Black Hole Son

by Whizzy

Series: Part 8 of the Black Helicopters series (on AO3)

Pairing: McShep

Words: 2055

Rating: G

Warnings: no AO3 warnings apply

Notes: John isn't dead but he was declared MIA quite some time earlier, so his family think he is.

It was the first time Rodney had bought flowers for anyone, but, like the rest of the crazy venture, the purchase had been an impulse. And by the time he'd reached for his wallet, it would have been too awkward to back out of the transaction despite his misgivings.

The street vendor had said, "I'm sure she'll love them," as if he'd pegged Rodney as a reluctant suitor who could use a nice, friendly bit of man-to-man encouragement.

Gathering the unwieldy bouquet of red roses in his arms, Rodney had replied, "No, I'm sure he won't. In fact, I hope to god he never finds out about this."

**

He could always blame the roses on Valentine's Day. Once he'd thought about it, some other type of flower would have been more appropriate. Carnations or... or lilies, yeah, lilies were sort of classy. But the hustlers had been out in droves, trying to push their insipid, made-up holiday on people who ought to have known better, damn it. He'd had the lure of convenience working against him, too, and in a moment of weakness Rodney had fallen prey.

White lilies might even have blended in with the snow, allowing him enough time to escape the whole bizarre confrontation.

**

The greatest blame went to the Washington Metropolitan Area Transit Authority, which had conspired to put the Pentagon, Rodney's hotel, and the cemetery all on the same Metro line.

Christ, it would be Arlington, wouldn't it? No other cemetery would have been prestigious enough to accommodate Captain John F. Sheppard's empty casket, not with John's father at the helm of the funeral arrangements. It even almost managed to make sense, given that the Sheppard estate was a paltry fifty miles distant. DC was practically their back yard.

He'd resisted for the first two days of the meetings, aided by a tight schedule and a lack of daylight beyond the standard work day. But by the third—his impressive advancements in the field of non-nuclear EMP not withstanding—they'd been ready to toss him out the door. Even Major Davis had been unable to make the morning session appear to be anything other than a formality, and Rodney had been cut loose with hours to burn before he needed to be at the airport to catch his flight back to the SGC.

And there it had been: Arlington National Cemetery.

Still, he might have let the subway doors rattle shut, and the station creep past the windows, gradually accelerating until it was nothing but a blur of motion like the rest of the landscape—if he hadn't already had the damned flowers.

**

The middle of February wasn't prime tourist season. Only two other people exited the train with Rodney: women, one elderly, and one closer to his age. They didn't have the bearing of sightseers, and Rodney wondered what story they belonged to. When he noticed older one looking in his direction, he realized that he was just as much an enigma—a man alone, dressed in tidy business clothes and wrapped in a long dark coat against the cold.

Then there were the roses.

"Oh, I wish we'd remembered to bring flowers."

Unthinking, Rodney approached, tugging one loose from the bouquet. "Please," he said, placing it in her hands.

She gave him a courageous smile in return.

**

The map was already in his head, so he knew which of the neatly cleared paths to take, which turns to make at the junctions. When he reached section 60, he didn't bother counting, just moved down the rows: World War II, Korea, Vietnam. The names on the tombstones grew more crisp, less softened by age. Young graves, and young casualties.

Half way along that last row, he found it, though he crouched to brush the crust of snow off the marble for confirmation.

"Hello, John."

**

After debating for a moment, he unwrapped the roses, mindful not to tear his gloves on the thorns, and folded the cellophane to stick in his pocket. The crinkling sound was overly loud, almost embarrassingly so, except there was no one else around to hear it.

"So, I don't want to examine too closely what it says about me that the most romantic gesture I've ever made is to stick flowers on the grave of my–"

Of the man I–

"Screw it—here."

He crouched again, digging out a little hollow so they wouldn't scatter if the wind picked up, and nestled them against the tombstone.

Only eleven. Not that John would mind. Rodney would be the one bothered by the inelegance of an uneven number.

He would have to make good on the twelfth, someday.

**

"You know, now that I'm here, I have to admit that this is every bit as creepy and stalker-ish as I'd feared. I mean, it's not like the Air Force is going to let this plot to go waste. Eventually—I'm talking way distant future, after decades of peaceful retirement—I'd imagine they're going to bury you here for real. Therefore, I am literally standing on your grave, and if it's this unsettling when it's empty, I really, really don't want to be here when it isn't.

"If that means I have to go first, well, I can live with that.

"Of course, you'll be pissed. And I'll be glad I won't be around to see that, either."

**

The cold wasn't bothering him, so he had no reason to leave. He had no reason to stay, either, short of settling on the tombstone for a protracted conversation, a notion he'd dismissed at once as too irreverent.

He didn't know what he was waiting for. Maybe darkness to descend, and the gates to close.

It was another mourner who finally interrupted his reverie. Rodney didn't wish to intrude, or be intruded upon, so he began to drift away as soon as he noticed the second man approaching down the aisle. Like Rodney, he was well-dressed, with the addition of a fashionable scarf that was so long its ends nearly swept the ground. He also had a map, which he consulted often, and Rodney was only half-surprised when he called out, "Ah, excuse me."

Rodney could have kept going, pretending he hadn't heard. Instead, he turned back, meeting the man at the end of the row. The numbering system for the plots wasn't complicated, and it wouldn't hurt anything to spare a minute to point the man in the right direction.

But the man reached out his hand for Rodney to tentatively shake, saying, "Dave Sheppard. Were you a friend of my brother?"

**

The fresh footprints leading right up to John's grave would have given him away, Rodney realized, even if the incriminating splash of color hadn't.

"Ah..."

Brother? Oh fuck, John's brother?

What were the chances?

Rodney cleared his throat. "Yes. Yes, I am. Was."

"Please," Dave motioned, "you needn't leave on my account."

"No, no, it's perfectly all right. I'm– I was just–"

"Please," Dave said again, and Rodney joined him to stand before John's grave.

**

"I'm sorry, I don't recall you from the funeral, Mr..."

"McKay. Dr Rodney McKay," Rodney said, unthinking. The roses really were inappropriate, weren't they? "I, er– Unfortunately, I was out of the country at the time."

"Ah."

"Could I ask you to speak up just a bit? I've been having a little trouble with my hearing."

"Of course."

**

Dave Sheppard didn't resemble John very much. Rodney wouldn't have been able to pick him out of a crowd, and he hadn't had any forewarning at all just to look at the man.

He didn't know what to say. He never knew what to say in uncomfortable social situations.

Come to think, that was probably what made them uncomfortable.

"So, younger brother?" he guessed.

"Four years." Dave was regarding the tombstone with an expression Rodney couldn't hope to decipher.

"There are six between my sister and myself," Rodney offered for no reason that he could fathom.

**

"Did you... know my brother well?"

Dave was watching him expectantly, and every second Rodney delayed was an invitation for him to draw his own erroneous conclusions.

"I thought I did. Then, about a month ago–" A month ago, John had been dead for two years. "I... learned something about him that caught me unprepared. All the time we spent together, all the conversations we shared, and he never betrayed himself. I can't help wondering what else he's successfully hidden from me."

"John was a chameleon by nature, good at limiting what others saw," Dave agreed. "If you don't mind my asking, what did you learn?"

"It's unimportant," Rodney said, and the lie lingered between them, a puff of crystalline breath in the clear afternoon air.

**

"I'm a civilian contractor for the Air Force." It sounded so pretentious to say it aloud. "I was assigned to work with Ma– with John on a few projects."

Oh god, he had to remember: Captain Sheppard.

"I guess you could call it one of those monumental cases of being in the right place at the right time—or the wrong place at the wrong time, from John's perspective—but I sort of accidentally saved his life. Then, naturally, John had to show me up by saving mine right back. And, well, you know how it is. You can't help but form bonds out of experiences like that."

Dave had his hands thrust deep in his coat pockets, his arms straight and his back unnaturally stiff. "That's just the thing, Dr. McKay. I don't know. John never mentioned- None of us were particularly diligent with our correspondence."

"He wouldn't have mentioned it," Rodney excused. "Wouldn't have been able. The work I do is classified."

**

"The flowers are thoughtful. John would have liked them."

No, he wouldn't.

"I haven't visited in too long, and our father... he buried more than a son that day. He refused to speak of John for years, until recently. Something changed, I don't know what, but it's made me... think."

Rodney shuffled in place, seeking refuge in silence. It was one thing invade the privacy of the dead, but he was going to have to see John tomorrow, and look him the eye as if nothing had happened.

"I wish the rift between them could have been addressed while John was still alive."

**

"John explained it to me, once. He adhered to the spirit of our father's plan for him, but rebelled over the details, just to remind them both that he could. The Air Force was different, the first thing he actually wanted for himself, the first thing that was worth fighting for."

"Yes, that's John." When he threw his heart into something, he would win out or he would go down trying. And god preserve the fool who tried to stand in his way.

"Since military service had been our father's idea in the first place, he dismissed John's decision as yet another frivolous display of independence. Discovering that John was serious came as a shock, but it was too late by then. The damage had already been done."

Maybe they were only half brothers. That would explain the lack of resemblance, and maybe some other things as well. "I'm sorry, but why are you telling me this? It doesn't feel like it's any of my business."

"Missing pieces. I assume we each have some that the other would like."

**

"Well, it was nice meeting you, Mr. Sheppard. I'm afraid I really should be leaving. I have to catch an evening flight back to Colorado, and I still need to swing by the hotel. But it was good seeing this... reminder." He couldn't help reaching out to lay his hand briefly against the stone's face.

"Likewise, Dr. McKay. But before you go, may I ask you something?"

Rodney braced himself. "Yes."

"Was my brother content?"

God, if only he knew, he wouldn't be so afraid that this thing he had with John would revert to the way it had been, as easily as it had slipped over the edge in the first place. "I'm not... sure I'm the right person to ask."

Dave had his head tipped back, gazing up at the sky. "You're the only person to ask."

–End–