He was--tired. Confused and tired. It was perfectly normal.

Then John mentally reviewed the last two days and wasn't sure whether he wanted to laugh or cry when he realized how low he'd set that particular bar.

He slept. Somehow he must have slept, because then it was morning, and he was waking up. In his own bed, blinking as he rose, staring at the couch where he had spent the previous night, where he had woken in pain and much more content.

He felt...well, the word was probably "cranky," but cool Air Force pilots such as himself did not get "cranky"; he was disgruntled, most like. He showered and dressed, mechanically, then left to go get breakfast. He started immediately in the direction of David's room before reminding himself that the other man was a grown up; he could find his own way down to the mess.

In point of fact, he already had. He was sitting at one of the tables, flaunting his citrus-immunity once again, although what he was doing couldn't really be called flaunting--not this time, not this slow steady peeling of skin from flesh. He studied a segment pried away from the rest like it was a delicate piece of Ancient crystal: interlocking, beautiful in its very functionality.

John opened his mouth to call out to him, then went and filled his tray instead.

Loaded down with food, nostrils filled with the enticing aroma of coffee, John walked back over toward the tables and had to stop, blinking, in the middle of the room, for a moment convinced he was seeing double. Left and right: the same slope of shoulders, the same broad back, the same tired arch of neck. But it wasn't a hallucination, or some trick with mirrors, of course not; it was just Rodney and David, sitting each at opposite ends of the aisle, and John there between them.

Holy bad '80s Brat Pack movie, Batman. John refused to be Molly Ringwald, so instead he squared his shoulders and made a decision. David at least didn't keep half-accusing him of things that just made him angry. There was also a little matter of the fact that David was the one out of place, stuck here without a job and without a certainty that he was ever going to get back to where he belonged. John was suddenly struck with a small pang of understanding in the back of his throat and resigned himself to Rodney's anger in the near future.

It helped that Rodney had gotten up in John's spate of twelve-year-old indecisiveness, shoved his tray into the return pile with a surprising amount of force, and left. John ignored the cramped feeling in his stomach and joined David at the table.

"Hey," he said casually, but when the person across from him looked up, it wasn't David's friendly, mischievous eyes he saw, wasn't his easy grin, and if it weren't for the orange still spread out artfully between them, John would almost think he'd gotten it backwards after all.

"Oh, hey," David said, after a moment. He shook himself. "I'm sorry; I, uh, had a rough night."

"Adrenaline pumping?" John said, trying to ease them back toward whatever had been there yesterday, before.

It didn't work. David paled, then flushed, his lips thinning, slanting down. John, no less able now than he had been two days ago to shake the habit of reading David through a filter of Rodney, tried to connect the expression back to one he already knew. For some reason he thought of Chaya, but no, that wasn't right; there was something else, pushing that memory to the foreground, something important.

He set the thought aside for now, more concerned about David, who was doing a good job covering up his initial reaction, hiding his lips behind the rim of his coffee mug. "I'm used to city sounds," he said, once he had finished his sip, swallowed. "Atlantis at night...it's oddly quiet."

John knew how unnerving that could be, that period of forced silence and proximity with one's own thoughts. "You can borrow my iPod, if you want," he said. "Just don't go whisking it off to another dimension; there isn't exactly an Apple Store here."

A little of the humor had come back into David's eyes, but he still seemed tense. "That was one of the Ancients' greatest flaws," he remarked, then with barely a breath, added, "So have you heard anything more about that? What are the chances of my getting whisked back to TV land soon?"

John's eyes strayed to the place Rodney had been sitting minutes before and shrugged. "Judging by the level of crankiness our chief scientist has been exhibiting?"

David's eyes lowered for a half second, shoulders slumping, and the memory of last night hit John like a freight train. Rodney, angry and upset over something just at the edges of John; John and David flush from victory, adrenaline pumping wildly only to be followed by David's almost panic.

"Well, it's only been two days," David said, false cheer evident as plainly as everything else was muddled.

"Hey," John said, voice going unaccountably soft, "he's the best at what he does." He let their knees bump gently, an echo of the perfect communication they had so recently shared. Heat and sudden stillness greeted the touch and David, if possible, went even paler before his shoulders slumped further, but he smiled hollowly. Somehow, despite the connection, John hadn't expected the dry throat or the pounding heart that went with it.

"Yeah, well on TV," David said, going for another bite of food, head bowed, "we have these nifty things called scenes, and in between them, these wonderful things can happen." Now he looked up, humor in his eyes, knee bouncing nervously against John's. "Like time. Weeks of time can pass in the blink of an eye, and suddenly you're minutes away from discovery."

"So you're saying," John said, scooting his foot forward slightly, "that what we need is a musical montage sequence."

"Precisely," David said. "A stirring theme and lots of heroic shots of me--of Rodney pointing emphatically at screens and white boards, and silently directing my--his minions. And then, eureka! Flash forward to another briefing scene, Radek and I exchange exposition, and there you have it: one brilliant plan, no pesky waiting."

"Sounds good to me," John said, and in a way it did. If time really worked like that, he'd spend far less of it having to stop bored Marines from doing stupid shit like having what amounted to water balloon fights with Jell-o-filled surgical gloves. (That had actually been pretty cool, though it was a bitch to clean up.)

"So, any time now," David said, drumming his fingers on the table, his leg against John's leg.

"Any time," echoed John. They both stared up at the ceiling as if, at any second, they expected the first sweeping notes to start pouring out of the city's speakers.

"Yeah, so I've officially cracked," David said, after a moment.

"What about me?" John said. "I mean, I...I live here."

He looked back down at his plate, aware of the seconds ticking by at their normal rate. He thought he could feel David's heart pounding right along with it, radiating out from his Achilles tendon.

"So," he said. "What is the heroic music that accompanies my every move?"

Some of the tension leeched out of David, to be replaced by horror. "Oh, God. Do not make me hum the theme song."

John was plotting a way to trick him into it--or maybe just bribe him--when the ground rocked beneath them, the whole city shaking like Los Angeles in earthquake season, like a plastic snowglobe castle. Their knees knocked painfully; across the mess china rattled, a chair fell over, someone screamed. "Get down!" John said at once; he was around the table in an instant, pushing David down to the floor and under its (he hoped) protective surface. His hand on David's back, "Everyone down!" he shouted to the rest of the room, then got down as well, muscles like coiled springs but willing to wait, forced to wait until the worst of the shaking was over.

As soon as it was, he was on his feet, dragging David with him. "Stay calm, stay where you are!" he ordered the rest of the people in the mess, then ignoring at least half of his own advice, marched swiftly into the hall, guiding David by the arm.

"Sir, what was that?" Lorne's voice, in his ear; and a moment later, Elizabeth's, "John?"

And still later, Rodney: "Colonel, we had a team in one of the sub-levels in the east--"

"Got it," he snapped, "I'm on my way. Lorne, you too."

"Where are we going?" David asked, and John was newly reminded that he was dragging him along like Sheena, Queen of the Jungle.

He didn't care. "I," he said, "am going to go make sure that Rodney or one of the other scientists doesn't get killed making sure we don't all get killed. " He pushed him into a transporter, then pulled him out again, walking forcefully down one of the living corridors. "You are going to stay right here." He opened the door to David's room and shoved him inside.

"But--" David said.

"No time to argue," John said, and he hated being harsh, but really, there wasn't. "We'll handle it. There's nothing you can do."

The door slid shut and he turned decisively in the direction he had to go. He did not have the time for guilt.

***

David paced.

And then when the shaking knocked him down for the second time, he sat. There may have been thumb twiddling and leg crossing and poking at the extremely stripped down computer Rodney had left with him.

Though somehow sitting around and playing solitaire during what might just be his imminent demise-- He shook his head hard. Rodney was still lingering under the surface, though he was sure the enduring guilt and doubt probably weren't helping.

He settled on FreeCell. After game three he noticed the tremors had stopped. He also had to go to the bathroom, but had an irrational fear of doing anything that might affect whatever was wrong. What did he know? Maybe there was some sanitation plant about to blow.

There may have been the occasional rising bout of panic, but David was a consummate professional--you didn't shit on other people's work because you had issues.

He may, however, have curled up under the blankets with the laptop, creating a cocoon of softly lit safety.

The gentle chime of the door took a moment to recognize, but once he did, David jumped out of bed and answered it post-haste.

John. Alive and whole and not even limping or bleeding was standing at his door, and something that he hadn't even known was knotted and clenched loosened just a bit. In the back of his mind he'd been expecting John to do something stupid and save them all and then wind up hurt and small-looking on a gurney somewhere.

"I--" he said, because he felt he should say something and not just stand there, gawking. "You're--"

"It was nothing," John said with a shrug. "Just your average Friday."

"Average--" David started, and then, then: movement without thought, his arms wrapped around John's back and his face pressed into his shoulder, breathing him in.

David was by nature a tactile person; he liked shoulder punches and back pats and manly hugs. He'd hugged--jokingly, joyously--pretty much everyone on set; even Joe, shoulders a little stiff beneath him. And yet it was nothing, nothing like John's stuttering step back, or a second later, the tentative hand raised and pressed against the curve of David's own back. They didn't do this. John didn't do this, didn't hug. David remembered the awkward embrace with Elizabeth in the season premiere. And, well, if it were Rodney--Rodney would bark something, an incredulous, "How are you not dead?" He wouldn't-- Not this.

And yet it was done. And that was...okay, really.

He was completely screwed, but. It was okay. John was okay.

"Sorry," he said, drawing back, suddenly aware that the door was still open, that they were practically out in the hall. "It's...well, it's a lot more frightening when you don't know your lines in advance, when you can't skip to the end and make sure everyone comes out of it okay."

John looked shell-shocked, taking an automatic step forward, following David back into the room. David took a deep breath, his senses apparently now in tune completely with John--yeah, not Aqua Velva--just feeling the air shift in front of him, diaphanous heat pushing gently at his front.

"I'll see about getting you a radio," John said, a little raspy. "Maybe," he started and shrugged, looking almost unsure which was as shocking as just about anything else, "we should also look into the gene therapy."

David blinked. Then blinked some more. And then got it hard enough that he needed to sit down. John was already talking long term. Just in case.

"Um," he said--eloquent today, clearly. "I, uh. I don't think it'll work for me."

"Why not?" John asked. He seemed distracted, abstracted, like maybe there was somewhere else he needed to be, other people he needed to be checking on, and also, so very there, completely focused on David. "It work--"

"Worked on Rodney, I know," David said, and now even his own tone was indecipherable to him.

"Works on forty-eight percent of recipients," John pressed. "You could be one of the lucky ones."

David's smile was more than a little rueful. "I don't think I'm typical of your general sample population," he said.

"And why is that?" said John, moving, leaning easily against the desk. Slowly, he was shaking off the tension and tumult of emotion that had been on his face when he first entered the room. Slipping in and out of emotional states--he was better at it than David had been lately.

"I'm not exactly from around here," David said, and tried to keep his tone light: no panic, no Rodney-like disdain. "The gene therapy, it's--"

"Science fiction?" said John.

"Well, yeah. Aspects of it. Like most of the science on the show, its relation to reality is...loose."

Now that the words were out, he realized that they were kind of insulting; Rodney--even Radek--would have surely pitched a fit. But John just stepped forward, coming to a halt in front of David, crouching. He reached out--slow, careful movements, like he was afraid of startling someone, maybe even himself; he reached out, and he squeezed David's arm.

Weight and pressure and the rough sweep of his thumb. "This feels real to me."

David could feel the small shudder even before it started, but he couldn't stop it, couldn't even try to stop it, because touching felt real. It made all of the crazy batshit insane things that were happening, that his brain said were happening, sort of solidify, come back from a 2D camera image into something more.

"David?" John asked, oh God, so quietly, still so quiet and soft and careful. "You okay there?"

The touch shifted to only slightly impersonal, fingers on David's wrist and just under his chin, warm and calloused and easy. A hand, long and elegant, covered his eyes while a slow voice counted to ten and then was removed to reveal John's concerned face inches away. Jesus, why did they never do this? Why did they never show John competent and caring and so very goddamned human?

John's hands hadn't moved far, one resting lightly on his forearm, the other back on his shoulder.

Because it would be devastating.

David breathed. In and out, sucking air into his lungs. He blinked down at John, warm hazel gaze, and he wanted--to apologize, he thought; yes, to move his lips and say, I'm so sorry, this isn't fair to you; none of this is fair to you, especially when you deserve--

He deserved--

John's mouth, lips gently parted. Soft and gentle, like his hand on David's arm, reassuring. I'm sorry, he wanted to say--

He wanted--

John's mouth, John's mouth, John. Of course, of course--and he could, he could just--

"--fly a jumper," John was saying, and David blinked, slamming back into himself, all in a rush.

"What?" Not quite a croak.

"If you get the gene therapy, if it takes," John repeated slowly, kindly. "I'll teach you how to fly a jumper."

"Oh." The prospect excited him less that it would have a day ago, two. But then he thought about John leaning over him, pressing warmly against his back; John's hands on his hands, gripping the controls; John bending low, voice quiet and breath hot in his ear...

"Okay," he found himself saying. "All right. Okay."

John smiled, big brilliant smile, easy and smooth with just a hint of nervousness beneath it. "We doing okay now?"

No, we most definitely weren't. God, he was a character for chrissake. John Sheppard was a character; when had he dug in and taken root like that? "Just," David waved a hand around, "stuff."

"Stuff?" John raised an eyebrow, humor flavoring his entire face.

He was still so close, hadn't moved actually, and David, David was precariously close to just-- John squeezed his shoulder. "Come on, you'll feel better if you do something more than sit here and think about it."

Yeah, David thought, because sharing air with John was not really helping. "Okay," he said and God he couldn't have sounded less and more like Rodney if he'd tried.

John stood, giving David a cinematic, long body-shot as he passed before David's eyes. "Come on." He offered a hand.

David stared at it, thought about how this wasn't Joe's hand. It was John's and he could see the differences, could feel them with his skin where they had just touched. The hand made cute little 'come on' gestures and David stared, because inside his actor-y little brain beat the heart of a writer, and the symbolism of the gesture hurt.

He took the hand anyway.

***

John tried not to think about Carson's stunned--and frankly, somewhat baffled--expression when John had delivered David to the infirmary and explained his plan. Carson, who'd been dealing with a fair share of (John couldn't help being bitter and think deserved) ethical wonk lately, seemed much less gung-ho about sticking his needles and his mouse retrovirus into just anybody than he'd been when they'd first arrived. But then David--on purpose or not, John wasn't sure--had started talking again about how he really didn't think it would work, had mentioned his odd, but in a way oddly sensible, reasons why. And Carson had gotten curious. Plain as day, right there on his face. When John had left, he'd known Carson was going to give it his best shot, that he wouldn't be able to help himself.

Scientists.

And speaking of, John really ought to see how Rodney was getting along. When he'd left him, he was yelling at some of the engineers assigned to clean up the mess from the "minor explosions" that had rocked the city earlier, but he was probably back in his lab by now. John really ought to see...

But he was reluctant to pick at what was obviously already a scabbing wound. Last night, this morning, it had all been awkward and oddly stressful. Rodney was not the sort you had unspoken conversations with; one or both of you wouldn't understand what was going on. And yet, they had somehow managed it, right down to not understanding a word that hadn't been said.

They argued all the time; it was modus operandi for the cult of non-communication they'd developed. So it wasn't like the two of them rubbing each other the wrong way was anything new. Hell, their entire relationship was pretty much one long series of petty arguments. Just, you know. More fun than that sounded.

And it had been okay, dealing with that morning's crisis. They had worked together as well as ever. And they did work well together, they always had. After the immediate crisis was over, though, a veil of weirdness had settled back over them. Worst was the weirdly hurt look on Rodney's face when John had said he had to leave to check on David. He hadn't meant to--well he hadn't meant to imply anything, just that David had looked really freaked when he'd left and had no way of knowing what was going on.

Rodney had just looked at him at the announcement and lost the small spark of accomplishment and shrugged. He was being weird about it. And John understood it a little; God knew how he'd react if he ended up with his own doppelganger hanging around, but still, there was no reason for John to feel weird back.

Rodney was still supervising the last of the mess when John found him. He waited in the background, unneeded, until Rodney finally separated off and stalked away, a virtual cloud of anger following in his wake.

John, of course, wasn't deterred. Really. He wasn't. "Everything going okay?"

Rodney jumped and stiffened his shoulders, but didn't turn. "We're not dead. That's good enough for today. How's the boyfriend?"

John knew, instantly, what he should have done. He should have said, "Fine," or "Dandy," or even, "He's not complaining." And then Rodney could have rolled his eyes and they could have moved on to something else.

Instead he said, "Boyfriend?" kind of choked and very quiet, and even though he covered immediately, said, "I sent him off to play with Carson, why?" he was aware of the flush creeping up his cheeks, aware of Rodney's shifting shoulders and of Rodney's eyes on him, suddenly wide and wide awake, searching.

John tried to concentrate on what Rodney was saying; he didn't want to think about--about anything else. "Carson? Why? Is he having a nervous breakdown? Did he need to be sedated? Or did he somehow manage to injure himself even while safely ensconced in his room?"

"Beckett's going to try the gene therapy on him," John said, absently. He knew they were still, could look down and see them, yet he was sure his hands were shaking.

"What?" Rodney actually looked offended. "It wasn't good enough pretending to be me while wiping the floor with Cadman's smirking face?" He smiled absently, a quick break in the clouds. "Not that I don't appreciate that by the way--but now he wants the gene therapy?"

"Actually," a shrug, "I talked him into it."

"Why?"

John looked around the hallway and took a steady breath, stepping in so he could lower his voice. "Because while you're working on sending him home, we have to worry about the possibility that you might not be able to, and it'll be a big enough shock as it is. Assuming we don't all implode in some sort of existential time bomb."

"He's getting home," Rodney said tightly.

"I want to believe that as much as you do--" he started, but of course Rodney had to press it, had to scoff.

It was nothing, really: a small exhalation of breath, one that could almost have been attributed to one of the engineers passing by (they were still in a public hallway, Jesus) and accidentally jostling Rodney with an elbow. But John just--he just--

John wasn't the type to explode. When he got pushed over the edge, he didn't shout or rage; he could channel his anger very effectively, kill with the press of a button, the flick of a switch. Now he got very, very quiet. "Maybe it wouldn't be so bad," he said, voice low, steady, almost soothing, an echo of something else, "if he stayed." He smiled: thin lips, teeth. "Would make for a pleasant change."

"Or the story of my life," Rodney snapped and started walking again.

That was almost like getting slapped in the face. It also didn't help the violent, heady emotion boiling just under the surface. He hurried to catch up. "Jesus, Rodney, did you ever think it wasn't all about you?"

"From where I'm standing," Rodney said, not even looking at him, "it certainly feels like it's a lot about me."

He couldn't-- Everything he was feeling...he was in no state to pick it apart. To separate one thread from another--not when they were so tightly entwined. But he knew how to maneuver; he knew that. So he changed tacks, grabbed Rodney's arm and pulled him out onto a balcony. Yes. Perfect.

Rodney immediately snapped his arm away, but John had him, had him where he needed him. "You're right," he said--enough to make Rodney stay, he thought. And it was. "It is about you. But you've also had it all wrong. From the start, you've-- You think this takes away from you, detracts. It doesn't. It, if anything, it complements."

"Complements," Rodney said, flat, sarcastic. And yet, underneath--

"Yes," John said forcefully, and prayed that Rodney wouldn't make him have to say more.

But Rodney was just looking at him, studying him, and maybe that was what it was, these silences; they were not something that he was used to, not something they had ever done. It was...unnerving.

"Rodney, you know--" he tried, and thank God, thank God, that's when Rodney got uncomfortable, too.

"You think he would teach me?" he said suddenly. "How to play poker. How to bluff."

The idea of Rodney ever being able to employ any sort of stealth was patently ridiculous, but if anyone could teach him, it would be David. "Sure," John said, hiding his relief in the exhale. "Maybe we can even pull a double fake-out on Cadman and the rest."

Rodney's eyes lit up at that. John had seen the expression many times on David's face, but he'd still missed it. Missed seeing it like this.

Leaning against the rail, shaking his head, "I wish I could have seen her face..." Rodney said.

It seemed possible, in that moment. So many things did.

"Maybe you will," John said.

******

"How long has it been?" David asked.

"Since you received injection? One hour twenty-three minutes. Since you last asked? Two minutes twelve seconds." Radek gave him a long-suffering look. "Rodney was not this bad."

"Sorry, sorry," David said, too itchy to be insulted. God, it was like he could feel it, feel his DNA mutating, right beneath his skin.

Okay, put like that, it sounded severely disturbing.

Yet David was anything but disturbed. Prior to getting the injection, he was, yes--was extremely nervous, convinced that this was a terrible idea. That needle going into his arm, leaving what it would behind...it had implications he really didn't want to think about. Signified things. Signified an acceptance.

But apart from that, completely apart, it had just been weird, sitting there on the exam table with his sleeve rolled up and Carson prepping the needle. It hadn't been that long ago that he had filmed this very scene; hell, he could still remember his damn lines. They ran through his head as Carson did his own--scarily word-for-word--run-down of how the procedure worked. "Are you sure about this?" he had finished off by asking, and David had tried to grin. "You bet. Voodoo away."

Up until the moment the needle sank in, David had been hoping that it wouldn't work--had been counting on it, in fact. But then, then Carson pressed down on the plunger and he thought, Already gone this far. Crossed this line. Might as well get something out of it.

So he let himself want it. The whole city, under his hands, lighting up like magic.

There were different rules here. It was all right to want that.

David fidgeted on his stool, wishing he could somehow help Radek with...whatever it was he was doing. The words, How long now? rose to his lips, but he bit them back. Radek got enough grief as it was.

As if to confirm this, Radek pushed his laptop away with a frustrated little shove, cursing in muted Czech. "What is it?" David asked.

Radek paused before answering, and that's what gave him away, what made David understand how serious it was, despite his reassuring words. "Ah, it is nothing." Another pause. "Only...sending you home, it is proving more difficult than we thought."

A dull weight settled in David's stomach. Nevertheless, "I thought you'd thought it was going to be impossible?" he tried to joke. "Usually, that just means there'll have to be an extra act break in there somewhere."

Radek's smile was pale and unconvincing--amateurish. "That must be it," he said, glancing away, at his watch. "One hour twenty-nine minutes!" he announced.

"Great," said David, "three and a half hours to go."

Apparently, he had plenty of time.

He was contemplating whether or not going to find John would be considered too stalkerish when the man himself strode into the lab, closely followed by Rodney. David blinked. There was something different, something...easier about them, between them. Barely anything; nothing if you didn't know what to look for. But he did.

It made him feel...he didn't know how it made him feel.

So, back to something he knew: impatience. "Radek! The time, please."

And though Radek rolled his eyes, he also smiled as he said, "One hour thirty-six minutes and counting!"

"So you went through with it," Rodney said, sounding...surprisingly neutral, for him. "Well, we'll see how alike our DNA is, after all."

David put on a worried face. "You don't think a deadly citrus allergy could be a side effect, do you?"

"I'm sure that would be very sad for you," Rodney smirked.

"Tragic," David said, and since Rodney didn't seem to be either a) yelling at him, b) asking uncomfortably personal questions, or c) walking as fast as he could in the other direction while still maintaining some small semblance of dignity, David felt comfortable enough to ask, "So, when you got the gene, did you...feel anything right before it started to work? How did you know? I mean, you were playing with the personal shield--did it just suddenly light up?"

Rodney's eyebrows drew together. "What, you're telling me that they didn't film the part where you experience twenty minutes of excruciating pain before it kicks in?"

David's eyes went wide. Not that he believed Rodney for a single second, but he figured such a nice effort deserved something.

Rodney was giving John a smug look--smug, tinged with real pride. John was gazing back, a small, indulgent smile on his face. David looked back and forth between them, then met John's eye; John didn't wink, but it was a near thing. "C'mon," he said, "we've got a favor to ask you."

"I'm intrigued and eager to be distracted," David said honestly. He nodded to Radek as they left the room. "Thanks for putting up with me!"

"Was not unlike babysitting," Radek said, but with an undertone that implied he enjoyed the task--a total fib, David knew, at least if real kids were involved. David was sensing a bit of a pattern here--who knew Atlantis was such a web of lies?

"So what's up?" he asked, following John and Rodney down the hall. "Need me to stand in front of another of Dr. Evil's toys?"

"Not exactly," John said with a smirk.

Rodney just sighed, absently rubbing his stomach. "Let's discuss this over lunch, shall we?"

If he'd thought it was weird (and a little bit cool) walking around Atlantis with just John at his side, garnering strange looks, walking into the mess with both John and Rodney was just awesome.

There was coughing and spitting and double takes. All without green screen scheduling and double duty days for David. Lunch also looked suspiciously good; David was starting to fear for his tastebuds.

John smiled at Rodney and David in strange alternating patterns, like each non-hostile set of sentences exchanged was a personal victory. David, while he'd calmed down from earlier, was still feeling oddly shaky in regards to John, and was glad he had chosen a seat across from and not next to him.

Rodney, on the other hand, looked perfectly at ease next to John; watching them, it was like a missing scene from the show, one of the ones that had always played in his head, if not on screen. Friendly bickering and picking at the food on each other's plates; David felt honored when, his decision to skip the citrus this time noted, his own tray was included in the apparent free-for-all. It was sort of like the weirdest family luncheon ever. And there was, he saw, something almost brotherly about John and Rodney's interactions.

Except also: so, so not.

He swallowed. "So," he said. "What was this mysterious favor you were going to ask me? Need a third for, um." His mind went alarmingly blank. "Tennis?"

"Tennis?" said Rodney.

David thought his little speech about how three-person tennis was very big where he came from was really quite convincing.

John must have thought so, too, because he leaned forward--and oh, David recognized that lean--and said, "Rodney wants you to teach him how to bluff."

David burst out laughing.

Rodney's face fell so quickly that David felt the laughter fade without needing to try and curtail it. "Sorry, but remember, I know you, so..." he trailed off apologetically.

John nodded, elbowing Rodney. "He's right, you know. Cheer up."

It only took a few rational seconds of thought before David figured out the layers of the new conspiracy and a delighted laugh bubbled up inside him. "You dislike Cadman that much?"

In perfect synchronization, their heads swiveled to look at him, eyes blinking wide. "You have to ask?"

David gave it a good comedic beat and then laughed again. "No," he smiled, "I guess not. Sure," David agreed. "Why not? If anyone can teach you, it's me."

Rodney smiled warmly, but it was the knee bumping into David's under the table that twisted his stomach into strange knots.

Something had to give.

Rodney coughed and David looked up just in time to see John's elbow once more withdrawing from his side. "Yes, well," Rodney said. "I also happen to be far from lacking in that avocation. Teaching," he clarified, which landed David the truly disturbing mental image of Rodney at the front of a lecture theater. "Perhaps there would be some discipline in which I could provide instruction? In exchange."

David felt a little frisson of worry--something about Rodney's manner was off. He tried to tell himself that it was only Rodney's reluctance showing through; it was pretty clear that John had put him up to this. David might as well let him off the hook.

"Thanks, but John's already offered to let me have a shot at piloting one of the jumpers. If this," he rubbed at his arm, "kicks in, that is. Speaking of--"

"One hour fifty-six minutes," John told him--and was David getting paranoid, or did his smile seem somewhat forced now, too?

"Yes, but," Rodney pressed. "I'm sure there must be something else you're interested in. You and Radek were jabbering on the other day about the Ancient OS. Maybe--"

If he had been more in the mood to make bad Star Wars references, David could have firmly stated that he had a bad feeling about this. Several, in fact. First, there was the growing conviction that he had his work cut out for him: Rodney was, quite possibly, the worst liar in two galaxies. And second, whatever Rodney was keeping from him was...well, it was serious.

And David had another feeling: that he knew exactly, exactly what it was.

He debated for about five seconds and then shrugged and decided fuck it. "You've already planned out my curriculum haven't you?"

Rodney's eyes widened and he shook his head rapidly in a negative manner...for about another five seconds before he deflated.

"Wow," David said, a little shell shocked. "You really do need to learn how to lie. Or learn how to tell the right truths at least."

John frowned, attention firmly focused on David, eyes blinking in concern. "You're doing that pale thing again."

That was enough to at least shake him out of the worst of it, because John apparently had no problems with getting in his personal space and David just didn't have that in him at the moment.

"Sorry," he said, not exactly numb, but--resigned? "I think it may be a side effect of someone telling me--or not telling me, actually, that--" He turned back to Rodney, frustrated, just wanting to get this over with. "What, exactly, aren't you telling me?"

"We-ell," Rodney said, hedging some more. David gave up on him and returned to John.

John, who said flatly, "Rodney's having a bit of trouble figuring out how to send you home."

That seemed to yank Rodney out of his indecisiveness, at least. "I'm not having 'a bit' of trouble! I'm having nothing but trouble! You try to figure out how to reverse something that never should have--shouldn't have been able to happen in the first place!"

Part of David was still insisting that this was just what Rodney always said, toward the end of the third act, right before he came up with a brilliant solution. But none of this, not a single bit of it, seemed like something that could be neatly wrapped up at the hour's end. It felt ongoing, and depressingly lacking in last-minute saves, deus ex machinas, and Hail Marys. It felt like life.

He'd made Rodney say it last time; this time he'd do it himself.

He looked up, met both silent and serious gazes, held onto John's. "So," he said, "you're saying I'm stuck here."

John did an eyebrow thing that was, Jesus, endearing; this universe was rotting his brain, seriously. And also, really sort of making him doubt his own sanity. There was a real possibility he'd yet get semi-stuck in Rodney Headspace. That was actually pretty scary itself. Then, of course, there were the mid-season cliffhangers and the end of season contractual bargaining chips that got written in (he was pretty sure the writers were totally on the payroll for that one; the more people who got held in the balance, the bigger the bonus) and he wasn't even on the marquee here and--

"Hey," John leaned in, doing that soft-talking thing that was really, really disconcerting and bad for David's heart, "pale again."

David blinked, eyes focusing on Rodney, finding only a blank but sympathetic look and then to John who was-- Yeah, he closed his eyes. "Sorry, reality, fantasy, lack of line in between, etc." He took a deep breath. "I...am sort of back to liking the theory that I'm actually in a coma?"

"You can't fly a jumper in a coma," John pointed out.

"How do you know?" David said. "I happen to have a very active fantasy life." And then he blushed, damn it.

"I'm sure," John said. "But--you know, don't you, that this doesn't mean we're giving up?" He looked like he was about to do something like squeeze David's hand, then pulled back, stopped. "We're not," he repeated, squeezing his water glass instead. "We won't."

That meant both a lot and very little, coming from John Sheppard. John Sheppard, who was real and breathing; who was sitting here in front of him, eating tater tots; who had never given up on anyone or anything, ever, in his life. David wished he could find some way of letting John know that. But a toe touch, a knee tap--it all seemed so inadequate.

Rodney, as usual, was much easier to deal with; his unconvincing, "Right. We'll never give up," much easier to greet with a grin and a "Never give up! Never surrender!"

As Rodney spluttered, "Galaxy Quest? You're comparing us to Galaxy Quest now?" David looked at the genuine smile on John's face and thought that that would have to be enough, for now.

Poker seemed like a good way to waste time, so they headed for John's room and David tried not to think too hard about--well, anything. Only there was this moment when he stepped in, and he saw the bed, made but a little rumpled; where two hot pinpricks focused on him and he could see it all over Rodney's face.

You slept there. I hate you.

But it was gone and possibly not even meant as he'd read it. Only it kept coming back to that, even as they settled down and David started cataloging Rodney's many...many, many, many tells.

He said, "The eyes are the window to the soul, and in this case, that is not a good thing."

He said, "You touch your chin every time you think about bluffing. People? Are kinda going to notice that."

He said, "Seriously? Could you please stop licking your lips when you get dealt a good card?" Because John seemed inordinately interested in that.

Rodney was far from a gracious pupil. He protested simple suggestions and argued pedantic points and basically questioned everything David said or did. It was annoying as hell. It was also, David gradually came to realize, Rodney's way of taking the lesson apart in his head, breaking it down and putting it back together in a way that made sense to him. And so slowly, slowly, so so slowly (and if it was torturous for David, it must be worse for Rodney, who clearly was not used to understanding coming at any pace other than lightning-quick); slowly, Rodney's eyes stopped going wide every time David placed a bet; he stopped brushing a thumb across his jaw every time he told a lie; he stopped touching tongue to lips when he became excited. And David was very, very happy for him. Or he would have been.

But suddenly, he couldn't concentrate.

John knew instantly. David knew John knew because he was right there, out of his seat and next to him, touching, checking his pulse again because God knew what he looked like.

For once, though, for once since he'd made it to this universe of pretty people with its fiction come to life and its dizzying realizations, John's touch did not make him go hot and cold all at once. No, he was already doing that all on his own.

Like a piece of him--a hand, an arm--had been asleep. Only it was his brain. Sparkling and coming to life and suddenly it was like his thumb could move and he knew it could move, but before, it just wasn't that flexible.

"The gene," Rodney whispered from his other side. "Yeah, I remember this."

And he knew he said something in response; he could hear his voice. But all he could feel-think-feel was Atlantis, Atlantis, Atlantis, and maybe that's what he said: "Oh, Atlantis, oh."

He was probably swooning, flush in John's strong arms, and it was romance-novel ridiculous, except the only connection he felt at that moment was between him and the city, and everything else was miniscule, meaningless in comparison. He could hear Rodney moving around beside him, and Rodney and John talking--"Find him something to play with!" "You find him something!"--but it was just...

Noise, sound, settling back into his ears; him, settling back into himself. David. He was David. He was here, in this room--John's room. And this city, this city was John's, too. And his. He was home.

A perfectly told lie, his body believing it better than he did, and not a tell in sight. But. But he remembered who he was, what he was, and the apparent contradiction ripped into him as ruthlessly as the city had been gentle when it slipped inside. As intensely as John had.

Something was placed in his hand; his fingers automatically curled around it and, like a long-forgotten reflex, so did his head. It was just like knowing a light switch was right there, even in the dark. Only it was intimate in ways that a dark room wasn't. Or could be.

"A natural." John's voice was in his ear, soft and happy.

Not natural at all. His brain screamed, the rational part of him insisting that no person from his universe should know this. He looked down at what he'd been handed: a life signs detector, he recognized it. Only it was different, better, weightier, everywhere weightier.

He pushed at it like a sore gum, poking away at it, flexing and stretching new muscles, breath catching every time it worked.

God, he never wanted this feeling to end.

He needed it to stop right now.

He looked down at the three dots on the screen in front of him, blinking white dots, pulsing. In his brain, he could feel them pulsing--him and John and Rodney--and then he let them go, let the device slip from his fingers, from his mind. And he looked up and John and Rodney were still there, and he was, and the city was everywhere, everywhere around them.

"So," he croaked finally, feeling their eyes on him, curiosity and concern. "This is not an experience we've properly conveyed on the show."

"You think this was--" And Rodney clearly didn't have the words to describe what this was, either, because he just said, "Well, Radek said that when it didn't take, it was like contracting the world's worst case of mono ever, and, huh, now that I think about it, that's way more than I wanted to know about Radek's sex life--"

"Shut up, Rodney," John said placidly. He held out a hand to David, who was startled but not surprised to realize that he was still sitting sprawled out on the floor like he'd been punched.

He took the hand and found himself hauled up, only to discover his legs really, really objected to the idea. Really. He found himself bodily in John's arms, heat burning into his hands and shoulders.

Jesus, metaphor too far. Surrounded and all that.

"Isn't it passing yet?" Rodney asked, frowning.

"What," David said, resisting the urge to tighten his arms into a hug. To cling like some limpet from a romance novel, "passing? Getting worse maybe." Because it wasn't going away. Just spreading, becoming unconscious under his skin.

He was still fighting, he realized, a part of him pushing back against this wave threatening to wash over him, to bowl him over. A part of him still insisting that this couldn't be, that he wasn't, shouldn't be allowed to have it. He was an actor, and this was the fiction he played. It wasn't his to take home with him.

I don't have the right, he thought wildly. No right to take this from them. And yet it had been freely offered, freely given. They wanted him with them in this; all he had to do was say yes.

Yes. But there was a cost to that acceptance; even if they didn't know it, he did. Two roads, two worlds, and he was only one traveler. He had to make a choice.

"Hey, stay with me," John said, rubbing his back, and David tightened his grip on John's arm as the room settled down around him, as he settled into it.

"I'm here," he said, breathing slowly out. The ground was once again solid beneath his feet.

"Maybe we should call Carson," Rodney said, hovering on the edges of David's vision.

David shook his head hard, and then paused, expecting the room to spin around him. It didn't, thank God for small favors. "No," he said, voice still rough. "Too many Ancient doohickeys in the infirmary."

"Come on," John prompted, pulling gently. "Let's get you to the couch, in case you want to do that sudden sitting thing again. I hear those things are better than the floor."

His legs feeling bloated, stilted even, David moved slowly and nearly stumbled into John three times before he sat down. John was still there, so very there, and David, having found a sudden awareness of everything outside his body, was having a hard time not just leaning in. Letting himself ground into John's presence.

"Can we get you anything?" John asked.

"Yes, how about some smelling salts?" suggested Rodney, but there was nothing nasty or malicious about his voice. Well, not much.

David was still gripping John's arms and what he needed-- He forced himself to draw back. Leaning back against the couch cushions: "You know," he said, "what I could really use is a drink."

Finger-snap: "Water!" said Rodney. "Good idea."

David's mouth quirked. "Not that kind of drink."

Rodney paused on his way to the bathroom. "Are you sure that's a good idea? There could be health risks. You were just injected with a mouse disease, for God's sake. Alcohol could interact...oddly."

Like the three of us do, David thought.

Case in point: the bemused look John was shooting Rodney's way. So many layers, textures, to such a simple glance.

"He's not going to be operating heavy machinery, Rodney," John said. His smile swept over both of them. "Anyway, I'm a little thirsty myself."

John was apparently a vodka man, and had been hoarding the good stuff away in the bottom of his closet. The bottle was small, but full enough to give David a nice swig and still leave plenty for later. Heat down the throat and a slow spreading of warmth through his limbs, numbing the remaining tingles and distracting his brain just enough. It was just what he was looking for.

Rodney sipped his own glass slowly, warily, and perched on a nearby chair, sharp eyes not missing when John sat next to David on the couch. Apparently the whole bluffing thing still required lots of extra thought. David took another sip, slowing down; he had a good tolerance, but that was when he wasn't buzzing off a mouse disease.

Next to him, John pressed their legs together, a teasing little bounce that conveyed 'Hey, isn't this cool?' so perfectly it was rather shocking. In fact: "Hey!" John said suddenly, bouncing back up. "I just remembered that you owe me a little concert." He picked up his guitar and held it out, suddenly shy, almost. "You up for it?"

David knocked back another gulp of Russian courage. "Sure," he said, setting the glass aside, reaching out and closing his hand around the neck of John's guitar. He strummed a few chords, then made some tuning adjustments. Glancing up, he noticed that Rodney was watching all of this with an odd expression on his face. Some complicated play of emotions--amusement and curiosity and envy, all rolled into one. David remembered some of the things he knew about Rodney. Things Rodney might not realize he knew.

Things he was almost positive John had no inkling of.

He put it out of his mind for now. Had to. John was smiling down at him, eager and expectant. Suddenly, David remembered all the ways in which he was really just an okay guitar player. Nothing special. Nothing to write home about.

But, well. That had never stopped him in the past. "This is, uh," he said, positioning his fingers, "this is a Devendra Banhart song."

So he strummed and sang and played "Little Yellow Spider." And he'd made the right choice, going with a humorous song, because he had John chuckling by the end of the third line, and even Rodney cracked a grin at the bit about the psychedelic squid.

By the end--and David always had trouble with endings, a bad tendency to trail off awkwardly when he wanted to finish on a strong chord--he was feeling pretty good about it, about everything. "It's kind of strange, the way you change," he sang, gearing up for a solid, subtle finish, "But then again we all do, too..." and then John reached forward, and squeezed his thigh.

He almost slipped and knocked John in the head with the guitar--which, frankly, he kind of deserved. Instead, his fingers simply made a jumble of the last notes, the final chords floating awkwardly into the suddenly silent room.

"Not bad," said Rodney, after a minute, draining his own glass. He waggled his fingers in David's direction. "Give it here."

"You play the guitar, Rodney?" John said, and even though he knew it wasn't meant meanly, David found he was a little insulted on Rodney's behalf.

But Rodney just snapped, "Yes." Then, sitting back down with the guitar in his lap, he added, "Believe it or not, Colonel, you don't know everything there is to know about me."

He took a moment, re-adjusting David's tuning adjustments--which had been fine, thank you; David suspected that was just for show. And yet, he found that he was nervous for Rodney, rooting for him; he wanted him to do well. He wanted John to like it.

Don't think! he thought madly in Rodney's direction. Play, don't think!

And Rodney played.

He chose something simple; that was the first thing that surprised David. A Cat Stevens song, performed simply, without flourishes. Eyelashes fluttering, not looking at either of them, he played.

And he sang.

I listen to the wind

To the wind of my soul

Where I'll end up well I think

Only God really knows

I've sat upon the setting sun

But never, never never never

I never wanted water once

No, never, never, never

I listen to my words but

They fall far below

I let my music take me where

My heart wants to go

I swam upon the devil's lake

But never, never never never

I'll never make the same mistake

No, never, never, never

He finished without fanfare, tapping the body of the guitar once, then setting it aside. David was aware that both he and John were staring. It was a modest song, that's what got to him. Even David would never have suspected Rodney of that.

"Your piano teacher was an idiot," he said suddenly. He wanted it said.

He felt John look back and forth between them, curiously, wondering at this thing they both knew but he didn't. And yet John understood about secrets. He didn't ask. But when Rodney dismissed David's comment, saying, "Ancient history. Now where's that bottle?" John got up and brought it to him.

He lingered for a moment, standing behind Rodney's chair with his hand on the backrest. "You know," he said after a minute, "David and I were going to try a duet, but you're both obviously much better than I am. You should do it."

Rodney swirled the vodka in his glass like it was actually fine brandy. "Only one problem, Colonel," he said. "There's only one guitar."

John's grin was slightly manic. "That's what you think," he said. "Be right back."

And in a slightly lilting flash, he was out the door.

David looked at Rodney. Rodney looked back.

"So," they said, and hey, they'd already figured out how to harmonize.

David pulled back; he knew Rodney was probably bursting with something to say, only Rodney hesitated, which in itself was odd. So David took a breath and went with it anyway. "You know, I'm not--"

"I'm not--"

Fuck, he was not turning into Patty Duke, complete with bad sitcom timing. David bit his lip again, making a 'go on' gesture.

"I was wondering if--"

"I'm not." So much for letting him speak, David sighed. "Seriously, there is no ulterior motive here," he raised his hands in innocence.

"I was wondering about kissing actually," Rodney blurted.

"John?" David asked, voice going up just a bit, surprised that Rodney would even get that direct about it.

"What?" Rodney went white, then red, then angry and, okay, possibly he hadn't been ready to deal with that at all. "No," he dismissed sharply, "you."

"Me?"

"Well," Rodney looked down, then holy crap, up through his lashes. Where had he learned that? "It's the ultimate answer about technique, isn't it?"

"I? What, you, no? Not even the same person," he said, and while he was sure he had had some good points in there that had just gotten lost in translation, what it really boiled down to was, "Us? Kissing? Us?"

Rodney glanced at his--once again, nearly empty--vodka glass, then set it aside, like it bored him. "I really should not have fewer hang-ups than an actor. I mean, you've probably kissed loads of people. In public! With cameras rolling! Hell, you've probably done love scenes."

David figured now was probably not the time to tell Rodney about Century Hotel. On second thought, now was not the time to think about Century Hotel.

"C'mon," Rodney said. He was standing, rolling his shoulders, flexing his fingers like he was...about to play an instrument, actually. Idiot piano teacher. And then he was sliding down onto the couch next to David, tilting his head back, leaning close. And again it was that weird feeling of looking in a mirror, only not. So not.

"You can blame it on scientific curiosity," Rodney said, in a tone that--really, why did he not get laid more? On the show? "I need to know."

David swallowed. "Well," he said, "I wouldn't want to stand in the way of scientific advancements in the field of--" his breath hitched, "science."

Rodney managed a look that was equal parts terror, 'you utter cheesy actor,' and lustful, but only vaguely lustful. He raised a hand, letting his fingers skim David's cheek--hot, but clammy, so Rodney had learned a little about bluffing after all. A slow caress past David's ear had his eyes half closing in pleasure. Jesus, they must have the same hotspots. Not one to let sleeping dogs lie, David reached, mirrored the action and Rodney, Rodney made this little moan that was-- Oh yeah did that sound familiar.

In slow, marginal increments, they leaned in and David really considered pulling back about a million times, but Rodney's fingers kept tracing new lines near his neck and the skin under his own fingers had gone warm and inviting.

God, they were both breathing heavily and they hadn't made it completely into each other's space yet. Rodney's other hand found his waist, large palm sweeping down his shirt, leaving enticing trails. Yeah, now they were almost there, head tilt and a slight nose graze and they both made the same cut off sound in the back of their throats.

David managed to keep his eyes open until the slightest brush of lips, soft, gentle and so sweet he had to squeeze his lids shut just to experience it without getting too dizzy.

***

Guitar in hand, John was thinking pretty hard about a lot of things, and trying pretty hard not to think about others. In retrospect, he probably should have been expecting something completely different, such as Rodney and David leaning close and-- "Am I interrupting something?" Not that he'd care if he was, or that he got a punch of something feral and satisfactory when they both jumped away and back into their corners of the couch.

"No!" said David.

"Of course not!" said Rodney.

"I was just demonstrating a, uh, technique--"

"A bluffing technique!"

"Yes, of course a bluffing technique, that was implied. Er." David coughed, collected himself. "A technique for psyching out one's opponents."

"Is it effective?" John asked, as dryly as he could, trying to ignore some of the effects the technique was having on him.

"Oh, very," said David.

"Very!" echoed Rodney, shrill.

John raised an eyebrow. "I think you need to give him more lessons."

This earned him two identical bug-eyed expressions. "Um," said John, perhaps empathizing with their discomfort a little too strongly, "but first maybe you could give me some lessons in guitar?"

"I thought you wanted to hear a duet?" Rodney said, taking both the out and the instrument John was offering.

John retrieved the other guitar, his own, and handed it to David. "That would be fine; I've always been an observational learner."

Looking at him, grinning, David's mouth opened, then closed again, indecisive. "What?" John asked, although he thought he knew how David felt: dancing back and forth and around the same old point, again and again and again.

David's fingers moved across the guitar's wooden curves, then lifted, flicking the question away. "Oh, nothing. I was gonna make a joke about 'hands-on learning,' but it was lame. I decided to spare you."

"Promise me you'll also spare us the usual poppish guitar duet drivel," Rodney said, half-glancing up from where he was being obsessively finicky about tuning the second guitar. "Let's not debase these fine instruments."

John paused and blinked at him in the low light, unsure as to whether or not he was kidding. Unsure about a lot of things.

"Hm," David said, appearing to mull this over. "How about 'Dueling Banjos'?"

Happily recognizing that this was definitely a joke, John snerked and flopped down in the chair. His foot nudged the vodka bottle, but he snatched it up before it could spill. He hefted it in his hand for a moment, then wiped the mouth on his sleeve and took a swig. Fleetingly, Rodney's voice mumbled inside his head, Russian courage, a half remembered conversation they'd once had.

He didn't need bravery, though. What he needed, as always, was self-restraint.

David's fingers started slowly, plucking at notes, and it took John until Rodney's quiet moan to realize that David had actually started "Dueling Banjos."

Of course, not to be outdone, Rodney jumped in only a little late, small smile on his face, covered of course by an overly exaggerated frown.

The song, the duel, was oddly fitting, two instruments fighting, twining their melody lines around one another, trying to come out on top, trying to be better, stronger, more unique, only to find themselves more and more complemented the further they went.

John took another long sip of vodka, letting the alcohol distract his eyes and give the room a fuzzy radiance. Rodney was, oh God, he would not use the word glowing. Coming alive maybe, his fingers moving fast and furious, strumming lightly, concentration sharpening the further into the song he got.

But there was something, synergy maybe, that kept those two perfectly together, synchronicity of movement that was--mesmerizing.

John needed something to focus on--to distract himself from what was going on in his head, from the persistent slant of his thoughts--and they offered him plenty. He stared first at their hands, the odd crook of thumbs, four of them, tapering into oddly delicate wrists. Hands moving on the strings, and John's gaze traveled back and forth, traveled upward: strong arms and broad shoulders, bracing and holding the bodies of each guitar. And then up again: pale, slightly bent arcs of neck; stubborn chins; wide, malleable lips--lips John had once seen on Rodney's face and thought were unique, were unlike any others in the world. And they still were, sort of; or at least Rodney and David had a tendency to use them differently, David smiling more easily than Rodney did, whereas Rodney's face was burned into John's mind with lips downturned, in fear or distress, making John want to reach out and make that expression go away, to block it out, fix the slant of his mouth with his own--

But they looked identical, now, each mouth lightly parted in concentration, revealing a teasing tip of tongue, and that John could easily focus on, and forget everything else.

Rodney frowned, a real frown, melting into concern, and John was about to ask, but then he heard it. Fingers stumbled over chords, the fast notes slowing, and David's face was pale and sweating.

"What?" John asked quickly.

Rodney's notes slowed and changed to absent strumming, low and quiet and almost soothing. Rodney didn't even look aware of it as David's notes dropped out completely.

"I was just thinking--" David's voice was rough, "that I could use a slightly different quality of light and there it was." He made a random gesture towards the ceiling, "And then--well, I have a best friend, you know? I like to tell him when cool things happen-- I have lots of friends and a girlfriend who--" He stopped abruptly. "You get the idea."

"You'll tell them," John said, because that was what you said. That was what you had to say.

"No, no I won't." David's voice was surprisingly forceful, his hand coming down against the guitar's body with a hollow smack. Rodney stopped playing. "Because, see, in my world, where I come from, this doesn't exist."

"You think they won't believe you?" John didn't doubt for a second that David could make someone believe--anything, anything that came from his mouth.

"No, listen, you're not hearing me," David said, and it was that same fearful, distressed tone that he had heard from Rodney's lips, that he had seen on Rodney's face, that made John want to reach out and-- "This, this--it's in my blood. I let it into my veins. And it can't be there. Not--it can't be there there. So can I... Have I...?"

Locked yourself out of your universe, John thought, picturing it: imagining David closing a vast, heavy door, throwing away the key. Making that choice. The definitive movement.

"Nothing's irreparable," he said, even so; and was rewarded with the sound of both David and Rodney snorting in unison.

"Said like the hero of the piece," David said, something sad weaving through his voice.

"I'm not the hero."

"Please," Rodney said, "even I recognize you as such."

"But you're more than that," David said quietly, fingers joining Rodney's in absent strumming. "You're so much more than what we show, I think maybe Joe is the only one who knows by how much."

John looked away, uncomfortable. Heroes were people who got sucked into alternate universes that their brains told them didn't exist and then managed to only have minor breakdowns as slowly every path to return was shut away from them. "I'm just a guy."

David, for some reason, lost it completely. Laughing hard enough he had to put the guitar down and clench his stomach.

"What?" John said, exchanging a look with Rodney--who, if he knew anything, was for once not telling.

"Nothing," David said, glancing up. Tears were streaming down his face. "Just...life imitating art imitating life imitating art..." He let out another choked laugh. "I don't even know where I am anymore."

"You're here," said Rodney, who didn't like to waste words on the obvious. Who wasn't.

"Yes," said John. "You're here."

He wanted to say: we're happy to have you. He wanted to say: we will make you feel welcome, useful, whatever you need. He wanted to say: I will keep you safe, but he knew better than to promise that to anyone.

"They wouldn't, you know," David said suddenly. His cheeks were still damp. "Believe me, if I told them this. If I could tell them this."

"Well, we believed your ridiculous story about 'acting,'" Rodney said, grinning out the side of his mouth. "About your universe without physics." He waved his hand, as if his point were made, as if it were clear.

It was, to John. "You want to tell us? About them, about any of it?" He thought he could listen without interrogating now, take David's words just because they were David's. Stop second-guessing. "We'll listen."

But David shook his head. "No, that's all right," he said. "I. I want--"

Whatever it was, he didn't say it, just picked up the guitar again, put it back in his lap, resumed strumming. "Harmony," he said, and after a moment's hesitance, Rodney joined in.

They both looked up, like they were waiting for John.

John swallowed hard, staring at both of them staring back at him. One set of eyes, pupils blown and whites rimmed with red. The other, more closed, oddly less telling, but still managing to look vulnerable and exposed.

Rodney quickly averted his eyes, looking down, studying his fingers and pressing his lips together. David stared. Slow, dragging blinks that made John's breath catch in his throat and his head spin just enough to make him reach for his glass and finish off its contents.

Without thought, he stood, moved closer, moved to David who looked shaken and out of place, as if he expected to be thrown out at a moment's turn, shoulders slumped, eyes hollow and dark. On some level, John knew, understood the need to take all of the weird and strange shit, all of the unexplained and the funny feeling in his stomach and just-- He knelt in front of them. Rodney still looking resolutely away, David following him with his eyes until his fingers slipped and he grimaced, taking the pick and holding it between his lips, only then turning his attention fully to the instrument in his hands.

Tuning and poking it with his entire focus. Like it was the answer to everything.

The answer. The choice. The definitive movement, John thought. He was the lead, David had told him, and so he needed to lead in this. The choice was his, the movement his to make. Forward or back. His choice. His.

They were both good choices, really. He could see the benefits and drawbacks of each, at least as far as the next curve. And he wanted equally the safety of one and the excitement of the other. Wanted all of those things, together.

But he was just one man. Just a guy, he had said. Only one. And he couldn't have both.

Nobody got to have both.

David hadn't. And David had made his choice, hadn't he? David had chosen this, chosen them, and all John had to do was...choose them back. Both of them, he thought with a half-smile. There was one thing, one very special thing, that he very well might get to have both of.

And he shouldn't, couldn't, didn't deserve...but those were just excuses, things he had to learn to put away. To take a step, and mean it.

Rodney sat in front of him, and David at his side, pick in mouth, strumming determinedly, secure if not content in the choice he had made. And now it was John's turn to choose, to decide, and so suddenly, determinedly, he leaned forward. Hands gripping the sides of the couch, balancing, centering him, as gently he plucked the pick from between David's lips with his own.

David released his hold with a shocked little sigh; John could feel the guitar, pressed between their stomachs, and was relieved to feel David push it aside, the last barrier. John drew back, slightly, his own lips parting, and the pick tumbled to the floor.

They stared at each other, the last inkling of an excuse gone, and then John was sliding into David lap, straddling his legs, kissing him, kissing him.

David's mouth warm and sweet, the lingering taste of vodka and so much heat, burning into him, the hand moving up to clutch the back of his neck, caress the points of his spine. Such a relief; such a relief; and he could have melted there...except he couldn't shake his awareness of Rodney, beside them: wide eyes narrowing, getting up, leaving.

He drew back, turning to the side and finding purchase on the couch as David, closer, reached out. A hand on Rodney's wrist and John said, "Stay"--they both said, "Stay"--and David jerked Rodney down and forward, his hand sliding up, gripping Rodney's neck as he had gripped John's. A moment's reflection of blue on blue, and then David's lips were pressed against Rodney's, his tongue sweeping out and opening Rodney up, and Rodney's shoulders tensed for a long moment before he dipped forward, relaxed into the long slow draw of mouth against mouth. Identical, and John felt full to bursting.

They parted and Rodney backed up a step, sinking down onto the bed, across from them. His eyes were hooded, his lips swollen and glossy. He was watching them, watching as David turned back in toward John, and John reached out, tugging, pulling David on top of him, eagerly accepting the long stretch of his body.

The couch was too short for them to fully stretch out. John's back remained propped against the side, sloped at a sixty degree angle. But it was okay; his spine felt like liquid, his body rippling into David's, their mouths the only solid spot, the only place that was truly real. Their chins scraped and their elbows bumped, and John's hands moved, restless, across the span of David's back, but everything was rooted in lips and teeth and tongue, in tasting him and knowing he was real and here.

His cock was pressed, warm and oddly patient, against David's belly; it was David's hand that first swept down, freed them both from the confines of their trousers. John's eyes flickered to Rodney; his eyes looked glassy, though his gaze was steady--staring at them, staring. He was hard--John could see it, curving jut against the press of fabric--but he wasn't touching himself. He was just...watching.

They had lots to show him. Lots to show him, though without finesse: body moving against body, desperate, needy. John could feel David's cock rubbing up against his own and he wanted to see, but he didn't want to tear his mouth away from David's mouth, tear his hands away from where they had slid, fitting perfectly against the curve of David ass. David shuddered and bucked as John trembled beneath him, and it was over far too quickly, physical release spilled across both their chests, so they just kept kissing, slow and wet, riding, drawing it out.

Eventually David paused with his head against John's shoulder, then he turned, drawing John's face with him, and they looked toward the bed. Rodney looked--far too alone; they needed to take care of him, to be with him, and so they got up, awkward and messy, and went. David sat down on Rodney's right, put his hand on Rodney's far shoulder, rubbed across the clavicle until Rodney turned, and then David kissed him again, not deeply but with real affection. Gentle, it was so gentle, and John didn't think--he couldn't--

But he sat down at Rodney's side and Rodney turned to him without coaxing. There was a pause, a moment when they both stared at each other without saying anything; they had run out of words. But this, this they had just begun, and John pulled Rodney toward him or maybe Rodney reeled him in and their lips did meet. They kissed. Slow and deep, yes, very deep; then faster and ever more desperate, because they were finally, finally...

John stripped off his shirt, almost surprised to find he was still wearing it. David had already taken his off and was moving forward, as John was, to help remove Rodney's. Rodney slapped at both their hands, then pulled the fabric over his head, ruffling his hair. He stripped his pants off, too--quick and efficient, giving them both a look like he wished they would get with the program already.

They lay back naked on the bed, all three--Rodney in the middle, Rodney the only one who was still hard. His cock pressed, red and insistent, against John's hip; John took a moment to admire it, as he had not gotten a chance to do with David's. Thick and broad and blunt, it was--just like Rodney. It fit perfectly into the palm of John's hand.

Stretched out, all three of them on their sides, John's knee bumping David's through the slight spread and lift of Rodney's legs. David had draped himself across Rodney's back and was rubbing his hands across his shoulders, over his arms, down his sides: slow calming circles with the occasional press of lips against collarbone or throat. John himself was pressed against Rodney's chest and stomach, his hand moving between them, stroking, jerking, making Rodney lick his lips and bite back a moan. But John wanted to hear it, feel it; he leaned again into Rodney's mouth and kissed him, tasted each exhalation and pant, sucked Rodney's tongue as he pumped the thick sturdy cock and felt Rodney cry out as he came, vibrations rippling into the back of his own throat.

Someone's discarded shirt, cleaning up as best they could, and hands everywhere, reassuring touches along backs and shoulders and thighs. He saw David smile as he thought out the light; felt them both beside him, heavy and warm and real.

He woke, once, in the early part of the morning. They had shifted during the night, a tangle of pale limbs. There was a mouth buried against his shoulder, lips gently caressing, eyelashes fluttering, soft. He lifted his hand, a slow heavy weight, and found the short hair, the warm press of a familiar skull.

The mouth moved up until it was against his own, kissing him: a lazy, early-morning kiss, soft and sweet. He smiled into it, eyes fluttering, catching flashes of the curve of his neck, the soft shell of his ear, and an answering gaze of content, quiescent blue.

"Mmm," he said, sighed, so happy. "Rodney..."

The mouth on his froze. The face drew back. John blinked up into David's eyes and knew he had made a mistake, a mistake made worse by the fact that it wasn't a mistake at all.

He waited anxiously for the look of hurt he knew he deserved to see, but David was a good actor, and John knew a thing or two about that. Without a word, David bent down and kissed him again, an utterly different kind of kiss. Then he rolled from the bed and walked with shoulders straight and steady through the open bathroom door.

John lay back against the pillow, staring up at the ceiling as he heard the shower switch on. Beside him Rodney slept on, like he had always been there, like he had already left.

******

Fucked. Well and truly fucked, that's what he was. Images from the night before washed through his mind, like scenes from a silent film, warring with the scene that had played out this morning, just before he had left John's bed.

John and Rodney's bed. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

He stuck his head back under the spray and closed his eyes. Closed his eyes and let the images flicker, flicker, flicker by. He...he didn't really regret it, that was the thing. It had been good, it had been so good--like nothing he had ever expected or dreamed. Of course not. So good, and he didn't want to forget it or let it go; what he wanted was to cling. But in the pale light of morning he was reminded of what last night he had allowed himself to forget: this wasn't his world. Even with Atlantis running in his veins; even with John in him, his taste still vivid in his mouth; even with all of that, he was still the intruder here. The one who didn't belong.

Even in his head, he could feel it, Atlantis sliding in smooth and soft, letting him use brain cells he'd thought already over-stretched. It was like the biggest acting gig of his career and the most diametrically opposed character he'd ever had the pleasure to read for, all rolled into one. But that wasn't him. He couldn't be him in this place and the longer he stuck around the easier it was to forget, to look at John and Rodney and the walls surrounding him, to listen to the good things whispered in his ear.

Rodney. And John's voice, never saying his name the way he wanted to hear it.

He'd done this. To himself and to them. He'd done it as sure as it'd been written into a script. His motivations, his acting and choices, his body language and focus. God, what did that say about himself? About Joe of all people.

He thought hard about it, envisioning his friend, rumpled in pale clothing, a visual opposite of his character. All he felt was the warm glow of good coworkers, easy acting. John on the other hand made his heart beat and his skin tingle just by walking into a room. He made David curious about how such a character could be real, made David concentrate on every little detail, the urge to understand him so complete that--

Whoa.

That was so very wrong, figuring out that your obsession with someone stemmed from the fact you wanted to 'play them' on TV.

Where the hell had that come from? There was admiration and then there was--wanting to put lines into someone's mouth.

Wanting, wanting to give John the words: his name on John's lips, his name and so much more. He wanted to give John the gift of no more bullshit, of storylines that were real and true and worthy of him, the man and the hero both. He wanted to feel John come alive under his hands, in them, because apparently, since he couldn't play himself here, he was willing to settle for playing God.

And yet, at the same time, he wanted to have John take his hand and show him how. How he did it, every day. How he lived, real and unscripted.

David wanted that, but what he had was a bluff at best, worthless cards in his hands as he grinned and fed the pot. He wasn't God. And he wasn't any kind of hero, either. Rodney, even Rodney, had that in him, but David was no genius, and if his inaugural crisis was anything to go by, he wasn't particularly brave, either. What sort of life was there to be for him here? Trailing after John like an eager puppy. Disappointing people who saw him turn and smile and realized he wasn't Rodney. Taking up space in John and Rodney's bed. In their lives.

But still he wanted this. Wanted John and to know him, and to be like him, and to help him make it better. All of it. This glorious, beautiful world that sang in his skull and that, even if he stayed in it until the day that he died, could never truly be his.

Fucked. Everywhere he turned, it was fucked. He was. He was standing in the shower in Atlantis, in John Sheppard's shower, and last night he had held him in his arms, held his dick in his hands, like he had the right, like he had the fucking right...

Braced against the slick tile, thoughts running in what he recognized to be a pointless cycle. He pounded his palms against the cold surface, frustrated by it all. What a mess, what a horrible mess, this awful tight headspace that he couldn't get out of, couldn't escape...

It had all been so simple. Four goddamn days ago, it had all been so simple. His own world and his own life, and he had liked it--it had made sense. And he had forgotten that, in the wonder and excitement of being here, of being with John. John, who had fooled him into believing in things that couldn't, shouldn't exist.

His hands hurt and his head hurt and it was too damn bright in here, the light cutting dagger-sharp into his skull. Down, he thought at it, and Atlantis, in his body, in his blood, obeyed: the lights dimmed. But it wasn't enough. Still too harsh, too otherworldly, when what he wanted was the comfort and safety of the world he knew, his own room.

Down, he thought again. No, more. More! God, hand slamming up against the shower wall in frustration, just turn it off, just STOP--

Dizzying, his stomach flipping in his chest as with a sudden lurch his perspective shifted and for one brief moment, he was blinking blearily up at his own ceiling, sprawled messily on his own couch, the flickering red lights of the television's LED...

--and then he was back--in his own body? His own mind? In John's shower, certainly, the water beating down on his neck and back as he choked into the spray and tried to figure out what the hell had just happened.

Home, he thought. He'd been home and for the brief moments before he'd wanted that so badly and now... now he was grateful to be back. Back in the place he couldn't possibly be, because this was what he'd wanted ever since he was a child, staring in awe at The Doctor and his sonic screwdriver.

Science fiction becomes fact. Living in a world of fantasy and lights and gadgets and the impossible becoming more real than reality ever was.

For a brief panic-stricken moment, the lights wouldn't change on command and the fear that his reality was a dream was overwhelming. And he remembered that the Ancient gene, that Atlantis herself buzzing around inside him, so at home, so integrated and perfect, wasn't his to begin with and that he should never have had it--in the first place, at all.

No! he thought, On, on, please, on! And then he felt it, a small release, like a blood vessel bursting in his brain...only it was good, it was relief, it was brightness flooding back in like all he had to do, the only thing, was ask.

All he had to do.

With a sudden certainty, he understood that it was exactly that simple. His brain interacting with his body, summoning the city to life around him. And his brain, his brain telling his body to just...wake up.

And he had, for a minute. Hadn't he? And, oh, this was bad, so very bad that he couldn't tell which reality was realer. Or, worse, which he wanted to be.

But...this wasn't a dream. It couldn't be. Not with the water still running hot over his hair, with the walls solid under his fingertips. Not with the things he had seen, experienced, felt... The things that he would never, could never have summoned from his own subconscious. Not a John like this one was. Not what they had done.

Or would he? And there he was, going in circles again. So maybe it would be simpler. That brief moment, opening his eyes on a world without these questions in it. Couch and clock and ceiling. He could handle that. And all he had to do was--

No.

Not yet.

He wasn't--ready? willing?--to give this up yet. Not without, at least not without...

Real or unreal, he owed him that, at least.

By the time David got out of the shower, his fingers and toes looked pink and prune-like. They went well with some of the already purpling spots on his skin. Mouth sized bruises that would make it harder to forget--or easier to remember--for a few days. He couldn't decide which was worse.

John and Rodney were on the bed, heads bowed, talking in tight whispers when David had gathered his wits enough to exit the bathroom. They sprung apart quickly, both sets of eyes turning on him with laser-like precision and David felt a full body flush and the remaining tingle of a really good orgasm in the tips of his toes.

"David--" John started, standing slowly. Boxers returned to his hips, hanging low and dangerously attractive and real. So real it was hard not to be fascinated by the worn cloth, by the sharp peaks of John's hipbones, poking out from above the waistband. So hard not to stare. Or to think: what convincing detail.

"Colonel," David nodded, trying, with as much dignity as he could muster, to gather the remnants of his clothing. He could feel the flinch as he turned his back.

"David." John's voice floated closer. "Come on. Stop."

"Oh for God's sake," Rodney snapped, coming into his field of vision, familiar knobby knees and all. At least he was wearing underwear; there was a God. "We're identical twins and he's been known to drop a few brain cells when fully awake and caffeinated--"

"Hey!"

Rodney ignored John, but his face softened just a bit. "Why are we doing this when there could be more sex?"

"Uh," said David, dropping the shirt he'd been about to pull over his head. Because--damn his vivid imagination!--he could see it, very nearly feel it: tangled limbs, the press of skin on skin, and John, John kissing him with recognition in his eyes.

But: vivid imagination was right, and as he blinked the images away, David thought he could almost see the numbers on his TV LED blinking--clicking along, just out of sight.

"I don't have to be here," he said, and he could feel John's eyes, a burning weight on his back. "I mean, I think I've figured out a way to go--" at the last second, altering his choice of words, "back."

"What?" said Rodney, in a tone David could frighteningly read as Okay, no more sex for you!

David slipped his shirt over his head, needing the moment to think and quite possibly the artificial barrier. "In the shower," he said, backing away from the crumpled pile of fabric on the floor that was his pants at Rodney's death glare.

"You what?" Rodney asked, taking a seat on the sofa. "Washed your hair? How novel."

"In the shower I wanted--" David swallowed; he'd wanted a lot. "--I wanted to be home," he finished flatly, instinctively curling away from John's warmth as he settled on the bed next to him.

"But you've wanted that since the moment you got here!" Rodney said, proving that David had always played that right; in spite of all that brainpower, Rodney sometimes simply forgot to think.

John, on the other hand, never stopped, mind grinding over and over the same old gears, hoping he could make them shift somewhere new. He got that, David did, but it still throbbed, dully, when John too drew back, the mattress depressing slightly under the hand that had been rising. "No, he hasn't," John said. "Not really."

"No," David admitted. "And I didn't even realize--"

"What happened?" said John, and David wondered what he was picturing. A lightning-flash of inspiration; the universe melting around him; David clicking his heels together, one two three?

He said, "I woke up."

"Woke up?" Rodney asked, and David could hear the gears start to turn, fast and grinding. "You think this is a dream?"

David barked in laughter. "You think it isn't?" He couldn't resist one long look at John, who was--so much, and until he'd come here he'd never know exactly how much.

"Is that what you think?" John asked; he looked sad and disbelieving. "Does that make it easier?"

"It doesn't make it easier or harder," David said. "I just know that I 'woke up,' I saw my ceiling and my couch and my TV and it was..."

"Home," John completed.

"Maybe," David said, fingers already itching to reach out, to skim the dark bruise on John's chest, to touch and feel and understand this world from the inside out. "I--"

Rodney scoffed suddenly, clearly past his point of endurance, unable to hold it in. "A TV show, a dream. What are you going to call us next, an undigested bit of beef? A fragment of an underdone potato?"

John's eyes flickered away from David's face, and David felt an unreasonable pang of jealousy, even though John was only chiding, "Rodney..."

"What?" Rodney demanded. "It's insulting! I'm--I'm not some figment of his imagination! Of his clearly deluded psyche!"

"I certainly hope not," David muttered, and yes, those hazel eyes swiveled back. David fought the urge to lean in, lose himself.

"It's true," he said instead. "I don't want to diminish this--"

"It's not your fucking place to!" Rodney exploded, arms waving, but David didn't flinch, not until John stood, moved to stand by him.

"He's right," John said. "We don't need validation from you."

"John--" David breathed.

John looked away. "I'm sorry," he said, and David couldn't bear to be shown nothing but his turned cheek, so he stared at John's wrists instead. Flexing nervously with restless thumbs, the right one bound in black.

"I'm not," Rodney said.

David looked up and saw them, standing together, shoulder to shoulder, handing off garments without looking at them, knowing things without thought. Dressing without pause, without tripping, which said more for their sleep than anything else. "Can't crazy things just happen?" he asked suddenly.

"No," Rodney said, without looking up from his shoes.

"I mean," David pressed, eyes sliding over John's shoulders, still turned away and slightly hunched, "can't they both be true? You people travel through wormholes and hyperspace and all sorts of other things that were categorically unthinkable twenty years ago, so why can't it be both the chicken and the egg?" He was pleading, pleading and scared and angry and he wanted these people to be real so badly his chest ached.

And John stopped suddenly, his watch held limply in his hand. "You mean like Schrödinger's cat."

David felt his heart skip excitedly in his chest, even as Rodney rolled his eyes. "It is nothing like Schrödinger's cat!"

They both waited.

"Okay, maybe it's a little like Schrödinger's cat."

David felt the air rush back into his lungs. He was still straddling worlds--maybe more so than ever--but his foothold in this one felt firm again. He wanted to wrap his arms around John and breathe him in--real, real, real; until somebody told him different: real.

He let out a breath. "Thank you."

Rodney wrinkled his nose. "Oh, yeah, you're in a real super position now." Then suddenly, he grinned. "You're a superposition. Heh. Get it?"

"No," said John. He looked at David and shrugged.

Rodney sniffed. "Well, Radek will think it's hilarious."

"Actually," said John, finally locking the watch into place, "we should probably see what Elizabeth thinks."

Rodney pondered this. "She does have a more discerning sense of humor..."

"What Elizabeth thinks of David's theory," John clarified. "Although, who knows--feel free to run that 'joke' by her, too."

David slipped his pants on and winced. "Dear God, don't tell me she's got a philosophy major somewhere in the mess of her degrees."

John smiled. A real, genuine smile that was equal parts relief and nervous tension, not that David thought anyone else would notice it. Except Rodney, who was looking more and more tense himself, until John casually brushed his fingertips past Rodney's elbow on his way to the door. "I'll let you figure that out on your own."

Jealousy, sharp and painful, bit into David's stomach, resentment flooding up and choking his usual easy amusement. They walked, an easy triangle with obtuse vertices, John leading, as always, naturally and without thought.

Rodney followed, without question, easy and automatic. David choked, snapping at the bit, wanting to write the story, or at least understand its motivations.

When they got to Elizabeth's office, it turned out that she had stepped out for a moment to grab a muffin. "Muffins," said Rodney dreamily, a sentiment David would usually agree with. But right then he was too busy being oddly satisfied by this petty inconvenience. On TV, everyone was always right where you needed them to be; there was no awkward waiting, no standing around drooling over pastry and trying not to look like you'd had sex last night with the two people waiting with you.

Right, the blushing wasn't helping with that, nor was the way John seemed to occasionally slip and start staring goofily at one or both of them. David shifted, pleased but uncomfortable, and anxious again, too. Maybe Elizabeth had decided to go for the full Atlantean breakfast instead of just the continental special. Maybe--

God, he needed to get out of his own annoying head and stop thinking so damn much. He used to be good at that, used to count it as a skill. But Rodney (or, he secretly thought, John) had rubbed off on him, and he couldn't; it was always so noisy now.

Well, if he was going to be annoying, he'd rather annoy someone else. He looked around at who was nearby and--ooh! The former stand-in formerly known as Chuck. Perfect.

Chuck actually looked a cross between entertained and little bit frightened at the sight of both of them. David sort of understood the sentiment. Briefly, though, he worried that the three of them really did scream sex, but he reasoned that if this world were more real than the one they portrayed, really fucking hot and needy threesomes weren't an everyday occurrence.

Then again, there were an awful lot of people hanging around who spent a lot of time in institutes of high education, and if the fans were anything to go by--right. Not thinking about it. He slipped away from John and Rodney, thinking he should get used to it as no matter what, it was going to be a motion he'd have to do a lot, and wandered over to not!Chuck and his panel of Ancient lights.

"So," David said, smiling easily, "this is going to sound weird, but what's your name?"

Not!Chuck raised an eyebrow and smiled. "My name is--"

The siren was worse in the control room, loud and grating and really pushing David's instinctual 'hide under a desk' feeling. It didn't help that John looked as if that was exactly what he wanted David to do, but he settled for saying "Stay back!" in a sharp, commanding voice, then slipping easily into control, and into David's hastily vacated place at The-World-Would-Never-Know's side.

"Unauthorized off-world gate activation," the technician said, which David had always thought was rather redundant, but since that was sometimes the only line Chuck would get that week, he'd never said anything. Now he didn't say anything, either, hugging the wall, breathing a little easier when not!Chuck announced, "Teyla's IDC," then ceasing to breathe entirely when he saw them spill through the gate, sirens and shouting and oh God, blood. So much blood.

John and Rodney were already racing down the stairs, John practically leaping over the railing. Not!Chuck was calling Carson, then calling Elizabeth, and everyone, all the people around him, were doing their jobs, doing what needed to be done. David stared, unable to do anything but stare. Unable to do anything. The sharp copper scent assailed his nose, much sharper than it ought to have been. Much too real.

On set, the red stuff smelled artificial and plastic-like, and when it had to make it to their mouths, sickeningly sweet. Now it was just heavy in his nose, sickening in an entirely different way.

Teyla was standing easily, red dripping down her arm; Ronon too, though there were slices of red across his side.

Lorne and some extra he recognized vaguely were on the floor, shirts glistening in the gateroom lights, wet with blood and sweat.

Through it all, everyone did their jobs; there was no panicking, at least beyond the whole 'shit, bleeding, get a doctor.' Even Rodney was relatively calm, taking over the basic monitoring functions and contributing in any way he could.

John.

John was--fucking gorgeous. In control and taking in every detail, wringing out what happened with carefully placed questions.

David was frozen silently in the background. An extra, there for flavor, adding to the essence of terror permeating the room.

When Carson finally came--and it was there, too, his usual fluttering nervousness battered away, replaced by the cool calm of a professional at work. Steady and smooth like cogs in a machine, they went about their business--but never inhuman like a machine; Atlantis was no Metropolis with its jerkily moving proles. And David saw them, all the people in the background, the set dressing, the scenery; he felt them moving around him, alive and vivid although no one had given them names. They all had their roles, had their own dramas, their places here. Names he didn't know, written down on the manifest. They belonged.

Having gotten them stabilized, Carson was wheeling Lorne and the--and his teammate away, and so David let his eyes return to their central focus. He watched as John explained the situation to Elizabeth, who had a smattering of muffin crumbs on the front of her shirt. They exchanged nods, and then John, rotating on his heel, turned to Rodney. They nodded to each other, too; no different. Worlds apart. The raw wideness to Rodney's gaze, and the slightly more natural hold to John's face: a tiny glimpse of weariness, of relief, of longing. All this, a fraction of a second, and then John was turning again, searching for David; finding him. But in that fraction of a second, David had already made up his mind. He knew what he had to do.

He had to open the box, and see what was inside. Find out once and for all whether he needed to plan a funeral for a cat.

***

As emergencies went, this one wasn't so bad, but still John found it disconcerting to look for Rodney, assure himself he was okay and then look for Rodney again. Which wasn't fair because he knew that person standing in the back, plastered against the wall, eyes big and astonished, wasn't Rodney. In fact, at that very moment he was less Rodney than almost any other time since they'd met.

"Hey," John said as soon as he got close enough, "let's do this thing with Elizabeth and figure out what to do next."

David nodded, eyes focusing on John, which was a unique thrill right there and oh if he moved his head there was the faint outline of teeth on skin.

"Come on," John said again, face turning away. He stopped his hand just shy of touching, leading instead with a gesture towards Elizabeth's office. Over his shoulder he could feel Rodney come up behind him, impatient but oddly silent.

Then there was another weird little moment, inside the office, when he and Rodney collapsed instinctively into the pair of chairs in front of Elizabeth's desk. John realized instantly that this left David standing, hovering awkwardly by the door, but even though he immediately got up, offered his seat, it was already...well, weird. "Wow, so chivalry's not dead," David said, though with significantly less humor than he would have exhibited just a few days ago. He didn't sit either, but dragged over a third chair from across the room, its feet scraping noisily across the floor.

Elizabeth raised an eyebrow at him once they were all settled, but she didn't say anything. Thank goodness, because John was already highly aware of the fact that he was sandwiched in between Rodney and David, both of their profiles visible in his peripheral vision. He smiled blandly at Elizabeth and tried not to picture their bodies sliding over each other, sweat and heat and so much skin; or David leaning up and kissing Rodney, the sweetest fucking thing he'd ever seen; or worse, the terrible confusion of that morning, the hurt and betrayal and--Christ--numb acceptance in David's eyes.

They were talking. It took him a second to figure out which--but only a second, a fraction of: Rodney had clearly picked up the narrative from David, was embellishing his theory with all kinds of technical jargon that made it sound less like "we really have no clue so we're going to accept all theories as equally valid for now" and more like "something really incomprehensible with lots of big words, which therefore must be absolutely correct."

It seemed to be working, however, as Elizabeth was nodding along like she understood--or just wanted Rodney to shut up. Eventually he did, and then Elizabeth's curious glance slid straight over John, and on to David.

"So, for all practical intents and purposes, where does this leave you?"

David stiffened beside him, shrugging a little. "If I wanted to, badly enough?" He shrugged again. "It might be possible to um--wake up."

They all winced at that.

Elizabeth nodded some more. "Do you want to?"

John could see it, the indecision, the tension from David's shoulders straight down his back. The urge to touch--and why was it so much easier to imagine touching David than Rodney?--and the desire to soothe floated through John with shocking intensity.

"We'd find a place," John said slowly, "if we really needed to."

"I've been thinking," David said, not looking at him, "and I'm not sure what would happen to all of you if I stayed indefinitely."

"They'd kill me off," Rodney said, voice choked and high.

"Or send you back to Earth," David nodded. "Or they'd pull a Lexx and replace me, and you'd get a makeover, probably a painful one at that."

Disturbed silence descended, until Elizabeth finally cleared her throat. "So now the question is not if, but how?"

John wanted to say no, that if David wanted this so much, he could have it, they'd find a way. But as quickly as the thought came, it went. He had recognized the selfishness in it as soon as it had surfaced.

Greedy, greedy, greedy John, wanting two when he shouldn't even have one.

And beside him, David shook his head. "Not how. When."

John's spine was stiff against the back of his chair. Rodney leaned around him. "You really--you really think you can...?"

David nodded, sickly and pale. "I know it. It's a...feeling."

"Yes, well, I'm not supposed to have those," Rodney said grumpily. "But. Thank you," he added, emphatic, and it was so wrong in John's ears, Rodney that grateful and sincere. Even with his life possibly at stake. But John knew, as Rodney knew, as David knew--as everyone in the room but Elizabeth knew--that it was more than that, went beyond that. There were other things that David was giving up, that Rodney would subsequently get to keep.

And John better not start resenting Rodney for that, because that was fucked up and unfair. But then, this whole situation was.

Elizabeth's fingers tapped lightly against the desktop. "Is there...is there anything we can do for you, before you leave? I assume that the timeframe isn't urgent quite yet." She smiled smoothly, hands open and palms up, offering. Offering David a chance to play on the playground, it seemed. "I feel like I should thank you, though for what I'm not sure."

John hated the impersonal, near-coldness of her tone. David wasn't just some...visiting diplomat. "Yes," he said, more eagerly, finally meeting David's eyes. "I still owe you a jumper lesson, don't I?"

Just like that David lit up again, sparkle coming back to his eye. "That'd be great!"

Elizabeth smiled indulgently and John had the sneaking suspicion she did that a lot behind closed doors, when she wasn't thinking about ways to beat John or Rodney about the head. She tapped a few keys on her laptop. "There's a mission that Major Lorne's team was supposed to go on, just a harvest festival, singing and dancing and foodstuff procurement..."

John smiled, possibly even beamed, but if cornered, he'd never admit to it. "Something relaxing and easy, with lots of jumper opportunities."

"I get to go off-world?" David said, his face going, impossibly, even brighter, and John's own smile wavered--unnoticeably, he knew, though he could feel an increased tightness in his chest.

"Yep," he said, "a whole other planet. With the exciting designation of..."

He looked to Elizabeth. "M4O-329."

"M4O-329," he repeated, stating every number and letter slowly, willing the planet to be beautiful.

"Oh," said David. "Really? 'Cause I was really hoping for something in the P series..."

Okay, John thought. Okay. Enjoy it while it lasts.

"No, that would be a bad choice," he said. "The Ps all smell funny."

"Huh," said Rodney, on his other side. "That's actually kind of true," which John knew meant there were pie charts and scatter graphs in his future.

That was okay, too.

"Gentlemen," Elizabeth interrupted firmly, "why don't you go get some breakfast? Take a long one. ETD is 1300 hours."

"Yes, ma'am," said John, already making calculations in his head.

"Mmm, muffins," Rodney said, once they were outside. But John and David exchanged a look.

At almost exactly the same time: "I have a better idea," they said.

Rodney seemed to pout at the declaration that the muffins could wait. "But they'll be all gone by lunch," he all but wailed as they walked out of Elizabeth's office and down the hall.

"Rodney," John warned, "if you whine about missing the muffins any more, it will make this whole thing one really bad pun and I don't know if I could handle that."

Beside him, David tripped and laughed, jogging slightly to catch up. "Dirty mind."

Yes, frankly, because now that John was actually suggesting it while sober and in the harsh light of day, it felt supremely dirty and possibly a little wrong to want what he was suggesting.

"Dirty--oh," Rodney said, finally catching up, going pale and then flushing almost delicately.

Oh God, what was he thinking, and did he have time to panic before they--

--apparently not. When had they made it back to his room?

Rodney grinned, bouncing a little on the balls of his feet. "Okay," he said, stripping his jacket off and tossing it over the back of a chair. "What do you want to do?"

John glanced at David, who also had a pale cast and a rosy flush creeping up his throat and onto his face. "We could, um," he said, and then, because it was fucking difficult to articulate so much...so much wordless want, he stepped forward and kissed Rodney, running a hand up his newly bare arm, feeling the skin rise and prickle under his touch.

Rodney's mouth opened under his, warm and hungry, and yeah, yeah, John could do this, he could let himself have this. Rodney humming against him, and then breaking away, a sad moment of parting that was almost instantly erased by another welcoming press of lips against his own: David, a little sloppier, a little messier, more desperate. No careful on-screen kiss, this was...trying to fit years of kisses into one afternoon, into one long, drawn-out breath.

They parted with a gasp; John's lips felt pleasantly full. "Okay," he said, and hey, no alcohol needed, he already felt drunk. "Now you two kiss."

He watched them eye each other. Then with two identical half-shrugs: "All right," "Okay"; and God, God--there was an image that would stay with him, that he could carry around and peer at behind closed eyelids when the world wasn't being quite so beneficent with what it chose to show him.

David made a sound, a small groan in the back of his throat that just felt like electricity under John's skin. The kiss--actually no, the three dimensional image of sex in front of him was just, yeah: Rodney's eyes half closed, his hand tight on David's hip, flexing hungrily, fingers inching up towards skin.

John reached out, fingers touching the place just above the collar of David's shirt, warm, soft skin, just perfect to rub circles into. David arched into the touch and made another inarticulate sound and broke away from the kiss, breathing hard. "God," he said raggedly.

"Yeah," John agreed.

"Oh yeah," Rodney said, eyeing them both hungrily. "Why are we still dressed again?"

It was a good question. A very good question, especially considering that they didn't have that much time--no, don't think about that. Think about Rodney, clearly deciding that his own question was rhetorical, kicking off his shoes, yanking his shirt over his head. Beside him, David seemed a lot more tentative and suddenly...yeah, John knew what he wanted, he knew exactly what he wanted. Grabbing David's hips and pulling him close, running his hands up his sides as he leaned in for another quick kiss, then pulling back as he felt David obligingly raise his arms. John's fingers skimmed across his stomach, the slight rise of his ribs, the tufts of hair under his arms, as he pulled the shirt up and over. Then he had David's back, warm and wide and smooth under his hands, and David's own hands, pausing above the waistband of John's pants, both of them pausing, just breathing into each other.

"Wow," David murmured against his neck, and John echoed him: "Yeah."

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Rodney both licking his lips and rolling his eyes. "Need some help?"

"No, we're...we're..." John said.

"I just, I've never really," said David, with a slightly uneasy laugh. "Besides last night."

"Right," John said. "Exactly."

"I mean," David circled one hand jocularly; the other never left John's hip, "I went to school with a bunch of choir boys, and things could get a little...frisky, but..."

"I only," John said, half-surprised to hear himself still talking. "I only ever really thought about it." He swallowed, staring at David's bare chest, at his broad shoulders, his flat, pert little nipples, the line of hair trailing down. And echoed behind it, Rodney's: image and afterimage. "I thought about it a lot."

"Right," said Rodney, giving a slow nod for their benefit. "Thinking good. And, while far closer to being the exception than the rule, in this case: doing better."

There were hands at his waist, two, no three hands pulling his shirt over his head, David in front, running a hand over his chest, just flat palm over hair and muscle in slow strokes. It felt good, really good and John could go with that. Seriously go with that, but then Rodney was behind him, mouthing at the skin on his neck, pressing close, heat, distinct and hard, pressing into his hip.

He shuddered, hard, as David pressed in to taste his neck. Hands, Rodney's hands, were undoing his pants, easy and efficient, and then dipping into--oh yes. Not touching yet, but skimming thumbs down the hollows of his hips, pressing lightly at muscle and bone, holding him steady.

John's own hands had found their way to David's wonderful ass, lush and full and flexing with each new move. He want-- God he wanted-- His hands found their way to the front, undoing and pushing away until there was enough space to glide right back to were they could--

"Oh God," David breathed into his ear before kissing him again. Hot and fast and eager and just a hint of desperate.

There were, mm, both of their erections; he could feel them both, pressed up against his hips, front and back, and it was the best kind of overwhelming. But it was confusing, too. He wanted...both, both of them, everywhere, and aside from continuing this odd, wonderful, lurching dance--rubbing and groping and rocking against each other--he didn't know what to do, didn't know how to touch them everywhere he wanted them to be touched, didn't know how to make them feel everything they deserved, everything he wanted them to feel.

David's teeth were skating along his collarbone, and Rodney was sucking--wet, nibbling bites--across the tender skin of his neck. Both of their mouths on him, so close to his ears, and so at first he couldn't tell which one of them said, "Mmm, so do you wanna fuck me?" And it was Schrödinger's cat all over again: it could be either of them. Either of them, bright and vivid in John's mind, raising his ass to John's eager hands, opening himself to him, letting him push, warmhottight, inside.

Either one. Both.

But someone. Soon.

Rodney, yes, it was Rodney because the hand came from behind, pulled at them both, until John's knees bumped into the bed, legs collapsing in surprise he found himself eye level with someone's--Rodney, the pants were gray and the stomach was slightly less defined--groin. Eager and needy, pushing up from under the cloth. John leaned in, breathed and nuzzled, only slightly weirded out by the entire concept.

"Oh, you know," Rodney rasped, "normally I'd say go for it but--"

His words were swallowed by David's lips and John reached, peeled the pants the rest of the way down, Rodney's cock fitting perfectly in his palm. Hot and happy. John gave an experimental pull. He'd done this, not twelve hours ago, and a whole helluva a lot more drunk at the time; he knew he could do this and not feel as uncoordinated as he did at that very moment.

"Lube," Rodney said and David made an amazing gasping sound.

John's brain already felt slippery, but he managed to choke out "Drawer--lotion," still marveling at the weight and pull of Rodney's cock, and then David was sliding in behind him, propping him up. David leaned over, a hand on John's shoulder. "Can--can I?"

"Oh, yes, good idea," Rodney said, and that eerie-weird silent communication was clearly going to come in handy, because without another word, Rodney was stripping him the rest of the way out of his pants and boxers, and David was curling around John's bare back, his hand dipping down, stroking John's dick with a slick hand, getting him ready.

John moaned as David greased his cock, his head falling back onto David's shoulder. He tried desperately to keep his eyes open. He wanted to see Rodney, slipping a hand between his own legs, working himself open; and David's thumb, scraping over the head of John's dick, making him buck; and Rodney saying, "Shh, hold him steady," twining his fingers with David's atop John's shoulder, then lifting himself up, bracing himself with strong thighs, and--and--mounting--

John felt the head of his cock press against Rodney's asshole, watched Rodney lick his lips and then slowly begin to lower himself down, down...

Hot.

Tight.

Fuck. John squeezed his eyes shut because as much as he wanted to watch, he needed to not come this very second.

"Okay?" David asked, hot breath in his ear.

John breathed. In. Out. Nodding frantically because Rodney was still moving, pressing ahead, pushing and surrounding and-- "Oh," breathless and dirty from Rodney. "John."

"Yeah," John said, eyes cracking open. "Yeah I'm good--" better, best, amazing and nearly beyond words. "You?"

"Oh you know," Rodney said, "typical morning really."

John laughed, his stomach muscles quivering between them and David chuckled warm and low in his ear. Fuck, that was hot too. It was all hot, Rodney breathing, low and careful, head bowed, sweat beading on his forehead. Hot. David pressed against him, erection hot and insistent against the small of John's back.

Rodney shifting minutely, settling in carefully. Fucking scorching.

John sucked in a breath. Let it out. Yes, this was; yes, he could--lean up and kiss Rodney, who smiled into his mouth, smiled and--oh God--squeezed. The muscles in his ass, tightening around John's cock, impossibly good on the upstroke. And Rodney, Rodney seemed to know exactly what he was doing, looking down at John through his amazingly long eyelashes. Exactly what. David squeezed his shoulder, another silent communication; no wonder Rodney looked so smug all the time.

"Touch me," Rodney said, pushing his own cock into John hand, clenching and unclenching, barely moving, yet managing to rock John's entire body. "Touch me," he said, and John did, eagerly, sloppily, fisting the shaft. He couldn't keep this up, couldn't hold on. And then David reached around with his free hand, the one that had been resting loosely against John's ribs, swept the hand lightly up across John's chest, and found a nipple.

A light touch at first, barely anything in the mountainous waves of sensation already sweeping over him: Rodney around him and in his hand, David's strong chest supporting his back, his hard cock against John's spine. But clever fingers circled and teased, pinched, and it was all those separate centers of sensation, radiating through his entire body, burning him up from the inside out.

Fire in his lungs, because he couldn't breathe, couldn't move, could only freeze and let it happen. Let them happen. Push, pull, flick, twist, gasp.

Fuck.

His hips slammed up in one final, ungodly amazing burst of sensation and then he came. Every muscle contracting and rolling and his eyes began to grey as they worked him through it.

Finally his lungs released and filled, oxygen bringing on a fresh wave of sensation and slowly his senses came back online. Rodney carefully rocking, eyes glazed and cock red and needy still in his palm. David breathing heavily behind him, rubbing lazy, distracted circles around his nipple.

Echoes of pleasure with each move, making everything down to his hair shiver. "Oh...fuck," John said. God. Like being fifteen all over again.

Except at fifteen, he could only dream of something like this. No, that was wrong; he hadn't even allowed himself that.

But now, now he had it, all around him, front and back, and he wanted--needed-- What they wanted, he needed to give it to them. Both of them.

"Rodney," he said, touching Rodney's cock, holding it in his hand, "let me--" Stroking up, and also nodding with his head. David's hand on his chest had switched to slow, comforting circles, and he held John steady as Rodney stood on wobbly legs, John's softening cock slipping out of him. John immediately reached out and grabbed him about the waist, somehow finding the energy to pull Rodney onto the bed, to twist them all sideways. David and Rodney were both lying half on top of him, their cocks pushing against his belly and against his side, hard and wanting. But they trusted him, clearly they trusted him, and they let him scoot down, let him push them both together, cock aligned with cock, there against John's chest and the palm of his hand.

Thighs against his hips and across his thighs, their bodies wrapped around each other's and over his. John touched them, stroked them, even as they thrust against each other. Both of them looking down at him, and then in another moment of perfect communication they were leaning across his body and kissing each other, wide mouth upon wide mouth, there before him like the very definition of art.

But Rodney was obviously at the end of his rope, hips shifting restlessly, desperately against any available surface, so John gave him something to rub against.

Circling his cock, John held firm, letting Rodney fuck his hand. David was still kissing him, clearly taking advantage of their strangely intimate knowledge of each others bodies. Rodney's eyes were tightly shut, obviously lost in something as David's tongue swept in and out of Rodney's mouth.

"That's it," John whispered, awe tainting his voice. "Come on Rodney."

Back arching, lips tearing away, John found himself pinned under Rodney's writhing form as he frantically pushed towards completion. David's fingers were still twined with John's, and he brought them up, touched Rodney's cheek. His chin jerked against their coupled wrists and he came, spilling across John's chest, back stiffening, then liquefying as he slid slowly down John's body. He curled against John's side and watched through sleepy eyes as John touched his fingers to the come coating his belly, rolling to face David. Watching David smile and nod, pushing up into John's hand, and then John was stroking newly slick digits over David's cock, jerking him hard and fast.

"John," David said, like a pronouncement. "Yes. John." Then he twisted his shoulder, covering John's hand with his own. And John got it, slowed into the rhythm that he wanted, the last few stokes long and drawn out, so that David's orgasm was almost gentle, wrung out of him as he shuddered to a halt at John's side, kissing his mouth, swallowing a sigh.

They lay there, still joined at calf and shoulder and wrist and thigh, at mouth and at hand and in shared sweat and semen and experience, united across the bed. They lay there, afraid to move, all of them; unwilling to break it, that perfect, lingering moment.

"Is it wrong that there are some women I wish were here right now?"

John blinked slowly, and turned his head to glare at Rodney, but the glare was only half-hearted to begin with, and the image of Rodney practically boneless, pressed tightly against his side, was oddly endearing. "Perv." He scooted up enough to not be nearly falling off the bed and settled down again.

On his other side, David chuckled into his shoulder, lips brushing against his skin carefully in a series of slow kisses. "I'm actually pretty sure there'd be women who'd pay good money for a shot of this."

"How many seasons did you say?" Rodney asked.

"Two for us, nine for SG-1," David said, curling closer to John, hooking their legs together tightly.

"Ah. The internet." Rodney sighed, still sounding sated and high, his voice a little rough and rumbly.

"Yes." David nodded, threading his and John's fingers together.

Suddenly he tensed, knuckles squeezing tight against John's. John felt his breath hitch, too, an odd spasm against his side, even as Rodney continued to ruminate on his surely large female fanbase. "What's wrong?" he whispered, and David looked up at him with eyes that were unhappy and serious, his mouth and chin weirdly deflated.

"What?" he asked again, even as--another spasm--his own brain registered the fact that this was it, the last time, almost certainly the last that they would do this, have this, each other.

"This is fucked up," David said. His eyes swept down--over their tangled bodies, yes, but settling on their locked hands. "I-- In my other life--"

His whole other life, in which John was only 2D. In which David had other people to--oh.

Oh.

There was nothing he could say that didn't seem grossly inappropriate, so he merely stretched his neck and kissed David again: raised his free hand, cupped the back of his neck, and kissed him. David sank into him with a desperate, relieved sigh, scrambling for purchase across his bare chest and finally finding his dog tags, winding his fingers through, gripping tightly. The chain bit into John's neck, but it was good, it was real and present and lasting.

When they finally broke for air, John realized that Rodney had stopped talking. He was staring at them.

"Hey--" John started, but was stopped by Rodney's kiss, intense and deep and packed full of meaning John didn't really want to examine. When Rodney released him, he reached across John's body, draping himself over John's torso and claimed David's mouth in another kiss. John could hear the muffled sounds and the wet smacking of lips that should have been obscene, but somehow weren't.

"I've got some things in the lab," Rodney said once they parted, only he was saying them to David's face and avoiding John's eyes completely. "I should get going before I forget my latest inspiring revelation and the universe is deprived of the much-needed self-inflating puddlejumper or something."

Above him, because John was still mostly a melted puddle of goo on the bed and was pretty darn impressed at Rodney's ability to move more than a few inches at a time, David kissed Rodney, his hand still tangled in John's dog tags, opening and closing at random until Rodney released him.

"I'll probably be busy all day," Rodney informed them while crawling on the floor looking for his underwear.

"But--" David started, then stopped. John didn't even vocalize that much.

"I'm sure Elizabeth won't have a problem with it," Rodney said. He had apparently given up on his boxers and was pulling his pants on over his bare ass. John knew he was staring, even while most of his mind was elsewhere, moving quickly.

"Rodney--" David tried but stopped again. "Rodney, you--"

"I'll speak with her," Rodney continued and then paused, tilting his head back to them, a smile curling up over his lips, gentle and maybe-- understanding? "Just don't crash the jumper into anything too ridiculous, all right?"

His face was obscured as his shirt came down, and when he turned back, a study in blankness, John thought: wow. David was a good teacher, after all.

Rodney paused for another moment, standing beside them, above them. He leaned forward, and at first John thought he was going to kiss him again--he even tilted toward it, rolling his shoulders, lifting his chin. But instead Rodney kissed David, one last lingering press of lips against lips. It looked almost private, too intimate, and though John couldn't even begin to think how, he would have figured out a way to look elsewhere, had Rodney not flicked open one large blue eye and stared back.

He glanced at his watch as he broke away, backed toward the door. "1300 hours," he reminded them. "Don't be late."

One thing Rodney was, was fast, frenetic even, when it was something that interested him.

Apparently, leaving was something that had interested him a lot.

"Wow," David said into the quiet. "Oddly in character."

John frowned, not at the backwards compliment, he could always get behind those, but instead at the unhappy feeling he got every time David slipped back, forgot for half a second that right now he was with real people. Still though, "Yeah, plus he'll get to play martyr later. It'll all work out."

"As long he gets laid," David murmured, already relaxing back into bed.

"You okay?" John asked, because David was tapping his fingers on John's chest, clinking the dog tags together in a vaguely rhythmic and entirely fidgety sort of way.

"In general?" David said, his fingers delicate, precise, as focused as Rodney at work. "No, not really. But now--" He let the tags drop, smoothed a hand flat against John's chest. "Yeah," he said, smiling, and John just knew he had to kiss him again. "I'm all--"

Right, rolling him over, onto his back. Breathing, gasping into his mouth, as David's fingers splayed across his spine, aligning themselves as they had moved on the strings of the guitar. "We should--" David said, chin scratching at his chin.

"We really should--"

"Soon."

"Soon."

And hands finding his ass, squeezing, quelling the notion that they would likely ever get up again, if they didn't do so now.

But...but John wanted the moment to stretch endlessly, like spun sugar, taffy pull, dragging them along into the golden afternoon. And so he compromised, as he always had, as they were all learning to do, pulling his mouth away from David's mouth, only to lean close to his ear and whisper, "Shower?"

"Yeah," David said, eyes glazing over just a bit, only neither of them moved and David just settled close again, draping and twisting them together into an almost braid of human being.

John ran a slow hand down David's side, feeling the shudder and moan slide through him following the movement.

"I'm too old for this," David said, lips tracing a path down John's collarbone, hips shifting just enough for John to feel the beginnings of an erection. "Seriously, this is like I'm twelve and I just figured out masturbation."

John chuckled, nipping at David's ear, sucking and biting gently, the happy hitch in David's breathing just egging him on. He wanted to hear all of it, to know it and swallow it down and rub it under his skin.

Rodney was--was just about more than he could handle, more than he could ever want, and possibly with great potential to be The One, gay freak-outs and illusions about relationships aside. The possibility of death, destruction and other forms of Pegasus-related spices-of-life, Rodney wasn't David and he didn't imagine that Rodney would resent this strange thing between them or talking about it all, late at night, with the lights out and their hands slicked and moving slow on each other. He'd seen the look on Rodney's face; he was just as connected and strangely drawn as John was.

And David--David who, if they stopped for long enough, got this look on his face that John just wanted to smooth away and make him forget. Mostly, John just wanted to remember. To make sure that David didn't get lost in a sea of Rodney.

He wanted moments, individual and unique; he wanted firsts, and he was making them. Pulling David up, drawing him to him and walking naked across the floor, hands never leaving hip or arm or thigh. Pausing by the bathroom door and leaning with his shoulders cold against the wall but oddly comfortable, the city passing them along on gentle hands, into the shower and the water streaming down.

It was pretty clear that they weren't in here with the goal of real washing in mind, but of that, John had never held any illusions. And he was perfectly happy to feel warm water sweeping down across his shoulders while his back skated across the cool tile and David's strong arms held him up. Perfectly happy to just keep kissing, finding new parts of David's mouth he hadn't yet tasted; revisiting old parts, already old favorites; introducing them all to each other with the twisting swirls of his tongue. And then, sucking David's tongue into his own mouth, he got a better idea, another moment they could seal off, make theirs, freeze in warmth and wetness and nothing but skin on skin.

He broke away, grinning; and grinning, he slid down to his knees, near laughter as the water beat down, massaging his neck and slicking his hair--almost, not quite--flat against his skull.

"What?" David asked and blinked. "Oh." Lips open and soft-looking, caught in surprise as John reached and nuzzled at his cock. Spraying careful kisses over the warm wet skin. "Oh," David said again, disbelief shuddering through him.

John forgot for a brief moment that he'd never done this before, but he had a brain, an imagination, and that porn binge that always happened on really dull assignments.

A kiss, careful and reverent on the head, enjoying David's small broken sounds.

"You don't have--oh." David's head made a muted thunk against the tile as John fit his mouth carefully around the tip of David's cock.

It was--feeling the weight, and the stretch and slide of his lips, and David's little involuntary jerk forward--incredible, incredible, a totally different incredible than getting blown. That was warm wet heat and losing control, abandoning it. But this was: everything he could do to David, everything he could make him feel, and the stretch of his lips as he took more in--like his whole body was stretching, as if it were moving in a direction it had always wanted to, but never could.

He gripped David's thighs, wet and slippery from the water beating down. David's fingers were moving frantically over John's crown, sliding down to caress the tops of his ears, as if he were making double triple sure that he was really there. And John was, he was, but not enough. He moved one hand, wrapping it around the base of David's cock, pumping it slowly as his mouth learned how to move and stretch, as he listened to David gasp, thigh muscles tight under the one hand John still had pressed against it, trying not to lose it completely and start thrusting into John's mouth.

And that didn't sound so bad to him, not really. The water sluicing down over his body and the bright bathroom light echoing in white-hot flashes behind his eyes, like a camera going off, freezing this moment--the slight push of David's hips--and the next--John's tongue lifting, pushing back--and the next. And all of them after.

Suction, light and gentle; John wanted gentle, careful, exquisite, generous. He wanted to give it all.

"John," David whispered, voice tight and low and rough, wonderfully rough and layered and not Rodney. "God, yes, that's..."

David's hips shuddered and twisted and made an abortive thrust that John just swallowed through and soothed down with his hand and his tongue. His free hand found its way to David's once again, fingers crossing and holding tight, and John didn't mind if his fingers went a little numb and the white spots where David's fingers squeezed stuck around for a little while.

"I can't last--" David's voice was choked, and John just squeezed back, willing him to, to let himself go, into John, yes, yes--

He came with a stuttering cry, fingers woven around John's, and in John's wet hair. His hips thrust forward a little and John bobbed his head, working his throat, swallowing. He had to let go sooner than he would have liked, but he could still feel David's cock, pressing against his cheek, pulsing. He twisted, kissed it, David's taste all around him and in him, but still thirsty, hungry for more.

David had the benefit of the wall he was leaning against; he pulled John up on shaky legs, pulled him against his body. The water ran in curtains off his shoulders and down his back as he leaned in, as they kissed. Passing the flavor back and forth, and David's hand snaking down, finding John's insistently excited dick.

David curled his hand around it, stroked, but even as he did, he was pulling back, looking John in the eye. He looked oddly serious, and John straightened up, suddenly nervous. "What?" he whispered, and it was like there were two conversations going on at once: this one, and the one below, where he was thrusting up into David's fist.

David swallowed. "I can't stop thinking about you fucking him," he said. He squeezed, not too tightly, but grip firm and intense. "How hot it was."

"Yeah?" John rasped.

David nodded. There was water beading on his eyelashes, drops like dew on the delicate strands. His thumb scraped up the underside of John's cock, teasing the head. "What was it like? What did it feel like?"

John remembered it in small slivers of time because anything bigger, more concrete, would just make him gasp and shudder want to do it again, rightnowplease. Only: "I don't think that's the sort of thing for beginners."

"Just," David whispered, hand still moving in the same firm, really fucking good strokes, "tell me."

"Hot," John stuttered out, "tight. Good. Really fucking good."

"Yeah?"

"Fuck yes," John said, one long bone melting shudder running through him, and fuck he was close.

"I'd like you to," David said, eyes closing, shuddering with him. "If we had more time--"

John's stomach lurched. "Don't," he said, "don't." And though the separation hurt, breaking away from the warm vise of David's hand, it was nothing compared to the larger one looming, the one that he turned and blotted away, turning David's body with it, pushing him hands-flat against the shower wall and grinding his cock up against his ass, over the crack, between the cheeks. David made a choked noise, pushing back against him, and John gripped his hips, rubbing against the full, firm curves of his ass, just a taste of what could, couldn't be.

He came with a sharp jerk, collapsing against David's broad back. His forehead on his shoulder, "I wish," he said. "I wish we had..."

"World enough and time?" David said, addressing the wall but finding John's fingers, threading his own through.

******

"'Hot Zone,'" David said after wracking his brain.

Zelenka looked pleased. "Yes, that makes sense. I approve."

Next to him, John nodded as well, leg pressed tightly against David's. The shower had been--damaging--to them both. They'd ended it shaky, unable to really separate. Which was probably a very bad thing. Especially when the first thing John needed--and wanted--to do was go check on Teyla, Ronon, Lorne, and Whittemore in the infirmary; feeling out-of-place, David had waited anxiously in Carson's office until John returned, reporting that all four of them were doing much better, but still looking grim. They'd left feeling in desperate need of something to settle their stomachs, so they'd braved the real world (ha) and David tried very hard to not reach for John's hand.

John was tense. Really tense and not happy about--well, David couldn't really be sure; it seemed that once he'd crossed this line, much of his previous knowledge was pretty useless. Then again, he'd never done this scene with Joe, so what did he know?

"Gentlemen," Elizabeth's voice interrupted yet another round of 'was this an episode?'

John made a show of looking at his watch. "Still have twenty minutes," he said, grinning cheekily, a smile that said he thought he could get away with murder.

He probably almost could. "I spoke to Rodney," Elizabeth said, reacting to John's grin with an eyebrow raise and nothing more. She looked uncomfortable, David thought, standing in the middle of the mess, among the masses. "John, are you sure this is wise?"

Oh, God, David couldn't help but think. They'd left wise far behind so long ago.

John shrugged, easily. "Rodney's right; he's got more important things to do than be a redundant guide on a farewell tour." John tripped a little over the word 'redundant,' clearly not liking its taste in his mouth, but Elizabeth didn't seem to notice, or else John's natural drawl covered it. "And we've been to M4O-329 loads of times before. Radek here," he nodded in Zelenka's general direction, "could go by himself, and he'd be fine."

Radek looked less than pleased at this suggestion. "What?" John said, smirking. "You'd like the Mirinians. Lots of young, pretty girls..."

Once again, David thought: if their situations were reversed, John would have no problem finding a place in David's world. He could slide so neatly into any role.

"It's just a big feast," John went on. "The anthropologists went over the entire thing with a fine tooth comb: it's food, it's music--and possibly a little wine--and we party till we drop."

Elizabeth still looked wary, but nodded and turned to David. "Please, be Rodney's twin brother; they've already met him and somehow I doubt the little stunt you pulled over poker would go over as well over there."

David flushed, ducking his head, just remembering exactly how exciting and strange the whole evening had been. "Sure. Right. David McKay. I can do that." Joe had practically called him that for an entire six months.

Elizabeth's eyes slid over him again, uncomfortably like she was sizing him up. "Perhaps you should use your remaining time," she told John, "to give David a crash course in proper field procedure?" She bit her lip, then released it and said, "I'll of course leave it to your discretion whether you think he should be issued a sidearm."

"A gun?" David didn't quite squeak, but it was not the manly voice one generally associated with those possessed of manly weapons. "Me?"

"You handled one at all?" John asked, sliding out of his seat, flashing Radek one more grin, and Elizabeth a final, reassuring nod. "A real one?" he added, but not as pointedly as he would have, a day ago, two.

David shook his head. "Not with real bullets in it."

"We don't have to do anything," John promised, going so far as to place a guiding hand on his back as they exited the mess, "that you're not comfortable with."

Too late, David thought. He'd passed uncomfortable about when he'd realized that the line between fantasy, reality and sanity was blurrier than a charcoal outline. Also, he wasn't supposed to lean into the brush of a hand like that, right? Real world, real issues; he didn't want to fuck up John's career, not that they'd ever dealt with the gay issue--aside from that episode--so David had no idea. At all. And frankly he'd be just as upset if Joe ended up without a job because of it.

The armory was pretty much as they'd dressed it, only more. There was the subliminal knowledge that all of the weapons surrounding him were real. Could cause real explosions. Real incidents--sirens and shouts and blood all over the floor--like the one in the gateroom earlier.

"Here," John said, handing him something that looked vaguely alien. "Let's skip the entire 'bullet' question. Since the usual check out times on the sidearms are at least a week."

David's instincts warred with each other. Part of him warned that these things were not toys--were, in fact, highly dangerous, especially for someone untrained, like he was. But the second, much louder, much more insistent part, couldn't get over the fact that the gun John had handed him--had trusted him with--was the coolest damn thing ever. It looked like a slightly smaller version of Ronon's gun, and it was deceptively lightweight, almost not there in his hand. Yet he didn't doubt for a second that it could blast a hole the size of his head through the wall. Or--if he wasn't careful--a hole the size of his head through his head.

"Noisy cricket," David said. "Right."

John grinned. "This is the safety," he said, sliding his hand over David's, adjusting his grip. There was nothing inappropriate about his touch--it was clearly the best, most efficient way to show him what to do. But, his recently adjusted perspective aside, David couldn't help thinking that the U.S. military had to be seriously repressed.

"And this--" John continued.

"Set to stun?" David asked.

John nodded, grinned.

"This universe is so awesome," David said, and he couldn't quite keep the wistfulness out of his voice.

"It has its moments," John said.

David blinked, looking up, turning to catch John's eye. John smirked, one lip quirking just like an eyebrow, eyes sparkling, but sad. Resigned. "Yeah. Okay." He cleared his throat nervously before there was inappropriate touching in a public place. Stick to handling the gun--and try not to laugh. "So, just point and shoot?"

"It's got a little kickback, loosen your shoulders a little," John moved him, hands squeezing then pushing, warm and gentle.

"Okay, right." David rolled his shoulders, feeling the position, sinking into the role, because that was the only time he'd ever really shot a gun.

"Pull the trigger." John's voice, solid and there and in his ear, commanding in a way that was just-- He obeyed, without question, finger squeezing carefully, feeling the energy rip through his entire body as the gun fired. He'd hit. That much was working for him but God. Was he shaking?

"Was it good for you?" John's voice again. Low and smooth, just in his ear.

David swallowed, hard. The whole organization. Definitely repressed.

"I'll take that as a yes," John said. He stepped away from David's back, pausing to pat him lightly on the shoulder. "And nice job."

"Thanks," he said. Mouth dry. "So, do I get..."

"Holster, tac vest, all that good stuff," John promised. "Come on, let's get you suited up."

David had an intense mental image--a mental video, really--of John helping him suit up: running his hands up the insides of David's thighs as he buckled on the holster, wrapping his arms around David's back as he adjusted the vest. But in the end, he did it himself, as he knew he would, should. And this he did know: how to suit up, put on a costume, get ready to take the stage.

But the butterflies he felt stepping into the jumper bay were nothing like those he used to get back in secondary school, nothing like the slight buzz on set right before the cameras rolled. He was...he was really going to do this, fly through that rippling blue surface, cross the event horizon. And it should have been huge, one giant leap for actorkind. But he looked at John, hands moving skillfully across the jumper controls, as they had moved on him, on David's own body. And it was nothing, this barrier, this line, not compared to the lines that had already been crossed.

Lines that part of him wanted to keep crossing, striding further and further until he couldn't find his way back.

"Make sure to try the quiche-like stuff."

David spun. Rodney was standing just at the entrance to the jumper bay, computer in hand, and David thought it odd that he hadn't yet seen that image. But there it was, attached as naturally as John was with a gun. Or the jumper.

"Alien food," David said smiling, "I can't help but get a little excited all around."

"Until the chocolate like substance turns out to taste like mud," Rodney said, smiling faintly.

"I thought--" David thought a lot of things and none of them really corresponded to Rodney standing there, unshaven and slightly wrinkled but still. No extra energy, no strange hand movements. Just watching and waiting and looking with a funny gleam in his eye.

"Just seeing you off, counting limbs and fingers and all that."

Mechanically, David raised his hands and wiggled the digits. "All present and accounted for," he said, but Rodney wasn't really looking at him anymore.

"Colonel," he said, nodding at John.

And John said, "Thank you, Rodney."

Another nod, a slow dipping of his head--that odd modesty, bent over the guitar (I listen to the wind)--and Rodney turned and was gone.

A breath, and then John was tapping the radio. "Control tower, this is Jumper Three, we're ready to go--"

And the floor opened up beneath them.

Well, not exactly. Really, John brought them up, made them rise, before anything as dramatic as that happened. But David was trained to the dramatic moments, and that? That was the moment that he realized it was really happening, really real.

The jumper dropped down just in time for David to see the wormhole finish engaging: a big dramatic swoosh, not on a screen, not mapped out in pixels, but glimmering, there, right in front of them. They hovered, a second or two longer than was probably necessary, John letting him look, letting him stare. David was aware that John was staring too, at him, at the expression of wonder on his own face.

Then, "Ready?" John asked.

Wordlessly, David nodded.

Slight tingling was all he registered before the screen changed and it was all lush greenery and shining sun.

"Wow," David breathed. Because beyond the fact that he'd just stepped through the stargate, metaphorically speaking, he was now on a planet that was alien. Not that the planet where Atlantis sat wasn't alien, but this was different.

"Yeah," John nodded, smiling easily and steering them...up?

"Where are we going?" David asked, eyes taking in every step as the atmosphere changed around them to-- "Oh."

"You can't travel to alien worlds and not go into outer space. That's just wrong." John said, fingers dancing across the console, and then he was standing up and making motions at David like he was supposed to do something. "Your turn," John nudged.

"Oh." David pushed away horrible--and, he knew, ridiculous--visions of the jumper falling out of the sky and scrambled awkwardly into the seat John had vacated. "Go on," John coaxed, and just as he had with the gun, just as David had imagined he would, he reached around, moving David's hands gently into position, guiding them.

The first moment of contact with the jumper controls was nothing like he had imagined, however; the instant connection, not just where he gripped with his hands, but with his whole mind, the gene, interfacing with the jumper's systems, teaching him far more than even John could, all in the space of a second.

"Wow..." he said, a little regretful, but not much, as John, satisfied, drew back. Regret was very small compared to staring up at the vastness of space, the infinite spread of stars. And him (them) in it, a tiny dot, but traveling, moving, important in their own small way. Out here, looking out at all that black, and the planet hazy and shining below them, David could believe in the multiverse more strongly than ever before, in an infinite number of realities carrying with them an infinite number of lives--including one where he stayed like this, floating, forever.

He stared: at the planet rolling under them, at the stars spinning around them, and at John, bathed in the light from them both. He stared, and it was so beautiful, he could hardly stand it.

"Like I said before," John interrupted his awe, "a natural."

Like that wasn't a scary prospect. Go to another universe, find out it might suit you more than that place you've lived and worked your entire life to be happy. "So... what should I do next?"

"Try flying in a straight line," John suggested, leaning back in his chair, looking unconcerned that David, who'd never flown anything more complicated than a kite, was now responsible for their well being.

"Sure." David nodded, shaking his head: he knew better. John was probably mind melding with the jumper when he wasn't looking.

The thought made him bold. Glancing at John out of the corner of his eye, he took the jumper into a slight roll, following the broad, generous curve of the planet. He didn't feel it in his stomach--inertial dampeners, right--but his chest seized up, heart fluttering. It was...the most incredible thing, this easy movement, the planet like a giant marble below them, and the stars above, and John could do this every day of the week if he wanted to. Every day. Everyday. In this universe, it was.

And he was...just supposed to give it up, go back to a world--his world--where NASA was a dinosaur and they were lucky if the Mars rover landed without breaking down. Where if he was lucky and he stood somewhere between latitude +90° and -65° during the month of October and looked up, he might just see Pegasus shining, tiny dots in the darkness, exactly as far away as it seemed, and a little bit farther, still.

And worse, he would have to don his uniform every day, stand in front of the cameras and fucking act. Not like it was real, no--like it hadn't been. He was going to have to pretend like he had never piloted a jumper up into the infinite stars while John Sheppard sat at his side, while John--

His hands dropped from the controls, the autopilot switching on. "I can't do this anymore," he said.

John was there, behind him, helping him up, making sure he didn't trip over his own two feet while trying to get away blindly, not even wanting to look at it anymore.

"You okay? You did that grey thing again," John asked quietly, touching lightly at his wrist.

"Not really," David breathed out and then in and--John was everywhere, scent filling up his nostrils, tingling through his body with such intensity that he actually flinched into the chair John had muscled him into.

"We can go back," John offered, face earnest and--open. Holy shit. Open and right there and emotion stark as day just like funny-shaped Braille waiting to be read.

David reached out, fingers skimming over John's cheek, thumb drawing tentative circles just under his eye and John just--made a small noise and leaned into it.

It shouldn't feel this--every time, it shouldn't still feel this intense. This necessary. He'd never felt this overpowered by...by anything, really; not by any other person, certainly not by sex. Yet this whole universe made him feel off-balance and oddly out-of-sync. Odd, because he also felt so comfortable here. In John's arms, his taste in his mouth.

"We have to stop doing this," he said. Because seriously, at this rate, they'd never get anything done.

At this rate, David would never leave.

"I know," John said, and kissed him again.

It wasn't more than a soft brush of lips but David felt it to his toes, another, quick and deft, a third, firmer, deeper.

Every moment like this was another he wanted to savor, to imprint somewhere inside him and feel guilty about later.

"Seriously," David murmured into John's skin, breathing in the space from John's jaw to his shoulder. Feeling the muscle and heat even through the layers of his vest. God were these things not meant for making out. "We shouldn't."

John chuckled, head resting on David's shoulder. "That should be my line."

"I think we're already off book," David murmured.

Off book, on another project entirely, no convenient director there to call 'cut!' Nothing but David's rapidly deteriorating sense of propriety to tell him that he was only digging himself in deeper, every second, with every movement that he made: pulling himself up, turning John around, drawing him back toward the pilot's chair and pushing him down. Firm hands on his shoulders, then along his arms, his thighs, spreading them open as David dropped down to his knees, head foggy with need. No room for thought.

John looked stunned, bug-eyed, as David spidered his fingers up his legs, across the straps of his holster--God--and to the significant bulge at his crotch. He scraped his thumb over it, scraped the middle and pointer fingers, cupped it with his whole hand. John's mouth parted soundlessly, still a little unsure about this particular piece of improvisation.

"We used to joke about this," David said, his voice sounding as far away in his ears as the past tense of used implied. The last few days like centuries. "On the set, about how, in these chairs--" He undid John's fly.

"The Marines like those jokes, too." John's voice was rough; a small movement of his hips pushed his dick instinctively into David's hand. "Some things--" his eyes fluttering closed "--really are universal."

"Pan-dimensional," David said, and kissed the head of his cock.

John hissed and made a choked-off sound in the back of his throat. David leaned in breathing, inhaling, spreading careful kisses down the shaft, his right hand holding it carefully. Left hand squeezing John's thigh tightly, afraid he was going to fly away if he wasn't anchored securely.

"God, David," John said, voice tight and thighs spreading wider as David pushed his way in, insinuated himself between them, the bulk of their field gear (ha! He'd never be able to be on this set again) only peripherally annoying.

"Let me know if I fuck up," David said before carefully fitting his mouth over the head.

"Couldn't--" John gasped, "never."

Something about his tone made David hum in satisfaction, which in turn made John gasp some more and buck up into his mouth. It was frightening, but also oddly freeing to have no idea what he was doing, to make it all up as he went along. And to have John in him, sliding in and out, his fingers scrambling at the armrests as David made a study of this new skill set, filing away what it felt like to have the tip of John's cock bump the roof of his mouth, to feel the weight of him on his palate and to taste his precome. To slowly suction his mouth off and let the tip of his tongue explore his cockhead, swirling and teasing the slit, while his hand worked the shaft and John mumbled his name like a series of involuntary exhalations, like he was committing it to memory. Like it was something he could never, would never allow himself to forget.

"David," he said, "David, I'm going to--"

"Come," David commanded, sliding his lips down again, taking in as much of John as he could and holding on as John gave out a last gasp and spilled into David's mouth, a rush that they rode out together as the sky shone and the planet spun beneath them.

David must have lost something in there somewhere, because he found himself coming back to himself, cheek resting comfortably on John's thigh, knees only protesting slightly at the floor (which was more comfortable than the one on set, he knew because he'd been thrown around on it enough), hand carding through his hair slowly.

"Hey...your turn..." John said, still breathless.

David looked up, blinked the gloss from his eyes and flushed as John carefully tucked himself back inside his pants. "I think--" A flash of trying to do his lines, of trying to be who he was and working through the day upset and angry because all he could see was John sucking him off in the copilot's chair. "No," David shook his head, backing off, feeling his own cock throb in want, "not a good idea, not here."

God there were so many people he still wanted to look in the eye one day.

And John--John just looked at him with an expression of painful sympathy and understanding on his face. Because, fuck, he was going to have to fly these things, too, in tense military situations, with a half dozen of the aforementioned Marines in the back. And David hated it that every encounter between them had to be tainted with the knowledge of the very real possibility that it could be the last. They were living on borrowed time, the minutes and seconds ticking slowly by on his television's LED, or even in a shaft of light moving slowly across the floor, just a few inches away from falling across his face, filtering through his eyelashes, pulling him into wakefulness.

Or--what if someone called or came over, or what if Jane--

He sank down in the copilot's seat, his head in his hands. I am not this person! he wanted to shout. But that was just the thing, wasn't it? The longer he stayed here, the more he became someone else. And within the confines of this universe, well, that person intrigued him. He wanted to get to know him better, to slip beneath his skin.

But it was like an endless audition for a role he knew he wouldn't get, or for a part he couldn't play because he already had other commitments. So fucking pointless--damaging, even--and yet he wasn't able to let go, step back. To let the curtain fall.

John was still watching him, not saying anything. Fuck. Fuck! And this was almost worst of all, because it was the exact opposite of what he wanted John to have; John deserved more brightness instead of less. And less, much less, to feel guilty about.

Deep breath. In. Out. Breathe. There was an alien celebration to enjoy, and while the thought still warmed him in a geeky sort of way, some of the shine had worn off.

"Okay?" John finally asked.

David looked up and he could hear the unasked questions, see the worry in John's eyes. "Isn't there an alien orgy of food and drink and strange cultural mores we're supposed to be getting to?"

John raised an eyebrow and slouched in his chair like he was the most relaxed thing in the world. The blowjob was either that good, which David doubted, or John was folding it all up again, pulling back. Highly probable. "You sure?"

"Not at all," David grinned, drumming his fingers on the armrests of his chair.

But he faced forward and stared out the jumper window as John wrapped his hands around the controls and brought them back down to earth.

***

John was still a little shaky on his legs as they walked out of the jumper and went to greet the representatives from the village. He couldn't stop staring at David's mouth, which was going to make it seriously difficult to carry out even the simplest act of diplomacy--which was all this mission was. He plastered on his best 'Aren't we awesome? You love trading with us' smile and nodded easy hellos to everyone--he was pretty sure he even remembered most of their names. Then there was the little farce of, "Why no, this isn't Doctor McKay, but actually his identical twin brother! Didn't we mention him?" But thankfully, once the Mirinians got past the initial bit of cognitive dissonance, David charmed them easily--much more easily than Rodney had. And as they turned to head back to the village, he even bent to John's ear and spoke-sang, "Cousins, identical cousins..."

John tried to pretend that the branch he let snap back, hitting himself in the face, was the result of carelessness and not his inability to turn away from David's still-shiny lips.

David laughed at him and he laughed back and it was all so easy it hurt some place deep inside for half a second.

The walk was scenic and the weather like the best of California spring and David kept doing these little things like jumping up and down and getting caught up on some little bit of alien flora that John had somehow forgotten to be in awe of at some point.

Their guide didn't mind spreading his knowledge a bit and David absorbed it all with glassy eyes and a shy smile and slightly puffy lips and John had to remember to keep his hands to himself, but still caught the occasional fingers to the small of the back.

They were still flirting, he realized, and God, it was so painfully stupid. When he'd had a brain--a few days ago, say--he'd known that what you had to do to get over stuff like this was keep your distance, steady and controlled. They'd crossed lines that couldn't be uncrossed, and John couldn't honestly say he regretted it (anything but, he thought, flushing), but now was the time to face up to the inevitable, to start to pull back.

Instead, he leaned in when David spoke, and scraped his fingers up his arm as he drew him away from a patch of ground that looked somewhat uneven.

They were led into a long hall, the quilt-hung walls reminding John oddly of New England potluck suppers and church socials. It didn't look very alien, and John turned to David, an apologetic shrug in his shoulders. But David was grinning, laughing--as discreetly as he could; they were sensitive diplomats, after all. "What?" John whispered.

"Nothing," David said. "Just--I can't decide whether this is a case of the universe being infinitely diverse, but people remaining pretty much the same everywhere, or just the set decorators having a low budget this week."

See? There was the perfect opportunity for John to distance himself, to magnify, within his own mind, his annoyance at David's own persistent method of distancing. But instead he found himself whispering back: "I have kind of noticed that all the foresty planets look the same."

"If you ever go to Vancouver, you're gonna be in for a shock," David said, grinning. Then he coughed, significantly. "I mean, that's because the Ancients seeded them. Obviously."

John started, then stopped, then started again. "Let me guess, there are theories as convoluted as Rodney's rating system for interesting things about why that particular coincidence seems to happen."

"While I avoid the internet for various reasons," David nodded, smiling, "even among the cast, there's a certain--mythology that's been created." He took the seat that was pointed at by some official-looking person. "There's no small amount of money that's been added to the pot."

Again, John wanted to take offense, only--he couldn't say he wouldn't be in on it as well. "My money'd go to 'Big Cosmic Joke.'"

"Frankly," David leaned in, lowering his voice, "the Ancients aren't coming up as rosy as I think the writers meant them."

John swallowed, the swell of heat David's nearness brought catching him by surprise. Again. "Well, actually--" no one had actually said it, no one had dared, it was like a big fat elephant sitting in the room but John was sure he wasn't the only one who thought that sometimes the Ancients' ideas of right and wrong were a little skewed.

"Also," David said, leaning even closer, "did you ever get the feeling that they were all a little--" He made a wavy motion. "--not right in the head?"

Dizzy, not just from proximity, John felt something give way and he nodded slowly. "Yeah," he said and it hurt a little, as if agreeing with the thought went against some fundamental idea woven into the fabric of his being. And wasn't that just strange?

They had to break off the conversation for a while then, because even John wasn't so diplomatically immune not to realize that they were being rude: jabbering away while their hosts looked between them with raised eyebrows. John saw new wisdom behind the SGC's decision to send four-man teams--they were much more balanced, and meant that a lot of the time, John didn't have to be the one to maintain long, boring conversations about crop cycles all through dinner.

He kept thinking about what David had said, however, turning the words over and over in his head, shaken free from his own relentless cycle only when David would occasionally lean in to him, brushing his leg with his own. Then his thoughts skittered away. God, to think that only days ago they had done this in innocence--in presumed innocence, anyway. In retrospect, their interactions were suspect from the very beginning. He'd never been so strongly drawn to someone as he had been to David: Rodney-but-not, approachable in his very inaccessibility, his complete and utter unfathomability.

John was interrupted once again by the brush of David's fingers over his elbow. He turned to see David pointing to a group of musicians, slowly tuning up.

Drums first. Low and rhythmic. Slowly the room cleared. Like a signal the tables were pushed back, people quieted; part of the yearly tradition, obviously.

Then more drums, higher, lighter, different spaces in sound, but all the same rhythm. The people joined in, hands clapping, feet tapping...David next to him was bopping up and down slowly, taking only the down beat and looking perky in his attention.

Wind instrument. High and clear.

"Melody line," David whispered, hushed.

The crowd moved--possibly as one, more likely they all just knew the steps--and formed circles. Circles in circles and they were all stepping together and twisting and turning and clapping and it was all unplanned and gorgeous, how someone could just break off and start their own, and everyone would just go with it and move and make room and then it would all be in sync again.

The music had words suddenly, low and rhythmic and pretty entrancing. Suddenly there was a warm hand in his and he was being dragged to the center to move and stomp and spin. David, his coercer, smiled impishly at him and said over the music, "Just pretend it's a bar mitzvah."

On a practical level, this didn't help him any, but he got it; on some emotional level he got it. The warmth of the room--not physical, but in all the friendly touches, in the open, eager willingness on the faces of all the people around him--like a big, goofy family, that would be patient with you if at first you stumbled over the steps; that would never abandon you; that would love you no matter what.

John's movements were still awkward, but he let himself be pulled away from David and into the arms of one of the native women, because he knew it would all come around again, that he would be passed back. And it did, and he was; clicking together like magnets, laughing now, burning with adrenaline and how oddly easy it was to keep up, to learn the new movements, if he stopped thinking so damn much and just let himself...let himself go.

Spinning round and round, his boots stomping instinctively down onto the floorboards, in time, in time, they had this time, them, together. Arms clasped in a brief moment of tantalizing intimacy, then around, again and again, separate for a while, but always pulled back together. In the end, together.

The music ended in a fiery clash of voices and sound and rhythm and laughter and he and David were still leaning on each other for support, catching their breath when their guide reappeared, also flushed and happy to show them to their room.

God, he was drunk on adrenaline and spirits and just a little bit of the native mead and David's warm body pressing into his as they stumbled into the room.

Water. There was a wonderful pitcher of water waiting for them. John poured them both glasses and collapsed on the bed, drinking his down in one gulp, wiping the sweat off his brow.

"Man," David fell next to him, "those wacky Ancients sure inspired some great parties."

David's finger was circling around and around the rim of the glass, creating a dull but oddly pretty ringing sound. John watched him, fascinated, as he wet the digit and repeated the process, the tone ringing out truer. "Music in everything," he said.

He was staring at John, eyes bright blue circles, huge and vivid, even from across the room. Like everything and nothing, that distance, and John's feet still felt the call of some phantom beat; he wanted to get up, to spin and shuffle and stomp his way over, marking out the territory, the time, in perfectly measured steps.

But his mind was still moving, too, turning over and over, and he once again cycled back to their previous conversation, David's previous point. "The Ancients...you said they were turning out to be not as rosy as the writers meant them." He watched David pace the room, exploring it the way John used to investigate motel rooms when he was a child: checking all the closets, opening all the drawers, full of his own nervous energy. David's eyes darted back to John, wide, blue, curious. "You mean they don't know what they're doing? There's no plan? They're just making it up as they go along?"

"Well, yeah." Lopsided grin. "They write themselves into corners all the time, and they've come up with all sorts of wild ways of getting themselves out again." He moved closer, sat on the bed. "I've decided it's kind of reassuring, actually," he said. "You feeding them instead of the other way around."

John refrained from touching him only because he knew that if he started, he wouldn't be able to stop. "Is that what you want?" he said, and hoped he wasn't reading too much into a casual comment. Knew that he wasn't.

David glanced down, and when he looked up again, he was nodding. "Yeah," he said, and then, almost a growl, "Fuck the script."

John shuddered--imperceptible, but no less heady a rush. It was--it was an invitation, dammit, and though they shouldn't, here--he could see it in David's face that he knew they shouldn't--he wanted to just reach out and--

A whir, barely more than a whisper at the back of his brain, but growing, growing, and he was on his feet in a second, striding toward the window, staring up in horror. No. Oh God, no.

He looked at David, who was only just starting to tilt his head and listen, his brow furrowing deeply in concentration. John closed his eyes briefly, seeing David swept up in the blue, glowing beam of a wraith dart, seeing Rodney slowly disappear soon after. God, this was his fault, any way you cut it; he put two people's lives on the line because he wanted the equivalent of a date.

"What?" David asked, turning to look at him, smile still on his lips and it said something that John almost got distracted before the next subtle whir pulled him back again. "Is that?" Grey again and John watched him stumble to the window, pushing him aside to look.

A beam, a bright cone of light in the distance, sharp and precise. "Yes," John said, already moving, already getting their vests and weapons. "Put this on." He shoved David's at his chest.

"What are--"

"We're going to make sure these nice people don't wake up dead," John said, clutching his sidearm tightly, all too aware that it would do him little good.

David was white as a sheet, but he nodded and started strapping on his gear with sure, competent fingers. He looked so much like Rodney then, and John had to push down the little blush of affection, followed as it was by a wave of fear. The danger, he realized, was doubled; was, in fact, two-fold.

He opened his mouth to order David back to the jumper, but the thought of something happening to him when he was alone and unprotected and John only finding out later, after the fact...no, best to keep them side by side for now. Besides, he needed all the help he could get.

"Ready?" John asked, and David nodded grimly. John squeezed his arm, and they ran out of the room, boots clattering over wood in a different kind of rhythm; ran outside, and into...an odd stillness.

John had, unfortunately, witnessed cullings before, but never like this. They were always fearful and frantic: people running every which way; families huddling together in useless bundles; men and women, even children, bravely but futilely risking their lives to fight off the darts or the few Wraith on the ground. The Mirinian village, on the other hand, already looked like a ghost town: the lights off, the streets devoid of people. The Wraith culling beams passed uselessly over the ground, ghostly, like flashlights trolling across the ocean floor.

"Did they escape?" David asked, giving voice to John's own secret hope. But then he turned and his eyes fell on the assembly hall where they had danced and feasted earlier that night. Its lights were burning brightly, warmly, like an invitation.

"Fish in a barrel," John said flatly, running towards the structure. Inside everyone was sitting quietly.

"There was not enough mead at this party for them to be this mellow," David whispered.

"What are you all waiting for?" John asked the crowd.

"It is the harvest festival," their guide from earlier came up--Tierlan--"on this of all nights, the Ancestors will prot--"

"Not if you just sit on your asses!" John snapped and he felt David jump next to him.

"The Ancestors will provide," Tierlan insisted, though he did look a bit pale. Good.

"The Ancestors aren't going to--"

"There was a man," David interrupted, putting a hand on John's arm and squeezing tightly, not letting go. "There was a man who owned a house in a land where it liked to rain." He took a deep breath. "It rained so much that it often flooded, life threatening flooding that could wipe out entire towns. This man climbed to his roof and prayed."

"Yes," Tierlan nodded frantically, "you understand."

David shook his head, squeezing at John's arm again. John just swallowed back his impatience, wincing as each overhead noise grew louder and nodded. "Quickly, please."

"A man in boat came rowing by and offered a hand." David went on, speaking fast, incredibly fast but still clear and easy to understand. Rodney in every way but words. The talent was there on both ends. "The man shook his head and said 'The Ancestors will provide.' The boat moved on. Then a man in a flying machine came by and offered a hand and the man shook his head and said 'No, the ancestors will save me.' But finally the waters grew too high and the man drowned. He died."

John smiled, he couldn't help it; he just recognized the parable. "Quicker," he urged, because the firelight was looking too good on David's pale skin and the darts were getting closer and closer.

"The man went to where the Ancestors lived and asked--" speaking faster still, "'I believed in you, I prayed to you, and you let me down.' And one Ancestor looked at him sadly and said, 'I sent you two men, one in a boat and one in a flying machine. What else was I supposed to do?'"

By the time David had uttered the last words, he was breathing heavily and the hand squeezing John's arm was tight enough to leave bruises. But Tierlan...Tierlan was looking at them with big round eyes and nodding slowly.

John nodded back. "Hurry, come with us," he said, guiding the people Tierlan started directing toward him out the door. His mouth was set, unsmiling; he did not know yet how to tell them that, while they did indeed have a flying machine, the Ancestors had shorted them. It was not big enough to fit everybody, to save everybody. Not nearly big enough.

David had gone over to the far side of the room, where he was clearly trying to convince an old woman surrounded by what were probably her grandchildren to get up, to move. She shook her head at him, refused, and John saw David's face, lined with fear and concern. Then he said something else, held out his hand...and after a moment, the woman took it, and they were moving, all of them; too many, too many.

John's mind raced, trying to form a plan, but then he heard screaming, and the buzzing of the darts, and looked back to see that the jumper's capacity might be moot anyway. The Wraith were bearing down on them, white lines cutting like sharp, transparent blades through the grass. "Run!" he told the people in front of him. "Hide!" A moment's hesitance, and then he was passing the jumper's remote off to Tierlan. "Get as many of your people inside as possible, then press this," he said hurriedly, indicating the button for the cloak, trying to press understanding upon Tierlan with his eyes. The man nodded, and then they turned apart: Tierlan running forward, John raising his P-90 heavenward and trying to get to safety, to David, to safety.

There, between two scared natives, was David--moving and searching and just running, blind panic so close to the surface John could taste it.

"Come on!" John said, arm reaching, hand connecting (finally, thank God) with David's, pulling, feet moving as fast as possible.

David said nothing, just followed, the panting of his breath loud in John's ear despite being separated by a small distance.

"John--" David finally spoke.

"What?"

But he never got an answer, just the hot tingling beam of light that devoured them whole.

When he opened his eyes, the first thing he saw was David, hovering over him, looking to the side with wide, frightened eyes. The second thing he saw was the all-too-familiar knotted webbing of a Wraith prison cell, the strands wound together like grasping fingers, like tree branches, gnarled and sharp. He felt his mouth go dry, his chest clenching, even as he sat up and tried to put on a brave face.

"Are you all right?" he asked, voice low, level.

"We're in a hive," David said, like he hadn't heard the question. Like he had found the most succinct way of answering it.

"We'll figure something out," John said, standing.

David stood with him, giving him a look that made it clear he didn't believe John for a second.

Then he said, "We're in a hive," like the realization was crashing in on him anew.

"I've escaped from hives before," John said, discreetly checking himself over, but his weapons were gone.

And David was shaking his head, either having caught the movement or--of course, of course--remembering the last time almost as well as John did. "Unfortunately," he said, eyes hooded, heavy with gallows-humor, "I didn't remember to add knives when I was combing my hair this morning."

"We'll figure something out," John repeated, but he had already figured out the most important thing: how to get David out. Yes, that solution he knew, no knives required.

"I liked it better when I had the script in hand; blind faith is a little scarier," David said shakily, running a hand over John's side. The brush of fingers, deliberate and slightly desperate.

"And you're going to enjoy that again," John said, turning back, looking at David seriously.

"I believe you," David said, so sincerely. So utterly sincerely that it was warming and terrifying all at once.

"Go back," John said, "go back and leave me to take care of this."

David's hand froze on John's arm. He laughed, surprised and somewhat shaky. It cut off abruptly. He said, "What?"

John touched his face, cupping his cheek, thumb scraping over the bone. "You shouldn't be here," he said. "Now more than ever, this isn't where you're supposed to be."

He broke away suddenly, because he had to; the sooner the easier, or so he tried to tell himself. "Go," he said, hands clenching. "It'll be easier for me on my own, without having to look out for you." He swallowed, then said, emphasis intentionally sharp, "I know what I'm doing."

He heard David's sharp intake of breath. "I'm not going to--"

"You are," John said. He turned back, looked at David with cold, calculating eyes. "This isn't up for discussion. When you came into the field with me, you agreed to take my orders. And I'm ordering you to go."

"I--you--" David stuttered, eyes wide, pupils dilated, but from fear and not the hottest kisses he had ever known.

"Please," John said, needing to look away. "I don't want you to die; I don't want to be responsible for your death." And he looked up again, reached out again, needing one last touch, knowing exactly what it would do. He traced his thumb over David's cheek. Truth, the truth sang through his heart, hard and sharp. Rodney. It was all about Rodney in the end. Lose David, possibly lose them both. And while the thought of David leaving made him ache in ways that bothered John, made him desperate and little bit scared--the thought of losing Rodney was-- Something hitched in his chest. "But even more--" Lie and truth both, the strongest lies stemming from truth. "I can't lose Rodney."

David flinched.

John smiled, grimly satisfied. "Go," he said again, did not add, Please, desperate: Please. "Dammit, David--"

Something flashed through David's eyes, quick and incomprehensible, and John wondered if in the end he was indeed the better liar, the better actor. But before he could voice this, voice anything, David was stepping forward again, grabbing the back of his neck, kissing him hard. "I'm sorry," he said into his lips, kissing as if this were the end of all things, the end, goodbye. "I'm so very sorry."

And then with John still startled, stepping back, David shut his eyes and vanished from the world.

John was still staring at the place where he had been, blinking like a man who had stared too long into the sun, or a camera flash, when the Wraith came and took him away.

******

David awoke with a gasp, the red LED numbers on his television cutting like lasers into his eyes. His living room; yes. His couch, his coffee table, his fireplace, his own rumpled clothes. All of it, all of it, exactly as he had left it; nothing unusual or out of place.

He could still taste John on his lips.

He closed his eyes tightly, tried to keep his breathing and his heart rate at a steady pace. He didn't have much time. If he was going to do this, if he could do this... He had to stay calm, that much was certain. Calm, loose, hovering half-in and half-out of sleep.

He got slowly to his feet. Tried to ignore the persistent slant of the sun, tried to remember a lifetime of late night bathroom runs: creeping out of bed and toward the toilet, then stumbling back, never more awake than he had to be, almost somnambulant. Like that, like a sleepwalker, he moved forward now, his eyes squinted, half-open, looking, searching for what he needed. For what he needed to make it right.

A lighter. Leftover and dusty on the bookshelf. Hand half asleep, rusty and tired and not capable of much more than grabbing it with his whole fist and dragging off the shelf and shoving in his pocket like a half forgotten bit of paper.

Stumble, nothing complex, no fine movement, just lumber and no thinking. No thinking about not thinking.

Air freshener. Clutched tightly in his hand he spun around aimless a few times, forgetting to hurry for precious seconds. The couch. Yes, comfortable and warm and--John-- The start of adrenaline nearly waking him further.

He stumbled some more, left foot, right foot.

Fireplace poker.

Yes.

He clutched at it fiercely, yawning. Closing his eyes even as he collapsed back onto the couch. Finding the same spots the same hollows the same cricks and muscle memories. John, he thought, brain slowing down, sleep coming back. He was so tired. John. John, John, John.

He squeezed his eyes shut: blackness. And...and...and--for a moment, nothing; drifting, oddly aware. If he could open his eyes (he could not open his eyes) he thought he might see the stars flying past, or the universe parting before him, letting him slip through its dark but somehow glittering rift. Spun sideways, twisted, and he felt the things in his pocket, felt the poker in his hand. As real as anything, as long as he believed.

He opened his eyes. He was lying stretched out on the floor of the Wraith cell, armed with his odd assortment of living room weaponry. The ground was solid and real beneath his back; the air around him chill and foreign. He sat up, saw that the door was wide open, the webbing pulled to each side like drawn curtains. There was no guard, not the slightest sound of a patrol. He was all alone.

John was gone.

He started up, panicked. Time moved differently--of course, of course; and oh God, the chance that he might already be too late... He darted through the open door before it too could close on him, and looked frantically down the twisting, branching corridors of the Wraith hive. Left or right? Two roads diverged, he thought bitterly; it was starting to get old.

He took a moment to be relieved that while he'd managed to bring the lighter and other things back with him, his clothing hadn't changed. It helped, it helped in ways that were probably pretty dangerous. He clung to Rodney, to his scared and brave ideas about life and friendship and evening scores. He clung to the idea that regular people could do this shit and live to tell the tale.

The intersection looked familiar. He'd done this, on set; as Rodney he'd found his way around this sort of place at least once. He could do it. It was there somewhere and--wow, not the time for a collective unconscious debate in his own head.

Left. He went left then left again and right and-- God! Wraith! Hide hide hide!

Fuck, shit. He was fucking insane.

"...no seriously, who does your nails?"

...John? Also, wow, maybe they were writing him a little gay.

David crept forward. He could hear the queen hissing at John, telling him that they would find the Atlanteans' new location--find Earth--as easily as they had found the telltale technology hidden on John's person when he was taken. In...in reality, the queen's voice was worse than anything he had imagined; it burrowed deep, right in to David's skull. And yet when he pressed his body to the doorway, peeked around the corner, he saw that John--that even on his knees, John was staring up at her with a look of defiance in his eyes.

"This is the same speech you give every time," he said, affecting a bored tone. "They really need to write you some new lines."

A warm glow, deep in the center of David's chest. Yes, yes. He could do this, would do this. John would live, and he would live, and Rodney would live, because that was the way the story ought to go. In his heart of hearts, he knew it.

His stomach, his shaky hands, were less convinced, but he hefted the poker anyway, swallowed down the worst of his fear. He peered around the corner again; the queen was pacing around John, taunting him like a cat taunting a captive mouse, and John just stared straight ahead, eyes dark and angry. Abandoned, or so he thought. But he wasn't. He wasn't.

Armed with a blackened twist of metal, a Zippo, and a can of Press 'n Fresh Concentrated Spray, the cavalry had come.

Somehow, it all felt very appropriate for a franchise built on the image of a man who used to build nuclear bombs with a toothpick, his belt buckle, and some sunshine for energy.

David peered around the corner again. Alone. The queen and John were alone and wow, suddenly David was really thankful for pretentious television villains. What the hell? Even Darth Vader kept the faceless guards closer at hand. And Darth Vader had been a 16-year-old who never grew up.

One step, then two, and he shifted his grip of the poker, clammy and nervous, but determined. Another and there, John saw him, a blink of the eyes and loss of concentration where the queen hissed in triumph as the glaze of control started to creep over John's eyes.

He could see a bruise blooming on John's chin and a little bit of blood on his uniform and suddenly, killing the bitch wasn't such a daunting idea.

The pilot. Right. In the pilot they'd gone right through the chest. Easy target, with the can of air freshener safely in his other pocket, David pulled back and--

--thunk.

Push, twist, shove.

John's own fist coming up to slug her and the poker was ripped out of his hands as the force of blow knocked her over and down.

She roared, blood on her vile, shark-like teeth, staining her dress. Her voice grating, "You have no idea what you have done--"

But John had picked up the fallen poker, and with a still-shocking display of violence, brought it down on her face. Again. And again. And again.

"John!" David shouted, trying to grab his arm. "More are coming..."

His fingers finally connected with John's bicep, and he felt the muscle loosen, the hand with the poker lower, swaying. John's eyes cleared. "Sorry," he said. "Heard that speech before, too. Kinda sick of it."

David said, "I know the feeling."

"Do I want to know where you got this?" John asked, guiding him out into the hall, then pulling him aside, around another corner, just in time to avoid some of the arriving Wraith. "Or what you're doing back here?" he asked, tone trying for sharp and not quite making it. There was blood on John's face and David wanted to kiss him, to taste the relief there.

But he just said, "Rescuing you, obviously," fumbling for the aerosol can and the lighter in his pocket. "Someone had to step up and play the hero."

John looked at the objects in his hand and smiled wide. "I think I love you."

David started hard at that and then flushed warm inside and out. "You really do light up at the thought of things blowing up," he said, smiling.

"Can you blame me?" John asked, leading them around another corner.

"I can't blame Rodney for offering you new and exciting ways," David told him, flattening himself against a wall as John stopped and did the same. He'd probably do strange and inventive things to get that special combination of wide eyes and happy smile.

They were moving again and while David was more than happy to follow he had to ask, "Where are we going?"

They turned a corner and stepped through an arch into a cavernous room. Darts. Miles of them it looked like.

"Oh," David said faintly, "okay." He'd done enough television to know what came next. The brave hero stepped up and told him it was all going to be--

"Okay, so this might not work, but it's our only choice."

Right, John Sheppard here, not James Kirk. "Okay. So... I stand here and wait?" He clutched his lighter and air freshener tightly. He had visions of gallivanting through the galaxy clearing it of one smelly hive ship at a time.

"David," John said, "I--"

The kiss was soft, gentle. All of their previous kisses had been vaguely frantic, or starved--they were still so, so hungry for each other--but this kiss spoke of none of that. It was John's mouth against his own, barely moving but savoring, savoring, lower lip sweeping up, sealing them together before breaking slowly, regretfully, apart.

"I'll see you soon," John promised.

David laughed, shakily, on the surface of his face. "Not if I see you first."

John grinned bravely; all he needed was a hat to tip. Then he made his heroic exit, shoulders straight and head held high as he surveyed the dart that would take them out of this place, sweep David up into the sky.

Climbing up into the cockpit, John slipped and banged his shin, and in that moment, David put a word to what he felt.

Several moments passed as he ran it, rich and round, over his tongue. John had disappeared behind the dart's canopy, but David could still see him, bright and vivid, writ forty feet high in his mind.

Another moment, a whole minute maybe since his revelation, and David was feeling it wash over him again, anew--warm and bright and terrifying. Then something else, a prickle at the back of his neck, and he spun around just in time to feel a cold, clammy hand grab him by the shirt and yank him forward.

Instinctively, David curled back, bad breath and alien strength surrounding him. For one blind second he couldn't think, couldn't breathe, couldn't blink and then the edge of the lighter bit into his hand as he squeezed it in fear.

"Hi," David stuttered, "is there something I can hel--"

The Wraith slammed him into the wall, hard. So hard, his lungs wheezed and for a second he nearly lost control of his fingers.

"Well okay then, but if you wanted an autograph all you had to do was ask," David said, flicking the lighter open. "But really--" he went Rodney, slipping into familiar skin as easy as any day of the week, false bravado was his specialty, "and this might be getting a little personal--" Rodney, brave and smart and nervous, "but you could probably use a breath mint."

The flame was larger than he'd imagined. Bright and hot and possibly the fact that they were on a space ship might've had an affect, but the long white hair of the Wraith was quickly turning brown and he was falling to his knees, screaming and reaching for David again.

So he made another fire ball, breathing through his mouth, the stench already making him nauseated.

He stepped away from the body, afraid of getting picked up along with it, worried about being rematerialized inside a Wraith body with third degree burns. God he wished they still had their radios because then he could ask. And hear John's voice and pretend this was all a TV show and that--

***

John breathed deeply when the beaming process was complete. He could do this. He had done this. But while he wanted to shrug his shoulders and dismiss it with a casual, "Déjà vu all over again," he couldn't do anything but tightly grip the controls and draw slow breaths in through his nose. All around him, the hanger was eerily silent. John knew that the hive had to be in chaos due to the queen's death, but they way he figured it, that should lead to more activity, not less.

Maybe he had seen too many movies, but as he shot out of the hive and into the endless starry black, the only thing that he could think was that it had been too easy. Too easy by far.

Case in point: the planet was still in sight, in easy distance. He turned toward it, the odd, frantic flash of characters on the Wraith HUD blinking at him somewhat hysterically, though the dart did exactly what he needed it to. The voice that he heard in his head was Rodney's: "Why aren't you dead?" He understood the question better, now, and the reasons behind its asking; he thought he knew what it was like to feel like your luck should have long ago run out.

He broke through the atmosphere, guided by the smoke from the remains of the Mirinian settlement, an ashy beacon. He brought the dart down in a field not far from where he thought they'd left the jumper; if it was still there, it was still cloaked. He hoped Tierlan (everyone. as many as possible) had gotten there safely, had made it through the night.

He wanted to be down on the ground with David when he rematerialized, so he landed, then initiated the secondary beam release that Zelenka had shown him. A second passed; maybe two. Still, he didn't even have the canopy fully off when he heard the shout.

It was horrible, seconds of helpless waiting, and when he finally cleared the canopy, it was even worse. David had fallen back, struggling with his Zippo and reaching for the dropped can of air freshener, while over him hovered...a Wraith, it was definitely a Wraith, though its skin was black and peeling. It looked worse than the 10,000-year-old Wraith they had found on the planet with the downed cruiser, and like that Wraith, it kept coming, kept advancing, and John with no weapon, nothing...

David's fingers closed on the aerosol can; it hissed uselessly, spluttering in front of the shakily held flame. The Wraith swept out a blackened arm and knocked both the can and the lighter out of David's hands. It yanked him to his feet. John was still untangling himself from the dart, planning to throw himself on the Wraith's back, praying that he would be in time. The Wraith drew its hand back, palm flat and reaching; John leapt.

And a shot rang out, echoing across the field. Then another...and another and another.

The Wraith fell back on him, smelly and heavy and ashen. John gasped, the wind knocked out of him. "Please," he said. "Let it be dead."

A familiar face swam into view, and then again, a brilliant doubling. "Thank God your aim has improved," said the one on the right.

David.

"I can't believe I ever let the two of you out of my sight," said the one on the left.

Rodney. Rodney, Rodney--oh, Rodney.

Who wasn't helping him up, by the way.

"My hero," John said dryly, sharing a warm look with David and then with Rodney. Maybe he was a little dizzy; it wasn't every day a stinky burning Wraith fell on him.

"Yes, well," Rodney actually looked flustered, but before the moment could even approach intimate, Lorne huffed into view.

"Sir!"

"Major," John nodded, taking Lorne's offered hand. "Lovely timing, how long have we been gone?" Because the Wraith had started taking their watches now too.

"About five minutes past morning check in, we dialed in and got a frantic Tierlan," Lorne said, pulling him up.

"Twelve hours give or take?" John nodded, looking at Rodney again, seeing the remnants of worry and fear clearly on his face. "Hey, your idea?"

"Doctor McKay was very adamant about sending help through."

"I should have known better," Rodney said huffily. "It's typical. I go out of my way, exert myself, and you just steal a Wraith dart and..."

He froze halfway through his sweeping, flying away motion and blinked hugely. "That's a dart. A working Wraith dart." He turned back to John, eyes wide, lips parted, looking for all the world like he wanted to kiss him. And for once, John knew that he really did, really would, him and David both. But Lorne just chuckled--Scientists--and for once John didn't care that it was a lie, because they had the truth, between them. All three.

"I picked it out myself," John said, smiling broadly, wanting to touch Rodney so badly it hurt.

"Sir, you both should probably go back," Lorne said. "I'm sure Doctor Weir is concerned. Cadman and Shelmerdine and I will wait here for whoever you send through to collect the dart," he added, addressing Rodney.

And it said a lot that Rodney just nodded and let go of it. Metaphorically. "That's uh good. I'll send some engineers over to figure out the best way to get it through the gate."

Lorne blinked at him, obviously having expected more of an argument, but he just nodded and gave John a respectful head tilt and moved off to set up the initial guards. Good.

"We should head back," Rodney said, eyes still happy from the obvious technological achievement.

"Don't you already have one?" David asked, moving toward the gate anyway.

"Two is better than one!" Rodney said, smiling even wider, bouncing a little on the balls of his feet.

There was a three-way stare full of energy, but John could see David was starting to flag, probably the adrenaline already losing speed. He remembered that David didn't live in this universe, wasn't prepared (not that anyone ever really was) for what he'd just done. For any of it. "Come on. We really should head back."

"Yes," Rodney said, "get back, make sure you're not dying, then," he lowered his voice, "reward you for bringing me the best gift from the duty free shop ever."

"Reward," David said happily, and John didn't even need to say it; he was already picturing the various forms, the infinite combinations said reward could take.

Rodney dialed the gate and entered his IDC, and then they were back in Atlantis. It still felt too easy, almost as if they had never left.

"Gentlemen," Elizabeth said sternly, in spite of the obvious relief on her face. "I believe that this will be the last time I approve joyriding."

"We're fine," John said, to her and Beckett both. He turned. "Right, David?"

David's answering grin faltered halfway across his mouth. He was standing next to Rodney, and again John was struck by how pale he looked in comparison. Skin almost paper-white. Barely there at all.

The grin turned abruptly into a frown. "John?" David said, swaying for one long, horrible moment. Suspended, held by invisible hands between air and ground.

When he collapsed, he fell softly, quiet as a tree in an empty forest.

They all froze. Or at least John froze and he was aware peripherally of Rodney freezing and he assumed there was a similar state of shock elsewhere in the room.

Carson was close at hand and was already sliding to the floor, and John's knees went down as well, a controlled fall next to David, so pale next to the colorful floor. He looked exhausted but Carson wasn't calling for any super-duper emergencies and Rodney was still standing stock still a few feet away, probably terrified he was going to disappear at a moment's notice.

"Is he okay?" Rodney, speaking, asking things that John couldn't voice. "He's okay, right? I meant, I'm okay. He's okay. Right?" Each sentence ending in a high-pitched crack.

"He's alive and breathing," Carson answered, helping the nurses move David onto the gurney that magically appeared.

Rodney whipped around and faced John, arms folded. "What did you do to him?" he demanded.

John wanted to roll his eyes, but he was asking himself the same question. Both he and Rodney followed the gurney out of the gateroom--not too closely; they knew better than to crowd the patient and incur Carson's wrath. "Seriously," Rodney pressed, but in a much quieter voice. "What happened?"

John gave him as much as he knew of events: how they had been captured, how he had told David to go when they woke up aboard the hive, how David had gone, had disappeared right in front of John's eyes--vanished without a glimmer; without, John couldn't help saying, even a cursory special effect. There one second and gone the next. Like he had never been.

Rodney nodded along as he described all of this, mouth serious, hiding an involuntary shiver. Then John described how David had reappeared just in time to save him from the queen. "Reappeared?" Rodney asked. "Did you see it? Was it the opposite of what happened in the cell?" John shook his head, no, and then described the unique cache of weaponry David had arrived with.

Rodney had that look on his face, the one that said he had a theory, but he didn't like it. "We'll have to ask him," he said instead. "When he wakes up." He looked over at the curtain behind which Carson had wheeled David, then turned and met John's eyes. "He is going to wake up, right?"

"Yes," John said. "He will."

The look on Rodney's face clearly said 'I know you have no idea at all, but the thought counts.'

The expression on Carson's face was similarly one of complete bafflement with a thin veil of reassurance pulled over it. Carson wore it a lot. Now he added in a popular variation: the concerned doctor head tilt. "He's unconscious, but I don't think he's in danger," he told them, hands in his pockets, nodding toward the curtain, toward David. "I've put him on some fluids." He chucked, uneasily. "If it were you Rodney, I'd say he was suffering from a hypoglycemic reaction."

"Well, he's not me," Rodney said, in a tone that, to John, sounded worlds away from the one he would have used just days ago. He doubted Carson would pick up on the distinction.

Either way, Carson had switched focus. "And what about you, Colonel?" he said, "When was the last time you ate?"

John thought about the night before, dancing with the Mirinians, whole and happy. He gave a wan smile. "I guess I need food." And to deal with the fact that he was so incredibly glad to see Rodney.

And to shake the feeling that something, somewhere, had gone very wrong.

He looked nervously toward the curtain. And this Carson did catch. "I'll radio you if there's any change," he promised. "Go on, both of you."

Outside in the hall, Rodney leaned close and said, "I have food in my room."

Alone sounded good. Nice even, despite the strong pull to watch David lie there unconscious and worry. "Okay yeah, let's do that."

Tension, hard and tight kept burning in his chest, distracting him, enough so that Rodney's swift turn just inside the door surprised him and his kiss took several beats to return.

Somewhere between one glide of lips and another, John felt himself relax. Just a little. Felt the unease at the fact they hadn't actually been alone since before the sex melt away easily into the air.

"Hi," Rodney said, a little breathlessly, when they broke away, "how're you doing?"

I missed you, he wanted to say, almost said. Instead he found himself touching Rodney's face, his shoulders, his neck: mapping out the things that were different. The things that were, that would always be, the same.

An imperfect mirror, Rodney reached up a hand, brushed it gently across John's hairline, over his ear. They were both sucking in long, slow breaths, as if the act of letting go was difficult. "So," Rodney said, on one exhalation, "this is weird."

"Nah," said John. They were so close. John could see the little creases in Rodney's lips, where he sometimes slathered ChapStick "Our lives are weird."

"Hmm," said Rodney, sliding down, caressing the point of his shoulder. "This is not what I expected to do this weekend."

John grinned, the motion only slightly faint. "And what are your plans for next weekend?" he asked, and again his voice held only the slightest shake.

In answer, Rodney leaned up and kissed him again.

That was enough, was more than enough, for several long minutes, just leaning up against the wall and letting Rodney touch him, taste him, and giving the same back. But there was still that worry, persistent, gnawing at his gut. Eventually, he had to fill one of the brief spaces of empty air with a worried, raw, "David?"

Rodney looked at him for a long moment, searching with careful scientist's eyes. Then he said, "Yes," voice full of acceptance, welcome.

"But something's wrong," John murmured, wanting to take Rodney's kiss again and denying himself, denying them both, a hand firm on Rodney's arm. "Something's really wrong."

Rodney's arms dropped and he leaned in, forehead resting on John's. "He doesn't belong here," he said resolutely.

John blinked, startled. "You've figured it out?"

Cupping John's jaw, letting his thumb trace small circles, Rodney nodded. "We are but shadows... Did he tell you?" he said abruptly, cutting himself off. "Where he went, when he went...away?"

John shook his head. "There wasn't time..." But his stomach clenched, body knowing the things his conscious brain didn't want to acknowledge.

The look in Rodney's eyes made John realize how difficult it must be for him sometimes, always so far ahead of everyone else. Waiting for them to catch up--even if, John realized, they were, as he was, reluctant to reach him.

"The fireplace poker, the lighter," Rodney said, listing them off like evidence, but without relish. "The--

"The can of air freshener..." John admitted, quietly. He let his head fall back, heavy against the wall. "He went home. He went home, and he dragged himself back, and now..."

"I could be wrong," Rodney said, and that was when John knew for certain it was true, because Rodney would never say that, not unless he was trying desperately to convince himself of something he knew to be a lie.

"So pale," John said, almost to himself: furious at the world, impossibly grateful for nothing more than the feeling of Rodney solid under his hands.

***

David blinked, eyelids fluttering open, then closed, then open again. His swan dive to the floor coming back to him. "Oh God, that was horrible."

"You are awake."

"Rachel?" He shook his head, letting his eyes focus on the figure next to the bed, "Teyla."

She nodded, smiling slightly. "How are you feeling?"

"Confused," David said, pushing himself upright, feeling slightly dizzy as he did so. "What are you-- That is I--" He gave up, letting his eyes close momentarily in confusion. "Let's try that again. Hi."

"I have been offworld during much of your visit. I found myself--" She looked down a little shamefaced. "Curious."

David fidgeted uncomfortably. Teyla, in person, was magnetic and alien and discomfiting at first glance, because there was no Rachel waiting underneath, ready to emerge with the call of cut.

"You saved the colonel's life. That is enough to merit watching over while you slept."

David blinked. So often they fudged culture, made it up as they went along, but it was still disconcerting to run into an obvious example of it. "I--" he said, "I appreciate that." Because he did.

She smiled at him, rich and beautiful and kind, and he loved her a little bit, too.

All of them. Everything. Oh, God.

"David?" she said, sounding worried, far away.

"I'm--" Fine, he was going to say. But he wasn't. She blurred before him, lines of brown and gold.

"I'll get Doctor Beckett--"

The room spun, like a crushed kaleidoscope. Someone touched his forehead, hand pleasantly cool. "Ahh, you're awake..."

"I had the strangest dream, Paul," he heard himself say, but no, that was wrong, wrong--

A hysterical giggle welled up out of his lips. "And you were there," he told Paul (no), "and you," he pointed at Rachel (no), "and--" His gaze settled on a nurse, holding a clipboard and a thermometer. He scrunched up his face. "No, not you."

Rachel closed her hand over his. "David, this is Atlantis. You are still here. You are still with us."

He looked up at her, confused. "Are we filming? Did I blow the take?"

"I'm calling Sheppard," Paul said, and David was about to make a joke about how that would land you one hell of a long distance bill when he heard a voice say, "Don't bother. I'm here."

He blinked. "John?" he said, and then slammed back into himself so hard that he could feel it in every joint, on the backs of his eyeballs. His hand reached out, desperate, and John leaned close and squeezed his shoulder instead.

Right. He had to remember where he was.

He had to remember...Jesus.

"David, stick with me," John said, hand warm on his shoulder.

"What--" The words felt thick in his throat. "--what happened?" Faces peered down at him, blinking slowly, kind of fuzzy around the edges, including David.

"Well, we have a theory," John said slowly looking at him, eyes piercing through the thick fog around his head.

"Theory?" David asked, eyes automatically going to Rodney who was off in a corner looking nervous. "It could be bunnies?" he added, before he could stop himself.

Everyone exchanged looks like his condition must be very dire indeed. Carson started to hum.

"Yes, well." Rodney came forward, hands behind his back, trying to be brusque. "I believe you made a brief trip, uh, home?"

David nodded. He didn't remember telling John--or anyone--that, but his not remembering something was, on its own, meaning less and less.

"I went out on a limb and guessed that the Mirinians don't have a handy supply of Johnson & Johnson products," Rodney explained, almost managing a smirk. "Nor the Wraith, for that matter."

"I just grabbed what was in easy reach in my living room," David said, perversely proud all of a sudden--because after all (John there beside him, a tall comforting presence) it had worked. "It was a lot easier than I thought, to get back."

A slight turn of John's head, and Rodney, still far from the master of the bluff, his eyes flickering down. And David got it.

"But not to stay."

"Ah--no," Rodney confirmed, looking for all the world like he wanted to argue the point.

"Well, that's probably for the best," David said, eyes sliding over Rodney and then to John, who he would never look at the same way again, "we'd already decided it anyway, right?"

That was the crux of most of the problem: the longer he stayed, the easier it was to forget, to want to forget, but he would probably break at least one universe in the process of staying.

"Yeah," John nodded, "we had."

"Doctor Beckett," Teyla said, pulling their attention momentarily away from David, thank God, "is David well enough to make his goodbyes?"

Poor Carson, once again forced to make a medical ruling on a condition he knew nothing about, that never had and never would appear in any textbook. "Well, ahh," he said, and then deflated. "Yes, I'm sure you'll want to speak to, uh, Radek--"

"Yes," David said, because he did. But still he risked a glance at John. In the end, there was only one goodbye, only one, that mattered.

"I think, perhaps," Teyla said, "it might also be nice for him, if his last memory of the city were not of its infirmary?"

David's eyes flicked to her face, searching; he could see Rodney doing the same, and John, more subtly. But Teyla looked innocent and perfectly serene, fixing Carson with a winning half-smile.

"Indeed," Carson said, after a moment. "David, if you feel up to it?"

"I can manage," David said, clinging to the edge of the bed as he pulled himself up. Still clinging.

His feet were bare when he touched the ground, but he felt like he was wearing thick boots, like he was floating. "Um," he said, trying to focus. "I know how sexy I look in these gowns, but do you think I could have some real clothes?"

"Of course," Carson said, and gestured toward one of the nurses.

The clothes they brought him were the ones he had arrived in. Of course, of course. Of course.

John and Rodney were waiting for him when he emerged wearing his comfy jeans and his worn t-shirt, silent and tense in a corner.

The clothing provided another level of cognitive dissonance. Sweet and sharp in his head. It helped, but also made his hold a little more tenuous. Carson just gave him a gentle nod, "Aye lad, do right by Rodney, and possibly stop them from having me do surgery in the middle of nowhere once in a while?"

David smiled, easy and genuine. "Paul will take good care of you, I promise."

It hurt to turn away, and that--that was just Carson. Right. He remembered this. Endings were always the hardest.

"Can I--" he asked Rodney and John, out in the hall, both of them looking at him with their own brand of anxiousness: Rodney's eyes wide, John's narrow. "Can I say goodbye to--Radek and everyone else?"

"I'm not sure how much time--" Rodney started, but John just nodded his head. "Yes. Anything you want."

You, David thought desperately, hating himself. And endings, always, always, endings...

They went up to the control tower, David stepping into a transporter that really transported and pressing the screen. He had a moment of fear, right before they dematerialized, that he wouldn't come back again, that he'd leave this world as particles, floating forever in subspace. But his body was still his body when the doors swooshed open again, and John's hand was on his elbow, leading him out.

Stepping into the control room was like walking into an episode of This Is Your Life. With the irony of course being that it wasn't.

Mostly they were painless, faces under familiar guises that he hadn't spent much time with. Elizabeth smiled kindly at him, but David got the feeling she was still incredibly wary of the whole ordeal. Radek, his last stop, grinned hugely and thanked him for a unique insight into his boss. Who made protesting noises at the assertion. "Great, now everyone thinks I'm a pushover."

John snorted. "We already did."

They wandered the halls for a bit after, David taking his last grope of Atlantis, admiring its texture and weight, practically tasting it in his mouth. Without meaning to, at least consciously, they arrived outside a set of personal rooms. John's.

Self-control on thin threads, David allowed himself to touch once on the other side. Fingers sliding up John's side for a brief second before they melted together, hugging tightly, David burying his nose in the juncture where shoulder met neck.

"I think I'll miss you most of all," he whispered into the warm, fragrant patch of skin, and John chuckled, smiling that smile that David finally understood.

Drawing back, looking John full in the face. "You deserve--" David said.

"So do you," said John.

More than they were ever going to get. Still lucky to have what they did, what they had had.

"I--" David said, knowing that it was only going to get harder. To stay, to leave. "I should..."

Rodney coughed. "I think. I think there might be time."

David turned to him, blinking. Rodney was smiling a little out of the side of his mouth, looking stubborn, serious, just a little bit mischievous. "Really?" said David, and thought that maybe he could feel it, a slight steadying of the ground under his feet, of John's arm under his hand. "You think?"

Rodney nodded. "I do."

"Well," said David, turning back to John, a tentative smile on his face, "if Rodney says it, it must be true."

"Newton's fourth law," John said, nodding, goofy-sad smile spreading higher on his face.

They stared at each other, suspended in the moment, too afraid to move, to start what would eventually have to finish. It was Rodney who went first, coming up behind David, sliding into place, warm and just as alive as David, grounding and solid as he pressed into David and then pushed harder to press David back into John.

"Group hug," David's voice wobbled quietly from the middle. He was gratified to hear two answering chuckles in his ear.

"Anything you want," murmured John.

"Yes, anything," echoed Rodney.

David couldn't say, To stay, to stay, but he wanted to keep them with him, racing like the Ancient gene under his skin. He wanted finger scratches and teeth marks, bruises raised with lips and tongue. He wanted...

"Fuck me," he whispered, pulling John's forehead down to his, feeling his gasp warm and welcoming on his cheek. "Please."

Rodney's lips spread into a grin against the skin of David's neck. "Oh, yes," he said. "And I can suck your cock."

"Oh God," David let his head fall to John's shoulder.

"Christ, Rodney," John said in his ear, "David."

David kissed John, fingers going for his belt, slipping the buckle out easily. Then sliding under his shirt, feeling all the hair and muscle and warmth, right there. Solid and firm and real.

Behind him, Rodney sucked on a patch of bare skin, smoothing his own hands under David's shirt. "Abnormally hot, isn't it?" Then his shirt was being pulled off, but he only noticed because it pulled John away for a few seconds and when they all gravitated back, there wasn't a shirt to be found. Just wonderful skin, smooth and rough, soft and hard and just right.

"This," David breathed into John's mouth. "This," he said again, as they walk-stumbled toward the bed.

"This keeps me grounded," he said, as they circled around him, lowering him down, John stretching across his back, sliding a leg between his thighs; Rodney teasing his nipples, licking and sucking like he knew he (they) liked.

He said, "This keeps me here." Nodding in answer to John's whispered, "Are you sure?" Turning his neck, kissing him, and stroking his hand over Rodney's head. Having, loving them both.

"Do it, do it, God, yes," he said, as he felt John's hands making hesitant movements across the curves of his ass. He couldn't believe they were still wearing pants. "I know you've been wanting to," he said, and ground back against the hard bulge of John's cock.

Their pants came off remarkably fast.

Slick fingers on his ass, hot lips on his neck, sucking gently, kissing softly and then-- "Oh." Breathless and so good. Pressing gentle and slow. Just circling.

Rodney was propped up on his side, eyes open wide, mouth open part way and panting, just watching, hand tracing slowly down David's front. Fingers tracing lazy patterns.

John was shaking behind him, fingers slow and agonizingly good. "Try it, push," David said, gasping. It was good, he'd never thought it could be so fucking good at close to forty. But everything was open and new, just like the first time. The last time.

"You'll like it," Rodney promised, and David trusted him. He knew his body, knew their body. Knew this. David had been playing it this way all along.

"Tell me," John stuttered. If it hurt, if it was good. David knew what he meant, and likewise didn't have the words. But they moaned together as John finally circled in, pushing past the tight ring of muscle and in, God, in-- "Yes," he panted. This was what he wanted: a mark, invisible but indelible.

"Yes, yes, more," he said, greedy now, while he could be, while John was breathing heavily in his ear, murmuring his name and a litany of "so hot so tight" and nonsense syllables, twisting his fingers, tying them all together with cords that couldn't be broken. John's hips were jerking in time with his fingers, and Rodney was trailing his fingers down over David's stomach, his thighs, brushing across his balls and around his cock, but never actually touching. Teasing him, drawing it out, and as much as David wanted this to last forever, he also wanted them in him and around him now, wanted them now, pushing back against John's scissoring fingers and pushing down on Rodney's head. Rodney laughed at him--which, admittedly, he deserved--but he also looped his fingers through John's where they rested on David's thigh, and David could feel their eyes locking without seeing it. Just as he could feel the fingers of John's other hand reluctantly withdraw, and the blunt head of John's cock nudging at his opening, just as Rodney's head dipped down and he swallowed the head of David's dick, grinning like sex was his own invention, tested and patented this very day.

He gasped, pleasure on one end, burning heat on the other. John's own sharp indrawn breath at his shoulder and neck, stopping just inside where David had clamped down automatically.

"Fuck, tight. You okay?" John panted.

David couldn't speak, his lungs were tight and heavy and he couldn't remember how to breathe and speak at the same time. There was a tap on his leg, Rodney and John's twined fingers petting soothing circles, Rodney's eyes looking up at him in question. He nodded and saw Rodney's fingers tighten on John's.

Another slow push followed almost immediately. Pain, but diminished every second by the warm suck of Rodney's mouth, by the knowledge that this was John, John, in him, taking pleasure from him, leaving him with this, something he had never--

He gasped suddenly as John pushed in deeper, fully inside him now, filling him, and not only that, but striking something that made him feel ready to shake apart, jerking up into Rodney's wide, clever mouth. Their fingers searing into his hipbone, leaving fingerprints he could almost see, lines and whorls that were theirs, theirs, like no one else in the world, the universe. Stars exploded behind his eyes. Supernovas.

John started to move, hips rolling like the movement of the planet under them, like a rock spinning through space. David's brain roared, flaring white around the edges. John, John, he thought, picturing them, all three, as if from outside of himself...

...and his own body, curled slightly in on itself, there on the couch...

....as "David," a voice said, low drawl-murmur in his ear. Hands on his hips, guiding him, teaching him the moves; and a delicious fullness, warmth and safety...

"David."

"Joe?" he said, and then snapped back into himself as John's cock slammed into him, John's arms holding onto him, and Rodney, lips red and shiny, looking up at him with wide, surprised eyes.

"Oh, God, John, sorry," he said, feeling every hard ridge of John's body as he stilled. But then John was kissing his neck, whispering, "It's okay, it's okay; you have more of an excuse than I did, it's okay," and moving in him again as Rodney muttered, "Interesting," before giving the head of his cock another lick, swirling his tongue down.

He was close. He could feel it at the base of his spine and the tips of his fingers and in his own pleading breaths. "Just--need--" David didn't know what.

Rodney pulled at his legs and hips, shifted him as easily as clay. On the next thrust his entire body convulsed. "Oh god! Fuck! Yes, again!"

John did, harder, faster, desperation tingeing his movements, and Rodney reached, one stray finger pressing behind his balls as he sucked slowly. Hot and deep on both sides and someone moved and pressed and ohgodsogood.

So good, so good...and for a horrible second (Joe) he thought maybe too good, that orgasm would be the thing that broke him, that sent him rocketing back, waking as if from a wet dream. On the one hand, what a way to go. But it wasn't...not enough, never enough...and then all his worries and thoughts vanished from his head, replaced by Rodney's mouth and John's cock and John and Rodney's fingers, moving together, holding him there, keeping him with them as he broke apart, shuddering into Rodney's mouth and convulsing around John's cock, getting it right, saying it right, before he lost his words completely.

He was still there when he came down. Not for long, he knew. But--arching his neck to kiss John's mouth--long enough.

Rodney crawled up his body, leaving a trail of moist kisses on David's sweat-soaked skin.

"Okay?" John asked as they surrounded him, held him tightly.

David breathed deeply, feeling John hot and hard and still inside him, but not moving. He didn't answer, just squeezed and pushed back, gratified to hear the sharp gasp that followed and Rodney's happy snicker. "You didn't come."

"Keep doing that," John said, slowly starting to move, "and that won't be a problem."

"I like my existence to be problem-free," David said, reaching down, finding Rodney's cock, jerking him in time to John's slow, steady thrusts. Feeling John's kisses on the back of his throat and tasting himself in Rodney's mouth. Surrounded. Protected. Here.

Loved, maybe. Yes. He thought that it wouldn't be unfair to them to believe that.

John came pretty quickly, groaning, his mouth against David's spine. David felt his release rushing through him, and he pulled Rodney more tightly to him--to them--so that he could feel it, too, David twisting his hand and pulling him also to completion. Lying together in a boneless heap, David could see how it could easily become confused; he wasn't entirely sure which arms were his anymore. Which legs, which hands. They were all one.

But he was leaving. Subtracted from the equation, David thought that John and Rodney would easily be able to satisfy his absence with extra variables, would scoot closer and quickly fill the cold spot on the bed. He was the anomalous factor, there to perform his function and then...move on.

It was time for him to be moving on. Like the hero in a Western, sort of. So long, Shane. Goodbye.

"So," Rodney whispered. "What did you think of your farewell party?"

"The best," David said, honestly. "Best I ever had."

There was a sharp ache as John moved his hips to settle and he slipped out of David, leaving him hollow. And stuck in a bad metaphor.

"I've thrown better," John said smugly, smiling into David's skin.

"This," Rodney said, "isn't some frat house party."

"If it is," David said, letting his muscles relax into the warmth surrounding him, "then the movies have it all wrong." Something soft brushed across his hip: it was John's hand, pulling him closer, the black wristband dark against their skin.

David reached down and touched it; it meant a lot to him, on some bizarre level, that John didn't flinch away. Instead, he scraped his hand, cloth and skin, up David's side, looping their fingers together.

"I made a promise, didn't I?" he said.

David nodded, but belied the motion with a whispered, "You don't have to."

"Don't have to what?" said Rodney. Then he took in the position of their hands, put the pieces together. "Oh," he said, eyes going wide. "You--if you don't want to, you really don't. Have to. Or. I could, I could leave--"

"Rodney," John growled. "You're not going anywhere."

"Sorry," Rodney said, settling back down, relief evident in his shoulders, relaxing. "I didn't want to make you--"

"You don't want to miss David singing our theme song, do you?" John continued, grinning at them wickedly, goofily. Wonderfully human, and boy, did David want to smack him for making him do this.

Luckily, John's ass was conveniently located.

It lost something without the brass and the multiple melody lines, not to mention David's own little warble and occasional feeling of out-of-tuneness, but he was oddly gratified that both John and Rodney were silent through his rendition; the feeling of expectation hadn't diminished as he finished the last note.

"That's...not bad," Rodney announced.

"Kinda heroic," John agreed, nodding.

"You are," David said automatically, softening slightly at Rodney's surprised look and John's body stiffening against his. "You really are."

John reached up and cupped his face, cloth scraping against his chin, stubble. "I'm not some sort of--" He said. "You know I'm not--"

"In the ways that matter," David said. He reached behind him and found Rodney's hand, squeezed. He looked John in the eye. "And in other ways, much more. So much more."

John stared back at him. Then he moved his thumb, brushed it over David's lips. "It would be nice," he said. "If other people could see me the way you do.

"And if it were true," he added, before David could issue any promises. "It would be nice if it were true."

His eyes flickered down. And he spoke: quietly, calmly, for both a very short and a very long time.

"John," was all Rodney said when he was finished. "John."

David just said, "Oh."

Sunlight filtered across his face. The numbers on his clock clicked over, blinking.

Eyes shut, lashes squeezed. He kissed John one last time, memorizing the feel of his lips, his tongue, the shape of his face. "It's true," he whispered, passing on the words, mouth to mouth. "It is true."

He awoke.

He could still feel John's hands on him, clinging.

He shook his head soundly, blinking a hazy fog from his eyes, feeling the most profound urge to just curl back up on the couch, but his bladder was full and he was naked despite remembering going to bed clothed, and there was a sad tug that told him he should stand up, piss, get dressed, maybe eat something.

There was a lot of staggering and blinking and somewhere between the toilet and the kitchen the dream came back. Color, sound, sensation hitting him hard and making his chest ache.

He sat down hard on a nearby chair and squeezed his eyes shut. "Jesus."

His hands in his lap, he stared down at them. As if maybe he could see through the skin, make sense of...

He stood up, abrupt. Went to the window, flung back the curtains, pale frothy yellow in the bright sunlight. Saw the grass and the trees; a sprinkler skishing across someone's lawn; a woman walking a dog; a kid riding a bike. Extras, he thought. Scenery. Set dressing.

But no. This was real.

He let the curtain fall. Turned and walked over to the fireplace. In their little metal rack: shovel, tongs. No poker. He felt a stab of fear, followed by a flush of pure relief. Adrenaline and terror and joy, radiating up his arm, vibrating through him, like the feel of smoke-black metal slamming sharp into the Wraith queen's stomach.

The look on John's face.

The look on Jane's, when he tried to figure out what to say to her.

The couch was still there, throw crumpled, pillow marked with the imprint of his skull. He sat down, his back straight, his hands flat on his knees. The numbers on the TV LED blinked. The sunlight moved across the floor.

David sat.

******

"Are you all right?" Elizabeth asked.

John looked at Rodney and shrugged. "Well, considering that it tried to kill us..."

"It?" said Elizabeth, frowning. "The outpost?"

"Its security system," Rodney clarified. "And I don't want to brag, but--"

John, Teyla, and Ronon all exchanged looks. Even Elizabeth glanced over at him and smiled.

"--but without some amazingly quick thinking on my part, we'd all be toast now."

"Charred," agreed John.

Ronon made a face like he was thinking, Mmm: toast.

"It was very impressive," Teyla said, and while she did possess an ability for deadpan sarcasm that was pretty impressive on its own, John could tell that she genuinely meant it.

She was right, too. "Rodney outbluffed the computer," John said, beaming. Allowing himself to beam openly; it was reasonable, under the circumstances of their remarkable not-deadness.

"Good work, Rodney," Elizabeth finally gave, nodding in his direction, "everyone."

Rodney practically glowed under the praise, cheeks flushed under the faint layer of grease and dust collected while working on panels that hadn't been touched in millennia. John licked his lips and then forced his attention away and back to Elizabeth. "There's just something funny about it."

"Hrmm." Rodney nodded. "Yes, I can't imagine why anyone would build a machine that..." He trailed off into his own head, tilting it slightly in thought.

"That what?"

"Hrmm?" Rodney shook his head. "Oh, um, obviously malfunctioned in such a spectacular manner."

John frowned, something itching at the edge of his consciousness.

Elizabeth tapped her finger on the table. "I'm sure you'll all detail this fully in your reports," she said, unsubtly, "but did you get any idea as to the nature of this malfunction? If it was part of an Ancient system, is it something we're going to have to worry about here in Atlantis?"

There was a frightening thought, John mused, rubbing at his chin. He liked a close shave as much as the next man, but not, you know, with a laser.

"No, no, it was part of an additional type of security measure. We haven't run into anything like it anywhere within the city," Rodney said. "Although--" He shifted uncomfortably. "--all the offworld teams should be briefed, in case the same security system, and the same, er, malfunction, is present elsewhere."

So Rodney was feeling itchy, too. There was definitely going to be a conversation about this. Soon.

John made an extra effort to look pathetic and tired and nudged Rodney in the ankle. He gave John an imperious look before John kicked him again and slumped further in his seat.

Apparently Rodney just looking confused was enough because Elizabeth looked positively motherly at the entire team and suggested they go sleep it off. After their post-mission exams, of course.

The minute they were free of Carson's cold hands and lukewarm attempts at banter, Rodney was pressing close to John's side. "So I've been thinking," he said, casually. "Possibly, the Ancients were sort of evil."

Yep, that was pretty much what John had been thinking, too. "Not evil," he said calmly. "Just misunderstood."

Rodney scoffed. "Misunderstood is right. That device tried to ice us the minute it realized weren't bona fide Lanteans." He shoulders straightened and rose with pride, and John checked behind them before reaching out and touching a hand lightly to his back, rubbing over the shoulder blades. He pulled away when Rodney leaned too far into the touch, but their eyes met: two conversations now, running at once.

"Luckily," Rodney said, continuing the previous thread, "I was able to make it consider the possibility that it might be mistaken."

John grinned at the memory--it was funny how abject terror could become a source of amusement, just a few hours later. "You confused it to the point it had to self-destruct; I half expected it to start singing 'Daisy' at the end there."

"I seriously never thought that quoting Star Trek would one day save my life," Rodney said, punching a control in the transporter.

"I knew that first part sounded familiar," John said, smiling a little, still occasionally elated that they could do this. Talk and not talk. Meeting in someone's rooms being a forgone conclusion.

John's doorway was down the corridor and without even a word, a wink even, they turned and walked.

"Oh please." Rodney smacked his arm, possibly sneaking in a little squeeze. "A little familiar. You were saying the lines right along with me."

John vowed to admit nothing. But there were some things he had to... "You're gonna be there, right along with me, when I go to discuss some of the Ancients' more dubious side-projects with Elizabeth?"

They were right outside John's door. John knew Rodney wanted to go in there and stop thinking about this, to stop thinking, as much as Rodney--as much as either of them--ever stopped thinking. John wanted that, too. But they both paused together, and Rodney nodded solemnly and said, "Questioning the Ancients' ethics...for Elizabeth, it's going to be like insulting her mother's virtue, right to her face. For most of the people in this city, it'll be like that." His mouth turned down, expressive slant. "Not that our own ethics have been particularly spotless lately..."

"Hey," John said, half-reaching out, and again they spoke without words, turning together, slipping inside.

Pressed up against the wall, just inside the doorway, "Some heroes, huh?" John said. He honestly wasn't sure whether he was being sarcastic or not.

"We try," was all Rodney said. The communication they needed was of a different kind.

Kissing was still new and exciting, and Rodney's pliable mouth descending on his was just enough to distract him. Hands cupping Rodney's face, they kissed slowly, luxuriously, hmmming happily into each other's mouths and everything else on his mind just evaporated like water on a hot day.

"You're hot when you quote Star Trek," Rodney murmured, nuzzling at the side of John's neck.

"You're not so bad when you're outsmarting malfunctioning supercomputers," John replied, rolling his neck and offering it up to Rodney's careful kisses.

"Wasn't malfunctioning," Rodney said into John's skin.

"Right," John nodded, distracted almost immediately by an agile tongue sweeping around his ear.

"Just badly programmed," Rodney said before sucking one of John's earlobes into his hot mouth.

John hissed and then blinked and then stopped. "Right I--on purpose?"

"I think so," Rodney peeled away to look John in the eye.

"Just..." He frowned. "Is that really hard for you to say out loud?"

Rodney frowned back and then nodded slowly. "When I'm deliberately thinking about it, it feels--"

"Wrong."

"Muddled."

John let his head fall back and thunk quietly against the wall. "David mentioned something on the planet before the Wraith appeared."

Rodney blinked, but otherwise his face remained motionless. Yeah, it might have saved their lives earlier that day, but sometimes John wished that David hadn't taught Rodney to bluff quite so well.

"What was that?" he asked.

John tried to remember David's face as it had looked that night on Mirinia, turning toward him. Both so different from and so like the face staring up at him now. "He said that the writers don't know what they're doing, that they're just making it up as they go along."

"Hmm," Rodney said. His tongue swept across his lips, pensive and seductive both. "So it's a godless universe after all."

John's smile didn't quite reach his eyes; like so many things, he had mixed feelings about this. "David said something like that, too. He said he thought it was...reassuring."

"Or typical of American television," Rodney said, already diving back in, kissing John gently.

"They film in Canada." John closed his eyes, missing David, maybe more than he really liked to admit.

"American production company," Rodney countered.

They were perilously close to imitating some sort of deformed pretzel. John licked an available patch of skin, nipping it gently.

"Did he have anything to add?" Rodney asked.

"Add to what?"

"His treatise on writers' planning skills, or lack thereof." Tugging John with him toward the bed.

"We talk about weird things while we're having sex," John commented. "Boots," he added, when Rodney pushed him down and straddled him. They still smelled of dust and alien worlds, the death they had escaped still near to them.

"Multi-tasking?" Rodney suggested, and illustrated, tugging off John's boots even as he spread his legs, pressed his nose into his thigh, rumpling the fabric. He squeezed the tight muscles in John's calves, massaging.

"How many hands do you have?" John asked, as the second boot tumbled to the floor.

"Just the two," Rodney said, holding them up. He kicked off his own shoes. Later, John knew, he would complain about the state of the soles, but for now he was focused entirely on crawling up John's body. "Why? Do you miss having another set of hands on you?"

John could hear it, the tiny bit of something beyond curiosity. "I miss him, just like I'd miss you," he said softly.

"Just like?" Rodney asked, eyes all wide, pupils large and dark.

John nodded. "Maybe not just like," he said. There were times when he thought about David, about what might have happened if he hadn't gone back, about why the attraction was so magnetic and all encompassing. The warm thought was that Rodney had shone through it, been visible in the haze of incredible heat, and that was actually pretty comforting.

There were certain things that John just didn't say, could not imagine saying any time soon. But he wanted Rodney to know something. So he squeezed his hands, winding their fingers together, pressing palm to palm. Then he raised them to his lips and kissed the knuckles one by one.

He didn't quite make it all the way through the set. Rodney broke away, finding John's mouth, kissing it fiercely. "Wait!" John said, laughing against Rodney's stubbled cheek. "Your left pinky's going to be insulted if I don't--"

"It knows," Rodney reassured him. "It knows."

John licked his lips. "It does, huh?"

Rodney flushed and looked down. "Of course, it's my pinky, therefore it's a genius pinky."

John kissed the tip, the tiny ridge of nail. "The source of all your power, huh?" he said, sucking the finger into his mouth.

Rodney's hand slid down his face, cupping his cheek in a way that was almost too intimate. "John--"

"Fuck me," John said, suddenly, heatedly. "Now, please..."

He loved the way Rodney's eyes never failed to go wide and round, like John had just handed him some sort of precious gift. Or the way his mouth quirked up, mischievous, letting John know that Rodney was going to do wicked things to him, make him arch and moan and keen as his hips lifted off the bed. He could hand Rodney the reins for a while, and just lie back and feel good and not have to be responsible for anyone, for anything at all.

"Well," Rodney said, "if you're going to twist my arm..."

He'd been still in high school when he stopped believing that fucking was the answer to everything; despite how surprisingly fucking good it was, there was no such thing as transcendent anal sex, and taking it up the ass didn't make him better or stronger or more capable, more well-adjusted. But it did make him feel connected, here. Human.

Rodney coaxed him open and pushed inside. A bit too gentle; he was always a little too gentle--overwhelmed, maybe, by the knowledge that he had been John's first. But sometimes John wanted nothing more than to have his legs bent sharply back, to dig his heels into the points of Rodney's spine and just...get...taken. Just that; nothing else in the world but the two of them.

"Come on, come on," he said, and Rodney, balls-deep in him, actually glared. But his genius had other points of residence besides his pinky finger, because a moment later he was pulling out, torturously slow, then grabbing John's ankles and driving back into him, hands stroking up John's wide-spread thighs. John locked his legs around the small of Rodney's back and held on tight, murmuring encouraging words and obscenities, enjoying every dangerous crack of the headboard against the wall.

"You're so good," Rodney said. "So good." And John frowned, and squeezed harder.

Rodney ran a hand down the outside of John's thigh until it met ass and squeezed gently. "That's my lower back your boney ankles are digging into." But his tone was breathless, and it made John's insides a little queasy, in an oddly good way.

"Fuck. Me," John said, pushing his hips back hard with Rodney's next few thrusts.

"I am," Rodney said, leaning in, nuzzling his chest and then taking a nipple into his mouth.

"Oh," John gasped, back arching, legs falling open gracelessly, letting Rodney press in tighter.

"Yeah, that's it," Rodney said, like he had just made some Ancient device work in some thrilling new way, just made a creepy Ancient supercomputer HAL itself into oblivion, just made John curve his neck back and fist the sheets. So good, so good. Everyone, everywhere deserved to feel this good.

"Rodney," he said, "Rodney, oh," and came, and came, and let himself go.

Rodney was coming too, short jerking thrusts until he shook and collapsed, his head on John's shoulder. Rolling slightly, slipping out and repositioning his weight as John stroked the back of his neck with shaking hands. Sometimes he still got the urge to touch Rodney all over, remembering a time when he hadn't been able to touch him at all, to let them both have this.

"Fuck," John mumbled, carding his fingers through Rodney's hair before making another run down his back.

"Just did that." Rodney's head lifted off his chest and his eyes sparkled brightly. "Did I make you black out?"

John couldn't even bring himself to give Rodney the annoyed smack in the head he deserved.

"Best. Sex. Ever," Rodney said, letting his head fall back into his comfortable position near John's chin. He sighed, sated. "Ever wonder what our life would be like if we aired on some channel like Showtime?"

John scrunched up his face. "Thank you, now I have the mental image of a badly envisioned butt shot."

"You could be having sex with some horribly attractive woman even as we speak," Rodney tugged their entwined hands closer to him and returned the earlier knuckle kissing, ridge for ridge.

"But then I wouldn't be having sex with you," John said and oh God, that was horrible. Bad Lifetime made-for-TV movie dialogue.

"No." Rodney shook his head. "I'd be over there--" He pointed to John's couch. "--watching."

"Cable rocks." John smiled, rolling them over.

"You rock," Rodney said, kissing his neck and then stopping abruptly. "Oh my God, that was horrible."

"Sometimes we say dumb things," John admitted.

"I like that about you," said Rodney. "I mean, us."

John snorted.

"Hey," Rodney said, "that was a compliment. From me, that was a big compliment."

"Thank you for tolerating me," John said, wryly, rubbing a thumb along Rodney's collarbone. "Just for that, next time Showtime girl and I hook up? I'll let you join in."

"Oh, yes," said Rodney, rolling his eyes, though an odd seriousness in his voice belied his expression. "You're my hero."

John's hand stilled. "I'm not," he said, quietly, almost compulsively, "I'm not."

He could feel the sharp intake of Rodney's breath, feel Rodney's gaze traveling up his throat, along with his own slight flush. "John," Rodney said, still sounding, sometimes, like he had never said it before, "Colonel. You are who you are. This is what I've--I've thought about this a lot and, and I'm very smart, so..."

He sat up suddenly, his lips quirking into that odd crooked grin that John loved, that he had always loved, that he had liked before he had even liked Rodney. "I'm not a genius because some people in another universe that for the most part doesn't really matter very much decided I was, or because that was a role they needed filled, or because geniuses are in this year. I'm a genius because I can outthink anyone in two galaxies and suck you off at the same time, and that is something that they are never going to show on American TV. It's just something that is."

John's chest felt tight, but it wasn't a painful tightness. He let out a breath, and lay back: in his bed, in his city. In this role that he had won for himself, the product of years of hard work, his fair share of mistakes, and a whole lot of by-the-seat-of-his-pants improvisation. His.

And Rodney, too, a bonus feature, behind-the-scenes, just for him. Unplanned, unexpected, and totally unscripted.

He found Rodney's hand, wound their fingers together, skin against cloth against skin.

"Nice speech," he said.

"Thanks," said Rodney, and John had to grin, had to whack Rodney over the head with a pillow and tumble him back down to the bed. "I wrote it myself."

***

He ran his fingers over the walls. Touched them: the pads of his fingers, the palms of his hands, his forehead, the curve of his cheek. Each touch only confirmed what he already knew: the falsity, the fakeness, the not real. But still he touched, hands skittering like a blind man's, like he could find the raised ridges of a Braille message where there was none.

Plaster and plywood, this city with no ceilings.

The lights were out, the sound stage echoing and silent. He wasn't supposed to be here, technically, but if he were caught he knew all he would get would be a surprised shake of the head and an indulgent laugh. David, what are you doing here so late?

Oh, keeping a feel for things. Method, I'm so very very method. 'Though this be madness, yet there is method in't'...

He walked through the thin corridors between the walls, breathing in.

He was fine, though. He really was. It had been months since the-- He was fine.

He just needed some time, that was all.

"Forget something?"

David spun, hand clutched to his chest, jumping away from the walls. They actually weren't supposed to touch anything unless specifically scripted, it kept the maintenance down.

A figure in the shadows stepped forward easily--John? God no, David shook his head, Joe. "My mind?"

Joe pulled one of his many faces, wrinkling his brow. "Know the feeling." He was peering at David oddly, like he was trying to see something hidden over his shoulder, stare right through him. "So what's the secret?"

"Secret?" David said, in that stupid sick way he had developed, hoping, wishing that someone knew.

"Yeah," Joe said. "I received a tip--" His eyebrow shot up. "--That you've been sneaking in here after hours. I thought maybe you'd stumbled on The Box of Future Plotlines, or someone's stash of Tim Tams or something."

"Pocky," David said, going for smug. "What're you doing here, forget today's paper?"

"Yesterday's by now," Joe said, stepping closer, peering at David with open eyes. "I thought maybe you wanted to get a drink." He paused, looking at David even closer. "You look like you need one."

David grimaced and looked back at the wall he'd been petting a few moments ago. "I was just planning on going home and--"

"Drinking by yourself," Joe cut him off, looking genuinely worried. "I don't have to tell you that's not a good idea."

He had learned that it was sometimes easier to go along with someone, make them think you were agreeing, complying, than to try to argue. He'd probably bore Joe after one drink, anyway.

"All right," he said. Then, "Someplace quiet," he stipulated, lifting his chin. Crowds hadn't held the same appeal, lately.

"Fine by me," Joe said, and David knew that that was true. Joe had always been a man for the corners.

David could feel Joe watching him as they walked from the studio. "I'll follow you," David announced as they approached their cars, nearly alone in the empty lot.

Joe paused with his hand on top of his open door. "Wanna ride with me? It'll probably be safer to leave your car here overnight than behind some bar."

"So you're my designated driver now?" David said. "Thanks for the vote of confidence." But he slid into the passenger seat of Joe's car.

A small voice inside his head squeaked, 'Curses, foiled again!' Though David was pretty sure he would have chickened out of going home, because then Joe would get tenacious and just a little bit too much like his character. Like John. Like Sheppard, he corrected in his head.

"You seem really into quiet," Joe said after a few minutes.

"Quiet has a certain appeal," David said, tracing little pictures in the slightly fogging side window.

The marks looked kind of like Ancient, he thought idly. He quickly drew his hand away.

Joe was still watching him: both hands on the wheel, only one eye on the road. "You still feeling sick?" he asked.

David looked away. "No."

"I've heard that mono can last more than two months," Joe pressed. He sounded almost hopeful, like he wanted this to be the answer, the solution. "And some people relapse."

"It's not mono," David said. It had never been mono. But he didn't say that.

There were a lot of things he didn't say.

"It wasn't?" Joe asked.

David grimaced again. He hadn't actually refuted the rumors, as they were convenient and little spicy; after all, an actor comes down with the kissing disease and his girlfriend doesn't, it's just enough for people to leave you the hell alone.

And God what an irony it all was anyway.

"The flu?" Joe asked as he pulled into the parking lot of a nice classy looking bar, not the usual place the crew ended up, "You looked pretty bad there for a while. We were all worried."

Translation, not only was he being gossiped about--not unusual as he was usually the loudest and zaniest and hissy-fittingest of them all--but they were probably planning some sort of intervention. David sat up straighter. He was probably on step one at that very moment.

"I'm worried about you," Joe went on, shutting off the engine.

David didn't know what to say to that. He was worried about himself, too. And frankly, Joe giving a shit was most likely just going to confuse him more.

"I'm fine," he said, and smiled. It was a smile, he realized, that he had seen Joe's lips form when the cameras were rolling, when he was Sheppard, erecting a grin like a wall.

No wonder Joe seemed to see through it. But mercifully, he didn't say anything, just loped off toward the bar, his hands in the back pockets of his jeans. He was wearing a t-shirt and a blazer, and they flapped behind him in the wind.

Joe ordered them a couple of Molson's, although David had had his eye on some of the harder stuff. They settled into a back booth, Joe getting there first and taking the seat against the wall, looking out on the rest of the room, and leaving David nothing to look at but Joe.

He studied the molding.

"One of the writers slipped me something interesting the other day," Joe said nonchalantly.

David swallowed a mouthful of beer and went back for another.

"They said this season was all locked up, but they're looking like kids with candy, talking about this big Sheppard story line," Joe continued on, probably well aware that David was listening intently behind his beer. "Something about sneaking an arc under Brad's nose."

David breathed a strange sigh of relief; he knew Martin would get it, would see beyond the handful of pages and words to know how to properly implement it.

"Oh?" he said, "that must make a nice change for you," trying not to bring the last sentence up, into a question.

Joe made 'yup' noises, his lips slipping off the mouth of the bottle. "It is, it is." David watched him trace a circle of condensation on the wooden table, skirting around it with his finger. "I suppose I should thank you for that."

David had known that he knew. Joe had known that David had known that he knew. It all circled back in a way that, frankly, made David's head hurt.

With effort, he tilted his chin, tried to convey that Joe should thank him. "Yeah, well," he said. "You can only fly around in one of these universes for so long before wanting a turn in the driver's seat. I lasted longer than you," he pointed out, tipping his beer bottle at Joe, half a toast.

Joe saluted back, taking another quick sip before speaking. "There's just this one thing that they want to cha--"

"They can't!"

And shit, he really should have seen that coming.

Joe let his outburst sink between them, settling into the air along with a thousand other things David shouldn't say and that Joe obviously knew he wasn't saying.

"It's a great script," Joe finally said, softly this time, looking away, into the dimly lit room behind David.

David almost said, I know. Then he did say it. "I know."

It was the one thing lately that he felt good about.

Joe grinned, gaze sweeping over David's face, then down. His mouth opened and his tongue touched his lips, then withdrew. David realized he had registered this detail, and tried harder not to stare.

"There are some things," Joe said finally, slowly. "In the script. Things that I..." He trailed off.

David swallowed hard, nervous and oddly defensive. "Contradictions?" he asked, too heated, definitely defensive. So rude, to even suggest that he knew Sheppard better than Joe did. Intimately.

But Joe shook his head, an odd look in his eyes. "No," he said. "The--" his shrug looked a little stiff, "the opposite, actually." He set his beer down, his shoulders straightening as he leaned forward, toward David. "Things in my head, that I haven't told anyone."

Shrugging sheepishly David looked down at the table. "Maybe you've conveyed a lot of it on screen?"

And yeah, that sounded weak even to himself.

"David," Joe said carefully. "Not that I'm not incredibly thrilled to get handed something so--" He shrugged. "You'll get an award for it...what's the one for sci-fi stuff?"

"American or Canadian?" He didn't want an award. He didn't want it to be special or recognized, he didn't want to talk about it in interviews and endless conventions. But he would if it meant it got made.

Joe must have recognized his lack of enthusiasm, because he let the subject of awards abruptly drop. Not that his next question was really preferable. "Why Sheppard?" he asked, quietly.

David's initial seconds of not answering stretched into more, until Joe eventually, needlessly clarified, "And not McKay?"

"Well, I know about McKay," David said finally. "I...I wanted to see if I could figure Sheppard out."

Joe nodded, but David had no idea what he was agreeing to. "Seems to me," he said, "that you had some theories to begin with."

David shrugged, yet another in an increasingly lengthy serious of meaningless gestures.

Joe was worrying his lip between his teeth. Suddenly he looked up, said, "David--did something--"

"What?" Dully.

"It's just..." His hand rose, then fell back against the table. He squinted at him. "Are you sure you're all right? You...you look really pale."

In some odd way, he was pleased to be asked. Still, "I'm fine," he said. "I'm fine, John, really."

The silence after his pronouncement was startling and it took half a second for him to realize that--

"John?" Joe asked, putting his beer down, now not even trying to hide the worry.

"Oh, please," David waved a dismissive hand. "Not like you didn't call me McKay for months." Desperate for it all to sound normal, David swallowed the rest of his beer, wondering if he could order another without that being scrutinized thoroughly as well.

"Yeah, but I was the new kid on the block," Joe said, raising a hand to the waiter who had magically appeared. "Another for my friend here." She nodded and left and David was pretty impressed with the multi-tasking, he hadn't been up to anything that complex in a little while. "All you Canadians knew each other; it was like joining this annoyingly mellow club."

"You're complaining about mellow?" Because honestly. Joe didn't have a leg to stand on. Even when he played bad, there was mellow.

"I'm complaining about the fact that I keep buying you beer, but you apparently don't even know my name." Joe nudged his foot under the table--a kick, really; yes, a kick, and David tried very hard not to blush, not to lose himself in memory. "You don't even call me--Sheppard--John on the show."

"Why are we even still talking about this?" David asked, gratefully filling his hand with the newly-arrived bottle. "It was a slip of the tongue."

"You've done it before," Joe said. Very simply, laying it out there on the table. "A lot. But only recently." Joe took a long, slow sip of beer. "You gonna tell me what's going on?"

No. Never. Ever, ever, ever. He hadn't even told Paul, who David had noticed was looking at him with more and more concern. "I'm an actor, I get moody."

"Are you..." Joe looked at him earnestly, so very earnestly, "confused?"

Confused? What? Oh. He lifted his chin, mildly insulted. "I'm fine." Confused was actually a pretty good word, just not the way Joe had meant it.

Joe blinked at him and sipped his beer slowly. "You're not fine."

David rotated his finger, a bored, sweeping loop. "This conversation is going in circles. What do you want me to say?" What do you want from me? he thought.

He wasn't even going to touch what he might want from Joe: Be him, be him. Just for a minute. Pretend.

That was the worst. Like the times when he was almost able to convince himself that none of it had been real. That urge, that longing to live the lie. To love it.

Joe held up his hands: an apology. "Nothing. Sorry. Drink up. Relax."

He couldn't relax. There was no way this, any of this, was going to end well.

Joe watched him drink for a little while more before moving on. "Rumor has it you've been flying to L.A. on some of your days off."

David winced and wondered if power chugging the rest of the second bottle would get him more worried looks or fewer. "Is that a crime?"

"You're not," Joe said anxiously, "setting me up for some kick-ass season-long arc that diverts attention away from the fact that you're leaving the show only to come in for something at the end and devastate us all with a goodbye? I heard about the whole Shanks saga you know."

David swallowed. Because in some genuinely selfish and tired moments he thought about it. Hard.

"Fuck, David, are you?" Joe took away his beer bottle, holding it close to his chest when David reached for it.

"No!" he finally burst out, "I could never leave--" You. Him. Fuck. "Never."

Silently, Joe slid the beer bottle back across the table. "Thank you," he said after a minute, oddly sincere. "I appreciate that."

"You'd be fine without me," David grumbled, embarrassed that he'd shown his hand. All his cards on the table.

"I don't know," Joe said, like it was a relatively recent thought. "What you wrote..." He rubbed at his neck. "I'm excited and grateful, I am, but to be honest it freaked me out a little bit, David."

David concentrated on the silver and blue paper he was peeling off of the bottle. He knew he should make a joke. He said, "Why?"

"You come up with ideas, stories, backgrounds. Reasons," Joe said, taking the bottle away from David again. "Things you tell yourself to help you understand the things the writers won't tell you, or decide about. Things that eventually sort of filter through and that you push and press and hope make it to paper in some form."

David nodded. Sometime early on he'd imagined that Rodney had worked hard, not just because he was a genius and he was bored where he was, but to get out of his parents house as early as possible. It just seemed right.

"A lot of the little shit, the funny logic, the minutiae, you don't tell people," Joe continued.

David looked away because he knew, though he'd hoped that Joe would sort of shrug it off.

"How?" he asked softly. "David, there's a lot of shit that's going on and I'm worried, we're all worried, but this? This makes me think I've been working in sci-fi too long."

"Barely two years," David muttered. And he hadn't lived it. At least, not directly.

David was the only link.

"Did you get me drunk?" Joe asked suddenly.

"What?" said David. "Now?"

"No, no--some other time, did you get me drunk, did I tell you all this stuff?"

The suggestion...would have been kind of insulting, actually, if Joe had looked remotely like he believed it. David knew that feeling, grasping at straws.

"Sorry," he said, "no," and had an odd moment of wondering what would have happened if Joe had hung around long enough to join David in Torri's purple shots.

Maybe in some other universe, he had.

"You're not going to tell me, are you?" Joe said. He sighed, getting to his feet, tossing a wad of cash on the table. "All right, fine. Come on."

David stood slowly, two beers, empty stomach, still actually a little sick, who was he fooling anyway? He was fine following Joe out, but somewhere in the parking lot he tripped over a curb and stumbled.

"Whoa," Joe said, curving an arm around his back, "I know you're not a lightweight. Were you drinking before we left the lot?"

God, they even smelled the same. David wasn't stupid, they weren't the same; he could see it in every movement Joe made or sentence he uttered. But pressed against David's side, breath puffing gently on his neck, it all felt the same. "No," he said faintly, possibly breathlessly. "Wasn't drinking." David dragged his face up to look at Joe, heart hammering heavily. "I'm good," he said, pulling away, practically wrenching his body to the side and nearly stumbling again.

Joe reached out and caught him once more. "David?"

God. The night was moving from stupid to dangerous. "Need sleep," he said stiffly, and made it the rest of the way to the car without wavering, without looking back.

Joe pulled smoothly out of the lot, his hands moving with careful confidence--well below the legal limit, was Joe. David felt an odd stab of resentment: for Joe, who never had anyone question his drinking habits, who had his nice, simple, normal life, and no flights of fancy, psychotic episodes. No other lives that he had had to give up, leave behind.

Then he turned to David and smiled, not so confident, shaky and unsure. "If you change your mind, decide you do want to tell me...whatever it is. Well. I will listen."

"Thanks," David said, after a moment, surprised to find that maybe, maybe he meant it.

It wasn't that late, but they were driving through a mostly residential neighborhood and the streets were deserted. Joe stopped at a traffic light, and they sunk into that strange period of solitary waiting: the only car on the road, and two people in it, not talking.

David slumped uncomfortably in his seat. The red glow of the stoplight was casting odd shadows and reflections on Joe's profile; David couldn't help being reminded of spiraling up into space with John at his side, the HUD gleaming off his pale skin and the warm stretch of his neck. He felt the side of his mouth quirk up and felt for the first time that he might start being able to appreciate it like that, as a good memory, something to make him smile as he waited for the light to change.

Joe's shoulders rolled a little, and then he was looking over at him. For a moment their eyes locked. David felt suddenly vulnerable, exposed, but he couldn't look away.

The light shifted over to green. They didn't move. In the dark, tight space of the front seat, Joe's eyes had gone wide.

David opened his mouth to say something, anything, deny, confirm, spill it all in long sentences where he ran out of breath and didn't look Joe in the eye, but decided against it, clicking his jaw shut hard.

The light changed and the color of Joe's skin went red and then redder as David could see the blush rise on his cheeks. The car moved forward a few inches as Joe absently attempted to trigger the light again. "Is this why-- Is that-- David?"

Part of him still wanted to laugh it off. To chuckle and pull a funny face--Got you! Joe wouldn't be able to refute it. Not out loud, anyway.

But there were lies within lies, and there was one truth, at least, that he wanted known.

"It's not you," he said. Joe looking at him, nervous and intent, not quite pressed up against the far side of the car, but close. "It's really not."

Joe didn't say anything. He was smart, though. He'd figure it out.

The light turned green. Joe's eyes swiveled forward; the car purred back into motion. Sliding across the intersection, then over, stopping against the curb on the other side.

They sat in silence for a while, without even the changing of the light to help show the passage of time.

Finally, "It's not going to be a problem," David said, taking his chin off his forearm, at the same time Joe said, "In a weird way, it actually makes..." trailing off awkwardly when his were the words that lingered, into silence again.

"You really don't know anything about it," David heard himself say, a little snappishly.

"No, I don't," Joe said.

His implication was clear. "But you'd like to," David said. Voice flat: he didn't believe it, not for a second. Joe had no idea what he was asking, what he was getting himself into.

"Yes," he said, hand splayed on the wheel. "As your, as your friend..."

David's head rolled on his neck, turning, staring Joe down. "Is that what we are? Friends?"

Joe shrugged. It was weird on set. Something about the dynamic: if you didn't loathe or love each other, it was always something odd and in-between. Closer than colleagues. Not quite...whatever.

"I," Joe said. "I want things to be okay between us." His hands squeezed the wheel, knuckles whitening. David could still see John's hands, loose and easy on the jumper controls. He would always see them, whenever they filmed one of those scenes, and in other contexts, completely unexpected.

Joe said, "I want you to be okay."

David stared down at his own hands. "I will be," he said, after a minute. "Give me time."

And he really did believe that. He had to.

But he looked up and caught Joe watching him. Nothing like the expression Joe had captured on his own face, earlier, but still. Enough. Enough to make him wonder.

It wasn't (was it?) Joe that he wanted, but still he could see how it would be. If things were different. If David were bolder, or drunker, or more careless, insane. If he leaned forward and pressed his lips to Joe's, showed him exactly what it was he knew: intimately, how that body liked to be kissed.

If Joe didn't pull away. If his mouth opened under David's, needy and wanting. If they kissed and kissed, like he and John had that first night (taking the guitar pick back from his mouth); if they kissed until John's taste blurred with Joe's, until David didn't know one from the other anymore. Or he did know, and he didn't care, and he could be happy with what he had.

If they went back to David's empty bedroom, and David relearned Joe's body while Joe taught himself David's. If he fell asleep with his head snug against Joe's shoulder, blocking out the traffic, the distracting city sounds, until he heard nothing but another heartbeat and the lulling rumble of the ocean waves.

And then in the morning, David would make coffee, and he would sit Joe down--on the couch, yes--on the couch, they would sit together while David told Joe everything and Joe looked at him with belief in his eyes. Belief, and wonder.

Maybe in some universe, they did just that.

But in this one, at this very moment Joe sighed and pulled the car out of park. "Do me a favor and call Paul, okay? Because if I'm part of the problem, then at least find someone who isn't."

That's the rub though, there really wasn't anyone who wasn't. David nodded anyway.

His house loomed, large and empty outside of his window. "Thanks," David said, reaching for the door handle.

"David?"

"Hmm?" He'd forgotten to unbuckle his belt, his hands pushed at the button, shaking just a little, he actually missed the button the first try but then--

--then Joe's hands were there, and the thing just clicked open easy as pie and their hands slid together, fingers sliding over David's knuckles and he sucked in a breath of surprise.

But that's all it was, a colleague, a friend, helping his friend out of a tight spot. And it would be wrong of him--unfair to them both--to make it into anything more.

He got out of the car. "Goodnight, Joe," he called, and Joe said, "Goodnight."

David turned his back on his wave.

Inside the house, he walked through the rooms, running his hands over the furniture, over all the little objects he had collected: his life. He touched photographs and tchotchkes, scraps of paper and keepsakes he kept for reasons his couldn't recall. He touched the rack of tools by the fireplace, still missing the poker he kept meaning to get replaced, though he never quite got around to it.

He looked around him and what he saw did not make him unhappy. It didn't make him feel much of anything at all.

One thing still called to him, however. Warm and welcoming, like an open doorway, awaiting his passage.

The numbers on his clock clicked over into the new hour.

David lay down on his couch, and he dreamed.

THE END