Blackout Conditions

By Whizzy

Pairing: McShep

Words: 102,060

Rating: Explicit

Series: Part 7 of the Black Helicopters series (on AO3)

Summary: Given the level of secrecy and security blanketing the place, Area 51 itself was a bit of a letdown. The collection of utilitarian buildings wouldn't have looked out of place in any military installation Rodney had ever seen. There were no flying saucers parked on the tarmac; there were no aliens roaming the halls. (Okay, not that he could tell. The vast majority of aliens that Rodney had met looked human enough at first glance. And he knew that at least a few, like Teal'c, had been granted permission to live and work on Earth.)

No, the strangest thing about Area 51 was that it didn't feel strange at all. Here he was, in the mecca of conspiracies and illicit government research—inside the very shadow institution that not so long ago, a lifetime apart, he'd striven to expose—and Rodney just... fit in, from day one. It was like coming home.

(Well, to be honest, it was more like waking up on Christmas and discovering a Cray-2 supercomputer under the tree, when you'd asked Santa for a Commodore 64.)

Part 1

Inside the great house, the party was winding down. The dessert buffet was in shambles. Case after case of champagne bottles stood empty, and the obsequious catering staff no longer circulated with trays of delicacies, but instead made the rounds collecting abandoned china and crystal from every available surface.

The lipstick smears staining many of the champagne flutes tended toward a deep, lavish red, in honor of the season; the dregs of liquid left in some caught the reflection of thousands of fragile white lights. Garlands literally decked the halls, and no fewer than three towering Christmas trees spilled a bounty of presents, all as artfully decorated but ultimately empty as the house itself.

Amid the bustle of departing guests, it had been simple for the two distinguished gentlemen to don their coats and slip outside.

The garden was also on display, swathed in lights, though the spectacle was intended to be viewed at a distance, from inside the warmth of the house. The men had to wend their way cautiously over the web of extension cords that crisscrossed the brittle, dormant grass, but there was no better place to speak without the chance of being overheard.

It had yet to snow, so early in December, but the weather was crisp enough to herald the possibility. The shorter man's words frosted upon contact with the air, shrouding his face in billowy puffs. "I would like to take the opportunity to congratulate you properly, Senator Kinsey." His smile was a paradigm of irony; earlier in the evening, he'd exhibited his guest of honor to the vibrant applause of the assembled partygoers. "Or, I should say, Vice President-elect Kinsey."

"I couldn't have done it without the support and backing of yourself and other upstanding citizens like you," the politician replied by rote, accepting the nondescript white envelope that was offered to him. He lifted the flap to peek inside, and his eyebrows arched when he read the check: double the usual amount.

His companion said, equally smooth, "I only wish that I could have done more."

Kinsey tucked the envelope inside his tuxedo jacket. The false burnish left his voice, and he mused, "It's one step closer to the Oval Office. I don't consider it a setback. I'll be in a good position."

"Poised for the presidency?"

"That too. But I was thinking more along the lines of being able to repay some favors," he said slyly.

"Well, you know that with me you needn't–"

Kinsey stalled him with a raised hand. "As an entrepreneur, you've never disguised the fact that you view certain aspects of our relationship like any business venture."

A shrug. "I've been in business long enough to know that not all ventures pan out."

"This one has." Kinsey slowed and swung around, bringing them more or less face to face. "And I feel it's time you saw some benefit from your... investment."

The other man studied him closely for a moment before relenting, "Since you insist."

"There are still some specifics to iron out with my... associates, but I can leave you tonight with the assurance that it will be well worth your wait."

"Thank you, Senator. I've said it before, and it bears repeating: You're an incredibly refreshing man to work with, both a statesman and a realist."

"And you do your country proud, a true patriot."

They shook hands as if sealing an agreement before turning back for the house.

~~

Two evenings later, in a dim, richly-appointed study, a phone rang.

The man at the desk placed his glass on an embossed leather coaster and reached for the receiver.

[I got your message. You wanted to speak to me?]

"Is this a secure line?"

[Of course.]

"Good." These calls were risky and prone to interruption, so there was no preamble. "You know that since the deposition of The Committee, it's been harder and harder to secure funding for our... interests."

An exaggerated sigh reminded that this was a stale topic. [Yes.]

"There is an individual who has made significant contributions to our cause."

[And to your campaign coffers, no doubt.]

"That too." Kinsey gave a don't-you-think-you're-so-clever chuckle. "He wasn't guaranteed a return on his investment, but nevertheless, I believe he should see some benefit in maintaining relations with our organization. I want to open discussions about bringing him on board. He could be a valuable asset to cultivate."

[You know how to do that, through the official channels. Why are you telling me?]

The politician swiveled his chair, reclining a little. "I want to see if you can find something nice for him. Just a little gift, a gesture of good will. An incentive. And doctor, I'm sure I don't need to remind you that I had to pull quite a few strings on your behalf to get the Gateship Project re-opened."

[Fine, I'll do it. Which of our little toys might interest him?]

"He's in the energy business."

There was a thoughtful pause. Then, [Do you remember when I said that the Gateship Project came bundled with a... complication this time around?]

"I remember hearing you say that you were handling it."

[I am. I'm trying. But ever since McKay pulled that little stunt with the Goa'uld, he's been the darling of the fucking SGC. I'm not sure how long I can keep his hands tied.]

Kinsey reasoned, "I did my part. He's your problem, not mine."

[No, no. That is... your request gave me an idea. I think I've just devised a solution.]

"See, I knew that brain you like to flaunt had to be good for something besides embezzlement. Keep this up and you might lose that reputation as a one-trick pony."

[I'll work on the details and get back to you when everything is in place,] the man grumbled, unwilling to be goaded no matter how much Kinsey pushed.

"I expect news soon," Kinsey said, and dropped the receiver back on its cradle.

But not before his caller had managed to hang up on him first.

~~

Two Weeks Earlier

~~

Rodney owned a perfectly serviceable suit. It had made the rounds at countless industry conventions, and even the occasional dinner party or award ceremony. It had garnered many compliments; once, a passably attractive systems analyst said nice things about it even as he'd been working to strip Rodney out of it, before tumbling them on to a passably comfortable hotel bed. And while Rodney wouldn't go so far as to say that the way his shoulders filled out the suit jacket had earned him that passably gratifying sex, well... it sure hadn't hurt his chances, either.

Of course, the suit had gone into storage along with most of the possessions John had allowed him to load on the helicopter and cart down from Canada. It had taken protracted nagging and whining to get it excavated from wherever it had been languishing—doubtless the SGC had storage space for that sort of thing. Hell, between the security choke-point and the lower levels where he worked and ate and slept, there were entire floors Rodney had never even visited. Someone could inform him that the SGC had the ark of the freaking covenant stashed in a vault on level seventeen, and Rodney honestly wouldn't know whether or not to believe them.

Because seriously? The popular artistic representation of the ark did look an awful lot like a Goa'uld naquadah bomb.

Anyway... the suit.

John had taken one look at it, and the damnedest thing was that he hadn't said a word. He'd just set his mouth in an inscrutable line, pretended to let the matter drop, then dragged Rodney out shopping at the earliest opportunity. 

The store had been one of those places without price tags on anything, where you had to select what you wanted to purchase and then wait a couple weeks before you could actually take it home, and the minute you stepped in the door you acquired an absolute limpet of a salesman whose "job" was to hold up different fabrics under your chin and gush about how fabulously the color complimented you.

"That tie could be the color of the mold that forms on a week old coffee filter you forgot to remove from the pot before going out of town and he'd still say it 'really brings out the blue in my eyes'. No shit. My eyes are blue; I have blue eyes. There's nothing else to bring out of them," Rodney had sulked, waiting for another salesman to come over with a tailor's tape and vex him by reading his measurements aloud.

John had only made a noncommittal sound, engrossed as he'd been in comparing several apparently identical samples of dark wool cloth.

"Fine. This was your idea. You deal with the sales barnacle from now on."

And John had—right up until it had been time to pay for the suit. Then he'd been conspicuously absent from the vicinity when Rodney had learned how much the damned thing was going to cost.

In retaliation, Rodney had flogged the topic to death for a solid two weeks, during which John had blithely refused to be the least bit contrite.

"Seriously, I paid less for my first car."

"Then your first car was a piece of crap."

"Okay... maybe it was, a little. That's not the point!"

"Suck it up, McKay. You're getting hazard pay now. I know you can afford it."

The problem was, it was entirely possible that the suit was worth its entirely exorbitant price. Rodney had waited until he was certain that John would be occupied elsewhere, then modeled it in their quarters, in private. And damn. Just... damn. Checking the fit in front of the mirror, he'd dimly recalled that in addition to handling the salesman, John had also steered the selection process and made all of the final decisions. The bastard knew an awful lot about dressing well, considering that the only suit Rodney had seen him wear was a one-piece sage green number that zipped up from the crotch.

Reluctantly, he'd returned the suit to its garment bag, and himself to his uniform. But even that small taste of the amazing suit had planted ideas in his head. He'd flirted with the notion of wearing it out—not just outside of the base, but capital Out—the sorts of places well-heeled adults patronized during the fashionable evening hours. Nice restaurants, maybe the symphony or a reception at a local gallery. The setting was incidental to his fantasies. The key ingredients were the suit, himself, and a particular dark-haired companion, who would remain aloof while paying his compliments surreptitiously with his eyes.

It figured that by the third memorial service, the suit had acquired such strong connotations of death and loss that Rodney couldn't conceive of wearing it anywhere else.

He had attended the first out of curiosity. To him, Senior Airman Wells had been little more than a name and a pang of regret. It had been... interesting. Somber.

The whole base had turned out for the second; the gateroom could only hold so many, and Rodney had been among the overflow lining the corridors outside. The SGC had lost an entire gate team in one horrific, senseless accident. These were people Rodney had accompanied off-world. He'd weathered their good-natured jokes in the locker room, accepted their protection in the field; and for one shining, fleeting afternoon, he'd been welcomed into their camaraderie. Then, less than a month later, they were gone.

Such a goddamned waste.

The third was Sergeant Kemp.

Like all the members of SG-15, he'd contracted the virus along with Rodney on P3X-423. And, just like the rest of SG-15, he'd put up a hell of a fight. He'd struggled in the infirmary for days, hooked up to Fraiser's best machines, pumped full of Fraiser's best drugs, plus all the antibody serum Rodney could give. But in the end, he hadn't been strong enough, or stubborn enough, or just plain lucky enough.

So it was back in the funeral suit. Rodney was searching for his tie when there was a knock outside his quarters. Opening the door, he was somewhat surprised to discover John hovering on the other side. "Oh. Come in." He slid back, making room.

"I– No, I shouldn't." Still, John swayed over the threshold like he couldn't help himself. "It's nearly time. We should be getting down there," he excused, resting his gaze with cautious neutrality on the door frame.

I guess that answers that question: far from normal. Between the medical examinations and the mental evaluations and the endless meetings, Rodney had seen little of John since they'd returned from the extraction ceremony on the Tok'ra home world... damn, had it only been three days ago? It was almost as if the entire base was wary of leaving them unsupervised so soon after their "shared ordeal", as the twit in the white coat had termed it, right before he'd asked how Rodney felt about it. 

Rodney had told him, in blunt, excruciating detail, what it was like to have an alien parasite burrow in through the back of your neck and take control of your body, leaving you a helpless but fully observant passenger. Then, while the man still looked green around the edges, Rodney had stood and calmly offered to reply to any further questions that were posed to him in the form of an e-mail, but adamantly refused to waste any more time chatting in the office, seeing as how his ordeal had interrupted work on numerous important projects that he needed to return to posthaste.

Translation: Fuck you and the psychiatric couch you rode in on.

John had probably fared worse. In addition to the Goa'uld hostile takeover—which in his case had been somewhat voluntary, how fucked up was that?—John would have been expected to answer for the suicidal-solo-rescue-mission-undertaken-against-implicit-orders thing. It was no wonder he still seemed... off, as if he was wearing his own skin like a costume. An artful, delicate costume, in danger of being dislodged or damaged if he didn't treat it gingerly.

"We would get down there sooner if you'd help me find my tie," Rodney reasoned, trying to coax John inside. He turned his back to resume his search. It worked; the door snicked shut, and when he glanced out of the corner of his eye, John was standing on the desired side of it. 

"Where have you looked?" he offered.

"Everywhere."

"You mean... everywhere except wherever it's hiding." As retorts went, it was lackluster, well below John's usual standards. However, the trace of a smile almost made up for it.

Rodney gave up, heart thudding oddly in his chest, and ambled over. John was so very much more interesting than a tie. And John in his service blues? More interesting than pretty much everything in the history of ever. "If you're holding out on me, now would be a good time to come clean."

John ducked his head away, sheepish, or possibly... guilty? No, not that. It had to be something else.

Aw, hell. "I didn't, um– Didn't mean it that way. I figured that since we were still sharing quarters the last time I wore it, you might remember where I'd stashed it, or something. It totally wasn't a lame attempt to– They, ah, made me talk to the base shrink," he admitted.

"Yeah. Me too," came out soft, almost husky.

Rodney's hands fidgeted. He twisted them together. "The verdict is that I'm okay. You know, for going back to work.

"Same here. Well, psychologically. Verdict's still out from a security standpoint, considering how badly I was compromised."

"The funny part is, even though the thing with the Goa'uld completely and utterly sucked, I can't even say that it ranked among my most traumatic lifetime experiences. I mean, for life-altering devastation, try being an eleven year old piano prodigy who's just been informed by his instructor that his playing is, quote, technically perfect but passionless. Of course, even though I gave up playing that day, my parents refused to sell the piano. It skulked in the living room for years, a constant reminder of my failed ambitions."

John's eyebrows pinched together in the way that signaled either confusion or irritation—Rodney had a fifty-fifty chance. "Wait... what? A piano prodigy? You?"

"I won competitions and major awards," Rodney sniffed. "There were going to be scholarships. Then... poof. Gone. I guess what I'm trying to say is... the truth hurts most when you learn it for the first time from someone else, someone you respect and trust. That damned Goa'uld couldn't tell me anything about myself that I didn't already know, and everything it said was motivated by malice. It didn't... upset me so much as make me really fucking angry. So." He stared at John expectantly.

John blinked right back at him.

Oh shit, this actually had turned into a lame attempt to drag answers out of John. But he couldn't just ask if John was being aloof and strange with everyone, or if it was personal.

The week John had spent co-inhabiting his mind with a sadistic and downright loquacious alien parasite was bound to have screwed him up in general. But matters were complicated by the fact that the same Goa'uld had also taken a jaunt through Rodney's head. It knew things about him that should have remained between Rodney and Rodney's right hand and Rodney's dick in the dark. The question was whether or not the snake had taken a break from harvesting John's military secrets to amuse itself playing show and tell with Rodney's dirty laundry—although it was hard to imagine the little fucker resisting the opportunity. 

Damage control was impossible without knowing the extent of the overshare. And the last thing Rodney wanted to do was admit he'd noticed the new, painfully awkward reserve in their interactions if John was trying to cope by pretending that everything was cool and normal. God, he couldn't think he was succeeding... could he? Either way, he wouldn't thank Rodney for blowing his cover.

That settled it: the only course of action was to humor him and play along.

"Er... it's getting late. My tie?"

John looked tremendously relieved when he suggested, "Have you tried with your underwear?"

"Why on Earth would I put it– Huh. Maybe when I was throwing everything together to move." Rodney pulled out the drawer and dumped the contents onto his bed. Six months ago, he would have been deeply embarrassed by the thought of John browsing through his unmentionables. But that had been before he'd been desensitized by life in the SGC. Now... hell. He didn't own an article of clothing that didn't have his name on it, so that it wouldn't get lost in the communal laundry service. "Here. Start digging."

Wandering over, John snagged a pair of boxer shorts and shook them out, holding them up on display. "Oh hey, I remember these, with the little hearts all over them. Big hit with the Marines in the locker room. I wonder why you don't wear them any more," he mused, nearly managing to keep a straight face.

Rodney grumbled, "Mock me all you like, but they're real silk and exquisitely comfortable, and they were cheap too—on sale after Valentine's Day."

"They have little hearts all over them," John repeated slowly, as if Rodney had missed the whole point.

"So? I don't have to look at them when I'm wearing them. Also, how exactly did you obtain the intel that the Marines have been scoping out my ass in the locker room, and when exactly were you planning to share it with me? Because if any of the attractive ones have been doing it, I think I have a right to–"

John growled, "McKay..."

"Okay, jeez, kidding!" The Marines were always good for a cheap joke precisely because they were so very forbidding. He rooted through the pile on his bed, and sure enough, the tie was rolled up at the bottom. He unfurled it, checking for wrinkles. "Ha. I knew you were holding out on me."

John just snorted. Tossing the boxers aside, he eased himself down on the edge of Rodney's bed. If he'd avoided looking directly at Rodney before, now he seemed transfixed by the deft motions of Rodney's hands, lining up the tie around his raised collar and looping the end around to begin the knot.

Rodney might have noticed, a little. It might have made him self-conscious, which might have been the reason he botched the first attempt and had to start all over.

Tongue darting out to wet his lips, John asked, "Need help?"

Oh, that was so incredibly unfair. John Sheppard should never be allowed to perch on Rodney's bed, with that eager expression and that glistening mouth and... just... augh! "No," he said, a little sharply. "I wore a suit to work every day for years, and my piano prodigy days might be far in the past, but I'll have you know that I am still very good with my hands. Also, why would I want help from a man who's probably wearing a clip-on?"

John didn't even take the bait. He just waited for Rodney to finish, then rose. "Good with your hands, hm?" he murmured, stepping close. Then somehow his palm was flat on Rodney's chest, sliding up the length of the tie; he reached the knot and fiddled with it, adjusting the shape.

Rodney forgot how to breathe when a stray touch grazed his throat.

John was watching his own hands now with the same concentration he'd given Rodney's. His casual, noncommittal tone was entirely out of place when he offered, "I've been through Level-C SERE training."

Desperate, Rodney latched on to the distraction. "You know I'm bad with military acronyms," he babbled. "What is that, some kind of super advanced tie tying course?" Knots. It could be ropework or something, oh god...

"Survival, Evasion, Resistance, and Escape." Apparently satisfied, John let his hands fall, but didn't otherwise move. "Pilots and air crew are at high risk of being captured by an enemy, because we have a tendency to bail out of damaged aircraft," he explained. "But flying special ops missions deep in hostile territory put me in the extremely high risk category. I wasn't just trained to evade capture. I've experienced some pretty, ah, realistic prisoner of war scenarios, with an emphasis on learning to resist interrogation and exploitation."

"Oh," Rodney said faintly.

"Yeah," John grimaced. "Let's just say that having a snake in my head was a cakewalk in comparison. So you can relax. I'm fine." He said it like he believed it, but his eyes held a plea, as if he expected to have a hard time selling Rodney on the idea.

Damned right, too. John might have fooled everyone else, but Rodney knew him better than that. Hell, just the thing with the tie and the touching was evidence of a breakdown in their mutual code of conduct. And John seemed to want to avoid looking at Rodney, except to stare at him... like he was now. Oh shit, because John expected a reaction.

Rodney was too slow mustering a reassuring lie; suddenly John was drifting away, putting more than simple distance between them. His gaze sought escape, and he turned for the door. "C'mon. We're gonna be late if we don't get going."

Mute with frustration and worry, Rodney could only follow.

~~

The SGC held their separate, private memorial services because grief was difficult enough to endure without having to sanitize it for public consumption.

After General Hammond made his eulogy, the remaining members of SG-15 said a few words. They were still recovering from the illness that had killed their teammate. In fact, this was the first time Pierce and Dwight had been allowed out of the infirmary, and their steadiness, as they took turns before the assemblage, was only a result of concentration and will.

They spoke of missions together, of triumphs and close escapes; they recalled the quiet moments of rest and relaxation. All good memories, to affix in the place of the bad.

The gateroom was crowded, but everyone who wanted to attend was able to fit inside. Because he'd been a part of Sergeant Kemp's last mission, Rodney's place was near the front. John's place was beside Rodney, because, well... that's where he belongs, Rodney thought fiercely. They were shoulder to shoulder; occasionally their hands would bump or their knuckles brush.

When it was Pierce's turn to speak, his simple, forthright message drew a shuddery breath from John. Rodney glanced over, only to be distracted by the rapt expressions of the people around him.

The memorial wasn't for Kemp alone, but also for all the departed before him, and everyone they'd left behind.

The revelation was all the more horrific for being blindingly obvious. Rodney should have realized sooner that he was likely the only one in the room who hadn't experienced the loss of a close friend. And he didn't need to be able to crunch statistics in his head to know that if he stayed with the SGC, eventually he would find himself standing in Pierce's place, with insufficient words of homage lodged in his throat.

Rodney longed to slip his hand into John's, to twine their fingers together and squeeze out the vow that it wouldn't be him. It wouldn't be them. Not the next time; not ever.

He refrained. Somehow, it felt like the most deplorable thing he'd ever wanted in his life.

~~

Afterward, Rodney returned to his quarters and stored the funeral suit with the hope that he wouldn't have cause to wear it again for a very, very long time.

It wasn't until he went in search of John—and learned that he'd been sucked into yet another meeting—did it occur to Rodney that he was scheduled to depart for Area 51 in the morning, and he still hadn't mentioned his reassignment.

~~

The funny thing was, Rodney had spent the majority of his time among the conspiracy theorists and the UFO chasers and the alien hunters discussing the nefarious work that was purportedly taking place at Area 51. He knew next to nothing about the facility itself.

The first surprise was that it was literally in the middle of fucking nowhere: cut off from Vegas by eighty miles of scrub and hilly desert. But the more he thought about it, the more it made sense. The Air Force couldn't just build hangars and bunkers and radio towers and seven runways, throw up a chain link fence and a few no-trespassing signs, claim the entire thing didn't exist, and expect people to turn a blind eye.

Area 51 was buried in what the Air Force liked to call the Nevada Test and Training Range—which was a pretty lame acronym even by military standards. Rodney wasn't impressed, until he learned that the NTTR covered, oh... about four and a half thousand square miles. Apparently, much of it was littered with craters and debris, because when the Air Force wasn't engaging in simulated aerial combat in the restricted airspace above, they were practicing blasting the shit out of targets on the ground below with live ammunition.

In Rodney's opinion, that alone should have been a pretty compelling reason for tourists to stay the fuck out of there.

Additionally, Area 51 was protected by its own six hundred square mile buffer of forbidden airspace. It was known as The Box, and not even military pilots were allowed inside. Nothing was. Er, make that almost nothing: Area 51's top secret aircraft had to be tested somewhere. The other exception was the Joint Air Network for Employee Transportation. JANET commuter flights ran daily between Area 51 and a secure, private terminal at a Las Vegas airport. 

Dirt-side, there was a net of extremely sophisticated underground sensors, which would alert the border guards if any intrusion was detected. The guards wore camouflage, carried assault rifles, and were authorized to use lethal force.

Given the level of secrecy and security blanketing the place, Area 51 itself was a bit of a letdown. The collection of utilitarian buildings wouldn't have looked out of place in any military installation Rodney had ever seen. There were no flying saucers parked on the tarmac; there were no aliens roaming the halls. (Okay, not that he could tell. The vast majority of aliens that Rodney had met looked human enough at first glance. And he knew that at least a few, like Teal'c, had been granted permission to live and work on Earth.)

No, the strangest thing about Area 51 was that it didn't feel strange at all. Here he was, in the mecca of conspiracies and illicit government research—inside the very shadow institution that not so long ago, a lifetime apart, he'd striven to expose—and Rodney just... fit in, from day one. It was like coming home.

(Well, to be honest, it was more like waking up on Christmas and discovering a Cray-2 supercomputer under the tree, when you'd asked Santa for a Commodore 64. It would be home once he found an apartment in a livable section of Vegas. Preferably one that allowed cats.)

Oh sure, there was some friction. Dr Ingram doubtless recalled Rodney from the one time they'd met, back when Rodney had been an Air Force contractor working on server security protocols. But if Ingram wasn't going to mention the little you should have a valve installed on your backside, so you can kiss your own ass and inflate your own ego at the same time comment, then neither was Rodney. That was old history, as far as he was concerned. He could be gracious and agree to a truce, in the interest of all the amazing technological breakthroughs awaiting him.

The fact that Ingram was Head of Research—and consequently Rodney's supervisor—sort of helped encourage Rodney to remain civil. He was quite proud of himself for not exploding even when he accidentally overheard—it wasn't like he meant to eavesdrop!—Ingram make a remark about greedy lowlife pseudo-scientists who abandoned academia and "pure" research for fat commercial pastures. It was a coincidence, that was all. He couldn't have meant Rodney in particular, because he hadn't known Rodney had been listening. When you came up with an insult that good, you didn't waste it whispering behind the target's back. You said it to their face, for the simple joy of watching the resulting apoplexy in person.

So Rodney and Ingram were totally cool.

Rodney and Kavanagh, on the other hand?

The man was a toad, with the ethics of a weasel and the imagination of a gnat. But somehow, after trying (and failing) to land Rodney's old position at the telecom, Kavanagh had squirmed his way into the Air Force.

Their reunion occurred less than a week after Rodney had arrived at Area 51. He was on his way to his new lab one morning, minding his own business, when he turned a corner and boom: there was Kavanagh, strutting down the middle of the hallway like the goddamned Spanish Inquisition.

Rodney recovered in time to hide his dismay. "You!" he roared, leveling a finger at his former minion. "How in the hell did you get in here?"

Kavanagh, unlike Rodney, had clearly been forewarned. He had a smug expression and a zippy comeback all queued up and ready to go. "Why, if it isn't Rodney McKay. I'd heard a rumor that you'd crawled back to the Air Force with your tail tucked between your legs. What made you concede that the benefits of 'whoring your intellect to the military' outweighed the shame?"

Oh, fuck. That little gem was already making the rounds? Christ, considering what the Air Force was paying these people, they should have more important things to do than stand around and gossip. The fact that Rodney might have, in a moment of poor temper and weak judgment, used more or less exactly those words was irrelevant!

Now, the mature thing to do would have been to sidestep Kavanagh—like the smear of roadkill on the highway of scientific progress that he was—and keep going. So of course Rodney paused to feign thoughtfulness. "It was the sexual favors," he leered at last. "Since you're caught up on gossip, I'm sure you've heard all about how much the SGC loves me. These days, the military sucks my dick, not the other way around."

Yeah... so long as Rodney had a tongue in his head, there was no way in hell Kavanagh would ever win against him.

Humming I Love a Man in Uniform, he wove around the sputtering fuckwit and continued on his way.

~~

Rodney had been the official head of the Gateship Project for exactly nine days before he ever laid eyes on the puddle jumper. And even then, he had to sideline his other responsibilities and sneak away to do it.

It wasn't that he was struggling under an excessive workload; he wasn't. He was busting ass to catch up to his new colleagues, particularly in the theoretical disciplines, while struggling to conceal just how wide the gap between them really was.

Oh, he'd been through Carter's crash course, but she squandered far too much of her own precious brainpower in the field, and had been grooming Rodney for a similar assignment. Now, he was among people who ate and slept and breathed and sweated science; it was their mistress, their paramour. They quarreled jealously, and composed mad, passionate odes on gigantic whiteboards with dry-erase markers. Their veneration spanned years, decades.

Suddenly, being the owner and (former) operator of the world's most advanced amateur radio telescope seemed paltry in comparison. Even the fact that Rodney had been through the Stargate more times than the rest of them combined was scant consolation when Rodney had to grudgingly admit to a room of his peers that he hadn't published anything noteworthy since grad school.

Ingram came closest to guessing. It was his idea to let Rodney become acclimated to Area 51 by joining some of the small, joint side projects. And while he could have assigned Rodney to work on the high-compression data burst algorithm—a task for which Rodney happened to be exquisitely suited—instead, he gave Rodney to the team that was exploring ways to optimize the output of the naquadah generators.

Rodney knew fuck-all about naquadah generators.

Ingram knew that. Ingram had his dossier. Therefore, Rodney had to conclude that Ingram was trying to help him by highlighting Rodney's inadequacies—not in an embarrassing public fashion, but quietly, giving Rodney a chance to save face and rectify them on his own.

Who needed sleep anyway? Those six hours were much more productively spent pouring over every available piece of research on naquadah generators, so that when Rodney met with the team the following day, not only did he avoid embarrassing himself with his ignorance, but he also managed to contribute some insightful observations. 

Then, naturally, Ingram had to go and draw a comparison between naquadah generators and the F-302's experimental hyperdrive, sending Rodney scrambling for the books again.

It left Rodney more concerned about his (currently non-existent) productivity than his utter lack of free time. (Oh, who was he kidding? It wasn't like studying spaceships and reverse-engineered alien reactor technology was work. Given a choice, he still would have spent his spare hours devouring every new concept he could wrap his brain around.)

Besides, he reasoned as he crept across the compound, trying to avoid anyone who looked like they might have cause to waylay him, the foundation work I'm doing will come in handy when I start fixing the puddle jumper. And it's not like I can actually start without John. Why is it taking them so damned long to send him over from the SGC?

It was obvious when he hit the military end of the base. There was a nearly tangible demarcation in the increased number of uniforms he saw—lab coats over ordinary clothes was the norm for the researchers—not to mention the increased number of curious and downright suspicious looks he received. Come to think, the military types tended to avoid the geek-dominated labs as well. The division was strange coming from the close confines of the SGC, where everyone mingled up all in each other's faces.

Rodney made it as far as the block of hangars before he realized that he didn't even know where the puddle jumper was being stored.

He targeted the first person he saw in BDUs and made a beeline in their direction. "Excuse me, Sergeant?"

It was a woman, he discovered, drawing close. She didn't frown at his approach... exactly. She did seem apprehensive, almost as if he'd surprised her by reading her rank insignia correctly.

"Hi." He gave her his off-world, make-nice-with-the-crazy-aliens expression anyway, to be on the safe side. "I was wondering if you could help me with something?"

She crossed her arms and informed him, "I'm seeing someone."

"You see, I– Er... what?"

"I'm seeing someone," the sergeant repeated slowly, "and even if I wasn't, I still wouldn't be interested. Sorry." They way she tacked the sorry on to the end made it sound like she thought she was letting him down gently.

Rodney gaped at her. "And exactly what indication have I given that I'm trying to hit on you?" he demanded. But when she flushed and opened her mouth to respond, he cut her off. "Oh, don't even bother. Look, I'm sure you're a perfectly lovely person—when you're not making rash and embarrassing assumptions—but you're no Samantha Carter. And I'm afraid that in the extremely unlikely event that I decide to embrace heterosexuality, she has dibs on my superior genetic material. So unless you want to add yourself to the waiting list–"

A second figure in uniform was approaching, probably drawn by the rising volume of Rodney's voice. "Is there a problem here?" he asked.

"No problem, sir," the sergeant assured in a hurry. Nevertheless, her posture silently pleaded for intervention, as if she'd just realized she was in far over her head.

"–perhaps you would consider actually providing me with the assistance I requested?" Rodney pressed. "You don't even need to speak. In fact, I'd prefer if you didn't. You can just point."

"Dismissed, sergeant. I'll handle this." As soon as the sergeant had saluted and made good her escape, the officer—a lieutenant colonel, damn the horrible luck—turned to Rodney. "Mister–"

"Doctor. Dr Rodney McKay," Rodney grumbled. This guy was probably one of the highest ranking officers on base; what in the hell was he doing out by the hangars anyway? He should be hugging a desk, not butting into a situation that was none of his business—a situation which Rodney had had firmly under control, thank you very much!

Oh. The F-302 patch, along with the one for the 1st Stargate Fighter Wing, explained what he was doing by the hangars at, least. He looked young for his rank, around John's height but more heavily built, and– Oh no, no no no. Rodney knew better than to go down that road. He absolutely, positively wasn't taking renewed interest in the guy just because he was a pilot—like John. It was the... the flight suit! That was it! Just a friendly bit of sage-green nostalgia that had no bearing whatsoever on the person wearing it.

"Lieutenant Colonel Cameron Mitchell," the guy offered, holding out his hand. 

Rodney stared at it like Mitchell had just asked him to participate in some deviant and unfamiliar alien greeting ritual.

Mitchell wiggled his fingers. "What's wrong? Afraid I'll bite?"

"I– No, of course not." Rodney reached out, and sure enough, the enthusiastic handshake jolted all the way down to his elbow, even if grip didn't quite crush his fingers. "F-302 pilot," he stated.

"Squadron commander," Mitchell beamed. "But enough about me. How about you, Doc? What brings you out to this end of the base? I gather it wasn't to ask the nice sergeant out on a date?"

"God no!" Rodney recoiled. "I prefer to be on a first name basis with someone before I– Oh. That was a joke."

Mitchell admitted, "Maybe."

Evidence of an intact sense of humor. Rodney had met and collaborated with so many strange military types in recent months that he'd developed a checklist of sorts—warning flags and dead giveaways that would indicate whether he could look forward to a smooth or rocky working relationship. And, well, a functioning sense of humor was weighted pretty heavily in favor of smooth. So he took a chance. "I'm looking for my ship. You see, I'm new—to Area 51, not just to the Gateship Project—and I don't understand how they expect me to work on something I can't find. But no one bothered to tell me where the damned ship is being stored. So I decided to take matters into my own hands, which is why I'm out here accosting people in uniform to ask for their help."

"Hm. You couldn't just ask the project lead?" Mitchell suggested.

"I am the project lead."

"Okay, I see how that could be problematic." Mitchell seemed to be the sort of guy who took things in stride. "Gateship, huh? That's a little before my time—I haven't been on base long myself—but I think I might be able to point you in the right direction."

"Really? Thanks. That's– I appreciate it."

"It'll cost ya."

Of course it will, Rodney groaned inwardly. What was it with these military types and their brazen assumptions about anyone wearing a lab coat? He crossed his arms and used his best imperious glare. "No, I won't fix your computer." Or help you circumvent the base firewall to download porn.

Mitchell eyed him like the notion hadn't even crossed his mind. "I was thinking more along the lines of letting me tag along. I've heard about the gateship, but like I said, it was before my time. Never got to see it in action. I'll settle for a walk around and a rundown of the technical specs."

"Why do you want to know the gateship's technical specs?" Rodney frowned. But it wasn't until after the words were out that the warning alarms started blaring in his head. It wasn't common knowledge that the SGC was only pretending to believe they'd apprehended all the saboteurs the first time around. The key collaborators were likely still on base, waiting to take another crack at hijacking the puddle jumper. Rodney knew that. He just... hadn't considered how it would impact him personally, as the new project lead. Anyone who came to him displaying even the slightest interest in the jumper would have to be deemed suspect.

Hammond... oh, that clever bastard. No doubt he'd chosen Rodney for the position on the merit of Rodney's notorious paranoia as much as his technical qualifications.

Mitchell shrugged. "I'm just curious. The F-302s..." The way his tone swelled with pride and his expression went all goofy reminded Rodney inappropriately of John again. "They are nothing short of amazing. In my heart, there is no competition. None." He solemnly laid his hand across his breast. "But that doesn't stop me from wanting to peek at what the other fellas have got beneath the hood."

Whoa. Mitchell wanted to look beneath John's what now? How in the hell did they go from discussing spaceships to John's virtue being imperiled?

Interpreting the delayed response as reluctance, Mitchell assured, "My clearance is good for it." He even pulled out his security badge to show to Rodney. "C'mon, whatdya say?"

It was the issue date on the badge that eventually won Rodney over. Mitchell wasn't lying; he'd arrived after the incident of sabotage had put the puddle jumper out of commission. Add to that the whole pilot thing, and his curiosity concerning the jumper seemed a bit more... no, not wholesome. But no longer menacing, either. Rodney handed back his badge. "Well, I suppose I can spare the time..."

Mitchell actually let out a short whoop, causing Rodney to marvel—not for the first time—that he'd managed to get promoted past lieutenant. "Now let me see, if I'm remembering right, Banks said it was in one of the small hangars on D block."

Of course it would be. Because D block happened to be the furthest away from the nice, snug confines of the science labs; and this, being a military base, meant that walking was de rigueur. Oh, Rodney had grown accustomed to long treks during his off-world missions. (His body had ached so badly after scaling that mountainside on P4M-389 that he'd only been mostly joking when he'd tried to trade Lance Corporal Olson for one of those yak-like riding creatures the locals used.) So this little jaunt hadn't bothered him—what with the nice flat pavement and the early-winter temperatures in Nevada hovering around a balmy fifty. But when the summer rolled around? Rodney was going to have to invent mobile personal air conditioning, or install a ring transporter between his lab and the hangar, or... or something, because there was no fucking way he was going to be able to handle a hike through that heat.

Given his rank, Mitchell could have ordered a vehicle, but he seemed to enjoy walking. Rather than lead the way, he fell in beside Rodney, arms swinging in wide arcs, a little hop in his step. Seriously, if the man started whistling, Rodney was going to– Okay, so he realistically couldn't do anything besides grind his teeth and wish for ear plugs, but he hoped it didn't come to that.

Mitchell steered them toward a modest corrugated steel building. It was painted the same neutral color as its neighbors, but stood away from the rest of the row. Rodney couldn't decide whether or not to be flattered. A special project should be set apart from the mundane activities of the base. However, there was something about the remote, isolated location of the hangar that suggested neglect, not elevated status.

"Yep, this looks like the place." Mitchell rapped his fist against a single door; it rang with a dull thud. Next to it was a pair of larger access doors mounted on tracks. They were as tall as the building itself, which had to be nearly two stories. "Doc, you're up."

"Hm?"

Mitchell stepped aside. "Your security card. Pretty sure mine won't work."

Oh. Right. Rodney pulled out his security badge and reached for the electronic lock, abruptly struck by the realization this his card might not work either. He was already the project lead who hadn't been informed of his project's whereabouts; why not also the project lead who hadn't been granted permission to access the damned thing? But to his relief and mild surprise, the lock digested his card's information for a second, then flashed green as the latch mechanism released with an audible click.

Mitchell did let him enter first, but betrayed his eagerness by the way he crowded in after, a little too close on Rodney's heels.

The interior of the shed—hangar, whatever—was just as uninspiring as the exterior. Light flooded through the open door, and seeped in through large ceiling ventilation grills that were fronted by industrial fans. But the gateship's bulk remained shrouded in oppressive shadows and stale-tasting air.

"Help me find–" Rodney groped along the edge of the door frame. "There's got to be a light switch around here somewhere."

Mitchell must have been accustomed to working in these types of buildings, because he knew exactly where the switch was. When he hit it, the bare fluorescent lights overhead stuttered and pinged to life.

Oh... wow.

Mitchell, however, said it better. He crept up to the jumper with his arm outstretched, as if the ship might spook and shy away. When his hand made contact with the hull, he murmured, low and soothing, "Well, look at you. Aren't you a pretty little thing?"

And oh, it was. Obviously John had been facetious when he'd referred to it as a glorified space taxi. The ship was compact but elegant and refined, clearly designed for aesthetics as well as function. But most striking was the rich bronze patina color of the hull; Rodney totally hadn't been expecting that.

"I think she likes me," Mitchell said. Still caressing the jumper, he turned over his shoulder to grin at Rodney. "You going to introduce us?"

"Well, erm–" Suddenly it seemed... improper for another pilot to have his hands all over John's ship. Oh sure, Mitchell had professed his love for the F-302s, but that didn't mean he wasn't amenable to a bit of action on the side. Luckily, Rodney knew one way to nip the infatuation in the bud. He cleared his throat. "Like is a rather quaint way to describe what is actually a complex and fascinating technology."

It worked. Mitchell lowered his hand and pivoted to face Rodney fully. "A what now?"

"The gene recognition," Rodney stated, as if it should be perfectly obvious to even a common idiot. Then he paused to let it sink in, certain that Mitchell had no fucking idea what he was talking about.

Mitchell shook his head. "I don't... believe I'm familiar with that."

Now Rodney took his time approaching the ship, grazing the hull once with his fingers as he moved around it in a slow loop. The surface had a pleasant texture, and felt slightly too warm given the obvious lack of climate control in the hangar—but perhaps that was his imagination. "The ship has a very interesting security feature. Think of it... think of it like an ancient alien anti-theft mechanism."

"You mean like The Club." Mitchell ambled after, perhaps as intrigued now by Rodney's explanation as he was by the ship.

"Yeah, that bar you hook on your steering wheel, to stop thieves from driving off with your car. The other end goes somewhere—I don't know how it's supposed to work."

Mitchell snorted. "It doesn't. Two minutes and a hacksaw are all you need, my friend."

If anything, Mitchell's accent thickened on the latter sentence, the vowels flattening and heading south. It was frankly rather disturbing, the way he described the prelude to an act of grand larceny like it was a quickie jack off session: Two minutes and a squirt of lube are all it takes. "Yes, well I hope you acquired that piece of advice secondhand, not from actual experience stealing cars. And don't get any ideas, this security feature works! Like a lot of Ancient devices, the jumper will only respond to someone who has a particular genetic marker. The SGC calls it the ATA gene." Because the SGC was a typical military entity, fond of acronyms and bad with names.

"The jumper?" Mitchell prompted.

"Er, gateship."

Mitchell silently crossed his arms, goading Rodney to explain.

"Okay, I can't help it. Jo– Major Sheppard decided that gateship was too pretentious. He calls it a puddle jumper, and I've– That is, we've spent so much time together that– He's been a very bad influence! I call it a puddle jumper too now, out of habit, and it gets me in trouble with the other scientists. They look at me like I've lost my mind." Corrupted by too much close contact with the military, poor bastard. He could tell that was what they thought when they mournfully shook their heads over his frequent lapses.

"Puddle jumper, huh? I like that."

"You would."

"Hey now, what's that supposed to mean?"

Unduly flustered, Rodney flapped his hand. "Oh, just... you know. Because you're a pilot." Same as John. A pilot and an officer, though probably not a gentleman; and it had just occurred to Rodney that he was alone in a small, private space with very sexy spaceship and a decidedly attractive man. Further, Mitchell hadn't shown any inclination to run screaming from Rodney's boring scientist blather, which was downright odd. Perhaps there was something wrong with him?

Mitchell drew up beside him when Rodney halted next to the rear hatch. "Think I have the gene?"

Where was that damned release switch? Rodney had read the schematics a hundred times. He should know this. "That's, uh–" Exceptionally unlikely, but he caught himself before he could be so uncool as to quote statistics. "There's really only one way to find out." Ah, there it was. After making sure that no toes were liable to be crushed in the process, he pressed his palm against the panel that lowered the hatch. But his caution turned out to be unnecessary; the hatch was well behaved, easing down with a quiet hydraulic hiss to form a sort of ramp up into the back of the ship. 

"Now that's what I'm talking about." Mitchell stepped in first this time, pausing in the rear compartment to test the upholstery on the utility benches by pressing on it with his hand. "You could squeeze my entire squadron in here, if nobody minded getting all close and cozy."

Rodney crept up the ramp. The jumper was roomier than he'd dared hope; he didn't even feel a twinge of claustrophobia. Thin hull. How did they get it so thin and still protect the interior from the temperature extremes found in deep space? "Actually, size is not the constraining factor in a spaceship. Prometheus has several bays capable of holding entire platoons, but that doesn't mean the environmental scrubbers can keep the air breathable for so many people."

"And look at all the headroom." Mitchell had to reach up to touch the jumper's ceiling as he strolled down the center aisle. He plopped himself down in one of the pilots seats. Rodney would have been horrified, except... what harm could he do without being able to turn it on? Accidentally adjust the power seat and side mirrors? Without the key in the ignition, so to speak, Mitchell was no more dangerous than a kid pretending to drive a parked car. (Though Rodney would be compelled to kick him out if he started providing his own sound effects.) "Those Ancient guys sure knew how to build 'em. How fast can she go?"

Rather than join Mitchell up front, Rodney picked a spot on one of the utility benches and eased himself down. Oh, he'd been on spaceships before. Hell, he'd lost his faster-than-light virginity on a Tel'tak with SG-2. But this was the ship, the one that had crash-landed John into his life and hurled Rodney into the SGC. It was responsible for the upheaval of his entire existence, and the unexpected fulfillment of some of his more grandiose fantasies. The enormity of its importance was worth pausing a moment to savor.

So naturally, his thoughts turned to John instead.

John must have slept on this bench, during the weeks he'd been stuck in the woods. He had probably lain here—on this very spot!—tired and aching and cold, confronting the bleak realization that if he upheld his duty, the ship would become his funeral pyre.

God, it must have been horrible. And he hadn't dared let on to Rodney—his only line to the outside world—how dire his situation had actually been. Rodney had come close to losing something precious; he saw that now with such clarity, but at the time he hadn't understood at all, because he hadn't learned to value it yet.

Mitchell was still running his mouth. Or more correctly, he'd never stopped. "It's okay if you don't know exactly. I'm okay with estimates. Or comparisons. Like, in a race, could she beat out the F-302s?"

Not that Rodney knew many pilots, but in his limited experience he was beginning to sense a pattern, a trend. Bunch of reckless, moronic speed-freaks. He snorted, secretly glad for the distraction. "The jumper lacks hyperspace capabilities, so the short answer is no. Of course, traveling in hyperspace is very different from actually traversing the real-time equivalent. It's like taking a short-cut; it's cheating. The jumper crashed before we were fully able to test its sub-light drives, and even if– When we– I get it fixed, given the limited technology and materials at my disposal, it's improbable that the drives will function at anything near design capacity. So a race wouldn't be a fair test of the jumper's potential."

Mitchell spun his seat around to pout at Rodney. "If that's the long answer, I'm not gonna like it translated into plain, simple English, am I?"

"I've run some simulations estimating the power output of the jumper's sub-lights." Rodney was fairly certain he'd been speaking plain English. What Mitchell really wanted was what Rodney was learning to call the Military Explanation: blunt and stark, and perhaps a tad rude. "It'd kick the F-302s' ass. It'd kick Prometheus' ass too, probably topping out at somewhere between two-thirds and three-quarters the speed of light."

Letting out a low whistle, Mitchell asked, "That's fast... right?"

Rodney crossed his arms and glowered.

"Right. Dumb question. So, I guess without that gene thing, I'm stuck begging joy rides off the lucky sonofa– I mean, the lucky pilot."

"Sheppard," Rodney supplied, with a note of warmth that was unmistakable, even to his own ears. "Major John Sheppard."

"Yeah, heard of him, but he was also before my time. Say, you wouldn't happen to know if he has any weaknesses?" Mitchell ran his finger idly along the edge of the seat. "French crullers, maybe homemade apple pie?" He muttered almost to himself, "Not that I can bake an apple pie, but I know plenty of people who can, and some of them even owe me favors."

"You can't– John wouldn't– I mean, Major Sheppard... you can't bribe him!" 

Mitchell reasoned, "Well, if I ordered him to, that'd be an abuse of power, wouldn't it?"

Rodney was off the bench and revving up for a really good tirade before he noticed the sparkle in Mitchell's eyes. (Which were a variable blue-green, leading Rodney to wonder which color had made it on his driver's license.) Another joke. God, I'm so gullible. And this guy clearly thinks he's a riot.

"You can relax, Doc. I wouldn't dream of doing anything of the sort," Mitchell assured with a complete and total lack of sincerity.

Two could play that game. "Gourmet coffee," Rodney shot back. "Fresh roasted, whole bean. The more expensive the better. He'd do anything for the stuff." 

"Huh. Thanks for the intel." Mitchell filed that information away; with any luck, it would result in Rodney graciously offering to take a couple pounds of Kona off John's rather perplexed hands. (The man had once made the fatal error of admitting that he occasionally preferred tea. Also, Rodney knew for a fact that he didn't even own a coffee maker.)

"Of course, you wouldn't have to bribe him if it turned out you had the gene." Rodney disliked gambling on statistics, but in this case the possibility was so stupidly small...

"How do we find out?"

He moved into the forward compartment. "Turn around and put your hands on the controls."

Mitchell turned. "Controls, controls... I assume you mean these little joystick things."

Rodney would say one thing for him—he wasn't tentative about messing with unfamiliar alien tech. Some of the other guys Rodney had worked with had been downright squeamish, despite multiple assurances that he wouldn't (intentionally) ask them to touch something that wasn't safe. "Good. Now... power it up."

Mitchell shifted around, even ducking under the dash, hunting for something. "Not to sound ignorant here, but, uh, how?"

"There's no manual ignition. The puddle jumper has a neural interface. Sheppard describes it as 'thinking' what he wants to happen. He likes to use words, but the ship is obviously capable of translating abstract desires into literal commands."

"Um..."

"I don't know, maybe the words function as a mental focus or something. Try thinking 'on'."

"On. On on on." He bounced a little in the seat. "Oooonnnnn."

Rodney rolled his eyes. "Not out loud."

Mitchell strained in silence for a few seconds before dropping his hands in defeat. "Guess that's a no."

"Yeah. The Air Force probably tested you without you knowing it, but–"

"It was worth a shot." His shoulders drooped, like he really was disappointed that he wouldn't be able to fly Earth's only ass-kicking, mind-reading space taxi, and he blew out a sigh. "Hey, thanks for the tour Doc, but I should head back before anyone notices I'm missing. They have a pesky habit of coming to look for me."

If Mitchell was leaving, that meant Rodney had to clear the aisle. He slid into the second pilots seat. "No problem. Thanks for playing tour guide. I'm pretty sure I couldn't have found the jumper on my own," he admitted.

"Oh." Something caused Mitchell to pause as he was exiting the ship. He caught the lip of the hatch and swung back around, casual as a playground brat hanging off the monkey bars. "That reminds me. Anyone know you're out here?"

Rodney blinked; all right, he had been hiding, but he hadn't expected Mitchell to notice. "Not... exactly?"

"Thought so," Mitchell smirked. "Reason I ask is, this hangar's pretty isolated. If you're gonna be working out here alone, you really should tell someone where you are. You know, just to be safe."

"Yes, I–" It wouldn't be an issue, once John arrived, but in the meantime... "I will."

"Doesn't have to be the geeks. It can be one of my guys," Mitchell suggested slyly. "They're closer anyway. They'd be able to react faster, if something happened."

Rodney gifted him with a rare, slow smile. "That is an excellent point."

"You heading out too, or...?"

"Nah." Rodney let his eyes drift around the interior of the ship. The seats were comfortable, and the ornamentation reminded him of someone's artfully decorated living room. Hell, if he could convince the heads-up display to play movies, he'd be all set. "This is the first break I've had in over a week. Think I'll enjoy it a little longer."

"Okay." Mitchell backed down the ramp, somehow managing to stay straight and even down the middle, steps steady despite the incline. Rodney was going to have to do some research, determine if preternatural balance was another common pilot trait. "See you around, then." He waved once, not quite a salute.

Rodney said, "You too," and realized he meant it. Seeing more of Cameron Mitchell wouldn't be a hardship at all.

~~

Two days later, Rodney was paying for his truancy by poring over the schematics for Prometheus' sensor array. Again, it wasn't a project he was actively assigned to work on, but it cropped up in conversation often enough that he figured he ought to know just what in the hell everyone was talking about.

He'd chosen one of the larger, communal labs, not for the company, but due to the convenience of being situated near the vending machines. The cafeteria was in another damned building entirely, and it was rarely worth the wasted time or the effort to go in search of real food.

It was morning still, but late—that golden period where most people were awake thanks to a steady intake of caffeine, but hadn't yet started to grow impatient awaiting the arrival of lunch. It was one of the best times of the day to commit actual work, and Rodney was so engrossed in the blueprints spread out on the work bench in front of him that he failed to notice the ambient conversations in the lab drop off to whispers.

The approaching footsteps should have been a warning, too.

But no, he was completely unprepared for the cuff up the back of his head. He jumped and spun around with a squawk. "Ow! Shit! What was that for?"

"That," John growled, "is for leaving the SGC without telling me you'd been transferred. You didn't even say goodbye!"

He finally noticed that the room had descended into silence; they had an audience, and it was easy to understand why. In full dress uniform, and bristling with indignation, John stood out in the lab like a hawk among pigeons. Damned right every eye in the place was on him. "I tried!" Rodney defended, rubbing the spot where he'd been smacked. It didn't exactly hurt; the only lingering sting was surprise. "But every time I looked for you, you were stuck in another meeting. Besides, I figured I'd see you in a few days anyway." What in the hell took them so long to send you over?"

John ignored the question. "You could have called."

"I did! But I never got past, I'm sorry, Major Sheppard is unavailable at this time." Crossing his arms, Rodney shot back, "And the e-mails I sent you vanished without a trace. If you can't be bothered to check that black hole that you call an in-box–"

"I was compromised, McKay," John leaned in to hiss. "I had my access to everything taken away until I was deemed safe to return to duty."

"How was I supposed to know that?" Rodney protested.

"Oh, I don't know. Maybe because the same thing happened to you?"

"It did?"

John gawked at him.

"What? I was stuck in the infirmary for, like, the entire aftermath while Fraiser the vampire sucked me dry. They wouldn't let me near a computer. I didn't even notice!"

John seemed to be weighing responses when he glanced up over Rodney's shoulder. It was a subtle shift, but whatever he saw definitely turned his posture defensive.

So of course Rodney had to look too. He discovered several of the other scientists out of their seats, closing ranks behind him. It was like something straight out of a demented fifties movie—Rodney's very own nerd gang. God, even Kavanagh was there, and Kavanagh hated him. 

"McKay. This guy bothering you?" Petrov asked quietly, as if Rodney had only to say the word and the switchblades would come out. And... what? They'd go sick-house all over John's ass? Challenge him to a dance-off? The notion was so laughable that Rodney almost wanted to watch them try.

"Am I what?" John demanded, more to Rodney than the man who'd issued the question.

Right about the same time, Rodney flung his arms up in disgust. "No, he's not– God, I'm working with a bunch of oversensitive idiots! This is Major Sheppard."

His explanation was met with profound silence.

"He's the ju– the gateship pilot?"

More of the same, but at least a couple of them were beginning to look sheepish.

"You know, the guy who rescued my ass on P3X-423, when I was captured by the Goa'uld?" The guy everyone is tired of hearing me talk about? That Major Sheppard?

There was a whisper from the back of the room, something to the effect of, "Is he the one who's been doing the civilian field orientations?" And apparently, John and John's paintball rifle were already infamous around base, because after that the gang disintegrated. Even Kavanagh, who never neglected an opportunity to absorb new gossip material, found a compelling reason to be busy elsewhere.

"Rodney," John gritted with pained politeness, "a word outside with you, if I may?"

"Er, of course." Hastily rolling and securing the blueprints, he followed John into the hall.

They gravitated to the alcove that housed the vending machines. John had come down from defensive mode; he must have left the stern and foreboding act back in the lab too, because he unleashed a grin on Rodney like he couldn't help himself. "You knew I would be reassigned back here?"

"Duh," Rodney said, thinking that it would be fair turnaround to smack him. He didn't though, choosing the safer route and poking a finger into John's shoulder. "Of course I need a gene carrier to fix the jumper! I can't even power it up by myself! And it wasn't like they were about to send O'Neill. You're the jumper pilot."

"Oh," John said faintly.

"Yeah."

John was standing just a little too close, though it was easily explained by the cramped nature of the alcove. Still, he was here, and he looked... god, better than good, and he was definitely breaching the boundary of Rodney's personal space. When his smile turned small and private, almost shy, Rodney's chest tightened with that old, familiar resignation. Then John had to go and put his hand on Rodney's bicep, squeezing lightly—and consequently not helping matters at all. "It's good to see you."

Rodney mirrored the gesture, cupping John's elbow. "It really is. Um..." He swallowed. "Would it be inappropriate to say I missed you? It hasn't even been two weeks, and–"

The response was deliberate. "You're allowed to say that. I was– I'm just relieved that– It's good to see you," John repeated, letting his hand fall. He stepped away to a more friendly, less intimate distance—protruding out into the hall, but it wasn't like he was obstructing traffic—and the smirk Rodney had been expecting all along finally made its appearance. "But you still could have warned me you were being transferred. Dipshit."

"Yeah, well you're smart enough, you should have figured that out on your own. Asswipe."

"Dumbass."

"Ha! I already used ass. Try again, dickface."

"Fine douchebag, I will."

Ouch, that was a good one! "Well, I was going to ask if you'd gotten settled in, maybe offer my services..."

John actually coughed.

"My services as an expert un-packer," Rodney stressed. Ah, it was gratifying to know that his mind wasn't the only one to occasionally wallow in the gutter.

Recovering, John assured dryly, "I'm good, thanks. You know I travel light. But how does lunch sound?"

~~

Rodney's notion of lunch turned out to be a high-velocity, precision strike on the cafeteria, en route to the jumper hangar.

John wouldn't have turned down the opportunity to sort out his new quarters, maybe change into a more appropriate outfit if they were going to spend the afternoon crawling all over a spaceship. But Rodney was in fine form, steamrolling protests with the inevitable crush of his enthusiasm.

It might have been annoying, if it hadn't also been so typically Rodney.

John had always been one to adapt quickly and thrive under pressure—you sure as hell didn't belong in special ops if you couldn't—but even he had found the past few weeks grueling. No matter what he'd told Rodney back at the SGC, sharing his head with the damned Goa'uld had been no cakewalk. (The residual nightmares were less frequent now, but still extremely... graphic.)

Then, the Tok'ra and the extraction had been equally rough, and the exhaustive performance review even worse. (Rodney still didn't know that his little unauthorized rescue mission had been undertaken at the price of a career-crippling reprimand, and John sure as hell wasn't about to tell him.) But the entire mess would have been easier to weather if Rodney hadn't disappeared to Area 51 before John could get used to the idea that they'd both escaped disaster relatively unscathed.

Mere assurance that Rodney was safe and functioning properly hadn't been sufficient. Now that John was finally seeing confirmation with his own eyes, perhaps he could begin to shed some of the extra tension that, prior to today, he'd only suspected he'd been carrying. Just having Rodney near again felt like the first step toward equilibrium; at this rate, he might be able to settle into a routine, maybe even find time for boredom or flirt with some selfish complacency.

He tagged along, content to let the largely one-sided conversation wash over him, while Rodney ransacked the lunch buffet. By the time McKay was reaching for the inevitable jello cup, his arms were already laden with enough chips, sandwiches, and fruit to feed a small army. John might have offered to hold some of that crap for him, but the balancing act was too amusing to watch.

"–which, by the way, you're not allowed to call a hangar anymore," Rodney was saying. The jello cup crowned the top of the pile... and promptly dislodged an apple.

Anticipating disaster, John was ready to snatch it out of the air before it could hit the floor and bruise. He polished it on his coat sleeve and decided to hold onto it. "Oh, this is gonna be good. Enlighten me, McKay. Why am I not allowed to call the hangar a hangar?"

"Nice catch," Rodney complimented, unduly impressed.

John shrugged.

"The, ah, hangar. Yes. It's because of the jumper, you see. I can't call it the gateship. God knows I've tried. Everyone looks at me like I'm insane when I forget. But you've got me too well conditioned, you bastard."

"You're welcome."

"Anyway," Rodney huffed, "I finally figured out why I get the crazy looks. Nobody understands the puddle jumper reference. They aren't pilots. Or, you know, cool enough to hang out with pilots."

"Oh, like you are." Seriously, half the fun of antagonizing McKay was trying to keep a straight face.

"Hello?" Rodney spilled lunch all over the little cashier stand, freeing his arms to do more important things—like gesture rapidly between himself and John. "What do you think I'm doing right now?"

John snuck the apple in with the rest, and added a drink as well. Rodney seemed intent on paying, so John wasn't about to remind him that it wasn't his turn. Besides, John had been away from Area 51 long enough that they'd probably frozen the expenditure account that was tied to his security badge and paycheck. Like the vending machines on base, the cafeteria's automated check-out accepted cards instead of currency. The system was supposedly some type of security measure, but John suspected its primary purpose was to ensure the geeks never left home without their lunch money. "I'm assigned to your project," he teased. "It's kind of my job to spend time with you."

"Just like it's your job to fly spaceships, and we both know how much you hate that, too."

Damn, busted.

Rodney collected half of the haul from the stand and began to walk away, expecting John to manage the rest. "The thing is, we have a fair number of naturalized researchers here, and half of the English-speaking world—the civilized half—thinks that a jumper is something fuzzy you wear in cold weather. And a hanger is of course something that holds clothes in a closet. No wonder people get confused when I stick those two words together in a totally different context."

"That's hangar, McKay, not hanger. It's spelled different," John pointed out. He wished again that he'd been wearing his BDUs. All the crap Rodney had left behind would have fit easily in those huge, practical pockets. Instead, he was stuck carrying it.

"But it sounds the same."

"Let's pretend for a moment that I actually buy that logic. What do you propose I– we call it instead?"

"I haven't gotten that far yet, but I have compiled a list of–" When Rodney pulled up short, John almost bumped into him. "Uh-oh."

"Uh–"

Oh.

The imposing obstacle in their path was none other than Dr Benjamin Ingram himself. (Nobody ever repeated the mistake of calling him Benny to his face.)

"Dr McKay," Ingram stated. "And Major Sheppard. It's good to have you back."

Whether it was because John was Air Force, or because he'd never displayed the proper subservience, Ingram had never more than tolerated him. The feeling was mutual, as far as John was concerned; he was still nursing a grudge over Ingram's outspoken opposition to Rodney's recruitment into the SGC. "It's good to be back," he lied.

One of the more distasteful (and therefore useful) things he'd learned from his father was how to gloss over a falsehood with a smile—although John was half convinced the ability was somehow inherent in the Sheppard genetics. It had been several years since he'd seen the man, but could still picture his father clearly: all genteel charm and gilded sincerity, spewing nonsense like, You have my assurance that the consolidation won't eliminate any existing jobs. Or who could ever forget the classic, Don't worry Johnny, your mother is going to be just fine.

Ingram cracking a grin was probably one of the signs of the apocalypse. His expression perpetually fell somewhere between austere and constipated. John preferred that honest, unflinching disapproval over his father's approach, even though he knew he personally didn't have the presence to pull it off.

"A lot of people will be eager to take advantage of having an ATA carrier at our disposal again," Ingram said, as if John was a communal piece of laboratory equipment, and there was already a waiting list being passed around to divvy up time slots.

John glanced over at Rodney, expecting him to slap Ingram with a reminder that John was technically at Rodney's disposal and no one else's. But Rodney didn't. He just nodded like the sharing John made perfect sense.

Okay, what the hell?

"Oh, and Dr McKay? When do you expect to have your preliminary report on the generator efficiency project ready for me? The rest of your team has already turned theirs in."

"What, early?" Rodney asked, flustered in a way John wasn't used to seeing him. "Or maybe– Yes, that sounds right. I must have had my dates wrong. Sorry, I'll get it to you this afternoon."

"I think Rodney means if he has time," John injected smoothly. He flicked an eyebrow at Ingram. "We've already sort of made plans for the afternoon."

"That's a shame," Ingram hesitated. "You see, I was headed out to Prometheus to meet with Dr Lee. He seems to have hit a snag with the sensor array, and I was hoping to enlist Dr McKay's assistance, given his expertise with non-terrestrial radio signals..."

John barely resisted the urge to roll his eyes. No way in hell is McKay falling for-

"Absolutely not a problem," Rodney blurted. "I mean, Jo– Major Sheppard just arrived on base, and I wasn't thinking. I'm sure he'd appreciate a chance to settle in before I put him to work. We can always start on the gateship tomorrow. You don't mind, do you, major?"

It took John a moment to place the expression Rodney was wearing; when he did, the hairs on the back of his neck prickled. McKay reminded him of the kid who was used to being picked last for the kickball team, suddenly confronted with the good fortune of being chosen first for a change.

Too bad that story always ended with the kid so nervous and eager to prove himself that he fucked up and blew the game.

"No, I don't mind," John heard himself say, because Rodney had him pinned with eyes that shone just a little too brightly, and John didn't know how else to escape. "Like you said, it'll be nice to settle in. I've been away from base long enough that I should spend some time... reorienting myself." With the damned political climate, which had obviously shifted in a direction that made no fucking sense.

"Then it's decided. Excellent," Ingram said. He took an experimental step toward the door, and sure enough, Rodney peeled away from John to follow. "I hope this hasn't disturbed your lunch plans..."

"Oh, don't worry. I've got lunch right here." Rodney nodded down at the things in his arms. "It's all portable, so it doesn't matter where I eat it."

Ingram repeated that casual step-and-pause—once, twice, to verify Rodney was firmly in tow. And when Ingram launched into a pretentious and overly technical description of the problem with the sensor array, John didn't need the second hint to figure out he'd been cut loose to fend for himself.

~~

Jello cups were like Twinkies, one of the staples guaranteed to survive even a nuclear holocaust. John could have kept it indefinitely, stashed away somewhere until he needed some extra bargaining leverage against Rodney. Instead, he threw it in the garbage can on his way out of the cafeteria.

Served him right for absconding with John's turkey sandwich, damn it.

~~

John didn't have the luxury of returning to familiar quarters like he had at the SGC. During his absence, the newly formed 1st Stargate Fighter Wing had moved to Area 51, and promptly taken over most of the available officer housing. Oh, it was all temporary; if the posting was made permanent, then the entire lot of them would be expected to find places of their own. Most of the people who worked at Area 51 commuted in from Vegas, but there were ornery bastards who preferred the minuscule outlying towns. John intended to stick it out on base for as long as possible, but he already knew which long-term option held the greater appeal.

In the meantime, he missed his old view of the runway. His new window opened onto dry, tan hills; it might have counted as a scenic vista if he hadn't reminded him of Afghanistan.

Snorting, he yanked the blinds closed and stripped out of his service blues to change into something more comfortable.

Trousers, shirt, coat—he went with the first things that came to hand when he rooted around in his duffel bag. That they happened to be black was just one of those happy coincidences.

He wondered how long Rodney had held out before ditching his uniform for civilian clothes. Probably not long, if he was trying to blend in.

Trying? Hell. If he hadn't known the real Rodney, that scene in the cafeteria would have convinced him that McKay was just another of Ingram's indoctrinated flunkies. And yeah, John understood sucking up to a new CO, especially if the guy was a real bastard. Since nobody respected a brown-noser, first you had to make it clear that you were prepared to be a miserable son of a bitch right back, and that you knew how to tap-dance along the line of insubordination without crossing it. Then you broke out the pretty manners, and if they knew how to play the game, you'd arrive at an accord: Don't fuck with me and I won't fuck with you.

Maybe Ingram knew how to play the game. John was a little surprised that Rodney did. Then again, Rodney had managed a commercial R&D department; his vantage point might have changed since then, but the petty tactics were still the same. He probably had the Ingram situation under control, and wouldn't appreciate interference.

Of course, that didn't mean John had to roll over on his back for Ingram. In fact, it might take some of the heat off Rodney if he painted a big old target in the middle of his chest.

Even though the Gateship Project was housed at Area 51, the SGC technically retained control over it—like they did with all the best alien tech. That had to be a sore point, and John wasn't above rubbing it in. And the best part was, Ingram could froth and seethe all he liked, but John was bulletproof, completely outside his chain of command.

Before leaving his quarters, John dug out his SGC service patch and slapped it on the sleeve of his coat.

~~

Mostly, people stayed out of his way.

It might have been the black-on-black-on-black ensemble, or the lack of rank insignia could have had something to do with it. The hour or so he spent outside loitering near the hangars was one long guessing game of Is he or isn't he? Popular consensus was to salute when in doubt. John always saluted back, greeting the instigator by rank while letting them flounder through what to say to him in return.

He knew he'd been recognized when someone got major right. The guy looked familiar, so John pulled him aside for a few words. Turned out he knew John because one of his buddies had been ground crew for the puddle jumper—back when the puddle jumper had been undergoing basic flight tests. John learned that the remaining Gateship Project personnel had been transferred to work on Prometheus. He promised to look them up for old times' sake, and thanked the airman for the information.

That right there nearly exhausted John's list of acquaintances on base; he hadn't bothered to cultivate friends, because at the time he'd been hopeful that the Air Force would give up on the alien spaceship nonsense and let him return to his real damned job.

Yeah... no such luck.

When he'd checked in with the base commander that morning, in addition to being assigned quarters, John had also had his security clearance reinstated. His identification badge now granted him access to all appropriate sections of the base. There had also been a promise of voice mail and network access, to be set up within twenty-four hours. His physical mail box, on the other hand, had pretty much been open for business the minute he'd set foot back in Nevada. When he swung by the mail room, the clerk had five letters waiting for him from three separate researchers—one persistent bastard obviously subscribed to the theory of quantity over quality—requesting some time alone with his ATA gene.

He barely scanned the pages before feeding them into the nearby industrial paper shredder. (Seriously, you couldn't walk fifty feet on base without running into one of those. One would think that if the geeks were so damned worried about someone reading their junk mail, they wouldn't print it out in the first place.) Then he scribbled a note for Rodney which said simply, Dinner tonight? He left the date up to imagination, figuring Rodney probably didn't check his own box very often.

No signature either, but who else would have reason to proposition McKay?

He considered visiting Prometheus. The ship was kept out of sight in a subterranean hangar; on the ground, something that large could be photographed by satellite, or even from a local hilltop with a good telephoto lens. But the hangar was far enough away from the main buildings that it required actual vehicular transportation to reach, making it a poor choice for a spontaneous excursion. Besides, if Ingram was occupied there, John should take the opportunity to nose around on Ingram's home turf. So he set out in the direction of the labs, intending to make an eyesore and a nuisance of himself.

The scientists who didn't know him kept asking if he was lost—which was a clumsy way of hinting that he'd wandered someplace he didn't belong. His rote response of, I'm fine, thanks, generated a satisfying amount of dismay. (Once, out of curiosity, he requested directions to the restroom instead. Sure enough, the guy he asked led him there personally, then hovered outside waiting for John to finish before escorting him to the building's exit. John went right back in another door, and made sure to smirk at the guy when he passed him not five minutes later in the hall.) 

The scientists who recognized him kept trying to cajole him into touching bizarre alien devices. It might have been tedious making refusal after refusal if John hadn't hit upon the perfect ploy. Expression completely innocent, he would shrug and say, "Sorry, I'm assigned to Dr McKay. I probably shouldn't fondle any other projects without his prior approval."

He sort of hoped that the idiots who actually went to Rodney to request the use of Rodney's gene carrier phrased it exactly like that, too. Bonus points if John was standing right there to watch Rodney choke and stammer and turn that delightful shade of red.

Surprisingly, the one person who recognized John and approached him with nothing more ominous than a desire to chat was Miko, graduate and survivor of the John Sheppard Civilian Field Orientation. When she spotted with him on the third floor, it took him a moment to recall her name. He still thought of her as Bashful.

"Major Sheppard, wait please, major..."

He halted and let her come to him. "Dr Kusanagi." For the first time since his interrupted lunch, a smile came easily and felt genuine.

"You remember me," she squeaked.

"Of course. Your honesty... it made an impression." In fact, he wouldn't mind another stiff dose of the stuff right about now. "I didn't know you were assigned to Area 51, though. Have you been here long?"

"No, not long." She still had the disconcerting habit of almost, but not quite, allowing eye contact. Maybe if John kept at it, he would eventually catch her. But it wasn't necessary. She struck him as the type he could charm the pants off without even trying. "And yourself, major? Are you also stationed here?"

"As a matter of fact, I am. Just arrived this morning." He decided to test his theory. "And please, call me John."

Okay, so he was trying a little.

"Ah." She blinked several times, the motion comically exaggerated by the large lenses of her glasses. "I– Yes, I will do that. Thank you."

He noticed that she failed to grant him the same familiarity in return. But given the blush that was blooming high on her cheeks, he was inclined to forgive her for being distracted. "So, how's life? You enjoy working here?"

A complete lack of hesitation was reassuring. "Very much! I am honored to have this wonderful opportunity."

"Good, that's... good. Say, can I ask you something? Have you seen Dr McKay around?"

She thought about it, then apologized, "Not since yesterday. He is also a member of the naquadah generator project, and we meet in the afternoon. However, there is a lab on the second floor he prefers. He can often be found there. If you would like, I can show–"

John waved her off. "No, that's fine. That's not quite what I meant." He built up to it slyly, as if he was confiding in her; and in a way, he was. "You know that Dr McKay—Rodney—is my friend. Lately, I've been..."

"Concerned?" she asked, and he recalled her comment that day in the woods, when she'd compared John to a parent and Rodney to a troublesome child.

"I was gonna say busy, or distracted. But sure, that works. I want to know how well Rodney is... fitting in. You know, is he comfortable with his position, does he play nice with the other kids, that kind of thing. Since I haven't been around, I was hoping you could tell me."

She considered, as if this was a grave request and she desired to be fair as well as truthful. John could have kissed her out of gratitude, because he was pretty damned sure that no one else in the damned complex was willing to shoot straight with him—perhaps least of all Rodney himself. "Dr McKay is diligent and works very hard. I believe he is happy to be here. He is always eager and never complains."

Now that was funny, because as parting advice to the teams who took Rodney through the gate, O'Neill used to say, Don't think of it as an annoyance. Think of it more like... a safety feature. You know, canary in a coal mine? When McKay stops bitching, something's wrong.

John pressed, "Even though his intentions are good, he can be abrasive in a way that tends to... exaggerate differences of opinion. You haven't noticed friction between him and any of the other researchers here?"

Aha, he had her. Startled into meeting his gaze, her expression turned guilty, although she was clearly reluctant to divulge the identity of the party—or parties—in question.

"It's okay," he coaxed, sidling closer. "You know you can trust me not to say anything. I don't want to get involved. I just want to be able to keep an eye on the situation."

"I should not– Oh!" One hand flew to her mouth, fingers touching her lips, as if she could stuff back in what had already escaped. "I do not intend to imply that I do not trust you. I do! It is just–"

"Difficult to say things that aren't polite, I know. I wouldn't ask this of you if it wasn't important." He paused a beat, then murmured gently, "It's Ingram, isn't it?"

Oh shit, wrong answer. He saw it in her immediate, automatic confusion. "What? Dr Ingram? No, he and Dr McKay have no problems. That is a good relationship." Anguished, she gnawed on her fingertip before blurting, "It is Dr Kavanagh! Whenever anyone else is near, they are civil. But when they believe no one can overhear, they argue and trade horrible insults."

Wait. Rodney and Ingram get along?

"Please, I know you will not say anything, but I would be relieved if you would, as you say, watch the situation. If they are not careful, they could make trouble for each other." 

Trying his best to mask his bewilderment, John assured her, "Yeah, I'll do that. Promise. I, uh– Look, I really appreciate this. And you know that if you ever have a problem, you can come to me. Come to me first. I owe you one, and I'd love to repay the favor some day."

Probably part of the reason it was difficult to catch her gaze was that her slight stature put her eye-level with his breastbone. Up close, the disparity was far more obvious; he felt like he was conversing with the top of her head. "Thank you, Major Sheppard. Your offer is kind. I hope I never have need to accept it."

"John," John reminded her.

"Ah, y-yes. John."

"I should be, um–" He jerked a thumb back over his shoulder. "I shouldn't keep you, if you're busy. You looked like you were heading somewhere."

"No, I am– Well, a little," she admitted, hunching up one shoulder in an awkward shrug.

Crap. It was a damned good thing he knew McKay wasn't interested in her. Otherwise the whole flirting thing would be weird and vaguely... creepy. Not that he had been flirting. Okay, maybe he had, but it was all in the name of intelligence gathering, so it didn't count. He shuffled a few steps backward. "Hey, it was good to see you."

"You too."

"Hope to catch you around." 

She gave him a shy little wave, fingers all tucked up under her chin. So he figured, What the hell? and tossed her a crisp salute before turning the proper direction to stroll away.

He made it around the corner before realizing that he should have pumped her for more intel on Rodney's new nemesis. Starting with: Exactly who in the fuck is Kavanagh?

~~

Naturally, Rodney was kept busy with Prometheus for the rest of the day. When John didn't hear from him again the next morning, he ordered transportation and headed out to the X-303's hangar. Or maybe that was BC-303 now that Prometheus had passed the experimental stage and was considered to be in production.

Tracking down Rodney proved to be no more difficult than it had been back at the SGC, when he would frequently disappear into obscure laboratories at Carter's behest. Ripping Rodney's attention away from the console that appeared to have erupted into a tangle of cables and switches and circuit boards was another matter.

"Ah, there you are," John said from the door. He'd never navigated well on ships, and Prometheus was enough like an aircraft carrier—all identical tight corridors with low ceilings, lavishly defaced with stenciled instructions and warnings—to confuse his sense of direction entirely. (For his own edification, he blamed the phenomenon on being unable to see the horizon.) At least the decks were numbered. When he'd hit the right one, he'd wandered around, poking his head into compartments until he'd spotted a familiar back.

Rodney's cubbyhole reminded John of the bridge, despite being much smaller and in the wrong place. Perhaps it was some sort of secondary monitoring station. McKay was alone, hunched over the gutted console; he was twirling a screwdriver between his fingers, and his posture was decidedly tense. "I really don't have time to spare for you unless you're bringing me coffee or the goddamned wiring diagram I asked for thirty minutes ago," he growled, not bothering to look in John's direction.

"Rodney..." John used his gentle-yet-disappointed voice, and crept over to lay his palm against the hunched curve of Rodney's back, right between the shoulder blades.

Sure enough, Rodney flinched.... and lost his grip on the screwdriver with such enthusiasm that it flew backwards. Only fast reflexes and combat conditioning saved John from harm. "Holy shit, Sheppard! Are you trying to give me a heart attack?" Rodney whipped around to search behind him; he clearly wasn't expecting to find John rising from a defensive crouch. "Um..."

John brushed his uniform free of imaginary wrinkles. "Thanks for nearly taking out my eye."

Rodney winced. "Well... it's not like you don't have a spare."

"I suppose. I mean, depth perception isn't vital to my career as a pilot or anything." In truth, the screwdriver hadn't come that close to nailing him, but sometimes a little guilt went a long way.

"Maybe next time you'll be more careful about startling me," Rodney grumbled—or tried to. Mostly he sounded contrite.

John forgave him enough to retrieve the screwdriver. "Yeah, next time I announce myself and brazenly walk over to secure your attention, I'll remember to pin your arms before you can fling something hard and pointy at my head."

"Are you fishing for an apology? Because if that's where this is going..."

"What's that?" John interrupted to point at the console.

"That," Rodney sighed, wilting, "is a fucking disaster. Honestly, I don't understand how in the hell anyone can earn a graduate degree in engineering without having a basic understanding of electronics. But some fu– Some idiot who shall go nameless thought that they could just... rip it apart and fix it even though they wouldn't know a programmable logic controller if it kicked them in the ba– In the shin. Forget fixing it, they weren't even able to reassemble it still broken. And it's been more than half an hour and they still haven't returned with that damned diagram."

Wait a minute... "You mean you didn't even do that?"

"Um, no. Do I look like a complete moron?"

John shook his head slightly. Once again, here he was, confronted with a situation that defied logic. It was kinda like Area 51's way of saying Hiya buddy, welcome back to the madhouse! Also, since when did McKay give a damn about watching his language? He never had before when it was just the two of them. Why now? "So let me get this straight. Someone else mauled the shit out of that thing?"

Rodney rolled his eyes. "Like I said, do I look incompetent to you?"

"And now you're waiting here for them to return with a diagram so that you can put it back together?"

"Ordinarily I'd just pull it up on the ship's computer. But guess where the controls to do that just happen to be?" His fist hit the edge of the busted console, hard enough to jostle the loose parts. "What's the retirement age for an Air Force contractor? Because I'm pretty sure I'll hit that long before he turns back up. We can hold the party right here. Skip the ice cream. You'll bring me cake and booze, won't you?"

"Rodney," John repeated beseechingly. If shaking the man might have helped, John would have done it. "Let me explain how things work in the military. If you didn't make the mess, you leave it the hell alone. It's not your responsibility. Walk away."

"It's not that simple."

"Were you explicitly ordered by a superior to clean it up?"

"No, but–"

"Then yes it is that simple!"

"Sheppard–"

"McKay..." John crossed his arms and used his best glower. "It's almost noon. The guy you're waiting for probably took a break and didn't bother to inform you. So I tell you what—you're going to do the same thing to him. Come with me. We'll find food and head out to see the puddle jumper—you know, like we were supposed to do yesterday before we were so rudely interrupted."

Rodney's resolve softened; John could read it on his face. "But what about–"

"Screw him," John said firmly. "We're talking about the puddle jumper here, Rodney. Remember, most advanced spaceship on the planet? Absolutely one of a kind, technology that's millennia ahead of us, and it's up to you to figure out how to make it flight-worthy again? It's the challenge of a lifetime! There's no way you can ignore it in favor of–" He motioned at the exposed boards and tangled wires. "–that."

"I know, I know," Rodney moaned. "It's just that Prometheus is important too. Hugely so, when you consider that it's going to be Earth's front-line defense against Anubis' armada. And everyone here is working so hard to get it ready in time."

Oh sure, everyone was working really hard, all right—everyone except the person who'd royally fucked up that console and tried to foist the task of repairing it onto McKay. "Don't make me zat you. I swear I'll do it and haul your ass out of here." The thought of trying to fireman's carry an unconscious Rodney off Prometheus was more than satisfying—it was downright entertaining. Such an unwieldy burden would make navigating the cramped corridors and narrow section bulkheads impossible. It would be like moving furniture—no matter how much you tried to be careful, you always ended up banging something into the wall. 

He kinda wondered if Rodney's head would make more of a clang or a thud if it was repeatedly knocked into those support beams that stuck out everywhere.

"Ha! You wouldn't." Rodney must have seen something in John's expression, because he hurriedly revised, "I mean, you can't. You don't have a zat on you."

"That you can see." John let his droll tone insinuate the worst.

Rodney actually squirmed with the effort of keeping his gaze above John's waist before he gave up all together and turned back around to the console. "Fine. Just give me a few minutes to–"

"No, Rodney. Now."

"Fine!" He threw his hands up and turned again, same direction, completing the circle. "If I get in trouble for leaving, I'm going to send the aggrieved party to you to deal with."

John reasoned, "I'll zat them too." Hell, maybe he would start carrying the thing concealed on his person. O'Neill hadn't confiscated it when he should have, even knowing full well what John was capable of doing with it. And while it was troubling that O'Neill thought John might have an honest need for the weapon, at the same time it was reassuring to know he already had O'Neill's blessing to whip the sucker out, if it ever came to that.

"Typical military, always resorting to violence." There—the barest hint of a smile, slipping away before it ever had a chance. But it was a start.

"Hey, I thought you geeks were supposed to appreciate quick, efficient solutions that don't leave a messy aftermath."

"Efficiency alone isn't always enough. Sometimes a plan requires flair and finesse."

John picked up the smile, dusted it off, and slyly offered it back. "Oh, that's easy. After we zat them, we can search their pockets for loose change before locking them in a supply closet with an autographed photo of Leonard Nimoy, an empty bottle of tequila, and no pants."

This time, the smile hit Rodney and stuck. "Shit, why didn't you say so in the first place?"

"So you're on board with the plan?"

"I am so on board that I'm already lounging in a deckchair, wearing an ugly Hawaiian shirt, with a tropical mixed-drink in each hand," Rodney said fervently.

John shifted aside to let Rodney move into the corridor first—mostly to keep an eye on him, but also because John didn't need to pretend he knew where he was going if he had someone to follow. He motioned, "Then by all means, after you, sir."

~~

John's reunion with the puddle jumper reminded him of his last visit to the old family homestead, right before his father had sold it.

The ranch hadn't had much to recommend it, really. The house had been old-fashioned and modest by Sheppard standards; the land had been decent for livestock, but the few small oil wells on the property had run dry decades earlier. And considering that the nearest (minuscule) town had been a hefty distance along roads that weren't meant for expensive city cars... well. Small wonder it had never been his father's favorite vacation destination.

Despite the rustic miasma—or perhaps because of it—John's mother had always loved the place. She'd chosen to live out the last days of her illness there, bedroom window open to the strong plains breeze that was infused with the scent of sun-warmed prairie grass.

Returning that last time, after the funeral, John had stood in the kitchen and tried to separate the good memories from the bad. Those to fold up and store away, and those to wring out his grief on and discard. He hadn't been able to, though. The years of contentment and the months of painful decline had stayed all jumbled together, confusing and raw.

At the time, he'd wondered if he simply wasn't adult enough to be able to impose those distinctions; he knew better, now.

The puddle jumper was the same, when he sat down and put his hands on the controls for the first time since he'd been pulled out of the forest after going down. When he tried to recall the thrill of flight, it was inextricably tainted by the violence of the crash. And the ship itself, once so alien and fascinating, had been rendered prosaic by the tedious weeks he'd spent stranded inside it.

"John, you there? Hello, Earth to Sheppard, please respond?"

Then there was Rodney. John's lifeline, the friendly voice on the radio that had delivered him through those desolate days and nights.

All the pieces, reunited at last—for the first time.

He took his hands away, rubbed his palms dry on his thighs. "Yeah, I– I heard you. Just gimme a minute, okay?" With his eyes open, the viewing port showed him only the dull, corrugated steel wall of the hangar. Closed, he saw branches whipping the ship as he tore through the canopy, hurtling toward impact.

There was motion next to him, that turned out to be Rodney climbing into the second pilot's seat. "You know what they say, about getting back on after you fall off a horse?"

"What about it?" John asked, slow and cautious. His gaze was still pinned straight ahead; he didn't dare look at McKay, because McKay wasn't supposed to have the insight to make those connections, damn it. Confirmation would only make it worse.

"I just, you know, wondered if it was true. I haven't ridden enough horses to have ever fallen off of one." Rodney hesitated, then offered, "Or rather, if it looks like I might fall, I generally don't get on in the first place." The way he stumbled over fall made John suspect that he'd actually meant fail.

Yeah, it's true all right. You gotta climb back in the saddle before you lose your nerve.

John didn't say that, though. Instead, he settled himself with a deep breath and reached for the controls again. They were warm to the touch, but curiously inorganic, like plastic that had been sitting in the sun. He could sense the ship stirring, sluggish from protracted dormancy, but still attentive to his wishes. He had only to form the command.

"Here goes."

John was, perhaps, out of practice. That was the most reasonable explanation, because it was unlikely that he harbored a secret penchant for showmanship, although it was possible he simply overcompensated for his reluctance with too much oomph.

Whatever the reason, on came out more like... ON! And the jumper responded with equal enthusiasm, bursting to life like Christmas, New Year's, and the Fourth of July all rolled into one.

Beside him, Rodney sucked in a sharp breath. "Holy shit," he said reverently. His face was splashed with reflected colors, from the ornamented cabin lights, from the DHD, and especially from the head-up display as it stormed through system checks and self-diagnostics and a dozen other start-up routines, and finally a cascade of alarms: WARNING, DANGER, FAILURE.

Yeah, holy shit about summed it up.

Then Rodney did an odd thing. He cracked his knuckles and said, "Looks like we've got our work cut out for us," as if the prospect was thrilling rather than daunting as hell. The fierce, almost defiant grin he threw at John clinched it.

As John studied Rodney in turn, he was even more startled by the unbidden certainty that everything he'd expended and endured to reach this exact, precipitous moment had been worthwhile.

~~

It was such an auspicious start that John simply forgot to be leery.

Granted, when he'd been stranded, it hadn't taken long to restore full range to the radio once he'd had McKay's painstaking instructions to follow. But it took Rodney even less time to revert the fast and dirty bypass using the jumper itself as reference; blueprints just didn't compare to the real thing. Then, eyes alight and hands dancing, Rodney explained that the next step would be to follow the chain of system failures back to the initial point of sabotage, making repairs as they went. Finally, they would worry about the damage the drive pod had sustained during the actual crash.

He made all sound so simple and logical, more like he was discussing a toaster than an ancient alien spaceship. Yet he seemed to know exactly what he was doing as he talked John through the pilot interface, collecting preliminary diagnostic information on each of the corrupted systems. (John owed Daniel big-time. Those Ancient language lessons were suddenly paying off in a big way.) And by the time Rodney had to stop for the evening to catch the commuter flight back to Vegas, he had a thick stack of scribbled flow charts to review, illustrating possible plans of attack.

They had plans. Plural!

John slipped back to his quarters that night thinking that maybe, just maybe, the Gateship Project wasn't going to go down in the annals of the SGC as an enormous waste of time and potential after all.

Rodney was... god, he was perfect, everything John had hoped he would be. He was unarguably brilliant, making more progress in a single afternoon than the former project team had floundered through in weeks. After seeing McKay in action, John was considerably less apprehensive about trusting his life to the quality of the repairs being performed on the jumper. Hell, if anything, he believed Rodney could improve the little ship, make it stronger and faster and better than it had been when they'd found it.

But most important, Rodney was willing to take John's input and feedback into consideration. He didn't always agree, but he did always listen. Considering John's track record at Area 51, it was refreshing to deal with someone who didn't treat him like a tame monkey with a cute trick. He was an officer, damn it; he wasn't accustomed to being ignored.

Of course, it helped that—as an officer—he knew when it was appropriate to offer timely, relevant observations, and when to keep his damned mouth shut. Rodney had long since figured out that John didn't waste words.

Then there was the mutual respect, the compatible sense of humor, the genuine empathy... What they had was the foundation for a complementary and intuitive working relationship—one that would only strengthen with time.

God, it was going to be good to be back on a team again.

~~

Roughly two weeks later, John was brooding alone in the jumper again, wondering just how in the hell that sentiment had distilled down to: Well, it was good while it lasted.

Part 2

It was their first time together, and John could already tell that the relationship wasn't going to fly.

Pun fully intended.

For one, Garrett insisted on calling him major, even when they were right in the thick of things. And that forced John to reciprocate. So it was major, would you please and major, do you mind and John figured Garrett needed to grow a pair and take charge, ranks be damned. It was his deal, after all—John was just along for the ride.

"Major, could you check the output on the aerospikes?"

John took his sweet time locating the readout before replying with the information, but the deliberation was for his benefit, not Garrett's. It was his first trip up in the F-302, and experience-wise, he was months and a couple hundred hours on the flight sim behind these guys. "Still holding at ninety-six percent." He wondered if he tacked a sir on to that if Garrett would finally get the damned hint.

John's cautious attitude must have been frustrating Garrett; hopefully his flying wasn't always so sluggish. Not that John could be blamed. The figures he was relaying should have confirmed what Garrett already knew from his own instruments. Or hell, from the way the ship was handling, a little kick here and there instead of a nice, steady burn.

The geeks still hadn't worked all the kinks out of these things.

"Approaching Kármán line in seventeen thousand," John announced, before Garrett could throw another major at him. "Thirteen thousand. Ten. Six. Three. One. Mark."

It was an arbitrary demarcation; it wasn't like they burst through the ceiling of the atmosphere and suddenly found themselves in outer space. It wouldn't even have warranted mention if it hadn't been the first objective of the flight.

"Aerospikes disengaged, switching to rocket boosters," Garrett warned. There was a little buck as the engine caught, nothing at all like what they would have felt without the rudimentary inertial dampeners, but still a much more interesting ride than John had ever gotten out of the puddle jumper. He almost would have been jealous, except the shit with the low atmosphere engines, the high atmosphere engines, the no atmosphere engines... it was a royal pain in the ass. He preferred the jumper's one-size-fits-all approach, and he suspected the geeks did too. Too bad the jumper was sufficiently advanced to make reverse-engineering it impossible with Earth's current technology. They were stuck with Goa'uld death gliders, complete with all their quirks and design shortcomings.

John gave the boosters a few seconds to compensate for the aerospikes' residual thrust, then started estimating their course from the jump-off point. The hyperjump was already plotted—computers were wonderful, wonderful things—but at the same time John loved the convenience, he wasn't happy until he'd tried the numbers in his head.

It was doable, roughly, for extremely short jumps such as the one they were about to attempt. Any more than a fraction of a second inside the hyperspace window and it would take him all day with a whiteboard to make the calculations—and he still might have to hijack McKay's brain to help with some of the math. It was also unlikely that his life would ever depend upon his ability to manually plot a hyperjump, but he was more than willing to practice anyway.

Lately, it wasn't like he had anything better to do with his time.

John only had half an ear for the radio chatter from the other fighters. Blue Six was set to jump near the end of the pack, and he wanted to concentrate on maintaining their buffer. The leap-off wasn't nearly as dangerous as the drop-in, considering that the entire purpose of the test flight was to help nail down lingering accuracy issues with the hyperdrive—something to do with the inherent instability of the naquadria that powered it, which doubtless McKay could have explained in a way that made perfect sense, if only he'd been around for John to ask.

Okay, fuck it. The McKay thing had to stop. It was a nuisance most times, but when John needed his attention focused on the task at hand, it was downright reckless to have it constantly wandering back to Rodney, Rodney, Rodney.

[Blue Six, you have a go,] the radio crackled. [Proceed to jump-off, and we'll see you on the other side.]

"Copy that," Garrett replied. He opened the throttle to arc them out of their holding pattern. John refrained from commenting when he let the tail slip by laying too hard on the– Well, they still referred to it as a rudder, even though it technically mimicked the function of that control surface in insufficient atmosphere. "Major, what's our ETA?"

"Twenty-eight seconds." As calculated—more if you don't straighten the damned thing out.

"Count it down."

John read off his screen—which incidentally happened to display the exact same information that Garrett's did, but whatever. "Twenty-five. Twenty. Fifteen. Ten. Five. Four." Damn it, that slip had lengthened their approach just enough that John had to slow it down a little. "Three. Two. One."

Garrett wasn't paying attention to his co-pilot after all. He opened the window in time with readout, a heartbeat before John said, "Mark." But that was all it took to make them undershoot the jump-off point.

It was nobody's fault, really, just one of those coordination issues that wouldn't have happened between a tight pilot and co-pilot team. Still, John couldn't help feeling frustrated when they doubled back to regroup with the squadron, and he saw that the marker flare Blue Six had dropped immediately upon exiting hyperspace was the one farthest away from the target.

The squadron leader was on the radio. [Good work, boys and girls. Finish collecting the jump data for the geeks, then bingo the base.] His fighter was the first to peel away and dive back toward the planet.

On the shard channel, John could hear the typical post-mission laughter and camaraderie—and ribbing for the weaker performances. Although Blue Six ate a few gibes, Garrett wasn't inclined to join in the jocularity, and John didn't offer any words that weren't requested for the rest of the flight.

~~

John was never supposed to have learned to fly the F-302. He was tempted to blame the dreams... but in truth they were simply the most recognizable of the contributing factors.

Not counting, of course, one Lieutenant Colonel Cameron Mitchell.

It had happened something like this:

The morning after their first real progress on the puddle jumper, John met up with Rodney bright and early in the hangar. He arrived with breakfast in hand—nothing fancy, just pastries from the mess and a thermos full of noxious coffee—and high expectations for the day.

Rodney looked good, John had to admit. Sharp and eager, if not precisely well-rested. And okay, his choice of wardrobe lately wasn't doing him any favors, unless he was trying to be mistaken for a professor from a cut-rate university. John preferred him in uniform, although it was possible he was the slightest bit biased. But on the whole, Kusanagi could be right. Rodney seemed... content.

It lasted all of about five minutes. That's how long it took Rodney to grab a cheese danish and unpack his data pad, setting up shop in the jumper's rear compartment. "Okay, what the fuck?" he growled, scattering crumbs as he jabbed at the screen.

"Something wrong?" John asked mildly. Then, in the same tone, he offered, "Coffee?"

"Yes, there's something wrong. The inertial dampener manifold– These blueprints are an old revision or something. I could have sworn I grabbed the right file." He stuffed home the rest of the danish, licked his fingers, and hopped up, clutching the data pad to his chest. "Sorry about this. I'll be right back." Then he was gone, fleeing out the jumper's hatch.

John shrugged and leisurely finished his breakfast.

By noon, when Rodney still hadn't returned, John locked up the hangar and tromped back to his quarters to hurl his irritation at some Ancient verb conjugations.

Rodney was apologetic the next day, throwing himself into the job as if he was trying to cram an entire workload into a few hours. Then he explained that he had a vital project meeting to attend in the afternoon, and wouldn't be able to stay.

John wanted to know how any project could be more vital than the one to which Rodney was officially assigned. He might have raised his voice a little more sharply than he'd intended, and he might have been blocking the jumper's hatch, fists planted on his hips, when did so.

He didn't get an honest answer, and he didn't see McKay again for two days.

Eventually, they gave up trying to schedule work sessions. John just stayed near his phone, and when Rodney called to say he'd found a few spare hours, they would meet at the hangar. Rodney compensated by maintaining a blistering pace; John had seen short order cooks during the lunch rush move slower. It had to be contributing to Rodney's increasingly haggard appearance. They fought about that once, wasting time that Rodney wearily reminded they didn't have to spare. After that, John kept the peace by keeping his mouth shut, although he watched and fretted, prepared to intervene at the first real evidence of trouble.

Small wonder that the twitchy sensation he'd been carrying since the SGC refused to go away. He'd been counting on it to abate with proximity, but if anything it was worse now that he was close enough to Rodney to see the strain he was weathering. It was the same for everyone, John tried to tell himself. The entire base was exhausted, scrambling to prepare for the looming threat of an honest to god alien invasion. There was no reason to believe McKay was in any worse shape than any of the other scientists John passed in the halls, with dark bags beneath their eyes and jumpy, over-caffeinated nerves.

He began to track Rodney down even when Rodney couldn't come to him. It was perilous to sit and watch him work—John couldn't enter the labs anymore without being bombarded by requests to light things up with his magic gene—but he could still swing by with moral support in the form of power bars and sticky notes reminding Rodney to take better care of himself. The latter he always left beneath the tiny crocheted cat doll that had mysteriously appeared on Rodney's desk one day; John felt it even more appropriate when he learned that the doll was a gift from Miko.

He toyed with taking up Ancient tech fondling duties again, if for no other reason than to balance the guilt he felt for his relative lack of activity. The rule he settled upon was simple: he refused to spend more time touching things for the geeks than he spent working on the jumper with Rodney. He did always say yes to Miko, because he liked her and he owed her a favor. And once he gave in to Kavanagh, just to learn more about the man who was locked in what had become a legendary rivalry with McKay. (John concluded that Kavanagh was thoroughly self-serving and unpleasant, but not threatening in the conventional sense. Still, he took the opportunity to make it clear that as Rodney's friend, he considered Rodney's problems his problems.) 

And wasn't that John's damned predicament in a nutshell? He would have gladly fought Rodney's fights, but the ills plaguing McKay were intangible and completely outside John's ability to influence. He itched for a clear target, enough to wish that Kavanagh had warranted a punch right in his smart-ass mouth.

Maybe in that context, the dream made a shred of sense. John was willing to accept that, because from every other angle, it was kinda fucked-up.

He remembered the day, because it had been the first time he'd gone in search of Rodney and actually been barred from seeing him. That had been a nasty surprise, presenting his badge at the entrance to the labs where McKay was sequestered, and being informed that his security clearance wasn't sufficient to grant him entrance. John's incredulity had forced the guard to repeat herself. Then he'd sort of piteously lifted the bag with the muffin, explaining that his friend was working inside, and wasn't there any way it could be delivered to him?

In the end, the guard had conceded, and John had scribbled Rodney's name on the white paper and handed it over, doubtful that the bag would actually reach McKay. Then, there hadn't been anything better to do than return to his quarters and sit next to the phone while he detail stripped his sidearm. He'd been too methodical and finished too quickly; if he'd known how to clean the zat, he would have. Instead, he'd entertained himself by researching rental houses in the tiny local towns while he waited for the day to dwindle and die.

John seldom had difficulty falling asleep. His job had taught him to doze when and where he could—on the narrow canvas cots in the hold of his chopper, or sometimes on the ground in its shade, his head pillowed on someone else's thigh. And the dreams weren't severe enough or frequent enough to make him reluctant to sleep. They were no worse than the nightmares that had chased some of his nastier missions; he had shaken those with time, just as he would shake these, too.

If there was anything at all that actually troubled him about the dreams, it was that they were no longer confined to the demeaning scenarios the Goa'uld had played out for its own enjoyment, during the days John had been a prisoner in his own mind. It was as if John's subconscious had latched on to the theme and decided to run with it, churning out new and ever more inventive variations.

Oh, there were similarities. Most often, he was a disembodied observer, without the comfort—or outlet—of being able to act and react. And there was always the snake.

Tonight, it wore Rodney's face. It was perched on an ornate throne, swathed in rich trappings, befitting the status of a god. The anticipatory hunger in its eyes was unsettling because it was so familiar and fundamentally Rodney. McKay really did look like that when he was pursuing some heady discovery or idea.

Then the focus shifted to an opening door, and John saw—or realized, because the Goa'uld's disembodied observer trick involved an awareness that bypassed the senses entirely—that the object of Rodney's anticipation was John himself. He was decked out in the accouterments of a high-ranking Jaffa guard, everything from the armor right down to the ridiculous, swishy cape. Before the door was finished sliding closed, he was striding for Rodney's dais, all grace and deadly competence.

That was pretty fucked up too, because that particular representation of himself had come directly from the snake. And he knew that, as the prior host, Rodney's perception was mixed up in it somehow, though he never had been able to determine the extent or degree. It was uncomfortable to witness himself from a foreign perspective, and disturbing to wonder which nuances had been contributed by his best friend, and which by a malicious parasite.

Jaffa-John reached the dais without the exchange of a single word. No greeting, no acknowledgment save for a flick of eyes. Then, he halted a defiant step just shy of Goa'uld-Rodney's feet.

Each measured the other, unblinking. Rodney's very silence was imperious; but John didn't miss the impatience betrayed in the way his fingers tightened on the armrest of his throne, until the knuckles shone white.

Still John hesitated—one breath, five—before closing the last of the distance. Sweeping his cape out of the way with a flourish, he knelt.

Possessive satisfaction warmed Rodney's expression. He lifted his arm, trailing a voluminous sleeve, to reach out and trace the symbol of John's office, the gold medallion that was stamped into the fine skin of his forehead...

John woke with the memory of the caress echoing in his groin.

He almost couldn't muster the courage to do it, but he gingerly reached up, with the same motion Rodney had used in the dream, and felt his own face. The relief of finding it smooth and unblemished left him shivering.

After that, he automatically reached for his dick. It was primed and demanding, and he knew from experience that it wouldn't let him sleep again until he'd finished it off with a few brisk strokes.

But it was different this time. Despite the release, he was still awake when the tender morning sun started to seep in around the edges of the blinds.

He rose and trudged through his morning routine mainly because he hadn't been pathetic enough to stay in bed and sulk since he was eight. There hadn't been call from Rodney, so there was no reason to visit the jumper; he went anyway, because he was feeling ornery and there was no reason not to, either.

Company was the last thing he expected. But there was improbable, and then there was a lieutenant colonel, decked out a flight suit, with a large red tin tucked under one arm. John had to sit back in his seat and blink a few times, just to be sure he wasn't seeing things. (Hey, it was Area 51. Stranger shit had happened.)

The light bird invited himself right up to the front of the cockpit and flopped down in the second pilots chair. He took the tin and dropped it right in the middle of the– Well, John ran with space taxi theme and called it a dashboard, in part because Rodney would have had a shit fit if he'd known.

John gaped. The light bird beamed at him. "Can I help you... sir?"

"You might." The guy said it like it was funny, somehow. "I'm looking for Dr McKay. He around?"

"No sir. McKay is–" John only gritted his teeth a little. "–tied up with another project over in the north labs."

"Mm, that's too bad." That didn't explain why he was still grinning as he started to peer around the jumper. "Damn shame what happened to this ship. I never got to see her fly, but I hear she makes the 302s look like granny cars."

John had to agree, "It's a whole different bird." The F-302s were quick, agile fighters. "The ju– gateship is fast, but smooth and sedate. Think... luxury sedan."

The colonel pointed to the head-up display. "Can you read that?"

John had been sifting through the pilot interface, jotting down phrases he didn't understand to translate later. "Some." He demonstrated by mentally pulling up the closest configuration he'd found to traditional flight instruments. "Let's see, we've got airspeed, vertical and horizontal speed, that round thing there sort of acts like an artificial horizon, altimeter..."

"Sweet." The light bird came equipped with an infections southern drawl that threatened to drag John's accent right down with it the longer the conversation went on. (Virginia couldn't be all that far north of wherever the guy hailed from.) He also had a habit of starting his sentences in a slow drip, then squeezing the ending out in a rush. "But I take it you weren't always the driver of a luxury space sedan. What's your background?"

If it hadn't been obvious that the guy had an ulterior motive, it sure as hell was now. As neutral as possible, John replied, "Choppers. Pave Low primarily."

"Special ops," he whistled.

"Yessir."

"Major, I think it's time I came clean." And oh shit, John realized he still wasn't wearing rank insignia. Someone had done their homework. "I'm not all that disappointed McKay isn't here. I was actually looking for you. And the fact that I managed to corner you alone leads me to think I might be successful in borrowing you for the afternoon."

This could be bad, this could be very bad. Although on the bright side, chances were slim that it was another attempt to get John to light things up with his mind. "Sir...?"

The guy held out his hand. "Lieutenant Colonel Cameron Mitchell, 1st SFW."

Squadron commander—John had already figured that part out. And the colonel already knew his rank, but protocol called for him to give it anyway. "Major John Sheppard, SGC." He was relieved when there was none of that macho finger-breaking crap in the handshake. Pilots could be weird around other pilots.

"I know, seen you around." Mitchell kicked back and got down to business straightaway. "Here's the run down. Major Garrett's co-pilot broke his leg in a damned car accident, of all things. I hate to ground Garrett, but you know how it is—no one goes up solo. So, how 'bout it?"

Okay, wow. Completely not what John had been expecting. He repeated for his own benefit, just to be sure he'd heard right, "You want me to stand in as Garrett's co-pilot? Sir?"

"I don't happen to see any other experienced pilots languishing around here." Mitchell's gaze roamed around the interior of the jumper. "Do you?"

Crazily enough, Mitchell did have a point. John even had to chuckle at Mitchell's expression, sort of hopeful and a touch pleading. It wasn't a look he often saw a superior officer wear. "Are you going to be able to clear it?"

Mitchell broke into a smile as if John had already said yes. "Let me worry about that. I know the geeks. They've got a small enough test sample to work with as it is. Having to ground even one fighter would drive them nuts. I think they'd let me substitute a blow-up sex doll if it meant putting Garrett back in the air. Oh. That is... not to imply that you..." He waved his hand at John, seemingly not embarrassed in the slightest.

Something about the way Mitchell just bulldozed over his gaffe made John relax. He hated dealing with COs who had an inflated notion of their own importance. And hell, maybe Mitchell had done it intentionally, to show John that he wasn't some stuffy, overcompensating, dickless wonder. If that was the case, John could forgo caution and make the premature assessment that he was going to like the man. "Actually, sir, I might be just as much use to you. I don't have any experience with delta or flying wing designs."

"None of us did, when we started. I'll give you the crash course myself, we'll put you on the flight sim for a few hours so you can get a feel for how they handle... you'll be fine."

Some form of perverse honesty made John confess, "Air-to-air combat's not exactly my strong suit. It's been years since I was even up in a fighter."

Mitchell refused to be put off. "All the more reason to want you. This Goa'uld armada we're supposed to defend Earth against is gonna be unlike any enemy we've ever faced. Conventional tactics are bound to fail. I don't think we're doing ourselves any favors by confining ourselves to one particular style of flying." The way he said it suggested an old, tired argument he'd lost too many times. 

"Well..." Fuck, was he crazy? The way John's career had been going, he was lucky to fly at all. Opportunities like this sure as hell weren't going to drop into his lap every day. He should be kissing Mitchell's ass, not playing the coy devil's advocate.

Hopping out of the chair, Mitchell clapped his hands once and rubbed them together. "Great, you'll do it. Go get suited up." He measured John's body for a moment with his eyes. "Or if you don't have one, I'm sure I can find a spare that'll fit you."

John rose also. Apparently, he'd agreed without realizing. "I never leave home without one."

"That's the spirit. Oh, hey, mind giving this to McKay for me?" He thumped the tin, which proved to be five pounds of generic, store-brand coffee. "Tell him who it's from and he'll understand."

It was sitting right on top of the DHD. Rodney would blow a gasket. "Sure," John shrugged, and left it there.

The jumper's center aisle was narrow, especially with both of them trying to shuffle out at the same time. Nobody's toes were stepped on, but it was a close thing. However, by the time they hit the ramp sloping down to the ground, they were able to fit side by side with ease. "Squadron briefing room is in the support building next to the hangar. Ask anyone and they'll be able to give you directions. Meet me there after you've changed?"

"Yes sir."

Mitchell leaned in close to mock-whisper, "Unofficially, I go by Cam."

John admitted, "I'm glad it's not Mitch. I, er, used to fly with this guy..."

Mitchell nodded. Losing friends happened; there was nothing more to say about it. But he did raise an eyebrow at John expectantly.

"Oh. Shep."

"Shucks, I was kinda hoping for Bo Peep." Mitchell clasped his hands in the small of his back and strolled for the hangar door, leaving John to secure the jumper. "See you in twenty, major."

"Yessir!"

~~

The first time John went up in the 302, the exhilaration of it—the power and the control and the speed—was so good it was sexual.

He probably should have been guilty, banging the hot slut when he had a nice, steady girl waiting for him back home. He definitely should have been guilty the first time he ignored his ringing phone on the way out the door to a training exercise. But he'd been all suited up, raring to go, and it wasn't as if Rodney hadn't stood him up a half dozen times in the past couple weeks.

Still, he managed to harbor a little remorse, right up until he was in the cockpit, pulling ten gees in a hard climb; then, it was impossible to be anything but smug, vindictive, and turned-on like crazy.

~~

As it turned out, John did like Mitchell. Not that he wasn't CO material; but even more, Cam was the kind of guy you wanted on your flank, the ideal wingman.

Better still, John found that Cam had his back even when they weren't in the air. It was just the way he was; the squadron was his People, and he mothered everyone, even the temporary members. (John was sort of accustomed to that being his job, but he sure as hell didn't mind being on the receiving end for a change.)

After the unimpressive hyperdrive test, John wasn't surprised to be called into Mitchell's office. It wasn't even a personality clash that had caused John and Garrett not to click; partnerships took a long time to build, even under the best of circumstances. Still, they were probably due the old let's-try-to-play-nicely-together pep talk.

So John was... not exactly worried, more like curious, when Mitchell told him to come inside and shut the door, and Garrett was nowhere in sight.

"Take a seat," Mitchell swept out an arm, almost like he was entertaining a guest in his parlor. And he rarely sat behind his desk, John had noticed, preferring to perch on it instead. Some officers would do that to keep whoever they were dressing down at a height disadvantage. He was pretty sure Cam did it just because he liked to be able to stretch out his legs.

John pulled up a chair. He hadn't had the opportunity to shower or change after the flight, but he followed Cam's example and unzipped his suit for a few inches of breathing space.

"Little rough out there today?" Mitchell gentled it with a smile.

John had no complaints, and he didn't want anyone to get the wrong idea. "You know how it is, adjusting to new crew."

"And it doesn't help that Garrett is treating you like something prickly."

"We just need more practice working as a team," he shrugged.

Mitchell idly tapped on the face of his watch with a finger. "I got another idea. Next time, I'm giving him Banks and taking you up with me."

It wouldn't have happened if he hadn't been so comfortable around Cam. It just slipped out, the way he would tease a friend, and not at all an appropriate tone to take with a superior officer. "You think you can handle me?"

Cam arched an eyebrow and challenged, "I know I can."

And oh fuck, but that shouldn't have blindsided John as badly as it did. Why was it that, unless he was actively on the prowl, he never got this shit until he was slapped in the face with it?

Mitchell continued, "Banks is only a lieutenant. Garrett'll be much happier with someone he can boss around."

John couldn't help rolling his eyes. "Whatever you say, sir."

"Besides, I'm kinda hoping a rotorhead like yourself can teach this old jet jockey some cool new tricks."

Okay, definitely not imagining things. "I'll... do my best not to disappoint," John promised.

Because seriously, how in the hell else could he possibly answer that?

~~

John wasn't sure if Rodney even noticed that offerings no longer appeared on his desk with quite the same regularity. He hadn't mentioned it, but it wasn't like they spoke much anymore, even while they were working on the jumper. Rodney claimed the repairs had reached the point where they were seriously taxing his intellect and patience; petty conversation was a distraction he could no longer afford.

Watching McKay slog through tasks on sheer persistence, John was inclined to believe him, despite that it did also sound like an excuse. Many of the so-called conversations had been arguments; they became "petty" when Rodney lost.

Also never mentioned were the times John didn't answer his phone, or was otherwise mysteriously unavailable. John suspected it was just one more thing that escaped Rodney's hyper-focused awareness. Therefore, he was completely unprepared when Rodney turned up at the hangar one afternoon with a sheaf of papers clutched in his fist, and a furious expression on his face.

He threw the pages down on the utility bench in the back of the jumper, demanding, "Just what in the hell is this?"

"I don't know, Rodney," John said honestly. He eyed the papers, but wasn't about to placate McKay by picking them up to read them.

Rodney crossed his arms and glared, chin jutting out in a dangerous fashion. "I guess I know now where you've been disappearing to whenever I need you. Too bad I had to find out the way I did. I wish you'd had the balls to tell me yourself."

"Okay, seriously, what the hell, McKay? You wanna explain what's going on before you start flinging accusations like that?"

Rodney stabbed a finger at the papers. "Simpson was reviewing the results of the latest hyperdrive test for the F-302. And what do I see? Your name, listed as co-pilot. Just how long have you been moonlighting, hm?"

John sighed and rubbed a hand through his hair. "Shit, and here I was worried that you were upset about something important. It's temporary, Rodney. One of the regular pilots is out on medical leave. I'm filling in because it's convenient. I'm here, and I'm qualified." He should have stopped right there, but it felt good to add, "And most of the time, it's not like I have anything better to do."

That earned him a derisive snort. "Need I remind you that you're attached to this project?" That finger was getting a workout; now Rodney was pointing at the floor of the jumper. "The gateship should be your priority–"

It was impossible to hold back when McKay was begging for it. "I should say the same thing to you! You were the one who went gallivanting off to work on other projects first. Do you have any idea how many hours I spent alone here, waiting for you to show up, wanting to contribute and bored out of my mind? Damned right I'm going to jump on it when someone gives me the opportunity to do something useful around here for a change!"

"Now that is funny, because the way I hear it, you've been ignoring all requests to use your ATA gene. People have been coming to me, stupidly thinking that I have any influence over what you to do! You want to be useful? You could start with that pile of unidentified Ancient tech that's rotting back in the labs."

"Bullshit," John countered. "That's make-work and you know it. I already put my hands on that crap back in Colorado. It's only here because the SGC couldn't make it work or didn't want it."

Rodney huffed, "Oh, so Area 51 is a second-rate facility now? That is so typical. If the brilliant military minds at the SGC can't make something work, there's no reason to think that a bunch of nerds out in the desert will have better luck. We'll just ignore the fact that they have more experience and genius and creativity... hell, pretty much more of everything except funds, because the Air Force has a choke hold on the research budget!"

"Is that why you stopped wearing your uniform?"

"What?"

John was calming down the more he was able to get some of this crap out into the air. Rodney, on the other hand, only seemed to be growing more incensed. "You sound like you've forgotten that you still work for the SGC. Not Area 51, and sure as hell not Ingram."

"That's just great." Rodney threw his hands into the air. "Here we go again. You're just not satisfied until you've dragged Dr Ingram into every goddamned argument." 

"Trust me, he finds his way into them without any help from me."

"What in the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"Just like it sounds, McKay." John took a seat on the second bench. Rodney looked like he was itching to pace; who was John to get in the way of a really good tantrum? "The Air Force this, the SGC that... listen to yourself. I almost mistook you for Kavanagh, or another one of his toadies."

McKay whipped around, his mouth falling open in shock. "Oh, you did not just compare me to Kavanagh."

"Hey, if the shoe fits..." John said mildly. "You wanna rail about the military, maybe you should stop first and remember that I'm military."

Rodney's jaw clenched with cold fury. For a moment, it seemed that John might have actually pushed him beyond words. Then his demeanor shifted, abruptly hurt, as if he was too weary to hide it any longer. "I'm sorry. I just– I thought... that maybe you were different. I expected you to understand."

Now that wasn't fucking fair. But John couldn't give up, not when they would both recognize the deviation from the script. "Ingram's using you," he sulked. "All he has to do is yank your chain and you come running."

"Maybe he is," Rodney admitted. When he sat down opposite John, his shoulders curled in on themselves. "And you know what? I don't care. This job, this place... it was an accident and miracle—and I mean a fucking miracle—that I ended up here. On paper, they shouldn't have even let me through the door. But damn it, I know I'm as smart as the rest of these guys."

Only as smart? You're selling yourself short, was the thought that came, defensive and sharp.

"Now that I'm in, I am going to do everything in my power to stay. If that means kissing Ingram's ass, then he'd better pull down his pants, because I'm all puckered up."

Christ, he was sincere. John blinked a few times, at a loss for an appropriate response. But Rodney was regarding him with something like a plea for validation, and in the end he said, carefully, "Well, um, I guess I can understand your point. You've found a place you really want to be, and you're willing to fight to keep it. That's... admirable, actually."

Relief blossomed across Rodney's face. "Look, I'm sorry about the–"

"No, just– Don't mention it."

"So, um, maybe we could get started?"

Yeah, about that... "I can't," John said. "There's another training flight this afternoon. I was gonna tell you."

"Oh," Rodney blinked, crestfallen. "No, that's fine. I mean, if you power it up for me before you go, I can probably knock out the repairs on the cloak by myself."

"Hey," John said; and repeated, "Hey," when he didn't win Rodney's full attention the first time. "We're still cool, all right? I want us to be able to work together, same as always."

"Yes, yes of course. I mean, I'd hoped."

John wordlessly reached over to squeeze Rodney's shoulder before heading up front to bring the jumper online.

~~

Just because John could empathize didn't mean he couldn't also be bitter as hell.

Rodney was supposed to have been on his side.

~~

Mitchell hadn't been kidding when he'd said he wanted to put John through his paces. John had basically run assist for Garrett; Cam put him in the first seat and made him take the stick while they were still on the tarmac.

"Sir, are you sure about this?"

"We have the go-ahead from Dreamland." That was the radio call sign for the control tower at Area 51. Pilots in particular sometimes referred to the entire base by the same name. "Take her up, major. And in the future, when someone offers to let you fly the hottest, sweetest little piece of hardware ever built by human hands... don't make them repeat themselves. They're liable to get jealous and take it back."

"Yes sir," John chuckled.

The focus of the training exercise was combat maneuvers in low and no atmosphere. John had far less experience dealing with the extremely low gravity and lack of a true horizon; he was having a harder time adjusting than the other pilots. It was a godsend, in a way. His attention was so focused mastering the new effects of pitch and roll and yaw that there wasn't room for anything else, not even inconvenient thoughts of McKay.

Just like he'd warned Cam, his air-to-air combat skills were mostly theory. In a simulated dogfight, he was given the simple directions to avoid the "bandit" on his trail. And even though he had the benefit of unpredictability—as a chopper pilot, he inherently had a less constrained theory of how to operate three-dimensional space—time and time again, his defense computer shrilled the warning of an active weapons target lock.

All told, Cam was extremely patient; he described the engagements in detail as they unfolded, anticipating what the "enemy" would do next and providing John with the best counter course of action.

The fact that he'd switched them to the cockpit channel just meant that he didn't have to be polite about it.

"Now that right there was damned stupid!"

"What are you talking about?" John replied, slightly miffed. It had actually been one of his more successful evasions. "I saw him coming and got out of the way."

"Not you. Mendez." The way Cam snorted suggested that there were going to be words when they reviewed the computerized recreation of the dogfight back on base. "You got lucky. He should have known better and had you dead to– Tally, incoming low on our nine!"

It was strange not to be able to squeeze speed out of a dive; conversely, John forgot that his opponent wasn't going to have to pour on extra burn to avoid losing ground in a climb.

"You're never gonna shake him that way."

"Yeah, I realize that," John gritted, more concerned at the moment with recovering from the aborted drop and bringing his nose back up.

"In about eight seconds he's gonna pull out on an intersect course, and that'll be all she wrote."

Eight seconds? Shit, eight seconds wasn't enough time to do-

Well hell. Time. That was the solution. He should have been thinking in four dimensions instead of three.

John keyed the command into his flight computer. "Hang on. I'm gonna try something."

"Shep, you just engaged the hyperdrive," Cam warned, as if John could have possibly done so by accident. "You wanna tell me what you're–"

The hyperspace window opened and swallowed the 302 out of existence... and spat it out again directly on the tail of the pursuing fighter. John nailed Mendez with a target lock before the poor bastard was even aware that there was a need to watch his own ass.

"–doing?"

[Jesus, did I just see what I think I saw?] was the startled exclamation from the other ship.

John asked blandly, [What does that make the score now, six-one?]

"Okay." Mitchell blew out a breath. "See, that is exactly what I was talking about! I knew you had it in you to be a crazy son of a bitch, Shep. I just knew it."

"You could have ordered me to abort." In fact, John was pretty damned surprised he hadn't.

"You're shitting me, right? That was beautiful!" He stretched it out an extra syllable: bee-yootiful. "I should have thought of that! Damn it, why didn't I?" 

"Probably because you've been practicing combat maneuvers inside the atmosphere, where the hyperdrive's no good," John allowed.

Cam tried again, "Kinda embarrassing, us hotshots being schooled by the new guy."

"It's not a viable tactic for actual combat," John pointed out. "The Goa'uld only have to see it once. Their death gliders might not have hyperspace capabilities, but once they learn the 302s do, they'll be expecting a maneuver like that."

"Dammit, are you always this bad at compliments, or do I bring out the worst in you?"

Neither, but John couldn't tell him what the true issue was. During his stint at the SGC, John had been given too many pats on the head for what had felt like the simple accident of being in the right place at the right time. He'd earned Cam's praise; that had to explain the inordinate glow of satisfaction that he was trying like hell to downplay. "All right, how about this? I figured it out first because my superior spatial-temporal reasoning clearly makes me the better pilot."

"Now that's more like it. Also, the hell you are!" He punched the back of John's seat hard enough for John to feel the vibration.

[Blue leader, up for another round? Request permission to re-engage.]

Cam switched on his responsible voice when he briefly hopped over to the shared radio channel. "Negative blue four. I think we've got plenty of footage to pick apart in the briefing room. Nice work up here, and I'll see you gentlemen Earthside."

John knew they were back on cockpit-only when Cam mused, "You know, I'd like to see that some day. Me and you, head to head... results could be interesting."

"Yeah," John agreed, following blue four's descent toward the planet, "they sure could."

 It took him half a day to realize that Cam hadn't made any mention of their theoretical contest taking place in the skies.

~~

The thing was, John had expected Rodney's sulk to have more vigor or endurance or something; the hard feelings didn't always disperse just because the argument had ended. Therefore, he was bewildered—pleasantly so, but still—when Rodney took it upon himself to launch what John liked to think of as the Great Area 51 Bipartisan Conciliatory Gestures Campaign.

Cam was ecstatic when the minor and time-consuming tweak to the inertial dampeners in the 302s was completed after months of procrastination by the geeks. When John stole a peek at the work order, he wasn't surprised to find Rodney's name at the bottom. He did wonder when the hell McKay slept, between juggling his official and unofficial projects, and now this charity work. Maybe he didn't sleep; maybe that was his secret. However the hell he was doing it, he still had to be satisfying the SGC with his progress reports. Otherwise, someone would have contacted John—Carter probably, or possibly O'Neill—to find out exactly what in the hell had gone wrong.

Come to think, if it ever did reach the point that John needed to call in outside intervention, he would definitely choose Carter. She was too smart for Ingram to bullshit with technobabble. And even better, everyone knew that the only reason he was still Head of Research was that she had no desire for the position. The fact that she could, if she changed her mind, turn him out on his ass in five seconds flat was damned good incentive for him to tread cautiously around her.

Wanting to return the favor for the 302s, John learned from Miko which of the scientists had been the most vocal and obnoxious about trying to make Rodney coerce John into touching old broken bits of crystal for them. He pulled out his rather enormous stack of ATA job requests, removed the ones from the primary instigators, shredded them, then set about dutifully fulfilling the rest.

He felt that sent a clear message concerning the level of cooperation that any fuckhead dumb enough to pester Rodney could hope to receive from John.

By the time he found the almond croissant that Rodney had left in a pastry box outside his quarters, it was too stale to really enjoy. But John appreciated the thoughtfulness—Rodney must have flown the thing in from Vegas, because the mess sure didn't stock anything so fancy. He retaliated by leaving a bottle of multivitamins on Rodney's chair, along with a pop-medicine article on the supposed link between poor nutrition and reduced brain function. He knew it would make McKay rant and bitch and moan, but he take the damned vitamins anyway, just in case.

Then, when a wrapped gift appeared in John's mailbox, he had to do some quick mental arithmetic and verify the result against a calendar, because holy shit, how had he missed that it was almost Christmas?

Well, the obvious answer was that he hadn't received any perfunctory family correspondence to remind him, on account of the whole being legally deceased thing. If, two years ago, someone had told him that there was a way to make the holiday season suck even more, he would have laughed at them. But last year... god, last year around this time, his brother and father would have been recovering from his funeral. And John, who had been with the SGC for less than a month, had barely noticed the holiday much for the same reasons he'd nearly missed it this year: the excuse of living on a top-secret base with no social life to speak of made it too easy for him to bury his head in the sand.

He examined the gift as he walked back to his quarters. It was larger than a book, though roughly the same dimensions. It was neither heavy nor light; and the sound of broken parts sliding around was encouragingly absent when he shook it vigorously. 

Coming from McKay, it could be anything. Just because it didn't slosh or reek or tick didn't mean that Rodney had procured it through honest channels. John was only too well aware of how easily a creative genius like Rodney could circumvent the rules against importing souvenirs from alien worlds.

Of course, Rodney was probably counting on paranoia to heighten the anticipation. (And by anticipation he meant torture.) Hell, the fact that Rodney hadn't given it to him in person made it all the more suspicious. McKay was probably tapped into the closed-circuit security cameras, watching events unfold from the safety of a quiet little lab somewhere, one hand on the telephone so that when the proper moment arrived, he could make that all-important gloating call.

Well, two could play that game. John was just going to have to make the call first, and try to con Rodney into prematurely revealing the contents of the elegantly wrapped box.

Back in his room, he peeled out of his coat, taking the gift and the phone and hunkering down with them in the middle of his bed.

The call rang for a long time before Rodney picked up. But he would let it ring even if he was sitting right there waiting; appearing over-eager was an automatic loss of cool points. And he would probably have an excuse ready for the slow response time, involving some vital project or other.

"What?" Both the word and the rattling sigh that preceded it were masterfully imbued with decrepitude.

Man, McKay was laying it on thick. John retaliated with his most irritatingly chipper tone. "Why Major Sheppard, what a pleasant surprise it is to hear from you. Well Dr McKay, sometimes I just have to call to make sure you haven't forgotten the sound of my voice. How could I, when it's so charming and melodic?"

The real McKay gave a snort.

"How are you this fine afternoon? I'm well, thank you for asking. And yourself? Could be better. That douchebag Ingram has me locked in a remote lab, preventing a certain friend of mine from making his daily delivery of delicious baked goods."

"Hey! You were the one who warned me that the phones around here are probably tapped!"

"It's okay Rodney. Ingram already knows that I think he's a douchebag." And he didn't have to stoop to listening in on Ingram's conversations to know the feeling was mutual.

"I'm sorry, you're right. I– Look, if I had the time or energy for pleasantries, I would indulge you. But I don't. So if it's important..."

Yes of course, vital project, on a deadline, etc. Just like clockwork. "It is. I wanted to say thank you, and I wasn't sure when I'd get the chance to do it in person." Was that too blatant? Maybe that was too blatant, referring to the impersonal way Rodney had chucked his gift in his damned mailbox.

"Okaaay..." There was an expectant pause, before Rodney ventured, "For what?"

"The... you know." He peeled back a corner of the gift wrap; maybe if Rodney heard paper rustling in the background he'd give up the clueless act.

But instead, Rodney snapped, "No, I don't know! Either tell me or shut up so I can hang up. I was serious when I said I don't have time for games! We are incredibly short-staffed all of a sudden."

Wait. Could it be that Rodney– John tore the rest of the paper away, pried open the box, and encountered... a scarf.

"John?"

Um. He dragged it out and unfurled it; it was long, with large, old-fashioned stitches, not like the machine-made stuff you'd find in a store. But the biggest clue that it was handmade was the Air Force logo on each end, gold yarn worked into the navy. "Christmas, McKay. You're short staff because it's Christmas Eve." Jesus, how could anyone be more obtuse about it than John?

He discovered a note card in the box beneath the scarf: To John Sheppard, from Kusanagi Miko. Recalling the little crocheted cat on Rodney's desk, suddenly the scarf made a lot more sense. It was lovely, too. He draped it around his neck, wishing he wasn't vaguely disappointed that the gift hadn't come from Rodney after all.

"No way, it can't be." Rodney must have located a calendar, because he yelped, "Holy shit!" And, "Well, I guess that explains why that dope Grodin has been humming God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen for the past week." And also, "I don't understand, Jeannie always pesters me around the holidays. I should have heard from her before now!"

Miko had probably started working on the scarf ages ago. John was going to have to do something extra nice for her in return. "Rodney, is it possible—I'm talking remote outside chance here—that you forgot to tell your sister you moved?"

"John, I'm not stu– Shit! I think she still has the address for Peterson!"

Peterson was the base in Colorado Springs that served as the ostensible contact point for the SGC's personnel. John winced. "Yeah, you know how slow their mail room can be. If she sent you anything, I bet it'll be a couple weeks before it's forwarded to Nevada."

"This is a disaster. You have to help me."

"Sure Rodney, what can I do?" came out before he'd really thought about it.

"I can't–" Rodney began. "I'm stuck on Prometheus."

Huh. So not the scary secret labs that John's security clearance wasn't good enough to let him enter. "You mean they suckered you into working through Christmas and you didn't even know it."

"No, I– Okay, yes—but I volunteered. We're running long-term stress tests on the shield generators, and you can imagine how important those are going to be when Anubis' fleet arrives and starts, yanno, blasting the shit out of everything in sight. I mean, we are literally stuck. The tests have to be monitored, and variables manually administered according to schedule, and I can't go traipsing off to do a little last minute Christmas shopping."

John reasoned, "So do it after you're finished. She's family. She'll understand if you're late."

"Maybe that's how it works in your family. But in mine, relatives are the last people who are exempt from... from things like remembering which month your only sister's birthday is in. I mean, I had the date right, but even that didn't win me any leniency! So please John, please. I'm begging—if you have a single merciful bone in your body, I appeal to it now."

Okay, when John had been itching to fight Rodney's battles for him? This wasn't quite what he'd had in mind. "Rodney, I can't do your Christmas shopping for your sister."

"No, I'm pretty sure I'm the one who can't. You just don't want to."

"I don't know her."

"That's the beauty of it—neither do I! I see her maybe once a year. We rarely call, never write. I mean, we were closer when she was in grad school. She was following in my illustrious footsteps... then she got knocked up by an English major, and suddenly she's a stay-at-home mom, and I just–"

There was something to focus on, at least. "She's got a kid?"

"Yeah, Madison. She's four... I think."

John could feel his will wavering. "Rodney..."

"Look, you can't go out anyway. It's far too late, nothing could possibly be shipped to her in time. She likes to send me gift certificates for restaurants–"

Well, she knows you well enough to realize your cooking's shit.

"–so you could to something similar. Pick something online you think is nice—she lives in Vancouver, I'll give you her address—and I promise I'll pay you back. John, please."

Vancouver, huh? "I don't know. If I do this, you're going to owe me. And I'm not just talking about paying me back!"

"Yes, yes of course." John could almost see the accompanying impatient flutter of Rodney's hand. His tone had changed too, decisive in the way that meant he considered himself victorious and the argument finished. "One unspecified favor of moderate size to be called in at your discretion."

If John was going to be resigned to the loss, at least he could still bicker over the terms. "Moderate? Try large to huge."

"Fine! Now grab a pen and write this down! Her name's Jeannie Miller. That's J-E-A-N-N-I-E. Her husband is Kaleb with a K, and Madison is, well, Madison." Rodney proceeded to rattle off her address, phone number and e-mail, which John thought was fairly impressive, considering. He sure as hell didn't have Dave's information memorized. But then again, he didn't have Rodney's flytrap memory for details, either. "Got it?"

"Yeah," John assured, but repeated it all back anyway, knowing Rodney wouldn't be satisfied until he did.

"And John–"

"Hey, have I ever let you down when it was important? I'll handle it."

There was a slight hesitation. Then, "No, I was going to say thank you. You're the best. And I'm not being facetious! Sometimes– I couldn't do this without you."

John thought about deliberately misunderstanding, maybe making a quip about Rodney relying on outside intervention to fulfill his familial obligations. But Rodney would probably turn it back on him, and god, a reminder of how he and McKay were screwed up in the same way was the last thing John needed. He almost said You're welcome, except that sounded lame even in his head. So he settled for, "Don't thank me until after you know if she hates it or not."

"Don't be ridiculous. It'll be great, I'm sure she'll love it."

Okay, McKay needed to learn not to give him unwholesome ideas when his willpower was already in a weakened state. The criteria hadn't mentioned anything about Jeannie loving the present, only that John was supposed to pick something "nice".

"Look, I've gotta go... but maybe after I get out of here we could, I don't know, get together or something. Hang out."

Like old times; like they used to. "Sure," John said.

"You still haven't seen my apartment. Not that it's much to look at, but–"

"You don't need to convince me, Rodney. I said yes."

"Oh. Then, um, goodbye I guess."

"Merry Christmas," John returned, though he was pretty sure it was too late, and Rodney had already hung up on him. No matter— he intended to call Rodney tomorrow and say it again, for accuracy's sake. He sort of rolled over and stretched until his fingertips could reach the laptop perched on the edge of his dresser. Snagging it down, he wiggled back to the center of his bed and settled in.

If John hadn't been spending Rodney's money, he might have been tempted to research cheaper seats. But Rodney, as a Canadian, would totally understand that when you were going to watch the home team kick ass, you kinda had to sit center ice.

~~

John also ended up buying a fruit basket for Kusanagi—heavy on the citrus, so it would be safe from McKay—and an anonymous bottle of wine for Dave.

He sent one to his father too, knowing that it would suffer the fate of all questionable gifts and be left on the kitchen table for the staff to enjoy. Mrs. Beecher had been the Sheppard housekeeper for years. If she was still around, she absolutely deserved a drink for sticking it out with the old man where a lesser mortal would have deserted the post.

Rodney... was going to require more thought.

~~

It was an odd mood that sent him to the jumper that afternoon. If John had wanted to be around people, he would have gone to the mess, or the gym, or one of the communal lounges. He still thought of the hangar as private, even if it wasn't the guaranteed privacy of his quarters.

It was, perhaps, the incipient crush of the holidays. John had weathered some pretty fucking miserable and lonely time in the little ship; there was nothing like the bad old days to make his present solitude seem paltry in comparison. Plus, if he turned the main lights low and squinted just right, the decorative cabin lights were pretty enough to belong on a Christmas tree. Almost.

He certainly wasn't expecting Mitchell to throw on the hangar lights and shout, "Anybody home?" from near the door.

The jumper's head-up display flashed a warning reminding John that the cloak was currently inoperable. Shit, the jumper had responded to his desire to avoid company by trying to go invisible. He got out of his seat, putting some mental distance between himself and the ship's neural interface. "Yeah Cam, back here."

"I figured," Mitchell groaned as he trudged up the ramp.

"How'd you find me?" John was genuinely curious.

There was no test flight scheduled for today, so Mitchell looked comfortable in a garrison uniform, same as John's except blue. He made himself look even more comfortable by sprawling on one of the rear benches. "Simple. I didn't recall hearing you say anything about family or visiting anyone for the holidays. Put that together with your surprisingly simple habits, and bingo." He motioned around the ship.

"So this is your way of telling me to make myself less predictable?"

"Nope," Cam grinned. "Like you just fine as you are."

Easy was what he meant. It was obvious in the way he was waiting for John to notice and contradict him. Or possibly pick up the innuendo and run with it, but that would have been a horrendous-

Wait. Now wait just a goddamned minute.

Why can't I?

Cam was decent-looking. He even had that cocky pilot persona going for him, which... probably said loads about John and narcissism, but he already knew he was going to be a field day for some shrink if all this crap ever came out in the open. 

On the other hand, fucking Cam would violate his incredibly sensible maxim of never screwing around in his chain of command—or preferably with anyone he even knew.

By nature, these types of encounters were sloppy and rushed, and John always offset the risk by choosing the time and the place and the man. He turned down most offers cold; those he accepted were few and far between. He couldn't remember the last time he'd hooked up with someone he'd deemed safe. But it wasn't like Cam could out John to the Air Force. The bastard was sitting pretty in one of the sweetest commands in the entire service. There was no way he would endanger his own career by sparking a scandal. Better, the fact that his record was flawless suggested that, like John, he was careful and he was smart.

Not that John needed to talk himself into it or anything. Hell, it had been ages, the better part of a year. Here was an acceptable, willing, and convenient opportunity—one that wouldn't sour any vital friendships, or fuck up any important working partnerships. What more did John want, an engraved invitation?

So Cam liked what he saw, hm? "Then I guess I won't change a thing," John replied, matching the other man's grin as he dropped on to the opposite bench and stretched out his legs.

"McKay not like his coffee?" Mitchell jerked his chin at the enormous red tin, which hadn't left the jumper, despite that Rodney had almost drop-kicked it out when he'd discovered it sitting on the DHD.

"On the contrary, he loves it. Uses it as a step stool when he's working in the crystal access panels." Rodney still had to reach up high enough to make his shirt bunch across his shoulders, and ride up above his waistband, and– Okay, seriously altering the mood here.

Cam whistled, "Strong tin. I knew I should have picked the plastic one."

"Yeah," John agreed. "So, um, I guess you figured out my sad story. No family to visit, nowhere to go. What about you? What brings you all the way out to my Fortress of Solitude this wretched holiday afternoon?"

Not... that he was holding his breath for the General Zod comment, but he was sure McKay would have pounced on it.

Damn it, argh! Rodney was like the roommate who wouldn't get lost when you brought a date home, except instead of refusing to leave the house, he wouldn't get the hell out of John's head.

"Whelp, my folks are back home in Kansas. Thought about dropping in for a visit, but I owe 'em a week or two, not one measly day plus or minus travel time. Besides, I hate flying commercial, 'specially this time of year. I'd rather hop a transport to a local base and drive the rest of the way in."

"And I take it there weren't any convenient to your schedule."

Cam stretched and flung one arm up against the back of the bench. His slouch slid even further too; if he got any more comfortable he'd be horizontal. "Not exactly, no."

"But that doesn't explain why you're here," John teased. The center of the rear compartment was all full of long legs now. It was easy to slip and bump his foot against Cam's calf in a way that could have been accidental, except that it blatantly wasn't.

Cam's eyebrows hopped up toward his hairline. Then he split a grin like a man who'd finally figured out the punchline to an obscure joke. Oh yeah, signal intercepted; message received loud and clear. "Shep, it's probably time fess up." He stretched again, this time surreptitiously dragging himself more upright. "I am here because I am on an agenda."

"Sounds promising, if it involves me." John threaded in a hum to indicate his expectations for an affirmative answer.

That had Cam leaning forward, elbows braced on his knees. "Might."

John "slipped" again, nudging Cam's toe with his.

"Okay, does."

"Then let's hear it."

"The way I figure, there's no reason for a pair of good-looking, upstanding gentlemen such as ourselves to spend Christmas languishing here on base. I mean, have you seen the mess' attempt at eggnog?" He mock-shuddered.

"Seen, yes. Sampled, hell no!"

Cam pushed to his feet. "So how 'bout it? You, me, Vegas? Drink in some sights... and naturally some libations, in honor of the season."

Vegas could be interesting, if for nothing more than the fact that they'd be away from the base, with little chance of being recognized. "I don't know..."

"C'mon," he wheedled, reaching out to tug at John's sleeve. "What better way to forget your holiday woes than by spending it with a mess of other people who are just as jacked-up and miserable as you are?"

"You're selling this so well," John said dryly. Nevertheless, he allowed himself to be coaxed to his feet, and was pleased that Cam didn't fall back to give him space once he was there. In fact, he'd caught the overhead storage bin and was sort of swinging in. It was possible that he was up on his toes to emphasize his extremely minuscule height advantage, but John would have had to glance down to confirm it, and there was no way in hell he was doing that. Not with Cam focused on John's lower lip like he was just trying to figure out the best angle of attack before diving in.

Cam murmured, "Or alternately, you could find a like-minded individual and spend the day blowing off some tension..."

The backs of John's legs hit the bench. He didn't want to end up on his ass, so he angled himself away, letting Cam press him into the curve of the ship's hull instead. "Now that," he said, "sounds more like it."

Cam wasn't one of those greedy, messy kissers, to John's relief. What began as a brush of mouth on mouth built slow and sweet, with Cam's fingers curled up under his jaw, thumb drifting over John's cheek. He didn't even mind that he was basically stuck, unable to shift his angle or position without Cam's cooperation. It was a good thing they intended to take things to a more accommodating location; too much of this and John's neck might develop a nasty crick.

The benches... were a temptation. Luckily though, John was getting too old for that furtive, hasty bullshit. Rubbing and grinding were all well and good, provided the pants came off first, but he'd messed around with too many guys who'd just shoved a hand down there, groped around a bit, and considered their duty done.

Assholes.

So John wasn't going to play the princess and demand satin sheets, but his pushing-forty backside did want a comfortable bed, damn it, and the chance to get naked without the risk of interruption because he could for once, and somehow he hadn't noticed that the kiss hadn't graduated beyond sweet. He was just trying to figure out how to rectify that when Cam broke it off, drawing slightly away.

Solemn eyes searched John's, puzzled and... resigned?

What the hell?

Cam's thumb touched the edge of his mouth one last time, tugging an answering almost-smile from the corner of Cam's mouth. Then the hand fell. "Sorry," Mitchell murmured, and John recognized it not as I'm sorry I did that, but as I'm sorry I had to stop.

"Cam–"

"Hey, it's okay. I just... thought we were on the same page."

Are you fucking kidding me? John was about to protest, when he realized that Cam was right; he snapped his jaw shut on the words. It had been a criminally long time since he'd gotten any action. His dick should be blowing the buttons on his fly, not vaguely stirring with polite interest.

"Hey, if I'm reading this wrong..." He didn't look particularly hopeful, more like he felt that it was gallant to offer John a graceful out.

John shook his head; not a denial. "I'll still blow you, if you want."

Cam chuckled ruefully. "That's more tempting than it should be, probably because I've been admiring your mouth."

"Once I get into it..." he offered with a shrug. Once he was into it, he rarely had a problem, yanno, getting into it.

Mitchell staved him off by holding up his hands. "Now don't take this the wrong way, but no thanks. I'd rather not fuck it up if there's a chance we can come out of this friends."

"Oh, absolutely!" John sagged with what felt suspiciously like relief. "If you're not inclined to nurse a grudge, there's no way I would–"

"Hold on, I didn't say that!" John's expression must have shifted then, because Cam quickly amended, "I don't plan to hold it against you, but you did let me get my hopes up before leaving me high and dry. Don't think you're wiggling out of going to Vegas with me."

John repeated, "I'm not?"

"I meant what I said about drowning our woes in the greater misery. I want some company, and you're it."

Okay, that was fair enough. Though it could also be an excuse to get John on neutral territory and try to push the topic again. "Ah."

"Besides–" Some of the brightness returned to Cam's eyes. "–I figure with a million people in that city, the perfect distraction has to be waiting for me. Just have to find it."

"Well, when you put it that way..."

Cam slugged him in the shoulder. Hard. It was a buddy-punch, a little bit macho, a little antagonistic. It wasn't the sort of gesture John ever got from someone who was thinking of taking him to bed. "Same goes for you, asshole, so keep your eyes peeled."

Yeah, things were going to be okay between them. "Like a hawk," John lied. He shooed Cam out and closed up the jumper.

Checking his watch, Cam said, "Next JANET departs in fifty. Meet me at the terminal? I'll clear us for leave and make the hotel reservations. Pack for a couple days at least. And you'd better get cleaned up pretty! I might as well use you for tramp bait."

Oh shit, just like in the Academy, was what John thought. But he fired back, "I'll aim for respectable. Too pretty and I'll be more competition than you can handle."

He wasn't sure which of them broke down and laughed first when Cam flipped him the bird.

~~

"That son of a bitch," Rodney muttered, skimming through the Gantt chart for the incomplete, terminated project number P89-4254.

He didn't care that the temporary quarters he'd been assigned aboard Prometheus for the duration of project P89-4253 were probably under surveillance. He could have hidden somewhere else to ingest the bad news, but the entire ship was littered with security cameras, and he was far more likely to attract attention if he wandered somewhere he didn't belong.

It had been pure chance that he'd run across the project log for P89-4254 in an obscure corner of the ship's computer. (There was snooping, and then there was boredom-induced curiosity. This time, Rodney was strictly guilty of the latter.) And he'd only opened it because projects with consecutive numbers tended to be launched concurrently; he'd been interested in the possibility of other tests being run at the same time he was stuck monitoring the shield generators.

He hadn't noticed any other major system activity, no other significant power draw... nothing.

Now he knew why.

As much as it literally pained him to admit it... he should have listened to Kavanagh. Courtesy of Kavanagh's big, dumb, smug mouth, word around the water cooler was that Rodney (alternately referred to as Ingram's simpering lapdog when no one thought he was within hearing range) was too incompetent to be trusted with work of actual importance. And Rodney was familiar enough with Kavanagh's tactics to know that the dickface preferred not to lie when the truth was spiteful enough to stand on its own. 

He still might have dismissed the slander outright if it hadn't been resting on a foundation of surprisingly strong logic. He could see it himself, now that he'd been on base long enough to have figured out the research hierarchy. He knew which projects were critical, and which were merely intriguing, and which were despised as black holes that devoured effort without the likelihood of ever yielding results—but which required the illusion of progress because somewhere, at some point, some military twit with more brass on his uniform than in his pants had said, Yes, giant space cannons are precisely what is needed to protect Earth from the Goa'uld! I'll take two hundred! without considering that they could not be deployed while his own government staunchly refused to publicly admit the existence of an alien threat to the planet.

(Never mind that the aforementioned giant space cannons would need to be deployed on every continent in order to achieve anything close to blanket coverage of the globe, and just because they had space in their name didn't mean some enterprising country wouldn't find a way to turn theirs on their neighbors.)

Rodney had come to realize that the tasks Ingram dumped on him—hell, he wasn't fooling anyone, he volunteered for them—mostly fell into that third, terminal category, the black holes. He might have even been okay with that. The low man on the totem pole ended up with the shit jobs; that was the functional manifestation of the pecking order.

But this... this was the final straw. These oh-so vital shield generator tests Rodney was sacrificing his Christmas to manually administer? The purpose of project number P89-4254 had been to automate them. In fact, the damning evidence on his laptop screen indicated that the automation had already begun when Ingram had stepped in and dismantled it.

Which led to the ten million dollar question: Why in the fuck would he do something so counterproductive? Why undo work only to create additional work for Rodney? It was no wonder Kavanagh's crowd assumed Rodney was a moron who couldn't be trusted to tie his own shoes, when Ingram was basically babysitting him with busy work the way some parents would stick their kids in front of the television, breezing by occasionally to pat him on the head and make sure the pacifier was still in place. 

Well, Ingram was due a rude awakening. Rodney knew the game. Rodney knew all the games; and now that he was certain that there was, in fact, a game in progress, he would only need a moment to figure out the score. Then, he could begin formulating his takedown strategy.

There was no way Rodney would lose against some pampered, pansy-ass, prima donna academic researcher who had never gotten his dainty hands dirty in the cutthroat corporate world.

~~

The day after Christmas, after Rodney had finally been released from Prometheus, he went straight to his lab and set up a batch transfer off the public server. Then, on his way out the door, he pleaded exhaustion to anyone who would stand still long enough to listen.

Under other circumstances, he might have been appalled by how easy it was to smuggle the obscenely classified documents through Area 51's purportedly ultra-high security. He had separate home and work laptops, as portable electronic devices were absolutely not permitted to cross the security checkpoint—which was thorough enough to include the occasional random strip-search. But the guards were trained to ferret out all manner of familiar objects which might hold data: discs and tapes and digital cards and thumb drives and micro drives. They barely glanced at Rodney's watch, which had been fitted with a brand new crystal that was more or less the appropriate shape, even if it was slightly too thick.

Seriously, what good were guards when they couldn't even recognize an Ancient data storage crystal? The military was delusional if they thought their security was effective; alien tech had to be bleeding out of the base like water from a sieve.

It was probably a stupid risk to take the files off base, but it wasn't like it was the first time Rodney had flirted with a prison sentence by absconding with top secret documents. Besides, he wanted a couple days of uninterrupted privacy to scour what he had before he made any accusations. The likelihood that the entire mess would end up on the SGC's doorstep made him want to build a convincing case before he opened his mouth.

There was the distinct possibility that his apartment was also bugged, but if anything, working at Area 51 had only enhanced Rodney's arsenal of crazy-paranoid countermeasures. He could block devices that were so sophisticated that the public wasn't even allowed to know they existed. Setting up his perimeter defenses would be the first thing he did when he arrived home. Only then would he worry about cobbling together a means to interface the Ancient data crystal with a modern computer.

He was accustomed to taking the JANET commuter flights back and forth to Vegas now, even if a tiny part of him still squirmed with horror every time he stepped on board, mentally figuring what it must cost the Air Force to keep the private fleet of 737s in the air. Though, to be fair, they'd cut corners with the terminals, which in true military fashion boasted only the most perfunctory of amenities. Rodney hated the flimsy chairs, the lack of anything resembling a food kiosk, and the way the climate controls never seemed to be set for the appropriate temperature. (God, he wasn't looking forward to summer!) He usually traveled with a book or a magazine—something to repeatedly hurl his attention at until it stuck, distracting him from the discomfort of waiting.

This afternoon, he didn't require the prop to stave off boredom, nor did he need one to discourage the morons who thought that filling silence with inane conversation made time move faster. Reading material made an excellent shield, but so did the expression of terrifying concentration that claimed his face in times of crisis. It was sort of like those brightly colored insects that warned birds, Stay the fuck away, I'm poisonous! The whole flight, his mind ran furiously through checklists and coincidences and conclusions, overheard comments and supporting details; he wasn't interrupted once, doubtless because he appeared demented enough to bite the head off any idiot who tried.

He was still so preoccupied with the Ingram affair when he landed in Vegas that he (might have accidentally) slammed into a glass door while attempting to exit the terminal.

In his defense, the door was the same one he always used, and it typically responded to a light touch. Scowling, he put his shoulder against it and gave a good shove, but... nothing. The damned thing was really stuck.

Then he glanced up, through the door, and saw that his problem lay on the other side. Someone's shoe was firmly wedged against it, holding it closed. "Oh, ha ha ha, that's very mature. Now let me out."

It seemed that Cameron Mitchell could only control himself for so long. The instant Rodney glared at him he doubled over, exploding with laughter. "Oh goddamn, that was priceless," he wheezed.

"Asshole," Rodney grumbled, and sidestepped to another door. It swung out before he reached it, and– "Okay, what in the hell is this?" -there was Sheppard, playing the proper gentleman by holding it open for Rodney.

John cocked an eyebrow at him. "I thought you said you wanted out."

"I did. Do. Shut up!" Rodney stalked outside.

"Be like that and I'm totally returning your present," John grinned. Once Rodney was clear, he let the door swing shut, then drifted away from the entrance so they wouldn't obstruct traffic.

Mitchell followed, rubbing tears out of the corner of his eye. "Yeah McKay, Merry Christmas to you too." He seemed– He looked– God, what in the hell were they wearing? As far as Rodney could tell, there wasn't a stitch of military-issue clothing on either officer. And he was pretty sure the last time he'd seen that pair of jeans, John had been sitting across the booth from him in a small bar in northern Canada.

Now John was wearing those jeans for other men? That stung.

"I already gave you my present," Mitchell offered into the lengthening silence, "so I don't suppose I can return it."

Rodney folded his arms across his chest. "Yes, I'll be sure to address the thank you card to Lieutenant Colonel Maxwell House."

Mitchell and Sheppard traded an inscrutable look... and seriously, when in the hell had this happened? Rodney had known Mitchell longer than John had! But the two of them were standing shoulder to shoulder, all casual and loose-limbed and relaxed, like the local chapter of the Hotshot Air Force Pilots Mutual Appreciation Society or something. The only thing that could have made the scene any more disturbing would have been be the addition of aviator sunglasses.

Then John broke away to approach Rodney; and Rodney's instinct was to retreat, until he noticed that in addition to the duffel bag resting near his legs, John had a paper coffee cup in one hand. It wasn't, thank god, from one of those noxious chains. Rodney recognized the logo of the gourmet coffee bar just up the block from the airport, and suddenly it didn't matter that John Sheppard was a no-good, two-timing mink, because sharing one's coffee was the ultimate expression of affection. And John was wordlessly holding the cup in his direction.

Rodney snatched it and guzzled the contents. Oh, lukewarm bliss!

Mitchell was watching the exchange with amusement. He murmured, possibly low enough that Rodney hadn't been meant to overhear, "And here I thought it was music that soothed the soul of the savage beast."

"Hey Rodney. Funny meeting you here." John winced as soon as it was out, probably realizing how lame it sounded.

"Oh, extremely, considering that I live in this town and you–" He waved a hand to encompass John, John's clothes, John's duffel bag, and John's accessory lieutenant colonel. "–don't."

Clearing his throat, Mitchell said, "My fault. Shep wanted to stay on base and sulk his way through the holiday, but I convinced him that it would be good for him to get out and live a little."

Rodney stared. John rubbed at the back of his neck—he would always have a faint scar where the Goa'uld had got him, same as Rodney—and looked exceedingly uncomfortable. Or guilty. And that right there told Rodney everything he needed to know about the successful outcome of their raunchy bachelor crawl through fabulous Sin City. "I knew Mitchell was going to turn out to be a bad influence."

"It's a long story," John cringed.

"Or you could just skip to the punchline and tell him I had to blackmail you," Mitchell suggested. "What? 's true," he added, after John shot him a not helping frown.

"So, er, Rodney–" Oh, so that's how it was? John was usually careful to call him McKay in front of other military types. But suddenly it was Rodney Rodney Rodney, like Mitchell was a damned special exception.

"Well, obviously I managed to escape from Pro– From that thing whose name I won't mention because we're not allowed to discuss top-secret crap in public. No, I don't want to talk about it. Yes, I'm going to enjoy a little well-deserved R and R. No, I have no idea what you'll do with yourself while I'm away, but–" He paused to flick a meaningful glance at Mitchell. "–I'm sure you'll think of something. Now, if you please, I've just spent three straight days inside a giant, metal, humming, throbbing... fuck, I don't know what, but that sound? That sound has seared itself into my eardrums and will not go away. I want a hot shower, some fresh clothes, and a bed that isn't bolted to the floor, in precisely that order." He tipped his head back to catch the last drops from the upended cup with his tongue. Then he handed the empty cup back to John, just to be a dick.

John blinked at him before venturing, "I guess... that answers my question."

Mitchell said, "Yanno, I can see his mouth moving, but I still can't quite understand how the words come out so fast."

Rodney maybe forgave John a little when he kicked Mitchell in the shin. And true, a guy as hot as John had to be getting plenty, but he was always a model of professionalism and discretion. It wasn't his fault that Rodney had turned up unexpectedly to blow his cover; if Rodney had been a few minutes earlier, or a few minutes later, he never would have known that John had probably been holed up with some topless dancer or something, bumping and grinding his way through the holiday. He sighed. "I'm sorry, John. It's just– It's been a shitty week, and I just received some bad news about one of my projects, and I'm really not in the mood to be sociable." 

John was regarding him with a strangely wistful expression that proved effective at banishing the vestiges of Rodney's resentment. "Hey, I get it. I'll take a rain check." He reached out to grip Rodney's shoulder, and somehow his thumb ended up beneath Rodney's collar, resting against his clavicle. "Can I– You want help getting back to your place?"

Oh fuck, that was so tempting, but he didn't want John wrapped up in the Ingram mess until Rodney had some sort of proof to back up his wild accusations, and it might be suspicious if Mitchell returned alone. Not to mention, he really really didn't want John to know about the smuggled documents. He was bound to be disappointed that Rodney hadn't learned his lesson after the fiasco with the puddle jumper blueprints, and Rodney... just didn't want to deal with that. "Nah, I'm okay. I'll be fine. Go on back to base. I don't want you to be late on my account."

"Seeing as how I'm the one who arranged the leave, I can probably cover for Shep if he's a little slow making it back," Mitchell offered, even though it was kind of obvious he was doing it for John's sake, not Rodney's.

"Rodney, you heard the man. Are you sure?" John briefly touched his other shoulder too, squaring them up to look Rodney in the eye. "It wouldn't be any trouble, and I– I'd like to. To, er, see your place."

"Another time," Rodney said, pasting on a weak smile. "Rain check, remember?"

Shrugging, Mitchell retrieved his duffel bag. "I tried. You coming?" He headed for the terminal.

"Yeah, Cam." But John didn't turn away yet. His hands dropped, making loose fists at his sides, and his mouth opened and closed a couple times, like he couldn't figure out how to approach what he wanted to say. Rodney recognized the cop out when he settled for, "Call me later, once my flight's in. Or I'll call you."

"Sure," Rodney said, rearranging his list of priorities. Immediately after securing his defensive perimeter, he was taking the damned phone off the hook.

Finally, John had to shift his attention to pick up his bag.

Rodney was a firm believer in not wasting opportunities. He beat a hasty retreat.

~~

Cam leaned in and braced his palm against the door just as John went to grasp the handle.

Perplexed, John glanced up to discover Cam's expression worryingly thoughtful. "What?" he asked, choosing the oblivious approach; indignation would only be taken as an indication of complicity.

Cam's eyes narrowed before they flicked away, doubtless tracking Rodney's distant progress across the parking lot. Then his attention was back on John, intent and questioning.

John remained silent and stubbornly non-committal. He made a show of reaching over to pitch the empty coffee cup in a nearby trash can.

"Nothing, I guess." Finally, with a resigned sigh, Cam lifted his barricade on the door.

~~

John wasn't surprised when Rodney didn't call him that night, though he was inordinately disappointed when his own call met an endless busy signal. It was Miko who informed him the next morning, when she thanked him for the fruit basket, that Dr McKay had been feeling under the weather.

He didn't grow suspicious until the second day that Rodney, still pleading illness, refused to leave his apartment.

~~

When Senator Kinsey lifted his phone one evening in late December, a curt and familiar voice on the other end demanded, [It is imperative that you return my call on a secure line, immediately.]

Well now, wasn't that convenient?

He retreated to his office and locked the door before picking up a different phone. The number was memorized; he dialed it without hesitation. When the call was answered on the other end, he said, "Just the man I wanted to speak to."

[Save it, Senator. There's been an unfortunate development.]

"Now doctor," Kinsey tsked, "I'd hoped for better news. I've been growing impatient, waiting for you to make the arrangements on your side for the delivery of my... incentive."

[You claim to be merely a gentle politician,] the voice mocked, [so perhaps you don't understand how difficult it is to insert counter-agents into the most secure compound on the entire planet. My last recommendation... worthless. She was detained for questioning and further examination of her background. The SGC won't find a thing, but their scrutiny alone makes her useless to me. Worse, because I recommended her to the program, I've come under the microscope as well!]

Kinsey steepled his fingers and smirked. "I'm sorry to hear that. However, I fail to see how your staffing troubles are of any concern to me. We have a bargain, and I expect you to uphold your end."

[Are you listening to me? McKay slipped his leash. He pulled the entire project history for the facility off the servers, then disappeared for two days. Claimed he had the flu. He's back now, but something's different. I don't know what he found, or thinks he found, but I need him gone, and I need it to happen now.]

"I'm afraid I don't quite follow you." One of the most rewarding things about reaching canny old age was that half of the bastards Kinsey dealt with suspected him of bordering on senility. "First you tell me that you're being forced to delay the schedule. Now you're telling me that you want to move it forward?"

[I know you have access to the remaining rogue NID cells. You provide the manpower, and you can have McKay on your doorstep tomorrow. Otherwise, there's no telling how long it will take me to position another agent on the inside.]

"Now that is an interesting proposition," Kinsey mused. "I do all the work, and because there's nothing to connect you to the job, all of the... heat you're experiencing is deflected elsewhere."

[That's the intention, yes.]

"Security, as you pointed out, will be a problem."

[I've already figured out how to handle it.]

Those rogue cells were an expense that hadn't been put to good use of late. Might as well make them earn their keep for a change. "I'll want additional compensation."

[You'll have it. But there's something else I want out of this arrangement.]

"Oh?"

[McKay doesn't just disappear. He vanishes into thin air without a trace of outside interference. There are going to be some simultaneous... losses. Some rather expensive, portable losses—the type our friends in Russia would pay very dearly to get their hands on.]

Kinsey said solemnly, "It's a damned shame, McKay turning rogue. But... I suppose the SGC deserves no less for conscripting a foreigner from the private sector, with a criminal history and a track record of antagonism against the proud armed services of this fine nation. The only consolation is that he seems to have been working alone."

Part 3

Rodney came back to work on the twenty-ninth, looking suspiciously and disgustingly healthy to John, who'd blown a thousand bucks in Vegas and returned with nothing to show for it except a head cold.

He hadn't even gotten laid, though not for lack of trying on Cam's part.

Rodney listened to him croak and sniffle on the phone that morning. Displaying uncharacteristic sympathy, he crooned, "Oh, poor baby. You sound like shit."

"Know what would lift my spirits?" John snuffled pathetically. "A cup of hot tea, lovingly hand-delivered by my good friend Rodney."

"Keep dreaming."

"Then how about a pony?"

"Augh, just– Haul your lazy ass out of bed and drag it down to the hangar so we can get started."

And that was the end of the conversation.

John rolled over to look at his clock, and okay, it was an hour earlier than they usually began on the mornings Rodney could make it down to work on the jumper. Apparently, while he'd been away, there had been a horrific lab accident resulting in his McKay being replaced by some demented daylight savings version.

After the phone rang again not five minutes later (he ignored it), John decided that it would be less painful to just give in.

He tottered into the jumper with the aforementioned tea in hand, his left coat pocket crammed full of tissues, and his right stuffed with cough drops.

Rodney had been... busy. Already, half the rear compartment was torn apart; one of the benches was unbolted from the hull, and a swath of the lining which formed the ship's interior walls had been ripped away, exposing the mechanical guts beneath.

"Holy shit." John tiptoed over scattered tools and access panel covers to fall onto the opposite bench, which had thus far escaped the devastation. 

Rodney, who'd been kneeling to yank up another section, rocked back on his heels. "That's putting it mildly." His eyes lit up when he saw the cup. "For me?"

John pulled it protectively against his chest. "No. It's tea, and don't think of touching it unless you want to share my cold, too."

"We've shared a lot worse," was Rodney's wry reply. "Grab that tablet and bring it over here."

"That one?"

"No, the other."

"This?"

"The one right– Left! Far left!"

John didn't know why Rodney thought he needed so many tablets, when their screens all seemed to display the same thing: the tangled shapes and lines of some extremely complex schematics. He retrieved the far left one and handed it over.

It was frightening, sort of like watching a surgeon perform an operation with a scalpel in one hand and an anatomy reference book in the other. Rodney looked at the tablet, looked at the newly-uncovered jumper guts, scowled, flipped the tablet upside down, said, "Now that's more like it," and shifted to rip up the next section of floor.

"I, er, thought you were supposed to be fixing the jumper, not–" He nodded to indicated the carnage.

"Can't make an omelet without breaking a few eggs," Rodney grunted with the effort of prying loose another panel.

John would have offered to help, except he recognized that expression of ferocious concentration, and knew that unless he could somehow form a telepathic link directly to Rodney's mind, he couldn't do anything besides get in the way. Still, he did manage to re-balance a precariously leaning piece of debris before it could fall and clobber Rodney on his precious, precious head. "You gonna be able to put the eggs back together after the omelet's done?"

Snorting, Rodney hunkered down to peer at the section he'd just excavated, smack in the middle of the jumper's middle aisle. His hand ghosted along some line only he could see, tracing it forward from the previous section, until it stopped, hovering. "Here. It should be right here."

"What should be right there?"

But Rodney, scorning an explanation, was alternately snapping his fingers and pointing at yet another tablet.

John stretched to pass it over, then slumped sulkily back in his seat. He could do sulky pretty well with the cold contributing a touch of authentic despondency. "Fine, don't tell me."

Rodney glowered at the first data pad, the second data pad, the hole in the floor. Back, forth, back, forth. Then he said, "Oh," and flailed for the piece of jumper he'd just casually tossed aside. He shot to his feet, holding the panel near the strongest light source, angling it in different directions while his eyes scoured the underside. "Here," he suddenly demanded, shoving the panel at John. "I knew it. I knew it."

Intrigued now, John rose to join him. He positioned himself against Rodney's side, where the lighting would be the same, and asked, "What am I looking for?"

"No, you tell me what you see, and then I'll tell you if we're seeing the same thing."

John ran his hand across the panel; it was perfectly smooth. But... He shifted the piece out of Rodney's grasp—for its size it was far lighter than he expected—and tilted it until the light was striking its surface obliquely. 

The color was a near-perfect match. If he hadn't been searching for some irregularity, he never would have noticed the circular mark, the size of a nickel. About ten inches across there was another mark, making a pair. The pattern repeated below that, four pairs all together, spanning perhaps two feet. "There were holes here," he guessed. "But they've been patched so well they're practically invisible."

"Yes," Rodney growled, flipping the panel over to inspect the outer surface. Here the patches were invisible, camouflaged by the grime laid down by repeated foot traffic.

"I probably don't want to know why you don't look pleased to have found what you were looking for," John hazarded. Up close, Rodney was solid and reassuring, radiating an energized warmth that John wouldn't mind appropriating. The hangar wasn't heated, and Nevada or no, it was the end of December.

"That's just it. I haven't found it. It isn't here. It's missing, and all I have to prove that it ever existed is a power conduit that terminates in the middle of nowhere, and a bunch of holes where it might have been bolted to the floor." He slammed the panel down in disgust.

He could press closer, fake a dizzy spell. It wouldn't be a stretch to blame the cold. Just for stolen moment. Instead, John beat down the impulse and straightened his spine, forcing himself to sway upright. "Rodney," he tried, "you wanna start over and tell me what you think is missing?" 

"I don't... know," Rodney mumbled, as if the admission pained him. "I just– You want to know how many people were assigned to the Gateship Project before the crash?"

John knew the answer; it wasn't a question.

"Two scientists full-time, four more as needed, plus four ground crew, plus one pilot. Now it's just you and me, and I can't devote a fraction of the time I need to because that fuckhead Ingram keeps dragging me away the instant I threaten to make some progress. It's bullshit!"

Whoa. The honeymoon is over? Since when?

"It is bullshit," John agreed, placating. But he couldn't help adding, "I've been saying that for a while." Under the circumstances, he hated to be right, but there it was.

Rodney switched angles of attack so rapidly that sometimes John couldn't follow him. Sometimes he just had to hold his position and brace for the impact. This time, the avenue of inquiry came straight out of John's blind spot. "Before the sabotage and the crash, when you were working with the other jumper team, how much of the Ancient language did you know?"

John thought about the lessons doled out by the impossibly patient Jackson—back to the very beginning, when Daniel had asked him a similar question. "Not much. I learned to recognize the characters for 'yes' and 'no' right away. And 'bad', 'danger', 'warning', 'error'. And the numbers. But most of the time I spent working in the pilot interface I had someone sitting over my shoulder, reading to me and telling me what to do." It had been a stupidly ineffective method, but John's refusal to even think about learning the language had been just one more stubborn pretense that his career was merely sidetracked, and that any day the Air Force was going to let him return to his choppers. He'd hated it: feeling completely out of his element sitting in the jumper's cockpit, resentful of how damned easy and intuitive it was for him to manage the little ship.

"So it isn't far-fetched to say that if you'd been instructed to... remove references to a particular system from the jumper's computer, you wouldn't have had any idea what you were doing."

A hard, chill lump formed in the pit of John's stomach. "Not so far-fetched, no. They could have told me to do anything, Rodney, and I wouldn't have known the difference." Jesus. If the saboteurs had wanted to destroy the ship rather than steal it, they could have instructed John to initialize a self-destruct and he obligingly would have blown himself to smithereens, because the Gateship Project personnel hadn't been much of a team, but they'd been all he'd had, and he'd trusted them.

"That's what I thought," Rodney said, grim. He'd just opened his mouth to expound when he was interrupted by a rhythmic banging sound.

"What the hell?" It sounded like it was coming from outside—outside the ship, outside the hangar.

Rodney didn't waste any time. He was already scrambling out of the jumper before John heard the muffled voice shout, "Dr McKay? Are you in there?" Then, more banging. Whoever was hitting the hangar's door was using something a lot harder and more durable than their fist.

"It's locked?" John asked. It usually wasn't when they were working inside, but yeah, he vaguely recalled having to swipe his security card that morning.

Glancing at his watch, Rodney rolled his eyes. "Right on schedule." He punched the exterior switch to close the jumper's hatch, and explained in a rush even as it was raising to shut John inside, "Listen, I need you to stay put and be quiet. It'll take me two minutes—five, tops—to run the idiot off."

"Rodney–"

"Quiet!" Rodney reminded in a mock-whisper.

Then the hatch hissed closed, and John couldn't see a damned thing because the ship was facing the wrong direction; the viewing port only showed him the wall of the hangar. Dancing over the strewn tools and tablets and loose parts—not to mention the gaping hole in the floor—he slid into the pilots seat and pulled up the external display.

There was no audio, and the camera angle was bad, but he could see Rodney straighten himself briefly before inching open the door. And of course he couldn't see who was on the other side, because Rodney was blocking their view into the hangar with his body. His head was cocked, as if he was listening. Then John recognized an impending tirade by the way he flung his hands up in exasperation, and jeez, McKay was really hamming it up for his visitor.

The visitor was obviously of the opinion that discretion was the better part of valor. They were dispatched before Rodney had come close to reaching his argumentative stride. Presently, he was squeezing the door closed again and heading back to the jumper, a smug bounce to his step.

John almost lowered the hatch for him. But of course that would be admitting he'd (sort of) been eavesdropping, so he hastily shut down the external camera display and made it back to the rear compartment just in time to feign sullen displeasure at being left out of the proceedings.

Rodney dropped the hatch himself. He bounded up the ramp, rocking forward on his toes as he plowed to a halted in front of John. "Three minutes," he beamed, showing John his watch for verification. "Petrov's a pushover. Ingram can't be serious yet, or he would have sent Kavanagh." He considered, "Or maybe Kusanagi, if he wanted to play dirty."

"Rodney, what in the hell is going on?" John crossed his arms to let McKay know he was serious about wanting a straight answer. "I can understand that you might not want anyone to see the mess you've made out of the priceless alien spaceship, but everyone knows I work with you on the jumper. Why did I have to hide? I'm supposed to be here."

Poking John in the chest, Rodney said, "Yes, but your presence isn't a given. You're not always here when I am. His next logical move will be to track you down—the research department can't decide if I'm your handler or if it's the other way around—and try to manipulate you into herding me back into line. Not knowing where you are will piss him off and buy some time." Suddenly frowning, he patted over the spot he'd poked, as if John's shirt required smoothing. "No offense, but your intelligence is... underestimated by most of the researchers simply because you're military. He won't consider you anything more than a pawn in this, and I'm totally going to use that to my advantage."

John gripped Rodney's hand, stilling the distracting motion—and the fact that it was distracting was probably intentional, damn McKay—but let it stay where it was. "The hell? I leave for Vegas and you're still clinging to Ingram's backside like a leech. I come back a couple days later and it's open war? When were you planning on informing me?"

He got an eye roll for his concern. "Please. You're the one who's been harping on Ingram's agenda from the start."

"That's... true. But–"

"But you were expecting me to quietly buck-up and weather his petty abuse."

John was rather stunned. "Well, yeah. I mean, you told me as much yourself!"

Rodney's chin came up. "I changed my mind. I'm allowed to do that, you know."

"I know, I know. I just–" He might have accidentally clenched Rodney's hand, because Rodney glanced down and squirmed it free, then pinned John with an expression that John was unable to translate, let alone answer.

Thankfully, Rodney didn't ask him to. "I was going to tell you," he murmured. "I'm telling you now. And it's not a big deal. I'm sure you think it's your job to protect me–" God, invisible air quotes and all. "–but I dealt with pricks like Ingram for years in the private sector, and I came out of it the reigning champion. When I take him down, he'll be flat on his ass before he even realizes what hit him."

"I just wish you'd given me some warning," John finished with a sigh. He'd been waiting for Rodney to get with the program and tell Ingram to fuck off, but he would have liked to have been prepared to deal with any fallout.

"Didn't have a chance to," Rodney excused the oversight. "The whole base is crawling with surveillance equipment. The only reason I'm confident enough to discuss this here is because I went over the hangar myself before you arrived. Oh, which reminds me." He searched his pockets until he produced what looked like it might have once been a greeting card, before it had been folded over a couple times and sat on for good measure. "Here. Um, Merry Christmas."

John gingerly accepted the red envelope; he had to unfold it before he could open it.

Rodney stood by, watching the proceedings expectantly.

Peeking inside, John said, "You didn't." Then, "Oh shit, you did." The front sported a bright green alien with a white beard and a Santa hat. "Tell me you sent one of these to your sister."

"No, but I did Steve. And the one I sent to Radek I made sure to get postmarked in one of the itty bitty towns just outside Area 51. He hasn't e-mailed me yet to demand an explanation, but I suspect only because he hasn't finished searching for hidden clues or messages in my cryptic greeting. It'll take him days to figure out there aren't any," he chuckled evilly. 

"Remind me never to get on your bad side." There was a hard lump in the card, a couple inches long, right where the signature would usually go. He rubbed the outline and asked, "This thing isn't gonna blare some obnoxious song or shoot glitter all over me when I open it, is it?"

"No." Rodney thought about it and decided to be outraged that John would even suggest that he was capable of such a prank. "Of course not!" He made a vague, encouraging gesture.

Just to tease him, John squeezed his eyes shut before cracking the card. He opened them again to discover it completely harmless and inert, and blank save for a scrawled address and a brass key which had been excessively taped in place. He looked up at Rodney, questioning.

Rodney shrugged, all fake nonchalance. "Someone mentioned hanging out, and you said you wanted to see my place... and I figured you must be tired of always being stuck on base. You're welcome to come over whenever you want, even if it's just to decompress. Even if I'm not there. Just give me a heads up so I can shove my dirty laundry–"

"Rodney." John hesitated, wary of his own motives. "If this is about Vegas... nothing happened," he blurted. Then immediately wished for a convenient hard surface to pound his head against. Smooth John, real smooth.

"What? No, it's not– Why would you even say that?"

John chewed on his lip and thrashed his brain for a harmless answer.

"Never mind, it's none of my business what a consenting adult does in Sin City in his own free time. What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas and all that." He waved at the card. "I'm not being entirely selfless here. I really– There are a lot of things I need to talk to you about. I mean a lot, and I'd prefer to do it somewhere comfortable and private, where I don't have to sweep for bugs every few hours. I was hoping—thinking—that maybe you could come over tonight and we could talk. And hang out. I'd feed you," he offered, as if that could clinch the deal. 

He must have read the bad news in John's expression, because his smile faded faster than an equatorial sunset.

"Shit, I can't," John confirmed. "Not tonight. Or tomorrow. They're holding a special session of Red Flag, and I have to be there."

Rodney managed to rally, muttering, "They? Who's they? What the hell's Red Flag?" But John could tell what he really meant was: How could some military shindig be more important than me when I need you?

Before answering, John very deliberately peeled the apartment key off the card. He patted his pockets, but he didn't carry keys of his own. He couldn't think of anywhere else to put it where it wouldn't get lost easily, so he unclasped the chain for his dog tags and slid the key on before tucking everything back inside his shirt again. And even though he flashed Rodney a Happy now? smirk, the gesture was really for both their benefit. "You know what TOPGUN is?"

"Sure. If you're the least bit attracted to men, that piece of crap movie is like... a coming of age ritual or something."

"Hey! I watched it for the cool jets," John said feelingly. Which was true. To an extent.

"Of course you did."

"TOPGUN is Navy. Red Flag is sort of like the Air Force's version, except we invite all our friends and allies. Everyone gets to show off their impressive hardware, then we spend a few weeks pretending to blast each other out of the sky."

Rodney squealed, "The Air Force hosts LAN parties?"

"It's serious, Rodney. The survival rate for pilots engaging in air-to-air combat increases drastically once they've got ten missions under their belt. Red Flag is an opportunity for pilots to get that experience, flying under realistic combat conditions, except with simulated ammunition instead of the real thing. It's the only chance these guys'll get to, say, maneuver against a MiG before actually engaging a bandit in the field."

"Oh." Rodney's resentment visibly evaporated. "The F-302s."

John nodded. "When Anubis' fleet arrives, we'll scramble our fighters. That's a given. The debate is how effective ordinary jets be against Goa'uld death gliders, which have capabilities well beyond anything anyone's ever been up against. Hell, they can perform maneuvers that, according to the rule book, are physically impossible."

"Huh. Even if our weapons prove effective—they should, the gliders aren't shielded—it won't matter when our guys are caught with their pants down. So the solution is to let them practice against the 302s, which were reverse engineered from the death gliders and share the same advanced capabilities." Rodney hummed, apparently impressed by the military's logic for a change. "Still, how do they plan to handle the whole top-secret-spaceship-technology-stolen-from-aliens thing? Oh god, they don't intend to declassify, do they?"

When Anubis' fleet arrived, declassification was going to be the least of their concerns. "Night sorties," John explained. "The official excuse will be that the 302s are an unspecified 'experimental' design. Everyone'll be flying on instruments, and we don't intend to let them get close enough to get a visual on what's roughing them up."

"We?"

"Yeah. Me, Cam, the 1st SFW... we get to play the bad guys in the scenario." And when he phrased it that way, John realized that it sounded like a helluva lot of fun for what was supposed to be a critical training exercise.

Rodney's eyes narrowed. "Wait. This is all taking place tonight? Why didn't you say something when I called this morning? Why are you even here? You should be off... getting ready, or something!"

"No need. We're launching from Area 51. Red Flag is staged right in our back yard, at Nellis, so we won't even have to make any sneaky transport arrangements to get there."

"Go," Rodney pointed out the jumper's hatch. He achieved a vicious, full-arm extension, then jabbed a couple times for good measure. "Your cold... and then you plan to spend the night engaging in a dangerous activity that requires an obscene amount of concentration? You idiot. Go rest!"

John pressed on his arm, trying to lower it, but Rodney was going to fight him over it, he could already tell. "I will. I'd planned to. The cold's not that bad, it's just that I can't take anything for it since I'm going to be 'operating heavy machinery'."

"John..." Adopting what was probably intended to be a stern expression, Rodney tried to crowd him out of the jumper. "Please. I need to put all this back together, and I'm not going to get much work done if I'm too busy worrying about your dumb ass."

"Aw McKay, that's sweet," John said, letting himself be propelled down the ramp. He turned at the bottom and held his ground. "Stay here for a minute. I have something for you, too." He'd stashed it in the hangar while Rodney had been off playing hooky, thinking that it would be the easiest place to give it to him when the time came.

"You... what?"

But John was already off, loping around to the collection of tools left over from the days the jumper had actually had a ground crew. He pulled the gift out of the bottom drawer of the big tool box, then returned to where Rodney was—surprisingly—waiting as he'd been told. "Now, whatever your expectations are, you'd better lower them." he warned.

"Come on, how high can my expectations be? It's clearly not large enough to be a new flat-screen television."

John held the package just out of the range of Rodney's grasping hand. "I mean it. It's just a last-minute thing I picked up, nothing special." Which... sort of implied that the apartment key was; and yeah, now that he thought about it, it felt a bit like the offer he'd never gotten around to making to Rodney back in Colorado. He wondered if Rodney had guessed, or if it was just coincidence.

"Fine, whatever. Give it here." Eyes alight, Rodney ripped into the wrapping with the efficient havoc of an air strike; the ribbon didn't slow him down, the extra tape on the box seams didn't phase him. It was the gift itself that gave him pause. "What the–" he began, dropping the packaging to shake out the shirt. Then, "Oh, you son of a bitch."

"Guess that means you like it," John deduced, beaming. He'd never heard a more fond-sounding insult from Rodney.

Rodney answered by holding the t-shirt up against his chest, modeling it for John. It was a dirty light gray color, with some simple, line-art depictions of what were supposed to be alien spacecraft. Beneath that, in a truly ugly font, it proclaimed, As a matter of fact, I do work at Area 51. "Did you write this?" Rodney demanded, pointing to the much smaller subscript, which had been added with a permanent black marker.

John tried—and doubtless failed—to appear innocent. "Maybe," he drawled.

Rodney flipped the shirt back around to read the addendum. "But I'd have to kill you if I told you about it. Oh my god," he laughed, "I can never wear this in public."

"You can sleep in it," John shrugged. He hadn't expected Rodney to ever wear the damned thing; it was too hideous. The fun was all in the initial reaction.

"You know, I could." Still laughing, Rodney held the shirt against himself again, checking the size. But when he glanced up at John his laughter died and his expression froze. "Um," he said eloquently, his eyes blown wide and beseeching.

John found himself caught up in the precarious stillness. If it had been anyone else, it would have ended with a hot mouth on his, hands threading through his hair, an eager body wrapped around him. But it was Rodney, the one person John trusted not to breach that boundary uninvited. I know, he longed to say, but it would have been criminally inadequate. And I'm sorry, was just an excuse. What he finally settled on was a subdued, "You're welcome."

At that, Rodney was all nervous motion again, shuffling his feet, wadding up the shirt over and over again in the same repetitive motion. "Yes, of c-course, thank you," he stammered. "It's horrible. I'll treasure it."

"You'll throw it in the closet and never see it again," John corrected.

"Well," Rodney considered, retreating to familiar flippancy, "I'll have to wear it at least once, so that you can take my picture. I want to send it to Zelenka. It'll totally screw with his mind."

Inspiration struck. "Hey," John said, moseying back toward the jumper. He hoped Rodney wouldn't notice that he was ignoring the order to return to his quarters and rest. "Ingram didn't con you into working through New Year's, did he?"

Rodney groaned, following. "As if I'd fall for that stunt again."

"Great. New Year's Eve, I'll meet you at the security checkpoint after work. You know the city better, so you can cover food. I'll bring the booze."

"What, seriously?" Rodney's voice climbed to an incredulous pitch, as if he was surprised that little almost-slip hadn't sent John bolting in the opposite direction. Like he thought John would run scared from a close call.

Like hell. John nudged him in the side and said firmly, "Yes seriously. We keep saying we're going to hang out. You want to talk. I want to see your place. We both have a day off. Why not?" Keeping the festivities within appropriate parameters wouldn't be a problem now that he realized how lax he'd become around McKay. "Unless you've already made plans..."

"Plans? Plans are those things you make when you have time for a social life outside of work," Rodney groused, the last traces of tension easing from his posture. "Oh, oh! Maybe you could bring one of your flight suits and be in the picture with me, because that would totally lend a touch of verisimilitude to the whole thing. Also, I'm still not positive Zelenka believes you exist."

"I'll see what I can do," John evaded. But he was already mentally packing his duffel bag, and his best flight suit was the first thing going in.

~~

Christ, between Ingram and Anubis and Sheppard, Rodney was going to drive straight off the deep end one of these days. It was only a matter of time; the question was which one would get him first.

Because Sheppard was an annoying bastard who enjoyed making Rodney's life difficult, he'd refused to nap in his quarters, and ended up conked out in the jumper. Rodney was sure he'd done it in part because Rodney had been skeptical concerning his ability to crash wherever and whenever the opportunity presented itself; he'd sworn there had been tours where he'd caught more sleep in the hold of his helicopter than in his bed back at base.

Standing over him now, watching the even rise and fall of his chest, the deep REM flutter of his eyelids, Rodney was inclined to believe it.

He forgot, sometimes. Not that John was bound by stupid, archaic regulations, but that there was a difference between tolerance and acquiescence. Maybe John forgot too, because for that crazy, heady moment, it had seemed that Rodney could just... reach out and claim him, and John wouldn't have stopped him.

The urge was still there, but buried and smoldering. He thought that if he was careful, he could prevent it from flashing to the surface again. It was doubtful that it would ever go away; it was simply something that was.

John was a light sleeper. Rodney knew that, even though the clatter he'd had made dropping one of the panels had barely disturbed the man. Touch was more intrusive than noise, so he didn't dare risk even a feather-light caress, fingertips skimming over John's brow. Instead, he closed the rear hatch and turned on the jumper's life support to provide a bit of warmth, then went back to his repairs.

~~

Red Flag was more exhausting than John expected. That was probably a good thing. His mind still managed to sneak away occasionally to gambol with thoughts of Rodney. He could imagine how much worse the truancy would have been if he'd had more energy or protracted periods of inactivity at his disposal.

He'd participated in regular Red Flag sessions before, but only the search and rescue training segment. The main event—grueling, large-scale simulated aerial combat—was reserved for the hotshot fighter pilots. (And, in this case, the unfortunate rotorhead masquerading as one.)

Typically, instructors from Nellis' 57th wing comprised the red, or "aggressor" squadrons, which engaged the blue "friendly" forces according to the tactics enemy fighters actually employed in the field. For the special session, the F-302s standing in for Goa'uld death gliders were designated the Black Squadron, as intentionally mysterious and menacing as the real thing. John didn't envy Cam and the rest of the 1st SFW, whose job it was to mimic the Goa'uld attack style. As Earth didn't exactly have many experts in that area, their rule book was a treatise on the subject penned by Teal'c, but they still had to make up a lot as they went along.

Black Squadron had to fly under the cover of darkness. They burned up every inch of available night, hard hours of flying that taxed senses John hadn't flexed in far too long. It was just as nerve-wracking as actual combat; it was supposed to be. But it was even worse for someone who wasn't accustomed to flying in large formations, or hunting in a pack. At times, it seemed to John that there were just too many damned aircraft crowding into his space. He'd never felt claustrophobic in the middle of the sky before.

Otherwise, Red Flag—or Black Flag, as they'd taken to calling it—conformed to John's memory of other missions. There was the same gut-punch of anticipation building up to it; he hit the requisite half-aroused state of intense focus the instant his hands curled around the controls; and the familiar, exhilarating burn of adrenaline degraded to a plain burn as his body wrung itself out trying to process so much of the stuff.

It was always hard coming down, even when he was physically wrecked. He recalled that from missions too, and made a point not to get caught alone with Cam during the mop up back at base. It wouldn't have been the first time he'd done something stupid in the interest of dumping a post-mission high, and he'd already had Mitchell's voice in his ear all night, shouting crude encouragements over the radio.

Back in his quarters, he was tempted to call Rodney and tell him, oh, everything—about how the tweaks to the inertial dampeners were exceeding expectations, and the shocked exclamations they'd "overheard" from Blue Squadron the first time one of the 302s had performed a maneuver that would have subjected the pilot of an ordinary aircraft to fatal g-forces. He wanted to tell Rodney about how the fighter pilots had his number at 10,000 feet, but his experience relying on terrain-following radar and forward-looking infrared for those sneaky, low-level special ops missions made him untouchable under 1,000.

He was bursting with all the things he wanted to say, but even though he paced for a few minutes with the phone to his ear, he couldn't come up with a valid excuse for calling at such an early hour. (Not to mention, if he opened with, Hi honey, want to hear about my day? McKay would probably set a new speed record for hanging up on him.) So he crawled into bed, jerked off once, then again about an hour later, when he was still lying awake, watching the morning sunlight creep its way across his ceiling.

All in all, it wouldn't have been so bad if he didn't have to get up that afternoon and do it all over again.

~~

The only impact Red Flag had on Rodney—well, aside from denying him John's distracting company while he racked his brain, trying to ascertain when and how and to what purpose the missing jumper component had been removed—was a marked increase in activity around the hangar area in the evenings. He'd made a tactical error the first day, taking his usual route back to the commuter terminal, hoping to catch a glimpse of John as he passed the 302 hangar. But he'd nearly been run over a few times by airmen barreling along on some critical task, and earned more than his usual share of dirty looks for being a scientist on the wrong end of the base.

He hadn't managed to spot any flight suits either, which probably meant the pilots had been holed up doing their pre-flight briefing thing. It wasn't worth the risk of getting run down again for no chance at a payout, so Rodney decided to try a circuitous path, detouring behind all the bustle. It would tack a few minutes on to his walk, but he should still be in time to make the seven o'clock to Vegas.

He finished locking up the jumper... shed, then turned to check his watch.

Shit.

Okay, he could probably make it. If he hurried.

Shoving his hands in his pockets, he butted his head down against the brisk (but not unpleasantly cold, because it was Nevada and not the ass-end of British Columbia) breeze and struck out.

The hum of an engine and the squelch of slow-moving tires caught him just as he was rounding the edge of C Block. He glanced over his shoulder, and sure enough, it was one of the base vehicles, a utilitarian SUV like the ones they used to ferry personnel between the main base and remote locations such as Prometheus' hangar. The vehicle pulled up on his right side, matching his pace; the airman behind the wheel lowered his window.

"Hey, doc, you headed back to the labs?"

"Close enough," Rodney allowed, hunching deeper into his coat's collar. He didn't recognize the guy, but it was a safe bet that any civilian wandering around these parts had a PhD or two to their name. The "doc" wasn't even that lucky a guess.

"That's where I'm headed. Got room if you want a lift." The vehicle crawled to a halt just as Rodney slowed up as well.

"Thanks." Still, he hesitated. As welcome as the offer was, something seemed a little... off. In his experience, the military types weren't in the habit of giving civilians lifts—or going out of their way to be courteous or accommodating either, for that matter.

Then again, it could be one of John's chums, who knew Rodney by reputation.

Does Sheppard even have chums?

Or... it could be another pathetic attempt by Ingram to con him into looking at Prometheus' sensor array again. The asshole had been throwing summons at Rodney all day, but if he couldn't manage to send a messenger boy who had security clearance to unlock the jumper hangar, then Rodney couldn't be bothered to tell them to fuck off in person. Besides, it had been more amusing to make bets with himself over how long they would bang on the door and shout before they gave up and left in disgrace.

"That is, thanks, but I think I'll pass. I'm cooped up so much inside that this is about the only exercise I get." Rodney started walking again.

The vehicle eased forward too. "Aw, that's a shame. You sure?" the airman tried again.

Rodney spun around to face him and demanded, "Did Ingram send you?" And oh yeah, the guy's shocked expression, before it was hastily concealed, screamed guilty. "Because I already told him, it's not my job to dick around with the sensor arrays. It is Lee's job, and I'm sure the people on his team are far more suited to–"

That's when the guy unfastened his seat belt and reached for the door handle.

"Okay, what the hell?" Backing away, Rodney made appeasing gestures with his hands, while his eyes darted around, taking in the isolation and lack of witnesses. The guy had chosen the perfect spot for his ambush. There was rarely any traffic back here, and there was likely to be even less than usual with everyone's attention focused on getting the 302s in the air.

The guy got the door open and spilled out of the vehicle. He didn't make a move for Rodney—yet—but it was fairly obvious he wouldn't have to put much effort into chasing Rodney down, if it came to that. Baring his teeth in what was probably supposed to be a smile, he said, "Our mutual acquaintance warned me you might insist on doing things the hard way. I was kinda hoping he'd be right."

That's when Rodney saw the zat.

"Wait–"

He was unconscious before he hit the ground.

~~

John had barely logged an hour of sleep when his phone woke him. He groped around for the handset and stuck it against his ear. "Yup?"

"Shep." It was Mitchell.

"I'd just gotten to sleep," John groaned. "Hell, why aren't you asleep?"

"Something came up." And oh shit, he recognized that extremely calm and level tone, lacking all of Cam's customary joviality. It was the same one he used in the cockpit when the situation was turning ugly, and it meant pay-attention-and-do-exactly-as-I-fucking-say. No questions, no hesitation. "You might want get dressed and meet me someplace," he suggested vaguely. Which implied that—John flogged his brain into gear—implied that he was probably anticipating someone listening in on the call.

"Catch breakfast yet?" John was already out of bed, scrambling for clothes. He had his hands on his black uniform, then changed his mind and started dragging on the most generic set of fatigues he owned.

"I was thinking about heading down to the mess, but you know how it is in the mornings. Too crowded, and the company's not so hot."

So, stay out of sight as much as possible, and avoid the area around the labs. "I could hit one of the machines," John offered. He had to switch the phone to his other ear while he yanked the shirt over his head. "I know how much you complain about the shit coffee they brew in the squadron room." He hoped Cam understood the message.

"Two sugars, no cream. See you in twenty, unless you're feeling spry today, gramps."

In other words, haul-ass and double-time it if possible. "I dunno, my back's been acting up, but I'll see what I can do."

He hung up the phone to tug on his boots; he thought about leaving them unlaced, but spared the extra seconds to do them up properly, because he had the feeling he wasn't going to want to stand out. Then he grabbed a matching cap, pulled off the incriminating insignia, and jammed it low over his eyes. Scraping his ID and wallet off his desk and straight into his pocket, the last thing he grabbed before slipping out the door was the contraband zat.

If weird shit was going down, he'd prefer to have it on his person, where it might do some good.

~~

Cam had read him loud and clear. He was idling next to his favorite coffee vending machine when John slunk around the corner. "Nice rags," he whistled, low, and handed John a steaming cup.

"Thanks." John took the beverage and fell into line when Cam started walking.

"Anyone else stop to admire them during your trip out here?" he inquired, subtly guiding their course deeper into the hangar.

"Guess you're the only one who appreciates my taste," John shrugged. No, he hadn't attracted undue attention.

"Good."

As they passed one of the technicians working on some esoteric piece of an aircraft, Cam threw the guy a pointed look. The guy responded with a grin, and dropped what he was doing to pick up an air wrench. Holding the thing straight up in the air, he proceeded to lay on the trigger, creating a prolonged, unholy whine.

Cam pulled them into an alcove behind one of the hangar's support posts. He leaned in to shout, "Might have to speak up, the noise can get kinda bad in here!"

"So I can tell!" John shouted back. It was nicely done; there wasn't a chance a bug could pick up anything over the racket. "You wanna tell me what's got your panties in a twist? Or am I just imagining the cloak an dagger act?"

"I wish." Cam laid it out blunt. "McKay didn't show up for work today. He's not returning any calls, and seems he never cleared the security checkpoint to leave the base last night, either. He should still be here, but no one's been able to hunt him down."

"Fuck," John swore, and he must have looked ready to run off and do something stupid, because Cam caught his arm.

"My sentiments exactly. The geeks are keeping it under wraps, but I have my sources. Figured you'd want to get out of your quarters before they came to drag you in for questioning."

"My thanks for that." Every instinct he had was screaming Go find Rodney, but he knew how successful he'd be if he went off half-cocked and lacking vital intel. "I take it they've checked all his usual haunts. Maybe there was an accident?"

Cam scowled. "Something else. They're reporting a theft, something small and portable and extremely salable, I understand."

"And they think that McKay– No way," John shook his head forcefully. But the news gave him hope. As the coincidences stacked up, it was less and less likely that Rodney would be discovered in one of the labs, incapacitated (or worse) by some alien device.

"I know, but there's money, and then there's money."

"If Rodney could be motivated by greed, he never would have left the private sector."

"So you're sure?" Cam pressed.

"Fuck yes I'm sure. Aren't you?"

"I had a hunch, but you know him better'n anyone. Figured I'd check with you."

"So what now?"

John didn't realize he'd said it aloud until he saw Cam shrug. "McKay got one of those implanted transmitters?"

That had been one of the first things he'd thought of. "No. They would have given him one if he'd been permanently assigned to a gate team."

"Then I'm out of ideas."

John wasn't. "Can you do me a favor? I need to make sure no one fucks with the jumper." If it wasn't too late already.

Protect your assets; Cam nodded. "I know some guys I can trust. I'll set 'em to watchdog it."

"Around the clock," John advised. "Ingram's one of the few outside me and McKay who have access to open the hangar door, and I'm guessing he's up to his neck in shit on this one. I can't give you details, but let's just say he and Rodney were headed for a messy divorce. Pull rank if you need to, to keep him out. Invoke Major Carter's name, he's terrified she's gonna waltz in put him out of a job one day."

"And you?"

"I'm gonna nose around, got some leads that might prove profitable." Starting with Kusanagi, then maybe working his way to Kavanagh.

"You should get the hell off base!"

"What?"

"I'm serious. They aren't fucking around. Wouldn't be surprised if they put the whole place into lockdown when the news breaks."

"But–" If Rodney hadn't cleared the security checkpoint, he had to be on base somewhere. There was no other way off. But there were a limited number of hiding places, and they'd already searched for him unsuccessfully. He couldn't have run into the desert either; the underground sensors would have detected his movement and the border guards would have nabbed him easily. 

Cam jostled his arm to snatch his attention back. "I'm sorry, I don't think you can win this from the inside. One phone call from the base commander and I'll be forced to pull rank on you. Now, I can't take that call while I'm out on my 'inspections', but sooner or later I'll have to return to my office, and I'm guessing it's already waiting for me."

"I can't run," John reasoned. "It'll look suspicious as hell."

"Not if I ordered you to do it."

"Cam–"

"Major!" Cam said sharply. He fished a set of keys out of his pocket and held them in John's direction. "Sergeant Miles says not to scratch her up, and make sure your bring her back with a full tank of gas. Plate 423-LZM, south end of the lot."

Reluctant but slowly being won over by reason, John took the keys. "Yes sir."

"Look at it this way. If you find McKay... I'd pay a lot to see the look on Ingram's face when you two show up on the next JANET flight into base."

"He has been working horrible hours. Maybe he just... overslept." Through his alarm and multiple phone calls, after somehow leaving base without going through security... As unlikely as that was, the thought did bring a grudging smile to John's lips. "Oh, shit. One more thing." He pulled out the zat and showed it to Cam. "I'll need you to hold this for me, somewhere discreet. If I do this, my quarters'll probably be searched. Colonel O'Neill knows I have it, but I'm sure as hell not supposed to." He demonstrated, "Dangerous end, safe end. Grip here to fire, but for god's sake, don't. The first hit stuns, the second is lethal."

Mitchell took the zat gingerly, but he did tuck it away inside his coat. "Shit, I hate snake tech."

"Yeah, you and me both, pal. But that sucker's saved my skin a few times. I'd like to have it back when all's said and done."

"I'll keep it safe," Cam promised. "Now getcher ass outta here. Go the west gate, it's got less traffic."

"Will do. And Colonel? I owe ya one."

"You owe me a lot more than one," Cam countered. "Not that I'm keeping score or anything."

"I am," John said, right before he jogged away.

~~

Not five minutes down the road, at the helm of Sergeant Miles' sensible Ford, John was reconsidering his decision to trust Mitchell without any sort of verification.

What did he really know about the guy? Aside from the fact that he was sitting in what would have been one of the most sought-after posts in the Air Force, if more than a handful of people knew of its existence. Okay, his service record was supposedly spotless; he wouldn't have been given the post otherwise. And he had to have passed a grueling battery of background checks and psych profiling just for the clearance to be considered for the job.

But what did John actually know about him? He could have some sob story in his closet, a sick grandmother, or a niece in need of a kidney transplant. Guys like Mitchell couldn't be bought with the usual currency, but they could be bought.

On the other hand, something was definitely sketchy on base. The guards at the west gate had seemed edgy, going over his credentials with unusual care, as if they'd been scrounging for an excuse to turn him back. They hadn't found anything though, so after a protracted call to the main security office, they'd had no choice but to let him through.

If the whole point of the exercise was to get John off base and out of the way, he would have been cleared without a hitch. Mitchell's story made sense. It did. John just... needed more evidence.

Opportunities for breaks were few and far between on the barren stretch of highway between the base and Las Vegas. John pulled into the first gas station he saw, topped off the Ford, then pretended to browse the tacky UFO souvenirs for a few minutes while he waited to see if he'd been followed. But nothing suspicious turned up on the horizon, and the Ford was blatantly parked out front. If anyone had been looking for him, they would have known right where to find him.

He bought a cheap pair of sunglasses, wishing he hadn't left his behind in his quarters, along with some provisions for the road, and a map. At the last minute he threw in a shirt with a neon green alien face, proclaiming, I was abducted by aliens and all I got was this lousy t-shirt. The guy behind the register gave him the strangest look, which might have had something to do with fact that John had come from the direction of the base, and was dressed in full fatigues. John just smiled blandly and said, "It's never too early to start shopping for Christmas," as he accepted his receipt.

Then he hit the pay phone outside. It was the best he could do on short notice; there hadn't been time to snag a satellite phone, and he'd left his cell phone behind, on the off chance it could be used it to track his position. He was grateful that he'd fallen into the habit of carrying a phone card to avoid always having to fuss with local currency. It provided a nice buffer that he wouldn't have had if he'd dialed the base's employee switchboard directly.

Not... to imply that what he was doing wasn't stupid and risky as hell, but what choice did he have?

It was an automated system. To clear the first rung of security, he had to state his name and rank, then wait for the resulting prompt to repeat a short phrase. If all went well, the system would locate his name in the database of approved users, and use voice recognition to compare his live speech sample against the one on file before transferring his call. If any step of the process failed, the call would be terminated; repeated failures would result in the originating number being blocked and investigated.

He passed, and was prompted to state the name of the person he desired to reach.

"Dr Rodney McKay," he spoke carefully.

There was a brief pause, then a pleasant computerized voice informed him, Dr Rodney McKay... is unavailable. He was given a short set of options, which included leaving a voicemail for ...Dr Rodney McKay.

John opted to try another name. "Okay, then let's try Lieutenant Colonel Cameron Mitchell?"

Please state clearly the name of the individual-

"Lieutenant. Colonel. Cameron. Mitchell." John tried to keep the exasperation out of his voice.

Lieutenant Colonel Cameron Mitchell... is unavailable.

And that right there told him plenty. Usually the system would attempt to transfer the call, and if it wasn't picked up on the other end, then it would bounce back to the unavailable message. But it was possible to set a line to do-not-disturb, sending all incoming calls back immediately. Neither Rodney nor Mitchell's extensions had been given a chance to ring.

But what about, "Dr Miko Kusanagi."

Please hold, he was informed. Then, after a longer pause, This connection is designated... unsecure. This call will be monitored, and any inappropriate activity will result in termination without warning.

"Yes, fine, whatever," John grumbled. "Just–"

"This is Dr Kusanagi," Miko's voice reached him finally.

"Hey Miko, it's John." Sheppard, he mouthed silently, praying she would remember.

She must have, because she continued brightly, "Oh yes, John! It is good to hear from you."

He tried to think of a way to approach his questions within the context of an innocuous-sounding conversation. "Yeah, sorry about that. It's been hectic down at the other end of things. I rarely get a chance to wander up into your neck of the woods. But hey, if work ever calms down, you can expect to see more of me."

"I would like that very much."

Okay, what in the hell did that mean? Did it mean anything? Was she even aware of the need to surreptitiously exchange information? He tried again. "So how are things with you? Got any plans for the holiday?"

"Oh, it is as you say... hectic." Now they were getting somewhere. "I am looking forward to the chance to rest. I do not think that I will venture out, but instead remain indoors."

Indoors, not at home. Maybe the base had gone into lockdown just as Mitchell had predicted. Or maybe her word choice was peculiar simply because she wasn't a native speaker. "Yeah, the crowds can be rough," he agreed. "I was planning a quiet evening with a friend, but I haven't seen him recently, and I know how he can get really absorbed in his work. If you happen to see him around, could you mention–"

There was a series of rapid clicks, then the hum of a dial tone filled his ear.

Well shit, that answers that question.

Before heading back to the car, John rubbed his fingerprints off the phone with his sleeve. He was fairly sure he hadn't broken any laws, or even any rules. It was just... well, Rodney's legendary paranoia was contagious.

An insidious voice whispered in the back of his head that this time, it didn't seem to have done Rodney any good.

~~

He stopped once more on the outskirts of town, to orient himself on the map, and to pinpoint the location of McKay's apartment complex. The address was in his wallet, on a scrap torn from the bottom of the Christmas card. He'd kept it for sentimental reasons; he and Rodney were supposed to have gone together after work.

Tonight. That was supposed to have been tonight.

John tried to fold the unwieldy map around, gave up, ripped out the section he needed, and got back on the highway.

~~

It was impossible not to compare McKay's apartment to the one John had acquired in Colorado with the intent of asking Rodney to move in with him. Rodney had probably chosen the complex because it was close to the Vegas JANET terminal and in a not-horrific section of town. But John caught himself critiquing the amenities—it didn't even have a gate for him to bluff his way past—and concluded that his had been nicer, damn it.

He'd struck out from base early enough to catch the tail end of the commuter crowd, streaming into the city. But that meant plenty of open parking spaces out front of Rodney's building; he picked one, got out, and was soon taking the steps up to Rodney's door two at a time.

He considered ringing the bell, or knocking, but it occurred to him that if Rodney was home and able, he probably would have answered the damned phone. Further, if something hostile was preventing him from answering, then John didn't want to give it any warning. He slipped his tags out from beneath his shirt, leaned over to reach the lock without removing the key from the chain, and eased the door open just enough to peer into the apartment.

Shit, what was he thinking? He'd left the zat behind, and didn't even have a sidearm on him. If Rodney was home and in mortal peril from some unknown menace, there was fuck-all John would be able to do about it. Throwing the door open the rest of the way, he called, "McKay?"

None of the lights were on, but there was enough ambient light that he would be able to see if something made a rush at him—not in enough time to do more than brace for the impact, but oh well. "Rodney, it's me. I'm coming in."

He cocked his head, listening, but the quiet was broken only by ordinary house sounds, so he stepped fully inside and pulled the door shut behind him. "Rodney? Hello, is there anybody home?"

A blinking light on an end table caught his attention. Rodney's answering machine had about a dozen new messages on it. He hit the play button and continued his exploration deeper into the apartment.

Dr McKay, this is Dr Petrov. I just wanted to remind you that your presence is required, not requested, at the project meeting tomorrow morning. [Beep]

The apartment was a standard floor plan, kitchen connecting to a large combination room, with bedroom (one) and bathroom branching off near the front door. His preliminary sweep yielded nothing—no McKay, no disarray beyond Rodney's usual clutter that would indicated a struggle or a hasty departure.

Dr McKay, this is Dr Lee. I hate to call you at home, but you've been so hard to reach at work, and I could really really use another set of eyes to look over this danged array. I'll try to catch you tomorrow morning before you head out to your lair. [Beep]

He chose the kitchen to start a more thorough search. Rodney had managed to arrange the contents of the cabinets more or less the same as his house back in Canada. There was a pile of dirty coffee mugs in the sink but not much else; a gleaming behemoth of an espresso machine dominated most of the scant counter space.

Dr McKay, this is Dr Singh. Dr Petrov asked me to call you to remind you about the project meeting tomorrow morning, nine sharp. See you then. [Beep]

The refrigerator was a surprise. In addition to a party tray of snack food, there was also a six-pack of the beer Rodney knew John liked, and a not-entirely-bad bottle of chilling champagne. "Guess I'm not handling the booze after all," John had to smile. There was also a half-empty carton of orange juice, which puzzled him. It wasn't even past its expiration date.

Rodney hadn't mentioned seeing anyone, but John couldn't think of another reason that Rodney would have company for breakfast. Perhaps it wasn't seeing so much as one of those occasional, convenient things; either way, good for him, damn it. No, seriously. They never talked about that kind of crap, and John had always assumed that McKay kept his proclivities discreet just as John did, because of their mutual employer.

Still, he made a note to be alert for more evidence of this theoretical relationship as he searched the apartment—but only, he told himself, because it could have a bearing on Rodney's whereabouts.

Dr McKay, this is Dr Petrov. The meeting is starting without you. Since you're not at work, I'm guessing you're hiding at home with another convenient case of the flu. I know if you're there you won't pick up, but I thought I would inform you anyway that I'm taking up your shirking of responsibility with Dr Ingram. [Beep]

The living room boasted more computers than it did comfortable places to sit. John knew most of Rodney's equipment from the weeks back in Canada; he counted all laptops present, but that didn't mean much because McKay collected the things like candy. If he'd run, he would have taken his newest, flashiest model with him.

This is Dr Ingram. Return my call as soon as you receive this message. It's urgent. [Beep]

Things started to get a little strange in the bathroom. Oh sure, John had a key and permission to crash even when Rodney wasn't present, but it was another matter entirely to poke through his medicine cabinet, discovering which brand of deodorant he liked, and unearthing the huge, almost empty bottle of antacid.

There was only one toothbrush. He knew Rodney had a thing about germs and wouldn't be inclined to share.

Hey McKay, you've really done it this time. I hear Ingram's on the warpath. If I were you, I'd be hiding at home in bed too. [Beep]

John was definitely above rifling through McKay's dirty clothes hamper, but his lucky underwear was right on top of the pile. It was the pair with little pi symbols on them, silk and loose-fitting so they wouldn't chafe in the field. It was a comfort thing; if he'd been planning his disappearance, he would have saved them and worn them on the big day.

And okay, John seriously didn't want to contemplate the ramifications of possessing that knowledge. 

This is Dr Ingram. It is critical that you call the base as soon as you receive this message. [Beep]

There were two more empty coffee mugs in the bedroom, and yet another laptop; he'd been right about Rodney's growing collection. The bed was rumpled and unmade, but it would have been more suspicious if it had been straight and neat. He uncovered Rodney's suitcase in the closet, an odd thing to leave behind if you were fleeing the country to hock stolen alien tech on the Russian black market.

Rodney hadn't been in the apartment long enough to accrue detritus beneath the bed. His dresser contained clothes, including his neatly retired SGC uniforms. John didn't bother taking out the drawers to look behind them; Rodney was far too paranoid to pull that adolescent hiding trick. The last place to search was the nightstand, which John was reluctant to open, given that people tended to keep some pretty personal stuff within easy reach of the bed.

But really, he recognized McKay's lucky underwear on sight. How much more weirdly intrusive could it be to peruse his collection of sex toys?

On second thought, maybe a dildo or two would have been preferable to what he did find. He recognized the battered field notebook with intense dismay. It shouldn't– It didn't belong here, on Earth. Rodney should have burned it on P3X-423 like John had instructed.

Had he remembered to include that instruction? His memories of that night were sketchy, garbled by fever and fear and exhaustion. He certainly didn't want to revisit them, so it came as something of a shock to find himself sitting on the edge of Rodney's bed with the notebook open across his lap.

Rodney, the text began. I don't know how many times I've started this, and started over. If I repeat myself, it might be the fever, or it might just be that I can't remember what I've written and what I haven't, this time around. It's all blurred together.

The fever. Might as well dive in there.

Christ, he almost didn't recognize his own handwriting, and the incoherence of his words reeked of raw desperation. But he couldn't stop what he'd started until it was finished. He read on, and on.

Nobody's saying it, but if SG-15 dies, they won't be in a hurry to risk sending someone after you. They'd only expect to bring back a corpse.

Oh fuck, oh fuck. He'd actually written that for Rodney to see?

It only got worse the deeper he went.

You're brilliant and funny and amazing. You can do anything you put your mind to. I've never met anyone like you.

Then, just a few lines later, as if he'd been ashamed:

The SGC'll want to read this. Please don't let them, if you can help it. Just, you know... my reputation.

No, not shame. Cowardice.

Whatever happens, I'm fine with it. Really I am. This past year has been– No, these last few months I've seen things and done things and learned things I never imagined I would. And you were right there with me, making everything even better. The only thing I regret

He'd left the sentiment unfinished; doubtless, he thought bitterly, because he possessed as many regrets as he did excuses. How could he select one out of an entire pantheon?

And you, behave yourself.

What a shitty way to say goodbye.

John reached the end, shutting the notebook to just... sit, ingesting. When he noticed that his eyes were hot and dry he blinked—or meant to. He might have lost minutes, maybe a quarter of an hour while he stayed there with his eyes closed, strangely robbed of purpose and urgency.

~~

John found a deserted pay phone around the block from Rodney's apartment and placed another call.

Where it had been a hassle to reach anyone at Area 51, it was relatively simple to get through to the SGC. Very few people had access to the number he dialed, and the person who picked up on the other end recognized his name, if not his voice.

John dutifully gave his authentication code anyway, without being prompted.

"Confirmed. What can I do for you, sir?"

"First, be advised that this is an insecure connection."

"Noted."

John leaned against the phone, discreetly scanning around him. But there was no one even close to being in hearing range. "I need to speak to General Hammond."

"I'm sorry, sir. He's been tied up all morning."

I'll bet he has. "How about Colonel O'Neill?"

There was a short wait before the airman informed, "Colonel O'Neill is not in his office."

Right. When is he ever? But at least that meant SG-1 wasn't off-world. Thank god for small favors. "Major Carter?" he tried again.

"Yes sir, transferring now."

"Major Sheppard?" The surprise in Carter's voice wasn't reassuring. "It's good to hear from you."

"Likewise," John sighed. "I'm– Okay, here's the deal. I need some information. And a favor. And I'm not in a good position to discuss the situation. I'm calling you from a pay phone in Vegas."

"You're in Las Vegas?" Carter repeated, incredulous.

Then there was a clatter in the background, and he heard O'Neill shout, "Is that Sheppard? Tell him it's about damned time he checked in! And what the hell's he doing in Vegas?"

Carter didn't relay either. "Things are a little... unsettled here," she explained instead. "Your whereabouts have been of particular interest."

Some amplified thumps suggested the receiver was being fought over, but O'Neill sounded distant when he grumbled, "Just put him on speaker. Hammond's gonna want a recap, and I don't want to be responsible for remembering all the details."

"Better, sir?"

"Sheppard!" O'Neill bellowed. "What in the hell are you doing in Vegas? Well, aside from the obvious, what with the dancers and the gambling and the buffets... Wait—scratch that. How did you get out of lockdown?"

So Cam had been right. John definitely owed him big. "Never was in it, sir. Colonel Mitchell strongly suggested I borrow a vehicle and take a nice, relaxing drive."

"Mitchell, Mitchell... Oh, right! He's with the–"

"Sir–" Carter warned.

"–with the squadron of... those flying things."

"Yes sir. He caught wind of some... trouble transpiring on base, and was able to relay what he knew, but it wasn't much. Sir, I need to know what's going on."

"So do we," O'Neill replied, and for once he wasn't being facetious. "Which means that you need to get your ass back to the mountain, pronto."

Fuck. "But sir–"

"Head to Nellis. I'll make arrangements to have transport waiting for you. Do not, I repeat, do not return to your post. It's a disaster out there. Seems there's a spirited debate over who has the... 'sovereign authority' I think is how Daniel put it, to lead the investigation."

Yeah, that sounded about right. The Air Force would ultimately win, but the scientists sure as hell wouldn't enjoy having the military preside over what they doubtless considered an internal matter. Cooperation was out of the question; they'd cockblock every step of the way.

"At any rate, it's lucky you got out of the crossfire when you did. And now I need you to stay out. That's an order, major."

"Yes sir," John agreed.

Trust O'Neill to leave him with no other choice.

~~

The trip from Vegas back out to Nellis Air Force Base left little impact. If it hadn't been for the clock, John could have sworn he was driving the same uninspiring mile of highway over and over and over. Worse, his lack of sleep was catching up to him. But even though he knew he wasn't mentally at his sharpest—that he could be missing an obvious connection that was right in front of him—he couldn't help bashing his head futilely against the whole damned mess.

O'Neill must have called in a favor, because John didn't have to explain himself to the guard at Nellis' gate. Instead, he was flagged through immediately upon presenting his identification, and was given an escort vehicle to follow directly to out to a rather impressive hangar.

He did a double take when he saw the emblem perched elegantly above the hangar's doors.

"Oh, you have got to be fucking kidding me."

Great. So now in addition to owing Mitchell sexual favors, he was indebted to O'Neill for... a kidney at least.

He pulled up and parked next to the escort vehicle, just as a man emerged from the hangar to greet them. His guide also climbed out; John eased up to him and murmured, "You're sure this is the right place?"

"Yes sir," the airman informed with obvious curiosity.

The escort for John's next leg of the journey approached, and there were salutes all around. "Major Mark Price. And you must be Major John Sheppard."

"That's me," John squirmed, aware that he was terribly outclassed in his nondescript fatigues.

"Excellent. I'll take it from here, airman."

"Wait." John still had the keys in his hand. He floundered for writing materials, then gave up and handed them to the airman. "I sort of borrowed the car. It belongs to a Sergeant Miles, stationed at Groom Lake. I'd appreciate it if you could see that it's returned to him."

At the mention of Area 51, he could literally feel the interest of the two men re-focus on him and intensify. But he must have settled some questions even as he raised more, because the airman said, "Sergeant Miles, yes sir," as if he routinely handled even more unusual requests.

"Thank you, that'll be all."

Price was also regarding John with new-found respect. "I understand you're in something of a hurry, major," he said. "Follow me and we'll get you suited up."

John could have kept his mouth shut and remained an enigma, but he wasn't an asshole, and holy shit, look at that gorgeous bird. Just the sight of the world-famous livery was enough to send a thrill through him. "So, ah, when Colonel O'Neill told me he was arranging transport, I was expecting something a little..."

"More sedate?" Price suggested.

"Yes, that." John tried not to obviously crane his head around as they skirted the wingtip of the F-16D Fighting Falcon. "If you don't mind my asking, how did you get roped into this? The Thunderbirds aren't exactly..."

"In the taxi business?" Price finished for him. Which was close to what John had been trying to say; he'd just been searching for a less demeaning description. "There aren't many twin-seat fighters stationed on base, and the 57th ATG is recovering from a night op. I was available."

So, it was an instance of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Poor guy. John hoped he wasn't interrupting any holiday plans. "Night op? I hear there was a special session of Red Flag," he threw Price a bone.

"You heard right." Price said carefully, "Word on the street is they got chewed up pretty bad by squadron of highly experimental fighters."

"Experimental like... the sort of thing you'd expect to fly out of Groom Lake?"

"Something like that." Price shot him a sideways glance. 

"Well, you shouldn't believe every rumor you hear." John didn't even have to fake a yawn. "Sorry. You'll have to excuse me if I seem a little tired. I was up all night flying a training op."

Price's chuckle was rueful. "Major Sheppard, you, sir, are an evil man."

~~

John had been hoping to catch a few hours of sleep in the hold of some cargo transport. Instead, he screamed across the eight hundred miles between Nellis and Colorado Springs in well under an hour, at speeds approaching Mach 2.

Yeah, a nap was out of the question.

After touching down at Peterson, he was barely able to thank Major Price again for the lift before being hustled into a waiting vehicle and conveyed to the SGC. The guard at the security choke-point informed him the he was to proceed directly to the main briefing room, which meant borrowed flight suit, ten o'clock shadow, rumbling stomach and all.

At least he could expect coffee. There was always coffee.

General Hammond and SG-1 were already spread around the conference table, waiting for him, along with Major Davis and a couple others John didn't recognize. Judging by the scattered briefing folders and unhappy expressions, they'd been there a while.

"Major Sheppard," Hammond greeted from where he presided at the table's head. "Have a seat."

"Sir."

The coffee in the sideboard pot also looked like it had been there a while. He didn't care, and poured himself a large dose before heading for an empty seat. But while his back had been turned, Davis and his lot had gotten up and were filing for the door. The last one shut it behind her, leaving John to the tender mercies of Hammond and SG-1.

He changed his mind, taking one of the vacated seats closer to the action. Jackson slid him over a folder, but he didn't bother opening it because Hammond was already speaking.

"Major, tell us what you know, then we'll worry about bringing you up to speed."

John glanced around the table. Carter tried to give him a reassuring smile, but even O'Neill seemed prepared to hang on his every word. That was the worst news of all. O'Neill's attention span was notoriously short; if the meeting had been in progress for as long as John suspected, he should have already passed listlessness and been well into ennui.

"Well, sir..." Shit, did he begin with the McKay-Ingram feud or pick straight up with the morning's events? He finally decided on the latter. "In case you weren't aware, the 1st SFW has been down a pilot since one of the squadron members broke his leg. I've been standing in for him. Last night—actually, during the previous two nights—we held special Red Flag sessions, using the F-302s to try to familiarize some of our fighter groups with the capabilities of the Goa'uld death gliders."

"Not a bad idea," O'Neill put in, "seeing as how we'll be sending our guys up against the real thing when Anubis arrives."

"I returned to my quarters this morning around 600 hours. I'd been asleep for approximately an hour when Lieutenant Colonel Mitchell—he's the commander of the 1st SFW and something of a friend of mine—called to warn me that it might be prudent to vacate my quarters."

"That's exactly what he said?" Jackson asked. Trust the linguist to move straight to semantics.

"No." John considered. "He suggested that we meet somewhere, and he was unusually vague. But it was his tone of voice that indicated most of all that something was wrong." He wasn't sure if it was important, but he added anyway, "I mentioned the mess, and he responded that he didn't like the crowds or the company. I took that to mean that that he wanted me to steer clear of the civilian end of the base."

"Go on," Hammond prompted. He didn't seem at all surprised so far by John's story, which... could indicate that he knew about Mitchell's call because someone had been listening in, and the SGC already had the transcript in their hands.

John drained half his coffee, and shook his head once, sharply, as if that could clear away the singed taste. "We met in one of the hangars. Colonel Mitchell was under the impression that our... activities might be of interest to certain parties on base, and chose a location where the ambient noise would interfere with potential listening devices."

Hammond's soft snort confirmed a great deal.

"Colonel Mitchell knows that I work closely with Dr McKay. Colonel Mitchell informed me that McKay was missing, that he hadn't turned up for work that morning, and that there was no indication he'd ever left the base the previous evening. McKay has an apartment in Las Vegas. Colonel Mitchell also told me–"

O'Neill point at him, triumphant. "That's what you were doing in Vegas!"

At roughly the same time, Carter exclaimed, "You went to McKay's apartment?"

Shit, even Hammond was leaning forward, intent. "When was this, major?" he pressed.

"Approximately 900 hours, sir."

"And what did you find?"

Hammond didn't bother to ask how John had gotten in—but then again, he was accustomed to O'Neill's antics, and John knew how useless locks were at slowing the colonel down. "Dr McKay wasn't there. His answering machine had eleven new messages, several from the previous night, suggesting that he hadn't been home to check them."

"Or he could have been home and just ignored the phone," Carter pointed out.

"It's possible," John had to admit. "We had plans to get together this evening for the holiday. The fridge was stocked for a party." He couldn't just state that he didn't believe Rodney had stolen some alien trinket and fled the country. He had to leave his opinion—his admittedly highly subjective opinion—out of it and lead them to the same conclusion on the strength of the evidence alone. "I'm fairly familiar with his equipment, and I didn't count any missing computers. His bed was unmade, but that's normal. No sign of a struggle–"

"General..." O'Neill squirmed, as if he had something he desperately wanted to say.

"In a moment. Continue, major."

"No sign of a struggle or flight. There was no sign that McKay expected to go anywhere, sir. His shaving kit was in the bathroom, his suitcase was in the closet. Everything seemed perfectly normal."

"Did you damage anything while you were in Dr McKay's apartment, major?"

"What?" John asked, startled. He thought about the field notebook in his chest pocket, the one he'd taken from Rodney's nightstand, unwilling to leave it behind to be swept up by an official search. But that wasn't quite the same thing. "No sir. Dr McKay gave me a key and permission to visit any time. I didn't damage anything, and locked up exactly as I'd found it when I left."

Hammond flipped forward in his own briefing folder, then slid it down the table to John. "So you're saying, major, that Dr McKay's residence was not in this condition when you left it?"

The room in the series of black and white photographs appeared to have been hit by a hurricane. It took John a moment to look past the devastation and recognize familiar objects. Rodney hadn't been permitted to carry much with him down from British Columbia, and everything that had been loaded on that chopper had gone through John's hands. Invigorating anger surged through him when he saw that some of Rodney's more cherished sentimental possessions were victims of the systematic destruction. "When were these pictures taken?" he demanded, forgetting himself.

"A security team from Area 51 took these photographs at Dr McKay's residence less than an hour ago. Now major, my question?"

"No sir, the apartment was not in that condition when I left it this morning."

O'Neill whistled, checking his watch. "That's some remarkable timing. Even if we say you left McKay's place at 900... minus when the photos were taken... carry the time zone..."

Carter arrived at the answer first. "That's a two hour window. Plenty of time if someone just wanted to trash the place and make it look like McKay had done it himself, but not nearly enough if they were looking for something. McKay's way too paranoid and good at covering his tracks."

"There is another possibility," Teal'c stated patiently. "Could not the individuals who took these photographs also be responsible for the damage to Dr McKay's residence?"

John's head jerked up in alarm. The connection was obvious now that it had been pointed out to him—he flat-out adored Teal'c in that moment—but he should have noticed it himself. Goddamn it. He would have, if he'd been thinking clearly.

Hammond's jaw was clenched and his expression flinty. "Well?" he asked.

Carter was skimming back through her folder. "A lot of the security at Area 51 is contracted out to the private sector." She found a point of interest on one of the pages and marked it with her finger before looking up again. "The pair of security agents who were dispatched to Dr. McKay's apartment were under civilian orders."

"Right." Hammond planted his palms on the table and pushed himself to his feet. "The Air Force has already assumed the helm of this investigation, but I now have a pretty compelling argument for cutting the civilians out of the loop entirely. You–" A flick of his eyes indicated SG-1. "–stay here and keep at him. And if you turn up any further discrepancies, by all means, interrupt me."

With that, he was gone from the room.

~~

Consciousness, Rodney decided, was sort of like a miserable ex. It would show back up at an inopportune moment, sweet-talk him into getting back together, then dump a bunch of shit on him before taking off again. And every time it happened, he swore he wouldn't fall for it again.

Which totally explained why, after cracking his eyes for an instant, he then had to ride out several gut-twisting minutes before his stomach was well enough under control to try again.

He let in the light in small increments, allowing himself to become acclimated before judging his capacity to continue. The gray thing dominating his field of vision eventually resolved into a concrete wall; it was quite close, and without any sort of horizon reference, it took him a while to realize he was curled up on his side.

Reaching out to push away from the wall, he noticed several things. One, his forearm was bare. It shouldn't have been. Even in Nevada, he wouldn't go out in short sleeves in December. And two, the creak as he shifted and the lumpiness of the support beneath him suggested he was lying on a thin, cheap mattress.

Was he back in their room at the SGC? His and John's. Wait—Rodney had a nice new room with a big bed and real bookshelves, even if they were laminate.

No, he had an apartment in Las Vegas.

He considered kicking consciousness to the curb again, but the urgent appeal it was whispering in his ear sounded so... reasonable. Don't want to be here. Don't know where here is. Can't leave without finding out. Can't find out without getting up. 

Groaning, he rolled over.

The room—cell, might as well be truthful—was much smaller than John's old quarters back at the SGC, but had an even more austere, institutional feel. He wasn't at all reassured by the bare toilet in the corner, and the "door" was nothing but steel bars and a lock. The potential lack of privacy would have offended him if he hadn't already spotted the security cameras, one in each corner, so that no matter what direction his back was turned, he couldn't hide anything he might be doing with his hands.

Who in the hell did they think he was, MacGyver or something? What did they think he was going to do, build a laser out of some watch parts, a shoe lace, and the frame from his cot?

Okay, actually? He might have been able to do something like that if they hadn't taken his damned watch. And his street clothes, apparently. But now he knew something else about "them". They knew enough about him to be exercising some fairly strong precautions, which... would have ruled out a random kidnapping, except—oh, right—he'd been nabbed from the most secure military facility in the world. There had been absolutely nothing random about it. It would have required planning and intel and nobody went to that kind of risk and trouble without expecting a huge payout in return.

What could they want from him?

He sat up when a figure appeared on the other side of the door. Bars. Whatever.

"Well, looks like our guest is awake. Get him out of there."

A second figure dutifully produced a key—they weren't trusting him with an electronic lock, Rodney saw—and opened his cell. He shrank back when the second guy made a grab for him, but was hauled to his feet anyway, and shoved, stumbling, outside.

Much brighter lights assailed him. Blinking, he shielded his eyes.

There was no hallway; his cell opened directly onto a larger room. If he had to guess, he'd say it was about the same size as the old cable television building, except it was all one open, rectangular shape. Low ceiling—solid too, not a drop. There was a lot of concrete, but he didn't get the sense that he was underground. Cracks and old stains marred the floor, but the reinforced walls seemed to be a recent upgrade.

He didn't enjoy the implications of that.

"Over here please, Dr McKay." It was the first man who spoke. When Rodney didn't move quickly enough, the second man—the one with the key and a build like a bulldog, a powerful torso balanced on tiny legs—reached for him again. "Rollo, I don't believe that will be necessary. I'm sure Dr McKay will be the soul of cooperation if presented with the proper incentive."

And what incentive is that? Rodney wanted to snap, but he was afraid the answer would have something to do with Rollo refraining from dislocating his arms. Instead, he turned toward the speaker, wet his lips, and tried, "I'm afraid you have me at a disadvantage." His voice was in worse shape than he'd feared; he had to clear his throat part way through.

"All in due time. Sit."

It was a small folding table with matching chairs. Rodney sat; the speaker settled opposite him, pushing a plate of food in Rodney's direction. Meatloaf and some sides, complete with a spork, napkin, and little packets of salt and pepper, in plastic wrap.

"Go ahead, you've got to be hungry by now. Oh, and don't worry, now that you've been safely transported to this facility, you won't be drugged again. Quite the contrary—we want you alert and in full possession of your faculties."

Rodney found he was hungry enough that he didn't care if the man was lying or not. (Also, Rollo was prowling in the background, as if hoping Rodney would balk.) He broke the spork out and laid the napkin across his lap. "How long was I out?"

"A little over a day. Happy New Year, by the way."

"Thanks," Rodney said sourly, "but this isn't how I intended to spend the holiday. I had better plans." John, a bottle of champagne, some crap movie on the television... Pushing away the thought, he tried a bite of the food.

"You can call me Barney," the man offered.

It was edible, at least. More important, it tasted right, and the ingredients were all familiar. Combine that with his captor's bland American accent, and the amount of time he claimed had passed... there was a chance he was still in the States. "Rubble, or like the dinosaur?"

"Miller. It's the mustache."

Rodney grunted and kept eating, while attempting to subtly scope out his surroundings.

"By all means, have a look around," Barney said. "I'll even give you the tour when you're finished with supper."

He pulled his attention back to the man across from him. Barney was wearing the same quasi-uniform Rollo was—the same thing Rodney was wearing, come to think—BDU pants and a plain shirt, topped by a short jacket. Not quite military, but almost. "You aren't Goa'uld," he blurted to his horror. And god, why would he say that? Way to not blab state secrets, moron. Except... there was a flash of groggy memory, one of those times he'd struggled close to the surface of consciousness. Ornate gold walls, littered with hieroglyphs.

What the fuck?

Barney merely smiled. "Of course not. We're enemies of the Goa'uld just as much as you are, Dr McKay. More so, in fact. While the military founders under the weight of their rules and regulations, we're free to combat threats to this fine nation in whatever way we see fit."

"And desperate times call for desperate measures, yeah, I've heard that one before," Rodney aimed for his best impersonation of a Sheppard drawl.

"What can I say? There's a thin line between adage and cliche," Barney shrugged.

Oh god, he was dealing with one of those wits. Finishing his meal, Rodney leaned back and crossed his arms. "Look, I'll be blunt, because, well, I'm an impatient man, and I hate having to explain things to idiots. Whatever you want from me, you're not getting it. I know you think you caught yourselves a prize—oh, hey, a scientist from Area 51!—but you picked the wrong asshole to kidnap. I've got a shitty track record, and nobody trusts me. Hell, my supervisor goes out of his way to invent make-work for me to keep me from fucking up anything important! But go ahead—try to convince me to work for you. I'll tell you concisely why I can't, and won't. Then we can skip to the punchline, where you kill me, except you won't have to lie and tell me you'll spare me if I cooperate."

Barney blinked at him a moment, then surprised Rodney by bringing his hands together in a slow round of applause. "That was marvelous, doctor, truly impassioned. But I think such a show of humility is unbecoming a man of your intellect. Tell me: Why such loyalty? What could you possibly have to gain by protecting the interests of the Air Force? As I understand, your decision to work for them in the first place was made under coercion. I see no reason why you would refuse to work for us under similar conditions."

"I doubt you could match their generous offer."

"Now," Barney tsked, "you haven't even given me a chance. Let's see. Physical threats against your person won't be effective. We both know that I want you in one piece. But what about your loved ones, Dr McKay? Your niece Madison is what, four? Children that age are so trusting, so vulnerable..."

Rodney tried to lunge across the table, but Rollo was there, pinning his arms in an iron grip. "Don't you fucking dare!"

"Now we're making progress." Barney jerked his head, signaling Rollo to toss Rodney back in the cell. The door shut with a decisive clatter, and Barney wandered over to thread his arms through the bars, leaning casually. "You have until the morning to think about it, doctor. I'll be back for your answer then."

~~

After General Hammond's departure, the remaining occupants of the conference room just sort of glanced around at each other, silently doing their best to avoid direct eye contact.

It was O'Neill who finally broke down and said, "So, Sheppard... welcome back to the SGC?"

They all laughed. It was too awful not to.

John ignored the tight sensation in his chest that might have pushed the laughter into something else entirely if he'd let it. "Thank you, sir. I suppose... it's good to be back?" he responded with the same uncertain inflection.

"Good flight?" O'Neill inquired, all wide-eyed innocence—oh yeah, the bastard totally knew.

"It was short," John allowed, biting down on a smile.

Carter said, "Extremely. I wasn't expecting you until much later in the afternoon." And something about the way she said it caused the other members of SG-1 to trap O'Neill with appraising expressions.

"Jack... what did you do?"

"Nothing! What makes you think I did anything?"

"Perhaps it is because you were the one who arranged for Major Sheppard's transport."

O'Neill threw up his hands. "All right, all right. So I called in a favor. I phoned a guy I know at Nellis, told him that I had a man I needed to get from Nevada to Colorado as fast as humanly possible." He bit his lip, then mumbled, "You know, in the interest of national security."

John said, "Funny thing. It turns out that there aren't many twin-seat F-16s stationed at Nellis, and one of them happens to belong to the Thunderbirds."

O'Neill managed to manipulate his eyebrows in a manner that almost made him look surprised. "Really? Then I guess I should say... you're welcome."

Jackson leaned close to Teal'c and explained, mostly with his hands, "It's an exhibition team. They perform precision aerial stunts at air shows, that sort of thing."

"I see."

"National security. Sir," Carter repeated, torn between amusement and horror.

"Well it is."

Much as John hated to put a damper on the reprieve, he ventured, "Sir, about that..."

"Carter," O'Neill waved, "go ahead and tell him."

Carter offered John a bare, almost-smile. She was trying to be sympathetic, but it only served to make him dread the news even more. He kind of wished she'd just lay it out cold for him like O'Neill would have. "The thefts were noticed before McKay's disappearance. Just like at the SGC, it's not unusual during a crunch for Area 51 personnel to remain on base around the clock."

To save on commute time, yeah, John knew that. There were temporary quarters, and John had occasionally suspected Rodney of staying on base overnight without telling him. "So the fact that Rodney didn't clear the security checkpoint that night didn't ring any alarms. Wait, you said thefts."

"Several devices. All light, small, and portable."

"Yes, but why those particular devices?" Jackson intervened, with a hint of frustration that suggested they'd been down this avenue before. "I mean, a Goa'uld memory recall device, a personal shield? All very useful, but it still doesn't explain why the thief passed up the big ticket items in the very same room. It'd be like... like pulling off an audacious jewel heist, but taking the cubic zirconia and leaving the diamonds."

"Maybe they didn't take any Ancient devices because they don't have a gene-carrier at their disposal."

"Yes, but the fact that they knew the difference–"

"Oh, for crying out loud!" O'Neill cut in. "I thought we'd already established that it was an inside job."

Carter stood her ground. "Yes, sir. Which is why I think the devices that were stolen are ultimately immaterial. They might as well have been chosen at random. I think it's a misdirection, to divert our attention away from the missing naquadria sample. That was their target all along."

"Time out, time out. Sheppard's starting to look dazed."

"So he is." Jackson peered at John. "When was the last time you slept?"

John shrugged. "I got in a nap this morning, about an hour. That count?"

 O'Neill clapped to get everyone's attention. "Okay kids, starting over, from the top. Carter?"

She hesitated a moment, almost visibly condensing events to their barest form. "Dr McKay's disappearance coincides with the theft of several items from Area 51's vaults. The stolen alien devices aren't particularly dangerous or uncommon, but the sample of naquadria is."

John was familiar with its uses, if not its physical or chemical properties. It was a rare mineral, highly prized by the Goa'uld; the Stargates were made from the stuff. No, wait. That was naquadah. 

"Naquadria is an unstable, radioactive form of naquadah. It has an energy potential far greater than weapons-grade naquadah, which is why we're able to use it to power the F-302s' hyperdrives."

"Ah!" Now John remembered. "Rodney said something about the material in the hyperdrives being inherently unstable, which is why the 302s can only enter hyperspace for very brief windows."

"Right. The navigation computers can't safely predict the hyperdrive's behavior over longer distances."

John didn't care for that word: safely. "And that's the stuff that was stolen?" Oh shit.

"Yeah, oh shit," O'Neill repeated. Crap, John hadn't meant to say that part aloud. "That's the bad news. The worse news is that the naquadria can be turned into a really big bomb."

"It would easily surpass the destructive capabilities of a naquadah-enhanced nuclear warhead," Carter supplied.

And whoever had the naquadria also had the technical expertise to put it all together and make it work, in the form of one Rodney McKay.

"Like I said, a really big bomb. Hammond's put a halt to all off-world activity and recalled all active gate teams. He's throwing everything we've got into the field on this one. Nobody rests until we find that damned naquadria. So think hard, Sheppard."

"If you noticed anything unusual, anything at all," Carter said, studying him earnestly, "it could help."

Anything, huh? "This is going to sound bad," he prefaced. "Especially considering that Rodney's still a suspect in all this. But... he and Dr Ingram, there was something going on between them."

O'Neill's eyebrows crept up. "What, like–" He made a vague gesture that could have meant anything from fuck buddies to best friends forever. "I thought those two hated each other."

It felt like he was betraying Rodney's confidence to say more, but Carter was right. Anything could be important. "Oh, they do. When Rodney first arrived on base, Ingram... Well, we used to fight about it. Me and McKay. Ingram had him on a short chain, kept yanking him away from the ju– the gateship to work on other projects."

Carter frowned. "That doesn't make sense. McKay was assigned to Area 51 specifically to work on the gateship. He shouldn't have been involved in any other projects. In fact, he remained attached to the SGC so that he could function with some autonomy."

"Yeah, well, nobody must've mentioned that to Ingram. And Rodney let him get away with it because he–" John realized he'd balled his hands into fists; thankfully they were resting on his thighs beneath the table, where no one could see. "Rodney explained to me once, what it was like for him, working at Area 51. Imagine... as a kid, you dream of being an astronaut. But you grow up to be an accountant. Then one day you accidentally stow away on a spaceship and find yourself on the moon."

"I wanted to be a fireman," O'Neill offered. Then there was a scuffle beneath the table that might have been Jackson's boot connecting with his shin, and he hissed softly.

"I think what John means is that working at Area 51 was very important to McKay. He wouldn't have thrown it away lightly."

John shot Jackson a look of gratitude. "Rodney told me that he knew how to play the game, and that in order to fit in, he would have to quietly endure Ingram's pettiness. And he did, for weeks. But a few days ago, something changed. Instead of devoting whatever spare time Ingram left him to the jumper, Rodney was down in the hangar every day—all day—working his ass off." He half-smiled. "Mine too. The last day I saw him, he talked about Ingram as if he was gunning for him and intended to take him down. Said there were things he wanted to tell me, but he didn't want to do it on base. We were supposed to meet at his apartment tonight, actually."

O'Neill dragged his hand over his face. "You're right," he groaned, "that sounds bad."

There was a protracted silence. Carter seemed to be weighing repercussions of John's account, while Jackson seemed almost pissed. Teal'c looked like he was an inch away from making an enlightened observation, but wanted to be certain before he opened his mouth.

"Got anything else?"

John shook his head. "Sorry, sir." Maybe later, once he could piece it all together with a clearer mind. Right now, he couldn't even make the details line up in order.

"Isn't that enough?" Jackson grumbled. "Jack, are you finished with him?"

"I suppose, for now."

"Then can I–" He was already half out of his seat.

"Yes, take him, go." O'Neill jerked his head at the door. "Try to make him presentable while you're at it. God knows who'll want to hear him recite his story next."

~~

Daniel had hauled John from his chair and out of the room as if he'd expected O'Neill to change his mind. And he didn't say anything until they'd reached the elevator with no sign of pursuit.

"Well? How was that for a getaway?"

John climbed inside and watched Daniel punch their destination. The doors closed, and they were in motion. "Thanks," he replied, which seemed to be sufficient.

Exiting several floors up, John found himself assaulted by familiar faces, people who hadn't seen him since he'd been transferred to Area 51 and wanted to catch up. Daniel was polite but firm, throwing out excuses as he bustled them along to... to the mess. That's where they were headed, John realized. "Food, god, yes. Good call."

"Don't get settled in," Jackson warned. "We're taking it with us."

They acquired a late lunch—or rather, Daniel made the selections for them and John didn't disagree—before retiring to Daniel's quarters. And if it was obvious that John was functioning on pure auto-pilot, his companion was kind enough not to mention it, or to expect conversation while John ate.

John cleaned his plate, but he still couldn't have said what, exactly, had been on it. Daniel cleared it away for him before he could rise from the little table, leaving John to bask in the sensation of being nearly human again.

"Now hold on, you can't fall asleep yet."

"Hm?" Three minutes might have passed, or five, or ten. John glanced up in time to see Daniel drop a spare uniform in front of him.

"We'll have to hope that fits Jack's definition of presentable."

"Thanks, but I could just visit the supply officer..." He would probably need to; it didn't sound like he would be leaving the SGC anytime soon.

"Later. You really do look dead on your feet."

"On my ass 's more like it," John grumbled. Still, he stood and began the process of extricating himself from the flight suit, starting by removing his boots.

Daniel turned his back, but they'd both lost any modesty they might have had to the military long ago. "Seriously, how long has it been since you slept?"

John finished with the velcro and started on the zippers. "Not that long, really." But when he thought about it, he realized he hadn't had a full night's rest since before the first Red Flag, and that had been days ago. "Flying those night exercises fucked up my schedule, is all." Christ, he used to be able to pull through worse and shake it off. This posting was making him soft.

"Uh huh. Well, you heard Jack. There's no telling when you'll have another chance, so you'd better take advantage of that bed while you can."

Stripped to the waist, John peeled out of the old undershirt and tugged on the fresh one. "What, your bed? Daniel–"

"John."

He knew that tone. The argument was over before it had even started. "I have quarters of my own," he sulked.

"If they haven't been assigned to someone else." Jackson glanced over his shoulder. "Aren't you done yet?"

Kicking out of the flight suit, he crawled into the borrowed pants. Daniel Jackson's pants. He, John Sheppard, was in Daniel Jackson's pants, and Rodney was going to go apeshit when John told him. He would, when he saw Rodney again. Which he was definitely going to, because... he was. "There, happy?" He didn't bother with the boots again.

Daniel rolled his eyes. "Ecstatic."

Jackson moved to collect the abandoned suit, but John halted him. "Wait. I left something–" Fumbling through pockets, he located Rodney's field notebook, and tried not to worry about the way Daniel's eyes widened when he saw it.

"It was in your pack on P3X-423," Daniel apologized by way of an explanation. "I held on to it, for McKay."

"I took it from Rodney's apartment. Didn't want it to be caught up in the investigation." Hesitating, John finally presented it to him. "If you could do the same for me now, I'd really appreciate it."

"Sure."

Daniel made sure John was watching while he stashed the notebook in a desk drawer. Then he cut the overhead light and flipped on a table lamp, which John took as his cue to fall onto the bed. "I'll be around, if you need anything."

"Daniel..." John squirmed around until he was on his back, and pushed up on his elbows. "I know there's a lot you guys aren't telling me. How bad is it, really?"

Bad enough to make Jackson pause a moment to consider how much he was going to leave out. He pulled up a chair. "Technically... you're in custody pending the investigation."

"Because of my connection to Rodney."

"Pretty much. If it was just the alien devices, it would remain an internal matter. But the missing naquadria..." Bowing his head, Jackson rubbed at the back of his neck. "There are two opposing viewpoints right now. One: McKay was kidnapped and the thieves are responsible. Two: McKay is the thief and he staged his own disappearance. Both theories assume an inside accomplice—something about the security in the vaults where the devices were stored, Sam could explain it better."

"Case two, I'm the accomplice, aren't I?" John asked dully.

"Unfortunately... it fits. Remember what Teal'c said about the security team from the base trashing McKay's apartment? You've admitted to being there first. The argument could be made that you did it yourself."

Oh fuck, of course it could. And John had blindly, stupidly set himself up, because it had never occurred to him that it might not be in his best interest to tell the goddamned truth. He lowered himself full on his back again, throwing an arm over his eyes. "Rodney didn't do it."

"I know. But I don't think it's the SGC who need to be convinced."

~~

John wasn't able to sleep long, just enough to take the bite off his weariness. He woke remembering where he was, and what had happened, which made the thought of further rest seem impossible.

Daniel was gone, but he'd left a note suggesting that John not wander around in case he was needed, along with a copy of an Ancient text that was a large and unsubtle hint. He leafed through the first few pages; it was fairly high level stuff, challenging even if John hadn't been neglecting his studies.

He set it aside and went searching for an alternative distraction.

There were plenty of books; unfortunately many were written in languages he couldn't read, and Daniel wasn't big on throw-away literature. He really could have used one of Rodney's pulp sci-fi travesties. Hell, he even would have read the one with the octopus and the slave girl.

It wasn't his room, so he was limited to diversions in plain sight. He wasn't about to go snooping through Daniel's drawers. Except...

He sat at the desk before opening it and withdrawing Rodney's notebook. On instinct, he took a pen as well.

The only thing I regret-

Turning to a blank page, smoothed it with his hand, and began to write.

It's New Year's Eve. In a perfect world, I would be leaning in your kitchen doorway right now, watching you try to uncork a bottle of champagne. There would be a pair of mugs waiting on the counter—I know you don't own any stemware—and I would be obligated to tease you and insult your technique. You would insist that it's only simple physics, and retaliate by throwing the wire cage at me.

Instead, I'm stuck beneath a mountain, seething with frustration and worry. Wondering just how in the fuck I managed to lose you again.

There's no celebration. We're saving it for when we find you.

Back in the perfect world, you and I would head to the living room and settle on the couch, comfortably close but not touching. I would tell you a story.

It's a good one, about the time Cam dragged me to Vegas.

We checked into the hotel late. Cam wanted to scope out the bar, so I offered to take our bags upstairs. He was looking for action. I was sort of hoping he would score early and leave me alone to kill my holiday gloom with a spectacular losing streak at the blackjack table.

Yeah, that didn't happen.

There was a knock at my door maybe twenty minutes later. I figured it was Cam wanting his key. Opened it to find him standing there with the most shit-eating grin you can imagine, a blonde under his right arm and a brunette under his left.

"Room service!" he said. "I wasn't sure what you liked, so I got one of each."

The, er, ladies had clearly had a bit to drink already, and they thought Mitchell was just a riot. Then I realized he was serious, because they were all watching me like they were waiting for me to choose, and short of slamming the door on them, I couldn't think of a way to extricate myself from the situation.

In the end, it was the brunette who stepped forward and said, "You're John, right? I'm Shelly." And that bastard Mitchell took his key and the blonde and took off down the hall, swerving and giggling. And I bet he threw the deadbolt as soon as he got inside his room, because he had to know I would have choked the shit out of him if I'd been able to get my hands around his throat.

That left me stuck with the brunette. She screwed her face up in an adorable pout and said, "Aren't you going to invite me in?"

Now, there wasn't anything wrong with her. I will credit Cam for having good taste. She was petite and cute, maybe not as young as she was dressing herself up to be, but I prefer partners near my own age anyway.

I should have been tempted, but I wasn't. I wasn't in the mood, she didn't do it for me, whatever. So I said, "I never got a chance to check out the bar. Care to join me?"

We went downstairs, found seats, opened a tab. I had the vague beginnings of a plan, hoping to get her drunk enough to ditch her in her room later and escape unscathed.

But she wanted to talk. About everything. How did I like Vegas, why wasn't I visiting family for the holidays, was it true that Cam and I were pilots in the Air Force... I started to get worried when she wouldn't shut up long enough to finish her first drink.

Meanwhile, I was on my third.

And she kept doing that touching thing. You know how some women– No, not just women. It's a universal flirting behavior. Brushing my wrist, the back of my hand, my calf with her shoe. I must have looked uncomfortable as hell, because she pouted and leaned in to ask, "What's wrong? Don't you want to sleep with me?"

Oh god, I gave her every excuse in the book. It wasn't her, it was me. Mitchell was a good friend and he meant well, but he didn't understand how difficult the holidays were for me. I didn't want to feel like I was taking advantage of a woman I barely knew.

None of it worked.

Desperate, I blurted, "There's someone else."

She picked up my hand, inspecting my bare ring finger, and said, "If there is, it can't be too serious."

That pissed me off. I yanked my hand back and informed her that it was, in fact, very serious. And it was the strangest thing, but the instant the words were out of my mouth, I realized it was true. 

I apologized and left her there, settled the tab, and went to blow half a grand in that spectacular losing streak at the blackjack table.

The end.

Except... not really.

In that perfect world, you would sputter and groan through the entire story, right up until the end, where you would fall pensive and quiet.

It would be nearing midnight. We would clink mugs and toast to something frivolous while watching the minutes tick down.

Then I would look at you, catch your eye without speaking. I would put down my mug, take yours too and set it aside. But I think you would be the one to lean in first, dragging me in by the back of the neck until our mouths touch.

I'm pretty sure that's what would happen tonight in a perfect world, where I'm free of regulations and consequences.

In reality, I'll probably rip these pages out and destroy them, do you the kindness of never allowing you to read what I've written here.

Rodney's cell didn't face the larger room. If he stood at his door and angled himself just right, he could see most of what transpired outside, but after about ten minutes he gave it up as a waste of effort; the room had to be part of a larger complex, with the center of operations elsewhere, because there was no activity for him to spy upon. Giving the bars a vicious kick, he turned back to settle on his cot.

He didn't need all night to think about his decision. The fucking decision had been made for him. It was work for them, or... what? Suicide? That wasn't an option so much as a last resort, and he wasn't John Fucking Sheppard, Suicide King. He wasn't there yet.

So he would work for them, provided they didn't want him to do anything too deplorable. String them along, stall for time, hopefully convince them that his expertise was for sale to the highest bidder. "Barney" had been right about that; he didn't owe the Air Force shit. In fact, he was kinda pissed off at the Air Force right now, considering that it was their half-assed security that had helped land him in this situation.

And the wankers who'd taken him had alien tech. 

The guy in the vehicle—the one dressed as an airman, who'd zapped Rodney—he'd handled that zat like he knew what he was doing. Zat'nik'tels were Goa'uld weapons, not exactly plentiful on Earth. A shadow organization wouldn't hand them out to grunts and foot soldiers unless they had a good supply. And they wouldn't hand them out special for a mission when a taser would work just as well.

So he was dealing with a group who had solid access to alien tech, when as far as he knew the only current access to alien tech from Earth was through the Stargate. Oh, the SGC had to have leaks—a trinket here, a bauble there, making it into the private sector to be reverse engineered for insane profits—but Rodney doubted there was a large-scale smuggling operation taking place under Hammond's nose. The SGC's security was mediocre, not incompetent.

But there had been a second Stargate. 

Damn it, why hadn't he paid better attention during that briefing? It had been discovered within the last decade, in... Antarctica. Then SG-1 had lost it over the ocean, escaping from an Asgard ship—and that's right, he hadn't been paying attention because he'd been hung up on the fact that an Asgard mothership had burned up in Earth's atmosphere without making headlines around the globe. It had happened a couple years before Rodney had built his telescope, back when he'd been working for the telecom. He wanted to believe that if he had managed to record the event, he would have gone public with the evidence no matter what. But the truth was, the SGC routinely paid for people's silence, and Rodney's ethics wouldn't have held out against his curiosity if he'd been offered, say, a tour of Area 51.

The second gate, though. The Russians had recovered it from the ocean floor and used it, briefly, to mount their own off-world explorations. But Rodney doubted he was dealing with the Russians. They wouldn't need him; they had a hefty disclosure agreement with the SGC, and scientists of their own who specialized in alien tech.

Who did that leave? Not the Goa'uld. Those bastards would have already stuck a snake in Rodney's head and been done with it. But what about that rogue element, the group that had "borrowed" the second gate from the warehouse at Area 51 to conduct an off-world scavenging operation? If he remembered correctly—it had also happened years before his time—a high-ranking officer at Area 51 had been implicated in the operation. And that group had been caught and stamped out, not once, but twice.

Okay, so what if the group was like a damned weed? Ripping up its roots would be the only way to kill it; and clearly, both times, the SGC had missed someone.

Alien tech. The more he thought about it, the more Rodney was certain his kidnappers must have used alien tech to gain access to the base and escape again without raising major alarms.

Come on Sheppard, and Carter, and all the rest of you brainiacs back home. You have the clues in front of you. Figure out how these bastards got me off base and you're half way to finding me!

Provided Rodney didn't find a way to escape on his own, first.

~~

He slept, because it seemed pointless to deprive himself of his full mental prowess, and also because it was a logical step toward convincing his captors that he was a model prisoner.

In the morning, breakfast arrived with a new guard, a guy with the sort of bland, average looks that would blend in well with a crowd. The only thing that gave him away was his eyes, overly sharp and appraising.

So that was four at least, counting the guy with the zat on base. Five if Rodney assumed a man on the inside; he couldn't think of another way the guy with the zat could have acquired a base vehicle. Unless he saw a lot more people in the coming hours, he was sticking with his small-time operation theory.

He was allowed to eat at the same table, and tried not to pay obvious attention to the renovations which had begun sometime before he'd been let out of his cell. The center of the large room was no longer empty. Now, a lonely workstation stood there; even as he watched, good old Rollo wheeled in some sort of tool cart or workbench, and boy did that ever not bode well.

Barney breezed in just as Rodney was finishing his juice; they were going to regret not giving him coffee with his caffeine withdrawal kicking in. The ringleader didn't bother to sit, just folded his arms, regarding Rodney with undisguised anticipation. "Well?"

When Rollo wheeled in another cart, Rodney gave up subtlety and turned full round, trying to get a look out the door. The room was well-lit, but he caught a crack of something even brighter that might have been real sunlight. If the door opened directly outdoors, that was more than a lucky break. It meant his chances of escape had just risen from one in half a million to one in several thousand.

Give or take.

"Your answer, Dr McKay?"

"Before I decide, I have to know what you want me to do," Rodney said gravely, as if he was consulting his conscience in the matter.

"I thought you might say that," Barney smirked. Fine, let the bastard be smug, thinking he was one step ahead of Rodney. Also, had no one ever told the man that that particular style of mustache was only popular with aging porn stars and pedophiles? With his silver-shot hair and slightly seedy appearance, Barney could have been either. "If you'll step over here, I can show you."

Rodney followed him to the workstation, which Barney powered up with minimal fuss, although Rodney could tell he was no pro behind a keyboard. There was a good chance that none of Rodney's captors had any sort of technical ability to speak of; when it came to stalling, he might be able to dazzle them for a while with big words alone.

"Oh, and don't get any bright ideas. I didn't set this up myself, but I'm told that the computer has had any potential usefulness as a communication device removed."

He sort of doubted that. Hell, if it came down to it, Rodney probably could have programmed his own TCP/IP stack. But without a physical means to transmit a message he was dead in the water, and even if he could rig some sort of antenna, the signal would never permeate all that concrete.

That was probably intentional.

Barney pulled up a file, then stepped away from the screen. "This. We want you to build this."

It was a blueprint, a very unusual blueprint. Moving in for a closer look, Rodney realized immediately that he recognized it.

At least it wasn't a weapon, though it was nearly as bad.

He zoomed in on a few sections, checking for discrepancies against the version he knew.

"Will you do it?"

Rodney revised his plan. Playing dumb wouldn't get him very far if his captors had managed to get their hands on this particular document. "I think the more appropriate question to ask is can I do it."

"Oh, I have it on good authority that you're perfectly capable of building the device, Dr McKay. If you claim otherwise, I'm afraid I'll have to interpret it as a refusal."

"Do you even know what this is?" he demanded, pointing at the monitor.

Barney awarded him a nod. "Very good. You're being careful, not giving away any information unless you're certain we already have it. It's a naquadah generator, and I know you can build it.

Of course Rodney could build it; he'd been assigned to the generator efficiency project at Area 51. That fucking bastard Ingram had insisted, even though Rodney had been one of the worst candidates for the task.

Son of a bitch!

"You'll have to excuse me for being dubious, considering that this is a highly classified device that was reverse engineered from an alien prototype. These schematics aren't something you can just... download off the net. Where did you get them?"

"Dr McKay, my patience grows thin. Do you agree to build the device or not?"

"You know you've left me no choice," Rodney snapped. "But my cooperation is pointless unless you happen to have some spare naquadah just lying around. Oh, but since you know everything else, you have to know that it doesn't exist naturally on this planet!"

"You worry about building the generator, and I'll worry about supplying the material to power it," Barney growled. "Do we have a deal?"

"Your people don't touch my family," Rodney countered. "You give me a realistic deadline, and all the tools and materials necessary–"

"Everything you should need is in the storage carts Rollo is rolling in."

"I guarantee you've missed something. I'll look over the supplies and have my list of requirements ready for you this afternoon."

Barney adopted a more reasonable tone. "Dr McKay, I don't think you're in any position to be making demands."

Just to irritate him, Rodney began ticking them off on his fingers. "I need good working conditions. I expect to be clean and comfortable. I also have some special dietary requirements, the foremost of which is good coffee available at my convenience. I know this place is wired for every type of surveillance imaginable, so I don't need your goons looking over my shoulder every five minutes. I also do some of my best work at night, so I'll expect to set my own schedule."

"I suppose this is what our mutual friend was referring to when he said you were difficult to work with."

"If you take a precision instrument and treat it like a hammer, you aren't going to be satisfied with the results," Rodney shot back. "You're right, I don't owe the Air Force my loyalty. All I'm interested in is the technology—the quality stuff, not the broken, worthless crap they've been pawning off on me. I don't really care who procures it, or how, just so long as I get my hands on it. But if I'm going to sell out to a better offer, it has to be the whole package: working conditions, autonomy, protection, compensation. So I'll prove to you that I'm capable of doing the job, but at the same time, you have to earn my continued cooperation. Now, do we have a deal?"

Barney considered, then stuck out his hand a little too swiftly. "Yes, I believe we do."

They shook.

~~

Regardless of the instructions to stay put, John eventually gave up and left Daniel's quarters. He wouldn't be able to get back in on his own, but that was a convenient excuse to try the lock on his old quarters.

The elevators accepted his security card, which was a good sign. The SGC might officially have him "in custody", but his movement wasn't being curtailed. Not... that he wanted to put it to the test by attempting to leave the compound.

The old quarters were still assigned to him, and looked just as he remembered them.

That... was a problem.

He shied away from his bed, the one he and Rodney had used so often as a couch. Even though Rodney had had quarters of his own near the end, the weeks they'd spent here together were prominent in John's mind; he was going to have to adjust to being alone in this space all over again.

Not looking forward to it, he postponed the disquiet with a trip to the supply officer, procuring the items he would need for the next few days. It could take a week for his things to be packed up and shipped over from Nevada, and he could very well be headed back to Area 51 by then.

With every single SG team on the job, surely to god they could find Rodney in a week.

Then John was going to chain their wrists together to prevent Rodney from leaving his sight. He'd never been a bodyguard before, but the premise was simple, and he already knew he would have no trouble stepping between Rodney and a bullet. He would have to tell Cam that he was finished with the 1st SFW, and make arrangements to move in with McKay, maybe convince him to get a nicer apartment, one with a second bedroom...

Of course, Rodney would complain that he didn't need a babysitter, except it was obvious that he did; and god, this disappearing bullshit was worse than when the Goa'uld had taken him. At least then John had known where he was and what had happened. He hated floundering around blind without a target, and he hated the sense of uselessness that came from idling around waiting on news.

Wherever Rodney is, you can be damned sure he isn't sitting on his ass waiting for rescue. He'll be looking for an opportunity to escape. Hell, he'll make his own opportunity. He-

Oh fuck, they were going about this wrong, all wrong. It wasn't some random scientist who was missing, but Rodney McKay, the man who'd built an ultra low frequency radio out of a satellite dish, and broken into the SGC's high security server, and hacked an alien spaceship sight unseen.

John dumped his supplies in his quarters before heading off in search of O'Neill.

No, not O'Neill. Jackson. He had to have a semblance of a plan in place before O'Neill would even listen to him, let alone agree to bring in outside help. John had some homework to do, and he had the feeling that Jackson's academic credentials might just come in handy.

~~

O'Neill opened his door, took one look at the pair of them standing there, and said, "No."

Daniel got his shoulder inside before O'Neill could close the door again. "Jack... at least listen to what we have to say."

There was a brief scuffle before O'Neill gave in, falling back to allow Daniel to shove into the room. John followed warily; he'd never been in the colonel's quarters before, and a strategic retreat wasn't the same as an invitation.

"I don't have to listen," O'Neill argued, seeking shelter behind his desk. John noticed that it was an abnormally clean desk, not organized, just barren. "I know that expression! That expression always ends badly."

"Sir–"

"And you, Sheppard!" He gave John a pained look that was probably supposed to indicate betrayal. "I credited you with having some sense. Whatever you've let him talk you into–"

"Actually, sir, it was my idea," John admitted.

"It's a good idea, Jack. I really think you should sit down and hear us out."

O'Neill hesitated, then sighed, his shoulders drooping. Falling into a seat, he waved at his guests to do the same. "Fine. But I haven't forgotten that the last time McKay went missing, Sheppard's bright idea led to an official reprimand." He pinned John with a stare that was far more serious than his tone suggested. "This time, try not to get yourself court-martialed?"

"Yes sir," John said, grateful. It was the gentlest of warnings, given in friendship, not through the chain of command. Then again, O'Neill himself had never been particularly good at obeying orders when his teammates' lives hung in the balance. He understood that there were certain people whose safety was worth any sacrifice.

"Well? I'm listening, but you're not talking."

Jackson exchanged a glance with John, but John merely shrugged and let him take the lead. If anyone knew how to bully O'Neill into an unconventional course of action, it was Daniel. "Is Sam still around?" he asked hopefully.

"Sorry, she went ahead to Area 51 to help with the investigation. Something to do with the naquadria giving off some sort of signal, or... energy signature, that was it. Whoever's got the stuff is being careful to keep it shielded, but Carter thinks she might be able to tweak Prometheus' sensors to pick it up anyway."

So much for our third ally. Oh well—he and Jackson should still be able to pull it off on their own.

"How long before she knows if she's successful?"

"Don't know. Why, does the timing impact your little scheme?"

Daniel pursed his lips, but plowed right on. "John and I think we're approaching this search the wrong way. Before McKay came to the SGC, do you know what his specialty was?"

O'Neill looked like he might have had something less than flattering to say about Rodney's prior contract work with the Air Force, but he recalled John's presence and held his tongue. Instead, he guessed, "Something to do with that big satellite dish. Oh, and by the way, the Asgard think it's funny that Earthlings try to use radio telescopes to spy on them. I gather it's like... sticking your ear against a monitor and trying to 'hear the internet'."

Oh god, he could never tell Rodney. No... wait. He had to tell Rodney. It was too good to pass up.

"It was communications, Jack."

"Wait. Isn't that the degree all the jocks take in college so they can become sportscasters when their football careers explode?"

"That's an unfair stereotype," Jackson grumbled, "and that's not what I mean. McKay's an expert in the science underlying the structure of every modern communication system in the world."

"Not just modern systems," John had to put in. "Hell, he built a telegraph key out of a belt buckle."

Jackson pointed and said, "There you go. When SG-16 was stuck without radios on P36-230, McKay managed to send a viable message between two different planets, using only the parts he scavenged from their packs. That's an incredibly difficult feat. Even Sam was impressed."

"We think that wherever Rodney is, he'll be trying to reach us," John explained. "But we won't hear him if we aren't listening in the right places."

O'Neill seemed thoughtful. That was a good sign, right? Then he shook his head and said, "The telegraph trick was different. McKay knows the SGC monitors all radio signals coming through the gate. And frankly, if he does find a way to send a message, it's not going to be a... a singing telegram. It's not going to walk up and announce itself. Knowing McKay, he'll probably send something so convoluted and obscure that we wouldn't recognize it if it was tap dancing on our doorstep."

They had him, oh, they had him. John let Daniel spring the trap.

"Yes, you're absolutely right. We probably wouldn't recognize it. But John knows someone who would."

"Rodney has this friend, a guy he's known since grad school."

"A Czech by the name of Radek Zelenka." If Jackson pronounced it the way it was supposed to sound, then Rodney never quite got the accent right.

O'Neill's gaze was bouncing back and forth between them now, and if he appeared wary, there was also a spark of interest. "Go on."

"It turns out Zelenka was the one who talked Rodney into the whole SETI thing, the search for extraterrestrial intelligence. They hung out in the same places, talked to the same people... I'm sure some of Rodney's paranoia must have rubbed off on the guy, if Rodney didn't get it from him in the first place."

Daniel pointed out, "If he grew up in Czechoslovakia under the Soviet regime, he probably knows a thing or two about discretion. And he's also been careful not to flaunt interest in UFOs for fear it could damage his professional reputation."

"So... what?" O'Neill said. "You think he and McKay have some secret code or channel in place to communicate when they want to stay off the radar?"

"Sir, I know they do. Rodney told me that he sent a deliberately cryptic greeting to Zelenka in a Christmas card. He thought it would be funny if Zelenka spent a couple weeks trying to decipher it, only to find out that there was no hidden message."

The three of them arrived at the same conclusion simultaneously. John could tell by the way O'Neill head jerked up, and Jackson put his face in his hand.

Oh fuck. John hesitated. "I've just implicated an innocent man, haven't I?"

"Let's hold off on the innocent part until we've checked him out."

"John," Daniel said slowly, "is there any reason in particular that you waited until now to spring this little detail on me?"

"It slipped my mind," John cringed. "He told me about it the afternoon before Red Flag, and there was so much else going on that I just... forgot."

O'Neill told him sincerely, "I really, really wish you'd kept on forgetting. I really– No, never mind, too late now. I want that card, and I want to talk to this guy. So where is he?"

Daniel said, "I called the university where he works, in Prague."

"Aha, that's why Sheppard roped you into this!"

"No, actually– Well, yes, it is convenient that I speak Czech. But John thought my academic credentials might get me in the door, so to speak."

"And did they?"

"Yes and no." Jackson said it so fast that it almost blurred together into a single word. "It seems he's taken a sabbatical, but the department secretary was not at liberty to divulge his whereabouts."

O'Neill hissed. "Ouch. So the, er, sweet-talk and the flattery didn't work?"

"No, they did not. I believe they did the opposite of work."

"Don't worry, I'll put some guys on it, use the official channels. We'll find him."

John said, "Sir, I don't think that's necessary. I'm guessing he's at Rodney's old house in British Columbia."

"Canada?" O'Neill demanded. Then, "Son of a bitch!"

Jackson shot John a worried look. Apparently he didn't understand what was wrong with Canada any more than John did.

"That's just great!"

"Sir?"

O'Neill stood up to pace, leaving the shelter of his desk. "The missing naquadria is a matter of national security. That's why Davis flew in from Washington. The Senate Intelligence Oversight Committee is drooling over the chance to reprimand the SGC for losing what is potentially a powerful weapon. It's just the excuse they've been looking for to impose greater control over the SGC's operations. Oh, there'll be an official hearing, but the outcome isn't in question. Chairman Kinsey is baying for blood, and he's not picky. McKay's will do, guilty or not."

Well, at least John knew now who the opposition was. Jackson had said that it was someone other than the SGC who needed to be convinced of Rodney's innocence.

"If those bastards get one whiff of this, they'll want to charge in, guns blazing, and take this Zeleny guy into custody."

"Ohhh..." Jackson said, and he didn't look pleased. "If he'd been in Prague, it would have been a lot more difficult to lay hands on him without sparking an international incident."

"Yes, but we have a partial disclosure agreement with Canada." O'Neill obviously had a routine pacing pattern. He measured out strides as if counting them, rather than paying any attention to where he was going. "The SCG can make an official request for Za– whatever his name is to be turned over, and if we state that it relates to the Stargate Program, the Canadians will have to comply."

Jackson pointed out, "They won't be happy about it."

O'Neill snorted. "That's an understatement. There's no way we can admit that we 'misplaced' the alien equivalent of weapons-grade plutonium. So we won't tell them the truth, at least not all of it. In fact, I'd imagine the Intelligence Oversight Committee will insist on a strong-arm approach–"

"Precisely because it will make the SGC look bad," Jackson finished for him.

The conclusion made a horrible sort of sense, but there was one detail they were both overlooking. "As much as I hate to be the one to bring this up... even if Zelenka is taken into custody, there's no guarantee he'll cooperate. Quite the opposite, I would imagine. He's very... distrustful of the Air Force, from what Rodney's told me. He's aware that Rodney is working for us again, but he doesn't know the exact circumstances, only that Rodney's curiosity got him caught up in something that would have been safer to leave alone."

"John's right. Zelenka's a foreign national. We can't force him to cooperate. And if you want to see a major international incident, try holding him without due cause."

O'Neill spun back around, half way down one of his pacing lines. "Then tell me what in the hell I'm supposed to do! Forget we had this conversation? You know I can't do that. If he has information that could lead to McKay or that naquadria, I need it."

Jackson didn't have an answer, but John did. "Sir, let me go. I might be able to convince him that Rodney is in danger and needs his help."

"Absolutely out of the question. Need I remind you, major, that you're still implicated in this mess yourself?"

"I know, sir." Desperate, John searched for some argument that wasn't simply another rendition of: But I didn't do anything, and neither did Rodney. "Circumstances being what they are, I know you can't trust me. So don't. Implant me with one of those subcutaneous transmitters. Have me check in every hour on the hour. I'm not– I don't know what else to suggest, but I don't think Zelenka will cooperate with anyone else military. At least Rodney's mentioned me in correspondence, and his friends in town know me. If they vouch for me I might have a chance." 

O'Neill bit down on his frustration, and was surprisingly gentle when he offered, "You know it's not that I don't trust you. Besides, I understand that when the thefts took place, you were in the middle of a briefing, surrounded by more than a dozen credible witnesses. It's just that if I turn you loose and something goes wrong, it's my ass on the line just as much as yours."

John tried again, "Sir–"

"That's why, if you go—I still haven't made a decision!—but if you go, I'm sending someone with you."

~~

After hammering out the agreement, Rodney was returned to his cell. However, he took it as a positive sign when goon number two—he didn't know what to call the ordinary-looking guy yet—asked him if the clothes he'd been given fit okay. Rodney snorted and told him what size BDU he wore. He was fairly sure his captors were all decked out in military surplus, or at least stuff that was made to military specifications; plus, it was extremely unlikely that they would hustle out to the nearest mall to buy him a nice turtleneck and a pair of khakis.

Half an hour later, he was proven correct when he was retrieved from his cell, handed a stack of clean clothes—winter weight stuff, thank goodness, not the summer ripstop—and informed that he would be allowed to bathe "in the house", whatever that meant.

Rodney noticed that the goon didn't bother to put him in cuffs, or pull a weapon and make threatening gestures or remarks. The man just strolled over to the main door—it sported a conventional deadbolt, not an electronic lock, damn it—as if they were out for a friendly little walk in the park.

Okay, so nobody was that nonchalant when it came to transporting valuable prisoners, which meant that... he was probably expecting Rodney to make a break for it as soon as they were outside. It had to be a test. Therefore, in order to pass, all Rodney had to do was confound expectations and behave.

Ordinary Goon actually held the door for Rodney. Probably thought it would be funny to give his prisoner a head start. Well, Rodney refused to play that game! In fact-

Oh, fuck me!

Blinking in the brighter daylight, Rodney got his first look at the terrain outside his holding area. And holy shit, no wonder the guard didn't give a fuck if Rodney tried to run; the nearest cover was maybe half a klick distant, a multistory residence that he guessed was their destination. Otherwise, the ground was flat and unadorned by anything more ambitious than the tall, windswept weeds which poked out of the occasional snow drift.

It was cold, he realized, the kind of cold you just didn't find in Nevada—the first proof that he'd been transported a ways from home. Even with the sun out, frozen earth crackled underfoot, and the only reason he wasn't stepping through white stuff was the bitter wind that scoured the surface of the land. Fumbling, he found a coat in the stack of clothes and tugged it on. No hat or gloves, but that was probably further incentive for him not to run.

Ordinary Goon might have smirked just a bit when Rodney shivered and buried himself deeper in his coat. Then Rodney might have smirked right back when he shifted around and pressed in close on the leeward side of his own personal, mobile windbreak. It was sort of like drafting, except that instead of increasing his speed or fuel efficiency, it simply made the trip more bearable.

The first time he glanced back at the building which housed his cell, he was still too close to get any sense of scale. He waited until they'd covered more ground, then looked again, and was surprised to discover that it was both smaller and older than he'd surmised. The exterior was brick, highly utilitarian with no windows or frills, though there was a much wider door that wasn't visible from the inside; it had been sheeted over with concrete. The structure was likely an abandoned barn or machine shed. He would have guessed warehouse, except that sort of implied commerce and the infrastructure to support it, and there wasn't even a single road in sight, let alone more obvious hallmarks of civilization.

There was, however, a perplexing tower-like object rising up behind the building. The further away he moved, the more of it he could see, although the base remained completely obscured. It looked like... like the bottom of a windmill, only without the windmill. No, it was too sturdy for that, heavy timbers with frequent crossbars for stability. 

It almost reminded him of-

Oh shit, that's what it was—the derrick for an old-fashioned oil well. What the hell?

"Stop lagging behind," his escort grumbled. "I don't want to be out in the cold any longer than I have to."

Well, that certainly explained why Rodney didn't get much company out in the shed. Why bother checking on him in person when the goons could sit somewhere comfortable and watch him on the security cameras? "Sorry. I'm just–" They were approaching the rear of the house, near enough now that Rodney could see the signs of decline and neglect marring former opulence. It was large, not a mansion by modern standards, but it would have been quite impressive in its heyday. "I was wondering how you guys found this place. What did you do, post a want ad for a creepy abandoned country estate?"

He had no real hope for an answer, but Ordinary Guy surprised him. "It was all arranged for us. Believe me, I would have picked somewhere nicer, warmer. Tampa, maybe. Port cities are good for this kind of operation."

Rodney didn't know if he was referring to the abundance of warehouses, the ample opportunity for smuggling, or the convenience of being able to dispose of bodies by dumping them straight into the bay. "I'll file that away for future reference," he said dryly. 

The entrance they used was off to the side, modest and discreet. It opened into a mud room, and then a very plain hall. "You're only allowed in the servants' wing," the goon informed him, pointing inside what turned out to be dormitory-style living quarters. There was no furniture, but the old slat floor had rust spots where the metal legs of a narrow bed frame had once rested. "Bathroom's through there. Towels are on the shelf, everything else you might need is in the medicine cabinet. And don't take forever. Barney wants you back in your room and productive asap."

He didn't need to be told twice. "Okay, I'm moving." The goon waited in the doorway, as if he wanted proof of Rodney's obedience, but he didn't follow any farther, and Rodney was grateful for the privacy. He noted a distinct lack of security cameras in the little bathroom, meaning that he was technically out from under the watchful eyes of his captors for the first time since he'd woken up in his cell. But short of punching an astrophysicist-sized hole through a solid, well-engineered wall, escape wasn't happening. And even if he could get out of the house, what then? Try to trek cross country and end up freezing to death before he could find help or shelter?

Besides, he'd agreed to behave... for now.

He stripped efficiently, taking in his surroundings as he did so. The electrical sockets were standard A-type plug, 120 volt, which pretty much confirmed that he was still in North America. While hunting for soap and shampoo, he rifled through the items in the medicine cabinet, but none bore price stickers with a store name. There were no newspapers lying around, no magazines, nothing which could help him determine his location. That was going to be a sticking point if he did manage to transmit a message for the SGC. What could he say? Stuck on creepy secluded estate—it's the one with the old oil rig—please send help?

Yeah, right.

The water took so long to heat up that he was afraid for a moment that there was no hot water. (Talk about an incentive to shower quickly!) Which led him to wonder, as he stepped into the spray and pulled the curtain, how there was hot water. A persistent thrumming emanated from somewhere below, presumably a diesel generator. That would make sense, given that he hadn't seen any power lines coming into the house... and of course the place would have the luxury of a generator. It had obviously been built by someone wealthy, perhaps even someone who'd struck it rich in the oil business.

And damn it, he really wished that whoever had planned this whole fiasco hadn't planned it so well. There was literally nothing on the surface to indicate that the estate was being used as a stronghold for a bunch of scientist-stealing whackjobs. It had an internal power supply, and had to be on well water, which meant the local utility companies wouldn't notice unusual activity. Only the interior of the machine shed had been updated, so no suspicious construction would show up on satellite images. And there were no neighbors to be tipped off by a sudden increase in traffic.

He soaped up quickly, but took his time rinsing off, luxuriating in the sensation of being clean and warm. And since goon number two hadn't poked his head in to bitch that it was taking too long, after drying off and dressing, Rodney made use of the cheap disposable razor he'd found in the cabinet. It left nicks along his jaw, but anything was better than the itch of a beard coming in; he was washing off lather in the sink, watching the water spiral down the drain, when it came to him.

Triangulation. He didn't need to tell the SGC where he was; he needed to show them, and let them figure out the rest on their own. All it would require would be a signal, some unusual event that would attract enough attention to be monitored and recorded at multiple distant points. Apply the stereo effect, plot the intersection of the lines, and bam!

Carter was a genius. She would totally figure it out, even if no one else did. It would work, Rodney knew it would. All he had to do was think of a way to fire off that signal on the sly.

Not that he'd been dawdling before, but now he blew through the rest of his preparations, eager to get back to the shed. He would have a better idea of how he was going to pull it off once he'd dug through the work carts and cataloged his assets.

~~

It was late the next morning before John was summoned back into O'Neill's presence.

Judging by the colonel's murderous expression, the day had not been going well for him. In contrast, Jackson, sitting to his left at the conference table, was merely scowling; Teal'c, who was leafing through a manual of some sort, was the anchor of calm in the room.

"You wanted to see me, sir?" It was inadvisable to try to pry updates out of your commanding officers. John had learned the hard way that if they were inclined to share, they would. Granted, sometimes they would be coy about doling out information if they knew how badly you wanted it, but thankfully O'Neill wasn't one of those pricks.

Apparently, what O'Neill was inclined to share was his vitriol. "Sheppard! Pack your bags, you leave immediately. The sooner we find that naquadria and clear McKay, the sooner I can tell those flatulent, condescending, self-aggrandizing morons from the Senate Intelligence Oversight Committee exactly where to shove their–"

Jackson cleared his throat loudly, cutting off the rest.

John had to make an effort to keep a straight face. "Any news from Carter, sir?"

"Yes. And by yes I mean no. The tweaks to Prometheus' sensors have yielded exactly squat. She said she's going to keep trying, although I couldn't help noticing that yesterday's optimism was... flagging. So congratulations on getting your way, but keep in mind I'm sending you as a last resort." He leaned back in his seat with a groan, digging the heel of his hand into first one eye, then the other. "Kinda out of options, here," he admitted.

"Yes, sir. Thank you." Maybe it was something about the almost furtive feeling of the small gathering, but John had to inquire cautiously, "How far up the chain do my orders originate? Sir?" 

It was another bad sign when O'Neill didn't tease John for reading the situation so plainly. "I gather you're asking if Hammond knows. The answer is no, and he won't until after you're gone. He's got his own troubles, and they aren't just going to sit by and let us turn you loose on the strength of your word, major."

"It's easier to ask for forgiveness than permission," John quoted.

"A rule Jack lives by," Daniel muttered. His tone was still sour, even if his expression, as he regarded O'Neill, approached fondness. John guessed that Jackson had been right there alongside him for whatever bitch-fest or ass-reaming O'Neill had already been caught in that morning.

Teal'c didn't even glance up from his reading. "Except Colonel O'Neill does not apologize. He says 'I told you so'."

O'Neill pondered this a moment before he said, "Huh, Teal'c's right. Anyway, the point is, you'll be in the air and half way to Canada before Hammond finds out. And I'm hoping that he'll decide it's less trouble to let you continue on than to order you to return and have to explain how you got out in the first place."

"How will I get out, sir?" If John technically wasn't supposed to leave the base, someone was bound to notice when he did.

"Let me have your identification badge," O'Neill said; John unclipped it and passed it over. "It's simple, really. You won't pass the security gate, so there will be no record that you left base. Daniel and I will take your badge and randomly swipe it in some locks to make it look like you're still kicking around."

Jackson reminded, "Which will only work for so long, until someone looks at the surveillance footage." And huh, but John had just assumed that Daniel was going with him.

"Carter can fudge it if necessary," O'Neill argued right back. "If Sheppard here gets his ass in gear, she won't have to."

When O'Neill had said John was leaving immediately, he hadn't been kidding. "Yes sir. Ah, there are still a few details..."

"Get this Zamboni fellow's cooperation any way you can. I'm sending along the standard non-disclosure agreement. If you can get him to sign it, tell him anything you need. Well, short of the naquadria—don't tell him about that. Or Anubis. Or– Well, you did fine with McKay, so just use your best judgment." 

"Er, yes sir." At least one of them had confidence in John's powers of persuasion.

"There's a Pave Hawk waiting for you on the Mountain's helipad. You'll fly in just like last time–"

Except with a much nicer set of wings. And oh yeah—last time John had hitched a lift most of the way on a transport plane to a nearby base. He did some fast calculating in his head. Two thousand miles, divided by the chopper's cruising speed... "That's more than a ten hour flight," he groaned.

"It's still faster than flying commercial, and I need to be able to pull you out at a moment's notice."

"Mid-air refuels?" he could hope. The Pave Hawk had that capability; his last chopper hadn't.

"Already arranged. Oh, and Teal'c can spell you at the wheel."

Wait... Teal'c?

John must have accidentally used his out-loud voice, because O'Neill replied, "I thought about sending Daniel with you. He's better than any of us at looking earnest and harmless–"

Daniel swatted at his arm.

"–but it'd be suspicious if he suddenly disappeared from the base. Teal'c's easier to explain. We'll just say he had some pressing business to attend back on Chulak."

Also, Teal'c could be trusted to keep John firmly in line. "And, er, he knows how to fly a chopper?"

Teal'c decorously closed his reading material—which oddly enough turned out to be the flight manual for the Pave Hawk—and fixed John with an inscrutable look. It probably meant something along the lines of: Sonny, I was piloting Ha'taks before you were born.

O'Neill smirked. "You might wanna handle the take-off and landing, but otherwise don't bother being gentle even though it's his first time. He can take it."

God help him, Teal'c seemed almost smug, as if that had been a compliment. John swallowed. "Yes sir. Or, no sir. I won't."

~~

True to O'Neill's expectations, John and Teal'c were in the air in less than half an hour.

John had barely had time to steal back his security badge and fly up to his quarters to throw all his new supplies into a bag. Miraculously, the flight suit he'd borrowed back in Nevada had somehow become clean overnight—thank god for the base laundry service—and he'd shimmied into it while using Jackson's cell phone to place a call to Rodney's old pal, Steve.

Steve had been shocked—delighted, but shocked—to hear from him. He'd confirmed John's hunch that a funny foreign scientist– "Oh, you mean Dr Z?" -was hiding out at Rodney's house. Which put the mission somewhere in the realm of crazy, but shy of a-complete-waste-of-time-and-resources.

Teal'c turned out to be an excellent traveling companion. Unlike some people, he didn't feel the needs to fill the silent hours with chatter, the questions and comments he made were apt and insightful. Before turning over the controls, John provided only a few brief pointers that wouldn't have been in the flight manual. And it was odd, but he could actually feel the weight of experience in the way Teal'c tested the machine's responsiveness with growing confidence. O'Neill was right, the guy was one hell of a seasoned pilot.

Even with external fuel tanks and an extremely light load, they had to refuel five times—the last time at the border, just to be sure there was enough juice to make it to Rodney's house and back to US airspace. They hit town late, and John was glad he'd used that particular landing site before; it was hard enough touching down in the dark and the snow without having to worry about hidden hazards.

As soon as the wheels touched pavement, John cut the engine and yanked off his helmet. He'd put her down facing the house, and through the windshield he couldn't see any lights blaze on in response to the racket, but that didn't mean much.

Teal'c also pulled off his helmet, one eyebrow cocked in silent inquiry.

John pushed open his door and bailed from the chopper. "Still no signs of life at the house," he motioned, reaching back into the cockpit to flip on a spotlight. "I think we're gonna need to hurry if we're gonna catch this guy."

"Should we not try the door?" Teal'c asked, joining John outside.

"Go ahead," John said, "but if Zelenka's anywhere near as paranoid as Rodney, he won't answer." That was part of the reason he hadn't told Steve he was returning to town. Steve might have mistakenly spilled the news.

Teal'c plowed a path to the front door, where he pounded out a rhythm with his fist, scorning the bell.

Nothing.

He turned, questioning, to John.

"Yeah, I thought so. Follow me." John hopped off the steps and began feeling his way around the side of the building.

The kitchen was most likely. It was lit, for one thing, and one of the chairs would make a good step stool when-

Suddenly the window rattled and shimmied open to a soundtrack of muffled cursing. Then a suitcase sailed out and landed in the snow.

"Here we go," John had to smile.

Seconds later, a disheveled head poked out of the window, followed by shoulders in an oversize coat. There was more cursing when a sleeve got caught on the window sill.

Clearing his throat, John stepped over. "Excuse me, I'm looking for a Dr Radek Zelenka. You wouldn't happen to be him, would you?"

Startled, the man's gaze jerked up. He didn't make a sound, but pushed his glasses back to the bridge of his nose and blinked almost comically at John.

John extended his hand. "I believe Rodney's told you about me? Major John Sheppard."

Almost, Zelenka almost squirmed one of his hands free to shake, the response was so habitual. But he caught himself and pulled back in the window, only to lean out again, as if hoping the men standing below outside were a hallucination that might vanish under scrutiny. "Son of a bitch," he muttered, "Rodney's pilot is real?" Then, "No! This is not acceptable! If Rodney wants to be involved with the military again, I tell him... fine, it is his funeral. But I do not want to hear, I do not want to know, and do not mention my name—which he clearly has, because here you are!"

Switching the gesture, John raised his palm. "Dr Zelenka, please. All we want is some of your time, and believe me, we wouldn't have come all this way if it wasn't important."

"I'm not an American citizen," Zelenka sniffed smugly. "I do not have to give you anything. I can call the police and have you removed from this property."

Teal'c retrieved the suitcase from the snow and stepped beneath the window. "Dr Zelenka. Dr McKay is in danger, and we believe you may have information which could aid us greatly in his recovery. If you are truly his friend–" He said it like the point was under contention. "–you will assist us."

Zelenka was back to blinking, but John couldn't tell if his scowl was more thoughtful or outraged.

After giving him a moment to mull it over, Teal'c lifted the suitcase and inquired, "Now, will you still be needing this, or shall I carry it inside for you?"

Blowing out a sigh and another incomprehensible curse, Zelenka withdrew back into the kitchen. "Fine, yes, we will use the front door like civilized people."

The window shut with a bang, and Teal'c motioned for John to lead the way back around the house.

John wet his lips. "Wow, that was... easier than I expected." It was possible that he loved Teal'c just a little, right then, and flat-out adored O'Neill for having the sense to send him along.

Teal'c inclined his head graciously. "I find that the truth often is."

~~

Of course, when the front door opened the mere inches allowed by a security bar and two chains, and they were formally greeted by the muzzle of a shotgun, John was kicking himself for having spoken too soon.

"Identification, please," Zelenka instructed through the crack. "Do not attempt to hand it to me. Put it beneath the door."

At the sight of the weapon, Teal'c had tensed beside John, shifting out of the line of fire. "It's okay," John told him, slowly reaching for the zippered pocket where he'd stashed his wallet. "The gun isn't loaded."

The muzzle stabbed in John's direction, and Zelenka said, "Ha, how could you know? Of course it is loaded!"

"Now that's funny, because the last time I was up here, I taught Rodney to shoot, and we used the last of the shells. So unless you remembered to pick up more at the store..." Tellingly, the muzzle wavered and dipped a few inches, and John murmured, "Yeah, I didn't think so," as he knelt to slide over his ID.

Zelenka didn't move. "His too."

"Teal'c?"

Teal'c dutifully passed his identification to John, who sent it under as well. The shotgun disappeared entirely when Zelenka bent to retrieve the cards; John could hear him withdraw slightly into the hall, where the lighting was better, to read.

"According to this, you are John Smith."

"Yeah, well... it's Sheppard, actually. Long story."

Zelenka was back at the door again, scowling through the crack. "I wanted your identification. This is a drivers license."

"Sorry, we left in such a hurry that I kinda left my Air Force ID back on base." He wondered if Daniel's idea of sliding it through random locks was working, or if they'd already had to admit that John had flown the coop.

"And what is this?" Zelenka waved Teal'c's ID at them accusingly. "Only one name? How creative. It is too bad your photoshop skills are not as good. These are clearly fakes." He tossed the cards back outside, where they landed on the icy stoop. "Now, I kindly ask you to stop wasting my time. I was about to prepare for bed, and I encourage you to do likewise. It is far too late to be annoying honest people in their own homes. You may leave the suitcase there—yes, right there, please—and I will retrieve it tomorrow." He started to close the door.

John was faster, wedging his foot in the frame. "Wait!"

"Major Sheppard," Teal'c murmured, "if you desire to continue this discussion inside, I would have no difficulty removing the obstructions in our path."

He could mean the door, or Zelenka, or both. John was in no hurry to find out. "Thanks, but I'd like to try the diplomatic approach at least one more time. Besides, Rodney would pitch a fit if we busted up his house."

Zelenka tried to make John remove his foot by crushing it with the door, but gave up as soon as he realized it was hopeless; the chains prevented him from getting any real leverage. So he cursed and kicked at John's toes instead.

"Yeah, aren't combat boots great?"

"I will call the police!"

"How about you call Steve instead?" John suggested. "You know, Rodney's friend, the guy who runs the airport? He knows me. He'll vouch for me."

"Yes, and I know Steve," Zelenka shot back. "A pigeon has more common sense!"

"Radek, please. Rodney really is in danger, and right now, you're our best hope for helping him." The note of humility in his own voice surprised him.

It seemed to have given Zelenka pause as well. He said, without much heat, "Rodney's problem is that he does not listen to advice. I tell him, forget the man in the woods. Stay away from the military, they are bad news, very bad."

"I'm afraid I have to disagree," John said. "You see, by ignoring your advice, Rodney saved my life. I would have died out there–"

Zelenka had his fingers wrapped around the edge of the door and was still leaning against it slightly. "So now there is a debt and you feel you must repay it, yes, I understand. It changes nothing. If you are indeed military, you have your... your helicopters and your scary muscle men and your equipment and your guns. I am a scientist. I can do nothing. I am sorry."

The truth is often the easiest, huh? John took a calming breath and began, "Rodney was kidnapped, two days ago."

"Kidnapped?!"

"There haven't been any ransom demands, which is a pretty good indication that whoever took him doesn't want money."

"But–" Zelenka seemed stunned, and too genuinely confused to have any idea what Rodney had been doing these past months. "I do not understand. Rodney is– If not money, what could be gained from kidnapping him?"

John hesitated. "I know Rodney has been... distant, and evasive, ever since he returned to work for the Air Force. In exchange for your help, I'm prepared to fill in the details for you, everything he's been hiding."

Zelenka made a curt gesture, partially obscured by the door. "Thank you, but no. How could I possibly know if what you say is the truth?"

"You can't," John admitted. "But you won't even know if my story's any good unless you hear me out. And I'll tell you right now, I won't give up. I came all this way to talk to you on a hunch, because we're out of leads and out of options, and Rodney's life isn't going to be worth shit to the bastards who have him once they get what they want from him." When Zelenka had no answer for that, he continued quietly, "There is no debt between us. Rodney is... he's my teammate, my partner. It's like family, there's no keeping score. But that doesn't change the fact that I shouldn't have lost him in the first place–" Again. "–and after what we've been through together, I'll be damned if I let it end like this. I'll do whatever's necessary to bring him home."

Beside him, Teal'c made a soft sound of agreement.

He realized too late that his plea could have been taken as a threat. The silence stretched on, and he was reconsidering Teal'c's offer Zelenka finally spoke. "You know, Rodney wrote to me when this whole nonsense started. He said, do not worry, because John will watch out for me. Of course, I did not believe him..." He sighed, an almost wistful sound. "He was right about the amazing sex hair, though. Come. Shut off that ridiculous light and come inside. It is too cold to bicker like this. Come inside and I will allow you ten minutes to convince me with your story."

Sex hair? What the hell? "Twenty," John countered.

"Fifteen."

"Done."

"Ah, Mr.– Er, major... you must remove your foot before I can unfasten the chains."

"Oh," John said, hopping away. He skidded on a patch of ice and would have gone down if Teal'c hadn't steadied his arm. "Thanks," he turned.

"You are welcome, Major Sheppard."

Teal'c wasn't quite meeting his eye, and it took John a second to figure out why: he was staring curiously at the top of John's head. And oh shit, if the hair thing got out around the SGC, he would never live it down. "C'mon," he growled with precarious dignity, "you heard the man. Let's go kill that spotlight."

~~

They gravitated to the kitchen, where John hopefully impressed Zelenka with his expertise operating Rodney's arcane coffee maker. He still remembered how to make it Rodney-style, pitch dark and just as thick. He hoped that, like himself, Zelenka had acquired a taste for the noxious stuff during his acquaintance with McKay.

The fact that he remembered the location of the mugs was not lost on Zelenka, judging by the renewed scowl. John decided to take Rodney's favorite for himself—it proclaimed Decaf is the Antichrist—as a final touch. Opening another cabinet and pulling out a box of pop tarts, he grinned, "Oh good, I see you're well stocked in the necessities," before tearing into one of the foil wrappers with his teeth. "Teal'c?"

Teal'c looked at him as if John had just asked if he wanted to bite the head off a live chicken. Nevertheless, he sighed and caught the second packet John tossed at him.

"Please, help yourselves," Zelenka grumbled. He'd ditched the coat in the front hall, and John could get a better look at him now. Mid-thirties, with untamed hair and accusatory blue eyes that were, if anything, a faint shade lighter than McKay's. He had the same sharp, appraising wariness, and some of his cutting gestures were so obviously inherited from Rodney that John was hit suddenly by a renewed sense of loss. 

It probably a result of being in this house again, in the very room where he and Rodney had spent so many hours, lingering over coffee and trivial pursuits, forging an unexpected friendship out of mismatched parts. He couldn't explain why else he would be clutching a stupid, battered old mug like it meant something.

Talk about pathetic... And loopy too, from an eleven hour flight during which he'd managed to catch a nap, but neglected to eat.

"Thanks," John said, trying to put some sincerity in it around a bite of sweet, sweet carbohydrates. "We flew out of Colorado this morning, and neither of us remembered to pack lunch, let alone supper. So you see, our purpose here really is that urgent."

Zelenka crossed his arms and challenged, "So urgent that it could not be handled instantly over the phone? By e-mail?"

Shrugging, John countered, "Would you have taken me seriously if I had? I couldn't risk it."

"You have a point. You also have eleven minutes left."

John glanced helplessly at Teal'c. When no advice seemed imminent from that quarter, he dove on in. "I have a non-disclosure agreement that I'm supposed to get you to sign before I tell you anything important, but I'm going to forgo that step—for now!—and just hope to god you have half the common sense Rodney claims." He took a steadying breath. "Are you aware that Rodney's been working at Area 51?"

Unimpressed, Zelenka waited for the punchline. Then he decided that was the punchline and burst out laughing. "Of course he has. With the flying saucers and the–" He wiggled his fingers. "–the little grey men." 

"Are you referring to the Asgard, Dr Zelenka?" Teal'c asked.

"I am referring to the fact that you cannot want my help as badly as you say if this is the story you tell me. Rodney made enemies with the Air Force one too many times. They would rather put him in jail than allow him to work at the most top secret facility!"

"Major Sheppard does not jest," Teal'c stated. "Dr McKay and Major Sheppard are indeed stationed at Area 51."

"And I am the King of Sheba."

Teal'c glanced at John for confirmation.

"No, he isn't, it's a saying. Sort of. Look, that thing I crashed out in the woods? Rodney got all secretive about it when he found out what it was, didn't he?"

"If he did, it proves nothing," Zelenka sniffed. "Rodney is secretive about many things, simply because he enjoys holding knowledge over the heads of other people."

"There isn't any chance I can get you to sign that confidentiality agreement, is there?" John tried.

"Not in this lifetime," Zelenka agreed, crossing his arms. "Nine minutes."

John cautioned, "Well, maybe you'll change your mind after you hear what I'm about to say. The information is dangerous—people have died for it, and killed for it—and the Air Force isn't going to consider you their responsibility to protect if you don't agree to their terms."

Zelenka paled a little, if that was possible—the man looked like he got out less than even Rodney—and John almost felt bad for bullying him. But then his eyes narrowed, and the stubborn set of his mouth challenged Do your worst, and John's guilt all but evaporated.

"I didn't crash an experimental airplane in the woods, like Rodney first thought. It was a spaceship. As in, an actual spaceship. Rodney got into trouble when he hacked a secure Air Force server trying to dig up more information on me. He accidentally downloaded the blueprints for the ship, and let me tell you, he was pretty freaked out when he realized what he had and what he'd done. But he helped me repair the ship, and I guess you could say that the feat impressed the Air Force enough that they were willing to give him a second chance. On my strong recommendation."

Zelenka's smile waned, but he so totally wasn't buying it. That much was apparent.

John poured them all coffee, passed out mugs, then sat opposite Zelenka at the little table. "Go ahead," he said, too weary for a protracted argument. "Ask me anything, and I'll tell you."

"Is the government of the United States concealing proof of the existence of extraterrestrials?" Zelenka pressed without hesitation.

"Yes."

"Ha, I knew it. I knew it!" He threw up his hands. "But wait, it does not matter what you say. There is no way I can know if you speak the truth!"

"Teal'c?" John begged. "I had an An– an alien device with me when I explained all this to Rodney." But Rodney had already seen the jumper's blueprints, and had possessed a more... open mindset. John sort of doubted that an alien Gameboy would hold as much sway with Zelenka. "Did you bring any alien gizmos with you? A zat or a staff or something?"

"I am sorry. I did not. There is, however, a simple solution," Teal'c said, reaching for the hem of his shirt.

"Whoa, whoa, hold on now! Let's expend our other options before we do anything rash." Yeah, John had thought of that too, and dismissed the idea just as quickly. It wasn't– Okay, honestly? He didn't know how Jaffa felt about their symbiotes, and asking Teal'c to march his out just to persuade one stubborn bastard seemed a bit... demeaning. But to be honest, John would prefer the thing not make an appearance for his own comfort. After having a Goa'uld inside his head, the notion of being in the same room with one made his skin crawl—even if it was just a larva, supposedly too young to take a host.

"Do not worry, Major Sheppard," Teal'c assured. "I discussed this possibility with Colonel O'Neill before our departure. Like yourself, he was skeptical, but I was able to convince him that it could prove necessary. I believe it is one reason I was chosen to accompany you on this mission."

So Teal'c had had this little exposé in mind from the start, huh? John guessed that answered his question concerning the touchy nature of the Jaffa-symbiote relationship.

Then again, O'Neill wouldn't call the thing "Junior" if Teal'c took offense.

"Discussed what possibility?" Zelenka demanded. "What is he talking about? Also, six minutes. No—make that five."

John blew out a soft growl of frustration. "You know what? Fuck it. Go ahead, Teal'c. If nothing else, it'll be good for a laugh later around the conference table."

Teal'c bowed his head, first at John, then at Radek. "Dr Zelenka, please allow me to properly introduce myself. I am Teal'c, son of Ro'nac. My origin is Chulak, fourth planet in a binary-sun system that is approximately eighteen light years from Earth. But I make my home here now, on this world. I have been a member of Stargate Command for seven of your solar years."

Zelenka subsided, and John could literally see him working out the distance in his head, trying to locate flaws or discrepancies in Teal'c's statement, or perhaps even match the details to known stars. "Wait. Let me understand. I am to believe that you are alien?" He started laughing again. "Oh, such a terrible joke. And I ask you—with the endless variety of lifeforms we find even on this planet, why is it always the assumption that cognizant extraterrestrials must be humanoid? Always!"

Rising from his chair, Teal'c continued, "My people are the Jaffa. We are physiologically similar to Earth humans, except that a parasitic race called the Goa'uld engineered us to act as living incubators for their young. I carry an immature symbiote, granting me longevity, strength, and healing abilities well beyond that of any human. In exchange, the symbiote functions as my body's immune system. Without its protection, I would die."

"Aha, I know why this story is familiar!" Zelenka said. "It was the plot of an episode in The Twilight Zone. Or possibly Dr Who, I cannot remember for certain. But the point is, you are not fooling anyone! And now you are down to four minutes."

"If you refuse to believe my words, then I must show you," Teal'c warned gravely.

John's stomach churned, but he figured it would be impolite to look away. However, that didn't stop his knuckles going white from the grip he had on his mug.

"Show me? Ha! What will you do, wiggle a rubber prop at me?"

That was when Teal'c lifted his shirt, put his entire hand into his abdominal pouch, and partially withdrew his writhing, shrieking symbiote.

Dr Zelenka, meet Junior, John thought, and winced as the screaming commenced.

~~

"What is this?" Barney frowned at the sheet of paper Rodney had thrust at him.

"My revised list of requirements. My first list was a little ambitious, so I had to pare it down to the absolute necessities."

"Dr McKay–"

"And I realize that you people are probably working with a tight budget, but keep in mind that you're asking me to build a naquadah generator from scratch."

"You have already been provided all the necessary parts to do so," Barney pinched the bridge of his nose, clearly exasperated.

Now, Rodney could have handed the list off to a guard, but it was so much more amusing to convince them that he needed to deal directly with their leader. How'd you like that freezing cold trip out here from the house, you fuckhead? La la la, look at me, I'm jerking you around, wasting your time, and you and your goons were stupid enough to fall for it. He schooled his expression to amiable cooperation, the one he'd used in conjunction with a few well-aimed salvos of criticism to drive at least one former co-worker to a frothing rage. "Probably half of the components in the blueprints were custom machined, real high-precision stuff," he explained, in a tone that suggested he was using small words for the layman's benefit. "Now, I'm guessing you don't have facilities available to duplicate those components, and even if you did, you'd have to bring in outside help, because I'm an engineer, not a lathe operator. So I've had to make some, hm, modifications to the blueprints to allow for off-the-shelf substitutions, but I'll warn you now that the end result won't be as, um, cosmetically refined as the prototype unit."

"But it will still work, right?" Barney was pouring over Rodney's list as if he could make some sense out of it if he stared at it hard enough. Which meant that he'd failed the test; someone with engineering experience could have deciphered the notation and profuse jargon Rodney had intentionally used. But this guy? Not a fucking clue.

Oh god, his plan could succeed. It was reckless, a one-in-a-million shot, but Rodney was going to risk it anyway. At this point, he had nothing to lose. "Of course it will function. That is, assuming you don't just send your boys out to Radio Shack again. Seriously, I'm building the equivalent of a tabletop nuclear reactor, not a sixth-grade science fair project. Unless you want it to melt the first time you throw the switch—or worse, explode—I recommend you provide me with quality parts."

Finally Barney folded up the sheet and shoved it into his pocket. "I'll... see what I can do. In the meantime, get back to work!"

"Yes, by all means." Rodney took a step back in the direction of his workstation. "Work, yes. After all, it's what you're paying me– I mean, that is, if you were paying me– I suppose it's more like incarcerating..."

Yanking his ski cap back down over his head with a wordless growl, Barney marched for the door.

It was possibly inadvisable, but Rodney couldn't help throwing after him, "Be careful heading back to the house. I hear it's really nasty out there."

~~

"Dr Zelenka has fallen asleep on his keyboard again. Shall I wake him?"

John looked up to find Teal'c in the kitchen doorway. "Nah," he decided, hunkering back down behind his mug at the little table. There were papers spread out around him, print-outs of correspondence dating back months, and that damned Christmas card O'Neill had been so eager to get his hands on. The whole mess had already been copied and sent to the SGC, but John was combing through it all anyway, hoping that some clue might jump out at him—awkward phrasing or inconsistent details, a pattern, anything.

The words had stopped making any damned sense, which was probably an indication that he should have given up, or at least taken a break.

Outside the bare window, the lack of light was deceptive; John had forgotten how short the winter days were this far north. A glance at his watch confirmed that it was well into morning, which meant the three of them had been searching fruitlessly for almost ten hours straight. He scraped his chair back and stood, not bothering to hide a hiss when his cold, stiff muscles protested the movement. "We could all use some rest. And breakfast. And I'd like to get the SGC on the horn again, see if anything has turned up in their analysis of these letters." 

"I will make the call," Teal'c offered, rather than point out that O'Neill would need to speak to him anyway, given that John's allegiance was still suspect. He waited for John's nod of thanks before slipping away to use the chopper's secure radio.

John was afraid he knew what would happen next. Sooner now, rather than later, they were going to receive the order to return to base, and he fucking hated the idea of having to go empty handed.

It wasn't as though they hadn't made progress. Zelenka had proven remarkably pragmatic; right after he'd gotten over the shock of his two-for-one introduction to the wonderful world of extraterrestrials, the first thing he'd done had been to calmly request that nondisclosure agreement to sign. Oh, sure, he still paused occasionally to clutch at his wispy hair and mutter in his mother tongue, but otherwise his manners had remained exquisite—deferential but not fawning, with a commendable lack of awkward questions.

And John had been right about the clandestine communication channels. Once the circumstances surrounding Rodney's disappearance had been sketched out, Zelenka had installed himself in front of the old control console, cracked his knuckles, and proceeded to hit every message board, chat room, anonymous e-mail account, and secure data dump that he and Rodney had ever conspired to use. He knew every alias, every cyber bolt-hole.

They numbered in the hundreds, and he'd had to hack some of them just to get in. It had taken him most of the night, and all he'd come away with was the assertion that Rodney was either being prevented from touching any network-capable devices, or he did not want to be found.

John had sort of insisted that the former wouldn't stop Rodney from trying to get a message across. And it might have been the strength of his conviction that had caused Zelenka to turn right around and plunge back in, with the intention of checking the hiding places that he and McKay had discussed in passing, but never put into practice.

That had been... maybe an hour ago. It was no wonder Zelenka was worn out; John had napped during the ride, and even he was tired. Hell, Teal'c was flagging, and he technically didn't require sleep.

There wasn't much in the cupboards in the way of breakfast, but the kitchen was still better stocked than when Rodney had lived there. John settled on eggs and toast. He spurned more coffee—he'd hit his limit about two pots ago—ah, but he could indulge in a glass of real orange juice without the vague, accompanying guilt.

He was nudging sizzling eggs in a frying pan when Teal'c returned to the kitchen, just in time to save a couple slices of toast from John's inattention and a charred demise. "I am afraid there is no news from the SGC," he said, dropping more bread in the toaster.

"The cryptanalysis of those letters didn't turn up anything?" John asked. Huh, that didn't quite sound like Rodney.

Teal'c smiled faintly. "There is no news of interest. However, I believe one of the documents was revealed to contain the message: Radek Zelenka received his PhD in a box of Cracker Jacks and would not know a quantum anomaly if it bit him in the ass."

"Now that's the Rodney I know." He slipped the eggs onto a plate and slid it down the counter. 

"There is something else," Teal'c added carefully, wielding a butter knife with alarming precision. "Colonel O'Neill feels that there is nothing left for us to accomplish here, and is anxious for us to return to the SGC."

Crap. John began, "But Zelenka is still–"

Teal'c cut in, "I advised Colonel O'Neill that we will require rest before departing. I have gained you six hours, Major Sheppard. Use them wisely."

~~

It had taken Rodney perhaps half a day to finish his calculations, and they'd proven his estimate to be scarily accurate. A conventional power source wouldn't be anywhere close to adequate, but if the idiots were actually going to hand him weapons-grade naquadah... not even a concrete bunker could slow down a pulse of that magnitude.

It was the time factor that worried him.

Too much depended on unknown factors—namely, his captors. Oh, he would make certain that once the device was initialized, there would be no turning it off. So they wouldn't be able to stop him. But how long would it take them to realize what he'd done? To grasp the ramifications?

Could the order to kill him be issued immediately, or would it have to originate from a higher, outside source?

Would friendly ears be listening? Would they receive his message in time, or would they arrive to find his body sprawled in a pool of sticky, congealed blood?

The scenarios he played out in his head ranged from grim to grisly—if they shot him, and it wasn't instantly fatal, would he have time to scrawl out a farewell on the concrete using his own blood for ink?—but he couldn't not play them out, because they were pertinent, damn it.

Also, he discovered there even worse things to dwell upon, such as, What if I never see John again? What if that last time really was the last time? Oh god, that was days ago, including at least one bout of forced unconsciousness, and I can't remember– I don't think we argued... much? That's right, there were plans, for New Year's. I was going to tell him everything. About Ingram, too. Damn it, I should have just said it right then and there, screw the whole secrecy thing. He doesn't know. He could be in danger right now, because I decided to keep my stupid mouth shut for a change, and I swear to god if anyone harms a hair on his head, I'll... I'll...

There was a ripping sound, and, startled, Rodney looked down at the page he was editing to see that he'd dug a nice, ugly tear in the paper with the tip of his pencil. He wadded it up and threw it aside, pulling a fresh copy out of the stack to start over. The blueprints for the naquadah generator were requiring heavy revisions, and since he didn't have access to a proper drafting printer, he was having to do it the barbaric way, all piecemeal. There were bound to be casualties, so he'd started by running off several copies of each section.

The completed pages—he was maybe half way done—were taped to the wall inside his cell, over his bunk. They formed an odd jigsaw puzzle, with gaping blank spots and orphaned pieces suspended in the middle of nowhere. When he had finished annotating his latest changes, he took that page and stuck it up in its place, E-8, right next to D-8.

It was sort of like bingo, only alphabetical, and with less numbers.

Okay, so it was nothing like bingo at all, and more like a spreadsheet. Whatever.

He plopped down on his cot, arms folded behind his head and ankles crossed, just to stare at the unfinished tapestry for a while. Sometimes he needed to back off a bit, take in the big picture. There were obvious design solutions that he overlooked when he operated too long at a level of micro-focus.

Or, at the very least, it would be nice to catch his mistakes before it was time to take the thing from concept to prototype, seeing as he didn't have the luxury of a testing phase. Despite any threats he'd made to Barney concerning sub-standard materials, he really would prefer not to turn the damned thing on and proceed to blow them all to kingdom come.

~~

The last time he'd stayed at Rodney's house, John had ousted him from his bed—a move which he might not have made if he'd known that it would elicit complaints for the entire duration of his stay. Honestly, the sofa wasn't even that uncomfortable, but Rodney had made it sound like John was forcing him to sleep on a bed of nails.

If he was going to be in any shape to take his turn at the stick during the flight home, John was going to have to get some rest. So he'd settled down there to doze, feet propped up on the coffee table, rousing himself now and then to at least pretend he was watchdogging in the conversation transpiring across the room. Zelenka's curiosity must have been eating him alive; his questions were growing bolder, and John didn't trust even Teal'c's stoic alien badass ploy to dissuade him for much longer.

"I do not know what I will do now," John heard him mourn. "There is half a year left of my sabbatical. I will go crazy, with nothing to do."

John didn't bother opening his eyes. "Jus' look at it this way. You did what you set out to, right? Discover extraterres'ial intelligence?"

"Yes, but I did not expect to discover it in my kitchen!" He was still pecking disconsolately at his keyboard, despite that his sweeps for signs of Rodney had yielded nothing so far. He'd long since exhausted his ideas, but occasionally a random snatch of remembered conversation would send him scurrying off to yet another dead end. "And even if I were to find something wondrous with the telescope, I could do nothing with the news. That nasty agreement I had to sign made sure of it."

"Sorry doc, 's for your own protection. The Air Force isn't the only player in this game, just the biggest. But those little guys... they fight dirty, and they don't care who gets hurt."

Zelenka agreed, "Yes, I can see now why Rodney did not hesitate to jump on the military's offer and leave this all behind. There was nothing left for him here! And he was evil enough to encourage me to take over scanning the sky, knowing full well that it is pointless to hope for a discovery of something that has already been discovered! Oh, there is so much data," he moaned, "all worthless! Yet I cannot throw it out, because it goes against my principles. Data must be saved saved saved!"

John's eyes popped open, and he uncrossed his arms, leaning forward suddenly. But he kept his tone casual as he asked, "Hey, does that mean the telescope is still taking readings?"

"Of course. Rodney really is a genius—though never admit to him I said so. I will never hear the end of it! But the process is automated brilliantly. The portion of the system I am using does not interfere with the collection of data at all."

"Can you do me a favor? You know, just out of curiosity." John rose and slid around the coffee table to approach the control console. If anything, Zelenka seemed to have added a couple more keyboards to the array, so that John almost felt like the heroine sneaking up on Lon Chaney playing the organ in that movie. "Rodney disappeared on the thirtieth. Is there any chance you had the telescope pointed anywhere Nevada that day?"

Teal'c joined John in staring curiously over Zelenka's shoulder. "An interesting thought. What do you hope to find?"

"I don't know," John admitted, rubbing a hand through his hair. He should try to catch a shower before leaving, too. "Probably nothing, but it doesn't hurt to look."

"No, no, it does not work that way," Zelenka explained, even as he was accessing the telescope's log files. He pointed at one of the screens. "See, the angle would need to be far too narrow to pick up activity on the ground, even if you do not take into consideration the curvature of the Earth, which makes it impossible. I am sorry."

Damn. "Well, it was worth–"

"What about activity not on the ground?" Teal'c asked.

"Huh." Zelenka scanned down the log, then began to hunt around the console as if he'd misplaced something. "Pencil, I need... and something to write on."

Rodney preferred whiteboards for his scribbling; it had been impossible to find even a scrap of paper for scorekeeping purposes when they'd held their upside-down Tetris marathon. (Oh sure, John could have kept score in his head, but Rodney had accused him of cheating before they'd even started, and in the end they'd used a pile of coffee beans as counters.) John sort of doubted the shortage had improved any under Zelenka's tenure, so he pulled the obligatory pen out of the pocket on his sleeve. He always carried a pair when he was flying; it was just some weird pilot thing, in case one broke. "Here."

"Ah, thank you. But I still need–"

John reached around and held out his hand, flat. Shrugging, Zelenka proceeded to fill his palm with equations rendered in a small, precise script. "Anything below sixty-eight kilometers is no good," he decided at last. "But above that, in the upper atmosphere and beyond, there is data for the entire hemisphere."

"I believe Major Carter will be interested in seeing this data," Teal'c said, "if you would prepare it as you did your correspondence, for upload to the SGC."

"But there is so much of it! It is not like... like a few small documents."

"Please," Teal'c said, his polite tone at odds with his parade-rest posture.

Zelenka sighed and pushed his glasses back up his nose. "Well, perhaps I can achieve a reasonable compression ratio if I adjust the algorithm..."

"Include the data from the prior day as well," Teal'c suggested.

John tried to decipher the equations on his hand, but his vision blurred and the numbers bled together. He made a fist, causing the marks to disappear, and dropped that arm to hang loosely his side.

"Major Sheppard?"

"Hm?"

Teal'c tried gently, "Doctor Zelenka and myself will handle uploading the information to the SGC. Please try to acquire some more rest. We must depart in a few hours."

Yeah, sure, he meant to say. But for some reason, "Sorry," came out instead. "I'll just–" He jerked a thumb back at the sofa. It was a shame it was so damned cold outside. He almost would have preferred bedding down in the hold of the chopper, just to remove himself from the vicinity of distractions—and he didn't mean the other two men in the house.

Perhaps... memories was a better word.

John had just gotten comfortable again when Zelenka said, "Tch, this is not good."

"What? What isn't?" If it had been Rodney, John would have taken that as a hint that his assistance was required, either to hold something in place while Rodney worked, or prevent something from falling on his head—unless it was an actual emergency, such as an empty coffee mug. Rodney could handle those on his own.

"Oh, nothing to concern yourself with, major. It is merely a truncated file. It should be much larger, but it appears to have been corrupted, somehow..."

All John wanted to know was, "Does it affect the data we want to send to the SGC?"

"No, it is several days before," Zelenka assured him quickly. "It makes no sense how it could have happened."

"Machines are not foolproof," Teal'c pointed out.

Zelenka actually turned in his chair to gape up at him. "Yes, well, of course I know this. But Rodney's system is as close to foolproof as it is possible to achieve. There are routines in place to prevent this sort of thing from happening, or at least raise a flag if it somehow does—which is very unlikely, given that the data is mirrored on independent disc arrays. Automatic recovery from corruption is literally built into–"

"Okay, we get it. Very strange, doesn't affect us at all. Could you please look into it after you're finished packing up the data we do care about?"

"Yes, of course, in a moment. I just–" Then he said, "Oh," with that particular inflection that had John scrambling off the sofa again. "Aha, I told you, I told you!" he crowed, pointing at the screen. "I laughed when you told me that someone had searched Rodney's apartment, because I knew they would find nothing. Rodney is smart enough to know that data is never secure unless it is stored off-site."

"So wait—you're telling me that you spent all that time scouring obscure servers for something that was sitting right here under your nose?"

Zelenka was beaming. "Yes, that is exactly it! It is so obvious now. If Rodney wanted the most secure location, of course he would choose his own server."

Son of a bitch. All those hours they'd pissed away could have been spent rescuing McKay, if the message contained his location, or clues to his location, or even information about his kidnappers that could lead to their location... "Well, open the damned thing!" 

"I am trying! I do not know what type– Ah."

A cascade of documents suddenly spewed across the monitors, dozens of them, as John's hope for a straightforward solution dwindled and died.

Zelenka tagged one out of the mess and enlarged it to the center screen. "This is a project history for something called... a shield generator stress test. What is Prometheus?" he asked.

Son of a bitch!

Even Teal'c had the grace to look alarmed. He cautioned, "Doctor Zelenka, I do not believe you were meant to view these documents."

That didn't stop Zelenka from clicking through a few more in rapid succession. "Naquadah generator efficiency study? F-302 inertial dampener sensitivity recalibration? Hyperdrive accuracy trials? Oh my god, these are projects at Area 51. Rodney was actually working on these—see, here is his name, and here again! Oh my god," Zelenka clutched at his head, sending his glasses slightly askew. "Despite everything, I almost did not believe you about... about everything! But this..."

John reached and hit the power button on the monitor. "The agreement you signed didn't authorize you to view those documents." Hell, John doubted even he was authorized for half of them, and he sure as fuck didn't want to know how or why Rodney had smuggled them off base in the first place!

Zelenka spun around and shot to his feet, crowding into John until their chests bumped. His bottom lip jutted defiantly. "How can something of this magnitude be kept secret? It is not a 'simple' case of extraterrestrials visiting this planet. The US military is making their own ships capable of interstellar travel!" he accused.

Teal'c met John's gaze over the top of Zelenka's head, a silent question. Almost imperceptibly, John nodded. This level of damage control was well beyond his authority. "Sorry. I don't make policy, I just follow it. You'll have to take up the matter with General Hammond."

To his credit, the sudden burst of fear in Zelenka's expression didn't send him backpedaling. He held his ground, fists clenched at his thighs. "There is no choice, is there?"

"Sorry," John said again. "Teal'c... I guess we can inform the SGC that our departure time has been bumped forward once we're in the air." At least they could get moving quickly. Hell, Zelenka was already packed.

"But what about sending the data?"

"We'll deliver it in person." John pointed at Rodney's equipment rack. "Bring it. Bring it all." The whole damned mess.

~~

Thanks to the change in their schedule, it was a scramble to get the tanker in place for their first aerial refueling.

Not that John was worried or anything, flying on fumes, with warnings lighting up the cockpit. It wasn't like the chopper would fall out of the sky if the main engines gave out.

Actually... that was exactly what would happen. But, as he explained to the distraught Zelenka, it would be a controlled fall once autorotation kicked in, and the landing might be a little rough, but theoretically survivable.

He didn't mention that helicopter pilots practiced such landings, and that John's old bird had been far bigger and heavier than the Pave Hawk, but he'd still been able to bring her down without a scratch.

It was, perhaps, slightly... vindictive of him to withhold that information in the face of Zelenka's obvious... concern. But he wasn't in the best of moods, returning from a mission that was more failure than success, with an added complication in tow. (He still had no idea how he was going to explain it to Colonel O'Neill, nor was he looking forward to trying.)

So he took out some of his frustration on the easiest target. And if it wasn't quite fair of him to do so, neither, he reminded himself, was Zelenka entirely innocent in the fiasco. A piece of paper with his signature on it wouldn't stop a guy like him from exposing what he perceived as a reprehensible conspiracy of the highest magnitude. He couldn't be trusted, not after what he'd seen.

John just hoped that, like Rodney, Zelenka could be convinced that the secrets the Air Force was safeguarding were too dangerous to unleash on the panic-prone public. Maybe some day, in small increments, but oh god, not now.

Yeah, and speaking of Rodney... he was going to strangle John for involving his friend in the first place.

~~

"You've got to be shitting me!"

"Those are the rules, Dr McKay."

"Well, they're stupid! How in the hell do you expect me to build a naquadah generator from scratch when I'm not even allowed the necessary tools?"

Rollo's eloquent shrug stated that it wasn't his concern, and he didn't give a fuck.

Demonstrating, Rodney held up a PCB and a microcontroller, knocking them together a few times (though he was admittedly careful not to damage any of the mounting pins). "Oh, sure, you let me use caustic chemicals to etch my own circuit boards, but I can't have a damned soldering iron? Pray tell, how in the hell am I supposed to make all the fiddly little parts stick together? Happy thoughts and pixie dust?"

"Without supervision," Rollo corrected. "You can use it as long as one of us is here watching you–"

Because a soldering iron was such a dangerous weapon. They had zats and guns and they didn't trust him with a little piece of heated metal? Jesus, what did they expect him to do with it, threaten to singe someone? Rodney could just picture it: I'd like to give you a slightly uncomfortable burn, if you'd just do me the favor of standing over here, please, because my electrical cord only reaches three feet.

The sheer, unmitigated idiocy made him want to weep. Or break things.

Come to think, that was probably Barney's intention. If he'd wanted to get even with Rodney for making him march out to the shed in the cold, he'd sure picked one helluva petty, effective way to do it.

"Breathing down my neck is more like it! 'What is that for, Dr McKay? What are you doing now, Dr McKay?'," he mimicked. "It's very delicate work! I need to concentrate! Which I can't do if I'm being hounded for a damned running commentary by a lower primate who couldn't pass a sixth-grade shop class, let alone understand integrated circuit design!"

Rollo wound the electrical cord through his hands. And the fact that it sort of resembled a garrote when he did it might have been coincidence, but Rodney kind of doubted it. "So... what? You want I should take this back to the main house and tell Barney you're not satisfied with the arrangement and refusing to work?"

"No, no, just–" Rodney stretched out his hand, demanding. "Give it here. And go amuse yourself in the corner for a few... hours. I don't care if you spend the entire time with your hand down your pants, just do it quietly."

~~

Arriving back at the Mountain just after midnight, John had been more than happy to pawn off Zelenka on the security detail, retrieve his ID card from Daniel, catch a shower and a meal, and then crash. Hard.

Too bad that only lasted until his internal clock went off at 0530, driving him out of bed regardless of the fact that he wasn't ready to relinquish the warm nest of blankets and the respite of oblivion. He probably resembled the walking dead while he stumbled through his morning routine, but at least he didn't manage to fall off the treadmill in the gym; Area 51 wasn't his ideal posting, but it did have a few things going for it, such as weather that permitted actual jogging year round.

He was climbing the walls by 0900—or would have been if he hadn't resorted to pacing in his quarters, back and forth between the two beds—until his presence was officially requested shortly after lunch.

The delay itself might have been an indication of trouble. He wasn't sure. Ordinarily, he would have expected a summons sooner, but Teal'c had probably been called upon to deliver the official mission report; John's version of events would be a mere formality.

He hoped.

So it was with some wariness that he knocked at the open briefing room door. "You wanted to see me, sir?"

O'Neill was alone at the long table, but there was detritus at the other seats that suggested he hadn't been for long.

"Yup," he beckoned. "C'mon in, clear a spot."

John sat opposite him. It was only polite.

He waited to speak, trying to judge the mood, when O'Neill spared him by offering a tentative smile. "That little Czech guy you picked up. I like him."

"I, um–" He what?

"Yeah, while Carter was running his credentials, we took him down to the gateroom, gave him the old dog and pony show. First time I've ever seen someone fall to their knees in awe at the sight of a real, live wormhole."

"Wow," John said, actually regretting he'd missed it. Then again, it couldn't possibly have been as good as Zelenka meeting Junior.

"Geeks," O'Neill said, rolling his eyes. "Anyway, I remembered what you said about recruiting internationally–"

Oh shit, John had mentioned something to that effect, hadn't he?

"–and if this guy checks out, Hammond wants to put him to work. Given what he's seen," there might have been a hint of accusation in O'Neill's tone, "we need to keep him under our thumb for a while."

And forcing him to personally invest in the very conspiracy he would like to expose was a tried and true tactic. Hell, it had worked on Rodney. "McKay's gonna kill me for getting his friend involved," John said.

"About that. I know it wasn't your fault this time—or last time either, for that matter—but this little habit of yours has got to stop, Sheppard. You know, the whole thing where you expose highly educated and skilled scientists to extremely sensitive material, thereby allowing us to– What's a nicer word than 'blackmail'?"

"Encourage?" John suggested, biting his lip to hide an unexpected smile.

"–to encourage them to work for us. That habit?"

"Sorry, sir. I'll try not to let it happen again."

O'Neill pointed at him, as if delivering an edict. "You... do that."

"Sir, I have a theory on those project reports. Zelenka said the file was dated a few days before McKay disappeared. That would have been just before McKay invited me to his apartment. He told me he had something to tell me, something important that he didn't want to discuss on base. It must have had something to do with those reports."

O'Neill sat up, squaring his shoulders, and John could literally see the mantle of command settling around him. So, no more fun and games. This topic was strictly business. "I'll be frank. The fact that McKay removed classified documents from base without authorization has provided fresh ammunition to the opposition. His case doesn't look good."

"I'd guessed as much. But he wouldn't have done it without a good reason. There must be something in those reports, maybe not individually, but a pattern, or something." He shook his head. "He didn't tell me. He was going to, but he didn't have..." Time. "Sir–"

"It's damned suspicious, isn't it?" O'Neill said. "McKay thinks he's got dirt on something—or someone—and conveniently goes missing before he can do anything about it. Kinda leads me to think that whoever was responsible for his disappearance knew what he'd been up to. That's why I'm having Carter look over those reports, and I've asked her to pull copies from Area 51 for comparison on the sly. But I doubt there'll be anything for her to find," he warned. "If we are dealing with an insider who's capable of following McKay's tracks, they'll be damned careful to cover their own."

Still, it was better than John had hoped. At least someone who mattered was still standing up for Rodney's innocence. "Thank you, sir."

O'Neill shrugged. He wasn't doing John any particular favors; the SGC looked out for their own. "In the meantime, I know how much waiting sucks. Daniel asked about you earlier, and I told him to–"

"Find something to keep you occupied," Jackson said from the doorway, Teal'c in tow.

"I think I said go ahead and put Sheppard to work, but close enough. What's up? Come to join our humble gathering?"

"Sam's on the line for you," Jackson explained. "Said it was urgent, and that we might all want to hear it." While Teal'c took a seat, he went not to the phone, but to the video panel on the wall, which he coaxed to life. Major Carter seemed small and pale against the backdrop of a room John didn't recognize. Not a lab, but perhaps a briefing room similar to this one. Area 51 had to have them. "Sam?"

"Daniel."

"Carter."

"Sir."

"Can you see us?" O'Neill asked, twisting slightly to wave at the screen.

"No sir, just hear you. The camera isn't set up on your end."

"Sweet." He made a show of dragging a second chair close to use as a footrest, settling in comfortably like he expected to be there a while.

Jackson took the spot next to John. "We're all set, go ahead."

"Oh, and Sheppard's here with us," O'Neill advised.

John was pretty sure he didn't imagine that Carter hesitated. He tried to catch Jackson's eye, but only earned an apologetic shrug for his effort; whatever the news was, Daniel was in the dark, too.

"I've been reviewing the project reports that McKay uploaded," she began. "They're identical to the versions stored on the server at Area 51. No signs of editing or tampering. However, something still doesn't feel right."

"Are we talking a gut feeling, like that burrito I ate for lunch didn't agree with me? Or..."

Carter was tired, John could see that now. Her faint smile for O'Neill's description barely touched her lips, and failed to reach her eyes at all. He wondered if she'd only been working on the puzzle since morning, or if she'd still been awake when John and Teal'c had returned, and gotten a head start on it the previous night. "McKay was spread far too thin. He was assigned to projects that had nothing to do with his field. There's at least one example where it appears that a more qualified individual was removed from a project so that McKay could be brought on board. But at the same time, he wasn't assigned to the projects that really could have benefited from his communications expertise."

"Okay, so we've got a case of poor resource management. It could be simple incompetence."

"Doubtful, sir. I get the sense that it was deliberate. And it fits too well with the suspicion Major Sheppard voiced earlier, that McKay was being set up to fail—or at the very least being kept in a position where he wouldn't have much chance to succeed."

A time-honored military tradition. John had seen it happen before, troublemakers being shipped to postings so remote and desolate that promotion literally wouldn't be able to find them—or so the joke went. "This is good, right? It'll help clear Rodney's name?"

Carter bit her lip, glancing away from the camera.

Okay, maybe not so good.

"It's mostly conjecture," Daniel pointed out.

"There's more," Carter admitted, with an odd mixture of reluctance and sympathy that set off warning alarms in John's head. "I ran the data from McKay's telescope through Prometheus' spectrum analyzer. There was an unusual energy signature recorded around the time of McKay's disappearance. I knew I'd encountered it before, it just took me a while to place it."

"And?" O'Neill pressed, impatient.

"Sir, it's the matter stream from a ring transporter."

"Wait. So you're telling me McKay ringed out of Area 51?"

"It would explain how he was able to leave the base without passing any of the security checkpoints. Prometheus' transporter rings are functional, and even though the log indicates they haven't been used since they were installed and tested, I don't... trust that the activity wasn't erased, somehow."

"But wouldn't that–"

Teal'c said, "It would require the presence of a set of receiving rings. Doctor Zelenka said that the telescope did not have the ability to record events near the surface of the planet. Therefore, it is reasonable to assume that the receiving rings were aboard an orbiting vessel."

Oh no...

O'Neill kicked his feet off his second chair, turning around to face the table—and John—properly. "Hammond needs to hear this. Sheppard, go hunt him down. Interrupt him if you have to. I don't care who he's in a meeting with, tell him it's extremely urgent."

"Yes sir," John murmured, rising from his seat. He could feel Daniel shift beside him, wanting to say something. Offer his condolences, perhaps? But he took his cue from O'Neill's suddenly stark demeanor and remained silent.

"And lock up behind you on the way out."

John only suspected that it was a convenient excuse to remove him from the room—right up until he was swinging the door closed. When the conversation inside erupted again even before the latch had caught... then he was sure of it.

~~

The only benefit John could see in being cut loose from his assigned post was that he didn't have any official duties. If, for example, he wished to avoid an unpleasant conversation—he could just picture O'Neill, hovering awkwardly between professionalism and sympathy, explaining why nothing more could be done—it was his prerogative to make to make himself very difficult to find.

He did it so well that it was hours later, after supper, that Jackson finally ran him to ground in one of the small, obscure labs.

"Hey," Daniel called from the doorway.

John glanced up, acknowledging that he'd been caught, but he didn't answer or offer an invitation. Instead, he went back to what he'd been doing in the feeble hope that Jackson would give up and leave.

It would have been a more effective tactic if he'd remembered to bring a distraction with him, a book or a device or something, so that he could pretend he'd been engrossed in some task, and hadn't been staring listlessly at an empty tabletop.

Daniel entered anyway, slipping into a seat opposite John. "Jack thought I should let you know what's going on."

"I would've expected the colonel to want to deliver the bad news in person," John said. "Or does he think you'll be better at toeing the company line?" Daniel had the nerve to look hurt at that; and yeah, it had been petty and spiteful, but John was supposed to feel better for having said it, not worse. He found himself apologizing, "Sorry. I just..."

It wasn't okay, and he was relieved when Daniel didn't lie and tell him it was. "Jack would have come, but he's busy trying to hunt down a lead. Besides, part of what I'm about to say isn't common knowledge outside of SG-1. It's sort of my story to tell, so." He shrugged.

John was curious despite himself. He sat patiently waiting for Jackson to continue.

"A couple months ago– No, I should start before that. Before I came to the SGC, there was a woman I knew professionally. And, well, more than professionally. It didn't work out between us—she didn't want to take a back seat to my research, and I didn't blame her. We parted friends. I didn't see her again until a few years ago, at my mentor's funeral. See, he'd been studying an artifact– He thought it was Egyptian, but it was Goa'uld in origin, a stasis jar. It contained a live symbiote, imprisoned indefinitely–"

"Until he opened the jar and let it out," John guessed, suppressing a shudder.

"Sarah opened the jar," Daniel said, "and the Goa'uld, Osiris, took her as his host. He killed Dr Jordan, and staged an accident to cover the death. We never would have known there was a Goa'uld loose on Earth if Sam hadn't analyzed a second, identical jar that was found at the same dig. We set a trap, but Osiris got lucky and escaped."

Taking Sarah with him, trapped in her own mind. "I'm sorry," John repeated. No one should have to endure existence as a Goa'uld host, but least of all an innocent.

Daniel spread his hands helplessly. "Osiris shouldn't have been a threat. He'd been asleep for centuries. He had no allies, no followers or armies. But he was canny, aligning himself with Anubis even before the other System Lords realized the danger Anubis posed. Osiris rose in power and prominence, commanding a portion of Anubis' forces. That was probably when he discovered the tablet."

"Tablet?"

"We aren't the only ones looking for the lost city of the Ancients. The prospect of such amazing technology and devastating weaponry... with it, Osiris could have challenged Anubis for control of the System Lords."

John realized he was fidgeting, and forced himself to be still. "So, I guess the fact that Anubis is still breathing down our necks is a pretty good indication that Osiris never found what he was looking for."

"No," Daniel answered, strangely certain. "The tablet was written in Ancient, and Osiris couldn't read it. But he knew that I could. This was–" John watched him, almost visibly replaying the events he was about to describe. "–about three months ago. Osiris came alone, to Earth. He entered my house, he entered my dreams, using Sarah to try to make me translate the tablet for him. But the tablet didn't contain the location of the lost city, as he'd hoped, and we were finally able to capture Osiris and free Sarah."

"That's– I'm glad to hear it." Even though he still wasn't sure how any of it pertained to him, or Rodney.

Daniel must have sensed his confusion. "Don't you see? Osiris' ship. He was using a modified Asgard transporter to beam down to the planet, while his ship remained in orbit, cloaked against detection."

"And you think... Rodney ringed aboard that ship. But how? I mean, if it was so well hidden that even the SGC couldn't find it, how could anyone even know it was there?"

"We knew," Daniel stressed, and gave John a moment to let the words sink in.

Damn it. "So the new working theory is... what? Rodney found out about the ship, figured out a way to gain access to it, stole a couple of useless Goa'uld devices and a sample of naquadria, and took off for destinations unknown? That doesn't make any damned sense. Maybe someone else, but not Rodney. I know the naquadria has to be worth a fortune–" That kind of wealth would literally allow someone to retire to their own personal paradise and live out the rest of their life like a king. "–but Rodney wouldn't, not if it meant turning his back on Earth. He couldn't give up Batman, and the internet... and he can't live without coffee!"

He wouldn't have left me behind, insisted some desperate, insidious portion of John. An even weaker portion added, Not when an experienced pilot would have been useful.

"I know, John. I know. Sam thinks she's on to something. The security cameras on Prometheus should have captured the escape, but the footage is clean. Too clean. Someone edited it to cover their tracks, which would have needed to be done after the fact."

"You mean, an accomplice would have needed to remain behind on base to mop up."

"Exactly. We were never supposed to have detected the matter stream from the ring transporter. We aren't supposed to know how the culprits left the base. But we do—and better, we know when."

The data from Rodney's telescope. It was all meticulously timestamped. The SGC knew when the ring transporter had activated, down to the second. "Son of a bitch," John marveled. "Rodney's gonna expose these bastards without lifting a finger."

Daniel offered him a dry smile. "Sam's checking the rest of the security cameras on base. There are far too many to make tampering with them all feasible. Our culprits probably wore disguises to move around unhampered, but now that Sam knows where and when to search, she'll find them. And Jack... let's just say he's attempting to renew an old acquaintance, someone who might be able to put a name to the face—or faces—Sam unearths. I know it doesn't sound like much to go on–"

"It's more than I expected," John told him honestly. It was something like hope, when he thought he'd run out. "I figure my orders are going to be along the lines of: Sit down, shut up, and wait. But I might be able to do that now without going completely mad."

"Actually..." Daniel held up his index finger before letting it curl and droop. "I'm supposed to tell you that you're going off-world, tomorrow."

"I'm what?"

Daniel mimed it for him. "You... are going... through the Stargate... to another planet. Tomorrow morning. Eight hundred hours."

If it had been Rodney... Ah, screw it. He and Daniel were familiar enough that he couldn't let such an example of smartassery go unpunished. John gave his response in the form of a rude gesture. "I was indicating my surprise. It wasn't a question."

Daniel actually laughed. "I'm aware. But it's true, you are. So you might want to think about little details like getting a good night's rest. And packing. I understand you'll be gone for a few days..."

"Oh no."

"Damn it," Daniel slapped his palm on the tabletop. "I owe Jack five bucks. He said you'd say that."

"Seriously?" John said. "In the middle of all this, he wants me to lead another civilian field orientation?"

"Hey, when you're the best, you're the best. But it's a little different, this time around."

John asked, suspicious, "How so?"

"Well, for starters, you'll only have one civilian to babysit."

Oh shit, it had to be. "Zelenka?"

"Mmhm. He's been given preliminary clearance, and Sam thinks that if we can... cultivate the right mindset, he could be a valuable addition to the program."

"And that's where I come in," John groaned. Zelenka had already demonstrated some measure of trust in John. Naturally Colonel O'Neill would find a way to twist that to his advantage. "So, three days, the usual sales pitch?"

"I understand your subject is a little... recalcitrant. Jack said something about paying your commission in beer and a steak dinner if you can pull it off."

"I'll hold him to that," John said, glancing at his watch. Shit. So late already, and he still needed to gather all his gear... "Thanks, Daniel. I, er, hope you're not offended if I bolt and abandon you here, but–"

"Yes, go already. And if I don't see you again before you leave in the morning, good luck."

~~

Zelenka was waiting for him in the gateroom at 0800, looking terrified in a new set of BDUs, and clutching a knapsack like it was his last lifeline to a normal world, where wormholes to other planets and parasitic space worms were only found in science fiction.

Oh yeah, John knew exactly how he felt.

"You ready for this?" he asked, stepping up beside him at the bottom of the ramp leading to the Stargate.

"No," Zelenka said immediately, his voice too high and thready. "But I do not believe that it matters."

"Aw, c'mon, it's not so bad. Tingles a little."

"That is easy for you to say, major, because you do not comprehend the science involved in the process! We are about to be ripped apart at a molecular level and transported half way across the galaxy–"

O'Neill cut in, "Where the big, shiny ring on the other side will reassemble all the little pieces, hopefully in the right order." He shrugged. "We dumb military types prefer to think of it as magic."

Zelenka blanched, and John was struck by the sudden urge to kick O'Neill's ass for making his job that much more difficult. "Sir..."

"Major, you almost forgot this." O'Neill handed over the heavy black case that contained John's infamous paintball rifle. He leaned close to mock-whisper, "I know he's McKay's friend, but that doesn't mean you can go easy on him."

John sighed, "I wouldn't dream of it, sir," when in fact he'd intended to do exactly that.

"Good." The colonel straightened, delivering a hearty thump on Zelenka's back that almost sent the poor man stumbling. "Now, you kids have fun on your camp out, and remember to keep your radio handy. Morning check in is at 0900."

"Yes, sir."

"Dial it, Walter!"

Zelenka flinched when the wormhole splashed into existence, and for a moment he seemed immobilized, unable to even set foot on the ramp. But O'Neill was still there, grinning evilly, and at his signal a pair of guards broke away from the door, closing rank behind him; and perhaps it was the subtle threat of being bodily thrown through the Stargate that finally got Zelenka moving. He surged past John, eyes wild, with the look of a man about to hurl himself into deep water despite not being able to swim.

The event horizon swallowed him with barely a ripple.

John turned back to offer a brief, almost mocking salute before following.

~~

It was a fine, clear day on the other side of the gate, still late summer to judge by the temperature and foliage. He recalled something about the years being very long on this planet, and the seasons exceptionally slow to change. It would probably be a couple Earth-years before winter rolled around, and stayed around, and the SGC was forced to relocate their training exercises.

Zelenka had dropped his knapsack and was rotating in a slow circle, just... drinking in the sight. "Is this really...?"

"Yup. Welcome to P2A-509. Now, if you'll step this way, please, it's never a good idea to stand in the potential path of an incoming wormhole."

In his haste to scramble off the platform, Zelenka forgot his gear. John shouldered it along with his own, striking out in the direction of the site where they would make camp. He recalled the last time he'd made the trip, Rodney confused and hurt and angry, anxiously dogging his steps.

That was part of the problem—it was too damned quiet. A nice, protracted bitch fest would have gone a long way toward correcting John's unease, but Zelenka didn't seem inclined to oblige him. Instead, the scientist was tight-lipped and subdued, pressing in on John's side as if he expected a monster to burst out of the woods at any moment and try to drag him, screaming, into the underbrush.

"You can relax. The SGC's been holding training exercises on this planet for years, and they've never encountered any indigenous life more dangerous than large, biting insects."

"How large?" Zelenka demanded, suddenly realizing that he should be watchful for attacks from the sky as well. He hunched his shoulders, eyes scanning the underside of the forest canopy. "How large is large? How dangerous is dangerous?"

"We're talking mosquitoes, doc."

"Oh, certainly, alien mosquitoes carrying god knows what manner of disease! And I notice that you have a very impressive gun strapped to your chest. Am I supposed to believe you carry it as a fly-swatter?"

Now that's more like it. John crossed his arms, resting them on the butt of his P-90. "It's just a precaution. Procedure states that we never go off-world unarmed."

"Ha, then why am I unarmed? Your procedures are clearly faulty, and if your precaution is intended to reassure me... it has failed!"

"Maybe when you're all grown up like Rodney, with weapons certification and a couple dozen missions under your belt, you'll be allowed to carry a submachine gun into the field as well."

Zelenka was too busy looking up to watch where he was going, and his feet were especially adept at catching on every exposed root and uneven clump of ground. John gave up trying to warn him and hung slightly back, anticipating the fall. "Ha again! It will never happen, because I do not intend to undertake your missions, or travel through your Stargate. Your General Hammond could not convince me give up my life, my freedom, to join your program—for all his pretty words about saving the Earth and making great scientific discoveries. What makes them think you will do better, eh?"

"I have no idea," John told him honestly, and was saddened when it stopped the tirade cold.

~~

Timing was, from what Rodney could determine, his largest problem. Oh, he knew the dance: overestimate your resource needs, because you'll never receive half of what you'd like, and downplay your progress to create a buffer for the inevitable setbacks. He knew exactly how far he could push when a project's worth was being weighed against cost analysis and market conditions—which was why Barney's lot made him so nervous. He had no idea what the naquadah generator had cost them in terms of initial investment, or what they stood to gain from it. He couldn't judge that crucial point, the point of no return, where they might look at what they had, decide it wasn't worth the effort, and scrap the entire thing.

Including Rodney.

Of course, Rodney was likely to be scrapped regardless—that wasn't the point.

The point was-

"Another day. Or two. Maybe. I don't know."

Barney was stalking around the workbench, admiring Rodney's monstrous creation from every angle. It reminded Rodney of a complete philistine trying to make heads or tails out of a piece of conceptual art. "It looks finished to me."

"On the outside, maybe. But if I gave you a steel box with a few circuit boards in it and told you it was a functional computer, the minute you turned it on, you'd realize that it isn't useful to you without the software, the instructions to make it work. And I'm writing those instructions. I just– I need to be certain of some numbers."

"Isn't that why you've been running your 'simulations'?" Barney asked, all sly like he'd caught Rodney in some great falsehood.

"Of course it is!" Rodney snapped. "But this quote-unquote workstation you've given me has about as much computing power as a three-legged hamster on a wheel. I'm accustomed to using top-end equipment. If I'd known this piece of junk didn't even support multithreading–"

"Enough!" Barney roared, causing Rodney to sputter to a halt. "You have an explanation for everything, don't you, Dr McKay? Well, your explanations sound an awful lot like excuses to me. And I'm tired of listening to them. So now you listen to me. The generator will be finished tomorrow. Finished as in complete, fully operational, I flip the switch and the magic happens."

"But–"

"You can stay up all night running your simulations, or you can make a wild guess and pull a number out of your ass. I don't care how you do it, but you will do it, by tomorrow. Do I make myself clear?"

Rodney ground out between clenched teeth, "Perfectly."

"Excellent," Barney said, suddenly chipper, as if he hadn't just moments before been resting his hand meaningfully on the revolver he wore at his hip. The thing was enormous, intimidating in an old-school, Clint Eastwood fashion. The fuckhead was totally compensating for something. "Then I'll leave you to it. Oh, and I'll send Rollo down from the house to keep you company, make sure you're not slacking, that kind of thing."

"Gee, thanks."

On his way out, Barney slammed the door for good measure, but all he really got out of it was a hollow boom. The shed was too well-constructed for the vibrations to rattle the furniture, so to speak.

Oh yeah, and speaking of that point of no return? Hello, and goodbye.

Rodney dragged over his chair and pulled up the firmware he was writing for the device. It was time to purge the fake variables and insert the real thing before he took another crack at those simulations.

~~

One of the nice things about running Zelenka through Gate Travel 101 was that the man took John seriously from the get-go. John didn't have to throw his weight around or use scare tactics; Zelenka was frightened enough as it was, and he was more than willing to listen to the advice of a mere military grunt where matters of survival were concerned.

The only protest he'd made had been, "You do realize that I have not agreed to join your program."

And John had said, "I know. But what I'm about to tell you will allow you to make it home alive in the unlikely event that something were to happen to me."

And that had been that.

It hadn't been much work to make camp, just one tent large enough for them and their gear. John had made a fire early, more for comfort than necessity; and when Zelenka had watched the process avidly, treating it like a wilderness survival demonstration, John had told him that they weren't in the Boy Scouts, and that he surely didn't need to explain to a physicist that rubbing sticks together would cause friction and generate heat.

Then he'd cheated by busting out the firesteel. It had even earned him a grudging smile.

John hadn't prepared well, and his time management was crap. Despite pausing for a leisurely lunch, they'd still blown through the basics with unexpected speed, and by late afternoon he was eyeing the paintball rifle just for something to do. Maybe he wouldn't shoot at Zelenka, but teach him to shoot with it instead.

"You didn't happen to bring a book with you, did you?"

Zelenka looked up from the opposite side of the fire, startled. "Ah no. Sorry. I was given a list of items to pack, and leisure materials were not included."

"Oh."

"Is this... not usual?" Zelenka asked.

"No, not really. It's usually a larger group, a lot more, er, questions to wrangle."

"I see."

Paintball gun it was, unless John could think of something else. Fast. Oh god, and tomorrow was going to be so much worse that he might even resort to the obstacle course in desperation.

Silence stretched between them, so tedious that the hiss of the tiny fire and the tick tick of John's watch were welcome intrusions.

"Not big on conversation, are you?" John tried.

"Please take no offense, but I doubt that we have much in common to discuss."

"Might be surprised." Rodney was.

"Mm," wasn't a real answer, but Zelenka's disinterest was obvious in the way he continued to stare morosely at the fire.

John offered, "Ask me anything, and I'll try to answer. Truthfully. I mean, you've just traveled through a wormhole to an alien planet—okay, the mechanics of which are slightly beyond me—but you've got to be curious about other things. And... you and I probably won't have another chance to speak so freely. Might want to take advantage of it."

That got his attention. "Is that a warning, major?"

"Yes," John admitted.

Zelenka considered, and John wondered if his offer had been too lenient. Rodney's mind was dangerous when engaged; Zelenka's couldn't be too shabby in comparison, and if he lined up his questions strategically, there was a chance John could wander into a trap without knowing it. "They sent you because they believe you could have success convincing me."

It wasn't a question, but John said, "Yes," anyway.

"But it remains my choice."

"Now that you have the knowledge you do, we can't prevent you from using it any way you want. If you violate the terms of the confidentiality agreement, the consequences will be harsh, but the damage will have already been done. You know it, I know it, the SGC knows it."

"And this was the same decision Rodney had to make?"

Translation: I can't understand how someone as intelligent as Rodney would agree to work for the Air Force instead of telling them to fuck off. Again.

John couldn't lie; Rodney might have told Zelenka some of the truth already. "Rodney was caught doing something highly illegal. In his case, the Air Force had some pretty compelling... leverage to use. Willing or unwilling wouldn't have mattered to them. I was the one who argued for giving him a choice, and in the end I was able to convince him to come willingly."

Zelenka scowled. "And now you will attempt to do the same to me. Do not deny it."

"I won't."

"All right."

More silence.

"That's it?" John tried. "Wormhole, alien planet, and the extent of your curiosity is: Is the Air Force trying to manipulate me?"

"What is in the box?"

"Box?" If this was some kind of Schrödinger's Cat reference...

"The box, the one the silver colonel gave you," Zelenka pointed. "You do not touch it all day except to stare at it."

Oh. "The last time I led one of these field orientations– You know what? Just open it and see for yourself."

Zelenka blinked at him, uncertain, but John refused to explain further or do it himself; he was curious to see how Zelenka would handle he unknown. Rodney, for example would have marched over and flung the case open, then criticized the contents. Zelenka was far more cautious, easing over to their pile of gear as if his target might contain a live bomb.

"Go on," John encouraged, when it looked like he might just retrieve it for John instead.

Popping the latches and lifting the lid, Zelenka frowned. A lot of people weren't comfortable around firearms, even non-lethal, dismantled ones. But Zelenka's expression wasn't distaste; it was confusion. "I do not understand."

"A large part of your survival in the field—provided you accept the Air Force's offer, and if they declare you fit for field work—theoretically your survival depends on your ability to obey your team leader without question or hesitation. Let's just say that's a tool I've used in an exercise to improve readiness and response time."

"Whiskey," Zelenka stated in disbelief.

"What?"

He even removed the bottle and held it up for John to see.

"What the hell?" John came over to inspect the case, which still contained the molded foam insert to hold the rifle's parts in place. But there was no rifle.

There was, however, a note, scribbled on a corner torn off from a larger piece of paper. He read aloud, "It would have been vodka, but this is better warm. -J."

Zelenka was still holding the bottle by the neck. He looked at it, then at John, then the bottle again. Back to John, sharply, when John began to laugh. "What is the joke?"

Laughter felt strange, like something he barely remembered how to do. Then he was doubled over, clutching at his sides, and for an alarming moment he was afraid it might bubble over from amusement—or relief, or gratitude, he wasn't sure—but go from whatever it was to something more out of control. He reined himself in, blinking hard to pretend his eyes hadn't started to water. "Oh god, how do I explain?" He straightened, sweeping his arms outward. "Forget everything I told you today. No—wait. Don't forget, but put it out of your mind for now. And find something to use for glasses. Courtesy of Colonel O'Neill, that bottle is your unofficial introduction to the SGC. I say we start on it right now."

~~

Zelenka approached the fine art of getting wasted with caution and reserve. John matched his sparing intake until nightfall, when the first of the two moons made an appearance in the sky—along with the looming risk that they might both retire for bed more or less sober. And couldn't the damned idiot see that that would defeat the entire point of the exercise?

So, lounging on opposite sides of the little fire, Zelenka continued to whittle away at his glass, while John hit the bottle with the aplomb of a man aiming for oblivion.

Zelenka's frown, just visible in the flickering shadows, deepened with every gulp John put away. It was exactly the sort of vigilant, unobtrusive disapproval that John's father had always employed, and even after all the intervening years, his gut reaction was still the same: rebellion, preferably flaunted. He caught Zelenka's eye and raised the bottle, toasting, "To absent friends," before he tipped it back and drained swallow after swallow.

"Absent friends," Zelenka agreed, not touching his own drink. Instead, he set it aside and rose to approach John, resignation apparent in the set of his shoulders, as if he was accustomed to bearing the burden of reason by merit of being the only willing candidate.

Considering he'd known Rodney as long as he had... yeah, that wasn't surprising at all.

"Major... if we are to be stuck out here for days, I would appreciate it if you would save some of my liquor for later."

"It's not just yours," John said. "Colonel O'Neill sent it for me, too. It's my wake-up call."

"You know, sometimes I must assume that you are still speaking English, because I hear words leave your mouth, but collectively they make no sense."

John asked, "You remember the address to dial Earth, and the code to lower the iris?"

Hesitation. Then, "Yes."

"Good." He pried off the GDO, mostly with his teeth to avoid relinquishing the whiskey. "Here. You can be the designated driver if it makes you feel better."

"It does not," Zelenka said, but that didn't stop him from accepting the device and strapping it to his own wrist.

"Sit."

"Actually, if you insist on this course—and you have made it clear that you do—I prefer not to be your audience. Try not to step on me when you stumble to bed."

"Sit," John requested this time, and Zelenka grumbled something, but folded to the ground beside him, just outside of arm's reach. "What I meant was– Shit. Okay, look. We found out yesterday that whoever took Rodney had a ship. A spaceship, with hyperdrive capability. All this time we were looking for him on Earth, when he could be anywhere, on any one of a million–"

"Billion," Zelenka said. "In this galaxy alone there must be several hundred billion stars. Even if a fraction of them have planets which could sustain human life, we are still talking billions."

"Million or billions, hopeless is hopeless. Unless we can find someone on our planet who knows where Rodney is, or unless he manages to escape on his own..."

Zelenka demanded, "Is that what this is, then? Rodney's funeral, his– his wake? Wake, call, ah, stupid– Sorry to have not prepared eulogy, but first I would have to give up, and I refuse! So tell your Air Force–" Here, he left the confines of English and reverted to his native tongue, the epithet spewing majestically into the alien night.

He made to rise, but John lunged and caught his arm, hauling him back down. "No, wait! That's not it at all! We don't–"

"Release me, major, or I will take that bottle and smash it over your skull!"

"Listen to me!" It was probably unwise to abandon the very item Zelenka had suggested as a potential weapon, but John did it anyway, crawling over until he could get both hands on the scientist. Zelenka's glasses reflected the fire, save for the flash of a black silhouette that was John blocking the light. He was glad he couldn't see his own expression, if it was severe enough to cause Zelenka to flinch. "Please, just– No one is giving up on Rodney, understand? Not me, not the SGC. We don't– Hell, Daniel Jackson died, but Colonel O'Neill refused to give up on him, not when there was the smallest chance..."

Zelenka had tensed as if preparing for a struggle, but John felt him slowly uncoil under his grip. "I met Dr Jackson, yesterday. He seemed–"

Pretty alive for a dead guy? Too smart to have been caught up with the likes of O'Neill? "There was an accident on another planet. It was severe radiation poisoning." Zelenka's face twisted in fresh horror; trust a physicist to understand exactly the agony that would entail. "Right at the end, with the help of an alien—an Ancient—he was able to leave his body, to ascend to a state where he existed as pure energy."

"Impossible," Zelenka murmured.

John eased his grip, clambering into a more comfortable position—one that didn't involve half-straddling Zelenka to prevent his escape. "And last week, wormholes enabling travel across the galaxy were impossible, too."

"Highly improbable. Theoretically possible. Is important distinction."

"The point is, Colonel O'Neill has been here, in this exact same position. Daniel was lost for an entire year before he found a way to return—and the whole time, nobody even knew if it was possible, or if he would want to. O'Neill had to live with that, and this is his way of... of passing his experience on to me. To us. He's not asking me to let go of Rodney, understand? He's telling me that it's time to pick up and keep going, because sometimes that's all you can do."

Zelenka gnawed on his lip in silence, but eventually gave John a slow nod. "To arrange this... Colonel O'Neill must be a good commander."

"He is. One of the best I've served under. And he's one of the most decent human beings I've ever known," John swore.

"And Dr Jackson is his teammate for many years. There must be respect and–" He waved his hand vaguely.

"Yes, they're close," John said, because he was fairly certain Zelenka hadn't been insinuating anything. Besides, it was readily apparent to anyone who'd spent five minutes in the same room with the pair. "SG-1 is like family to each other."

Ah yes, and here the trap, wicked teeth sinking into John's stupidly oblivious ass, goddammit all to hell. "If O'Neill does this for you because Rodney is missing, then it is the same between you." Incredulity lifted his voice at the end, almost a question.

Fuck. John refused to answer, crawling back to snag the bottle. But for a man of Zelenka's astuteness, that was probably answer enough.

Then, just when he'd thought the worst was over, Zelenka informed him, "Rodney is gay. This is not problematic?"

"Because he works for the military?" John intentionally misunderstood, his pulse hammering.

"Yes, and also–" He made a gesture that encompassed John as well as the empty space between them—which apparently represented the absent subject of the discussion.

It was a struggle to keep his voice calm, level. "No, not a problem." Or rather, it wasn't Rodney's problem.

Zelenka hummed, as if John had delivered the anticipated response. And suddenly it made sense, things Rodney had mentioned, and other things he'd left unsaid. Zelenka was talking abstractly, using Rodney as an example. He was assessing his options, imagining himself in Rodney's position. Probably wondering most of all how Rodney could tolerate being subservient to the former enemy.

"It is dangerous," he said finally, his tone challenging John to deny it.

"Extremely. We lose good people, but we never sacrifice them needlessly."

"Mm." When Zelenka reached for the bottle, John passed it over without protest. The slug he knocked back more than made up for his earlier restraint. Wiping his mouth on his hand, he said, "I will tell you something about Rodney and myself that you probably do not know. We met at university, in grad school. Before that, I was not... accustomed to receiving competition from my classmates. And Rodney is not humble. If he is better than you in some way, he will not allow you to forget it."

"Isn't that the truth," John mumbled.

"If we were to take the same class in a semester, I learned to take a different professor, so that it was not a race between us to see who would be first. Sometimes it was not possible, and we ended up together, and we would fight and sour our friendship until it was over. Then we graduated, sought higher degrees. Our interests were different enough that we were not constantly stepping on toes, and it was easier to live with him. But the biggest competition was still ahead, leaving university and finding jobs, making reputations. Rodney... felt that he achieved the better position, with authority and a big salary."

Aha, John could finally see where this was leading. "While you felt there were other ways to measure success."

"Exactly, yes. Tenure at a fine university is very respectable. I publish papers, write books, while Rodney files useless patents and decides arbitrarily that he is the winner. Until poof! He quits and runs away to be a crazy man in the woods! Who is the winner now, eh?"

Wow, that had to suck. His whole career, this guy had been measuring himself against McKay, waiting for a shot at vindication.

"Then I discover that recklessness and complete chance earns Rodney a job at Area 51. The knowledge eats me alive with jealousy. And now I am offered the same chance. How is it possible to refuse? To do so would be cowardice, the greatest failure of all."

It isn't, John wanted to argue. But if Zelenka's self-respect hung in the balance, nothing he could say could change it. Instead, he confided, "I have a brother. I know what it's like to be in constant rivalry with the person closest to you."

Zelenka regarded him intently. "Yes, I believe you do understand. And you have given me perspective I needed. I will have my answer for General Hammond when we return to Earth." He patted the ground beside him. "Now come."

"What? Why?"

"Come, major. I do not bite. I merely want to show you the one thing in which Rodney could never best me."

Damn it, if this turns out to be in any way sexual... Sighing, John stood and crossed the scant distance on his feet, far more dignified than crawling again.

"Can you play chess? I will teach you vodka rules."

Phew, is that all? "Some. Good idea though. I'll dig through the packs, find something to use for pieces. Want to draw us up a board?"

Zelenka tapped his temple. "Who has need for boards and pieces?"

Oh no. John groaned. "Listen, I'm really not that good–"

"Good doesn't matter in vodka rules. I want to know, can you keep track in your head? Rodney claims your visualization abilities are well above average."

Like that was going to help him when there was booze involved. "I'll try. No promises though. And no cheating."

Zelenka assured him cockily, "I will not have to cheat to win. I will even allow you to play white."

"And let me guess, vodka rules means I have to drink every time you capture one of my pieces?"

"That would be too easy! No, you drink every time you are forced to capture one of my pieces."

"This is what you and Rodney used to do for fun?" John choked. "Competitive alcohol-fueled reverse mental chess?"

Zelenka taunted, "What is the problem? Afraid you cannot out-drink a puny scientist?"

A Czech? Oh god, there was no way. And he recalled Rodney saying that Zelenka would wait for him to pass out, then draw embarrassing things on him with a permanent black marker. "If– No, when I keel over, you have to promise to drag me to bed. Don't leave me out here all night for the mosquitoes."

"It is a promise. It is also your move. I wonder, will you be a timid opponent, or an aggressive one?"

"I'm afraid I don't know the difference. You'll have to tell me."

"Your move?"

"G4," John decided. He would settle for being unpredictable if it would improve his chances.

When Zelenka smirked and rubbed his hands together in anticipation, he took it as confirmation that he was in deep, deep trouble.

~~

Rodney caught his sleep in chunks, between rounds of simulations—worthless simulations that told him nothing new, because his calculations were flawless, and his initial estimates so accurate that they were still holding, right down to the wire. At this point, the tests were spectacle, mere showmanship, but he went through the motions anyway because it was expected of him, and because he was a loyal student of the exalted school of Covering Thine Ass.

Not... that he was going to have an ass left to cover, if everything went off according to plan. One of the glaring uncertainties was the amount of naquadah he had to work with, which in turn was going to affect the amount of time it took to build the necessary charge. Too long and Barney's gang would grow impatient; and then he would be glad to have the test results to fling around as a diversionary tactic. It might keep him alive long enough for the device to go off.

He desperately wanted to see it go off. He'd worked hard enough on the damned thing. And the device itself was... well, it wouldn't be far-fetched to call it revolutionary. Okay, maybe the design was derivative, but some of the modifications he'd made had been truly inspired, and there was no getting around that he was about to perform an important experiment, marrying what was essentially developmental weapons technology to an extremely potent alien power source.

The fact that he had no means to measure the resulting output—let alone preserve any harvested data!—was absolutely devastating.

Well, not devastating on the level of making a Nobel-worthy breakthrough, only to find out that someone else had beaten you to the punch by mere weeks. But heartbreaking, certainly.

He blinked, dragging himself out of another minor stupor to refocus on the monitor in front of him. The conclusion of the latest test was flashing at him from the bottom of the screen: Complete, 1h14m38s.

Status: pass.

Proceed with upload? y/n

His creation, his poor baby.

The bang had better be epic.

He struck yes, waited for the confirmation, then staggered off to his cot to try to steal an hour or two of uninterrupted rest.

~~

"Major, your radio is speaking."

Consciousness hit John like a cement truck. At least, it felt as if he'd been run over by one. His entire body ached, and his head was screaming with such agony that he wouldn't have been surprised at all to reach up and discover that it had split open like an overripe melon.

Oh god, wrong image, wrong image! His stomach wasn't doing so hot, either.

"Major? It is requesting our morning check-in. What should I do?"

John struggled to extract an arm from his sleeping bag; he was positive that the damned thing fought back. "Give it here," he croaked, reaching blindly, not yet willing to open his eyes.

Zelenka put the radio in his hand, closing his thumb over the transmit button. He was grateful for the help... right until he remembered that it was Zelenka's fault he needed help in the first place. Careful to shield his eyes in the crook of his other arm, he brought the radio up to his face. "Sheppard here."

"Good morning, Major!" Oh fuck, it was O'Neill, chipper and obnoxious and way too goddamned loud. The bastard was probably yelling into his microphone. "How are you this fine day?"

"Alive," about summed it up.

"That's marvelous to hear! How did yesterday's initiation go? Did you and Zelenka make use of the item I sent along in the case?"

"Fine, sir. And he tried to kill me with it."

Alarmed, Zelenka shouted, "I did no such thing!"

"See, I knew I was gonna like that guy."

"Kinda wish he'd succeeded," John confided in a whisper.

"Is that so? Then fine—I was going to make offer of aspirin, but now I take it back!"

"Anything further to report?"

"No sir." Aside from the fact that John owed him for this. Owed him so much. O'Neill had to know there was a payback somewhere with his name on it.

"In that case, I've got some news you might like to hear."

"News?" John asked, flailing into a sitting position. Oh, bad idea, bad...

"Yeah. You know how Carter was hunting through security footage from Area 51? Well, she hit the jackpot. And Harry– You don't know Harry, do you? He was before your time."

If the tent would stop spinning, maybe he could pay attention to what O'Neill was saying. It sounded important. "Who?"

"Harry Maybourne. Colonel. Former. He was assigned to Area 51 for a while, was involved with the– Zelenka's still listening in?"

Zelenka went stone still, presumably to draw as little attention to himself as possible.

"Yes sir."

"–he was involved with the rogue elements who were using the second Stargate to steal alien technology from other worlds. We caught him, and he stood trial for treason. Now here's where it gets complicated: He did us a favor, pulling up dirt on Kinsey when Kinsey was trying to blackmail Hammond, and in return, I sort of– Well, I didn't help him escape, he did that on his own. But there may have been certain instances where getting information out of him was more important than dragging his sorry ass back to prison. And this might have been one of those instances."

"There is second Stargate?" Zelenka hissed.

John swatted at him. "What did you learn, sir?"

"McKay's on his way to being cleared. Maybourne ID'd one of our thieves as former NID. We thought we'd eradicated the rogue faction, but apparently we missed some of them. We're looking into it. Carter's got an in with the agency. And Kinsey's probably up to his neck in it, but that's a dead end. Man's as slippery as a greased pig."

Rodney. Cleared. It was about goddamned time. "That's... good to know, sir. Thank you."

"We'll keep you posted with new developments, but don't hold your breath. It could take us a while to crack this one."

Any lead, no matter how tenuous, was better than fumbling blindly. "Understood, sir. And I have a request."

"Shoot."

"When we determine their base of operation, I want to join the rescue party."

"Asking permission, major? After the last time, I figured I'd have to lock you up to prevent you from storming the citadel single-handed."

John felt himself flush. It was a joke, but also a warning; O'Neill had helped salvage John's career the last time, but he wouldn't be able to mitigate a second fuck-up. "That's plan B, sir. I'd really like to stick to plan A."

"I'll see what I can do." He brightened. "In the meantime, don't let me keep you from breakfast. What's it going to be? Chili and macaroni? Beef stew?"

John moaned.

"Yeah, that's not my favorite either. All those little chunks remind me of–"

"Sheppard out!" John said desperately, switching off the radio and pitching it across the tent. He eased back down, pressing his face into his makeshift pillow, just... waiting for his stomach to stop trying to turn itself inside out.

Zelenka made soft sounds of sympathy. "That Colonel O'Neill–"

"I take it all back. The man's a bastard and a sadist."

"He claims to like me."

"He claims to like me, too."

"In other words, I am, as Rodney would say, screwed?"

John couldn't help a tiny smile. "Pretty much."

~~

The dream he'd been caught in hadn't been... pleasant. Rodney might have even thanked Rollo for jolting him out of it, if the asshole hadn't done so by slapping the side of Rodney's head with his gloves.

"What the–" He bolted upright, not really connecting the stinging in his cheek to the man looming over his cot until he noticed Rollo pulling the limp, supple leather through his hands, as if readying for another strike. "Jesus, enough already! I'm up, I'm up!"

"Barney's ready for you, and you know he doesn't like to be kept waiting," Rollo informed before stalking out of the cell.

Rodney condensed his morning routine to splashing water on his face and taking a piss. He'd considered dragging his feet, but Barney really didn't like to wait, and with the device finished, Rodney's immediate usefulness to the bastard was about to come to an abrupt end. So he'd deemed it expedient to be on his best behavior.

Still, he couldn't help blurting, "What is this, show and tell?" when he shuffled, bleary, into the main room to discover– Well, it might not be the entire gang, but it had to be most of them, including the guy Rodney hadn't seen since he'd been zatted by the fake airman and tossed in the back of a base vehicle.

They were all clustered around the workbench, a respectful—wary?—distance from Barney, who was working the catches of a serious hazmat container. "About time you joined us, Dr McKay. Now, if you would do the honors?"

Rodney crossed his arms over his chest, hoping to appear more stubborn than defensive and flat-out scared. "Impatient much? I mean, you don't even know if I was able to successfully complete the simulations."

Barney flipped the lid back, withdrawing a second, transparent container from the padded interior. It was thick acrylic, designed to shield lab personnel from small quantities of radioactive material. Combined with the lead-lined outer case, it would explain why the SGC hadn't detected the naquadah's energy signature and swooped in to rescue his ass. "If you were not prepared, doctor, you would have already informed me, in excruciating detail."

"And that's a perfectly reasonable assumption to make, but it doesn't change the fact that you're ready to throw the switch without even asking me! For all you know, the generator could pose a risk to yourself and your men. It could still require calibration–"

Barney's smile became more and more forced, until he merely baring his teeth. "In which case it would pose the same risk to your own precious backside, and I know you wouldn't allow that to go unremarked. Now, the power core, Dr McKay."

"Don't I even get breakfast first?"

"Load the damned core!"

Rodney had no choice but to accept the inner container when Barney shoved it at him. "All right. Just– It'd be nice if you'd stop yelling at me," he shouted right back. "My nerves are shot as it is, and this is extremely delicate work that requires a steady hand. So you and your goons need to back the fuck off for a minute and let me work!"

Barney gave him a cold, hard glare before finally relinquishing a step. "Okay?"

He waited, cradling the naquadah, until the man had backed off another few steps. "Okay." The chamber was already prepped; in theory, all he would need to do would be to drop the core in place, clamp it down, and re-seal the generator. But when he opened the radiation shield... "Oh, you have got to be shitting me. I know naquadah's rare, but seriously, this is all you were able to obtain?"

"We were assured that the sample size would be sufficient for your needs," Barney ground out.

"If this sample was an engagement ring, you'd need a magnifying glass to see the diamond chip," Rodney grumbled. He had to make some fast adjustments to the mount to make sure the sample wouldn't slip. When he was satisfied that the contact points would remain solid, he closed the generator. "There. It's done. I think."

Oh god, it's finished, it's ready. Oh god.

Barney handed him a professional-grade power meter. "Good. Hook it up."

A meter? Fuck. They were going to know right away that the generator wasn't producing any power. "Don't bother. I mean, don't get me wrong, this is a nice piece of equipment–" Probably cost a couple grand—if they hadn't stolen it. "–but if the generator was fully fueled, its power output could rival that of a small nuclear reactor. Even with the amount of naquadah in the chamber, we're still talking... I don't know, a few hundred megawatts? It'll fry this thing."

"Which is why we're going to start small. Five percent of full capacity. Our client will be particularly interested in the quality of the power output, so I want you to take measurements at every increment."

Client? What the hell?

"Dr McKay?"

"Five percent, I heard you." He attached the meter with a spiraling sense of dread. The naquadah sample was so small that the charge could take minutes to build. His bluff was going to have to hold at least that long. And thank god he'd actually coded menus into the "control panel", rather than just program it to display the charge progress. He pretended to set the requested output. "There, five percent—it's done."

"Power it up."

"Wait a minute. Are you sure you don't want to review safety procedures–"

Barney shouldered him aside and slammed his hand down on the ignition switch.

"Oh god," Rodney said, staring in horror. The device was on—it was armed, and there was no shutting it down, and he was dead because when they found out what he'd done, they were going to kill him.

At least one of the goons had flinched, and the whole group of them was leaning collectively in the direction of the door. But when the device didn't smoke or spark or make threatening sounds, they seemed to relax. Only Barney was still tightly wound; he was near enough to Rodney that Rodney could practically feel the anticipation rolling off him as he scrutinized the power meter. "Is it working?" he demanded. "Why does this still read zero?"

"Give it a minute. The ah, the alternator needs to wait for the capacitors to prime," he lied, watching the charge tick up. Two percent. Two and a quarter. Two and a half. Oh god, there wasn't enough naquadah; it was going to take too long and they were going to realize that something was wrong and shoot him on the spot.

"Doctor McKay!"

"It's working, see!" Rodney snapped, pointing at the readout.

Barney leaned in for a better look. "Three percent? And you're telling me this thing has to reach 100 before I get my power?"

"Yes, hello, did I not just tell you that you have to wait? Power generation isn't an instantaneous process. It's not like flipping on a light!"

"Now that's more like it," Barney said, nodding at the display... which now read sixteen percent.

What the hell?

"Did it just–" Even as he was watching it, the display leaped again, to thirty-three percent. "No, oh no. This isn't good."

"It's moving faster. How is that not good?"

"Because–" Because the pace wasn't supposed to vary. It was supposed to remain uniform; the reaction was supposed to remain uniform. "Look, the principles that determine the rate of reaction state that it shouldn't change. It should remain constant. These surges? Are bad. They're indicative of a short, or a– a– burned-out component, a loose connection, I don't know."

Thirty-three percent and holding. No gain at all.

"Oh, this isn't good."

Barney crossed his arms. "You said that already. So stop yammering and fix it."

"Oh, thank you so much for the suggestion. It never would have occurred to me to just fix it." He wiggled his fingers like a stage magician performing a trick. "You see, in order to do that I'd have to shut it down first, which I can't do."

"Can't, or don't want to?"

"Can't as in it's impossible!" Short of– No, he couldn't open the chamber while the reaction was in progress, and severing the connection from the chamber to the coils might just cause a feedback loop that really would cause the damned thing to explode. "I just don't understand how this could happen. My calculations were clean, and the simulations predicted a smooth, even gain. Nothing at all like this–"

Thirty-three percent spiked to fifty-four.

"It's getting worse."

Barney grabbed him by the arm and hauled him aside. "Doctor, I am beyond fed up with your histrionics. Now you either shut that thing down now or I'll do it for you. And if I have to do it myself, I guarantee that you will not enjoy the consequences."

"I'm not faking it this time!" Rodney hissed.

"But you were before."

"Oh my god, are you listening to me? The reaction is unstable, and if the charge continues to build in these wild fluctuations– Oh fuck, I wish I hadn't thought of that. I really, really wish I hadn't thought of that."

Barney drew his gun, cocked it, and leveled his arm at Rodney. "I want answers. Now!"

Rodney stumbled backward. "The generator was designed to slowly build a charge to a desired level before releasing it," he babbled, arms raised defensively. "If the reaction continues to fluctuate like this... there's a chance that one of these spikes won't just raise the charge to full, it'll overload it by a magnitude of... I don't know, but possibly up to thirty or forty percent. That's far too much for the system to handle! I've been trying to tell you, the situation is dangerous. We need to get out of here!"

Even if Barney wasn't choosing to believe Rodney, the goons were. They started scrambling for the door, until Barney swung his gun around and aimed it at them. "Nobody's going anywhere!"

"But sir–"

"He's probably lying, jerking us around like he has been from the very beginning. He never had any intention of working for us."

"You never had any intention of letting me live. I just returned the favor."

Ninety-two percent.

The fluctuations were increasing, but not according to any predictable pattern—the growth wasn't linear, or exponential, or hyperbolic. Still, the behavior teased recognition at the back of his mind, almost as if he'd seen it before. It didn't make any goddamned sense, but-

He had seen it before, in the hyperdrives of the F-302s.

"The power core is naquadria, isn't it? Oh my god, you gave me naquadria for fuel instead of naquadah. We are all so fucked."

"McKay, shut the fuck up and shut off the fucking device!" Barney's complexion had surpassed a livid shade of red, and he was swinging his gun indiscriminately now, finger slipped inside the trigger guard, ready to blow the shit out of the next thing that moved in the wrong direction.

"Don't you get it? You've been set up. Whoever gave you the naquadria knew that if it was used to power the generator, the instability of the reaction would rise to critical levels and cause the device to explode. It would have already exploded if I'd built the generator to plan! And I'm not talking a little bang. I'm talking destruction on the scale of a nuclear warhead. Thank god we aren't in a city, or– That's why we're stuck out here in the middle of nowhere, isn't it? To keep incidental casualties low. It makes sense, you know it does, you have to believe me!"

The first flicker of doubt crossed Barney's face, but he'd finally settled on a target. The muzzle was firmly trained on Rodney now. "What do you mean, you didn't build it to plan?"

Rodney squeezed his eyes shut. Not... that he'd be able to see a bullet coming, anyway. "It's not a power generator, it's an EMP generator! I modified it to be an electromagnetic pulse generator. I thought I could knock out your communications, maybe cripple your vehicles–"

"And lead the SGC right to us," Barney spat. "You're right—I'm gonna fucking kill you."

"If I'd followed your orders, we would already be dead!" With the witnesses and evidence conveniently destroyed, and the murderous bastard responsible free to waltz away without a speck of blood on their hands. "I saved your goddamned life, but that is going to be a temporary condition unless we get the fuck away from this thing before it goes off!"

Barney slammed against him as he surged past Rodney.

"No, don't!" Rodney shouted. "The off switch doesn't work, and the shielding might not be sufficient to-

He didn't even get close enough to touch the generator. Before he could reach it, a wide, crackling ribbon of electricity arced out and connected with his grasping fingers. He hit the ground convulsing, hands twisted claw-like at his chest, his mouth gaping in a silent scream.

The spasms were strong enough to pull the trigger of the revolver still in his grasp. A shot rang out, ricocheting off the wall in a shower of sparks and concrete chips.

The goons broke and fled, shoving each other aside in their haste to escape.

"Oh god, oh god." He'd seen death before, but he was far from accustomed to it, and this was a particularly ugly one. Barney's heels drummed frantically on the concrete for a few seconds before his body fell still. "You stupid idiot! I warned you! Why didn't you listen?" A raw sound broke from him as he edged around the corpse and ran for the door.

...which closed and latched behind the last of the goons before Rodney was half way across the room.

They had keys. He didn't.

Barney had keys... if Rodney could muster the nerve to dig through his pockets for them. But he would still need time to reach the door and get it open, and what if he couldn't find the right key, or accidentally broke it off in the lock, or– or– And the surge that finally overloads the generator could hit at any second.

Any protection would be better than being caught directly in the blast. He turned and bolted, not for Barney's corpse, but for his cell, where he threw himself into the furthest, most protected corner. Huddling, he shielded his head with his arms, pressing into the chill, rough concrete.

Just like those old public service announcements. Duck and cover! It was really fucking hilarious, even though he knew it shouldn't be.

Of course, it's also possible that the surge could short out the generator entirely. I'm going to feel so stupid if the whole thing just harmlessly fizzles.

Oh god, John, I'm sorry. It wasn't supposed to happen this way.

The roar of the explosion and the concussion of the shock wave struck him simultaneously.

~~

John would have liked nothing better than to ignore his radio when it chirped again, less than an hour after the morning check-in. Sadly, that wasn't an option, but he could take spiteful pleasure in delaying his response.

Zelenka unzipped the top of the door and stuck his head into the tent. He professed to feel "fine" after the previous night, and had even opted for breakfast, though he'd been banished outside for the duration. "Major, your– Ah."

"On it," John said, turning over with a groan before levering himself to his hands and knees. " 's probably just O'Neill, swinging by to take another potshot at my sorry, hungover ass." He crawled toward the spot where he vaguely remembered throwing the radio, searching with his sweeping hands more than anything. "He's gotta be really hard up for entertainment if he's back again so soon. Usually he's better at pacing himself."

"More to the left, I think, major. No, your left."

"Here?"

"Perhaps if you were to remove those ridiculous sunglasses you could see for yourself."

"No! The glasses stay." The radio made another insistent chirp, and John was finally able to seize it. Victorious, he waved it in Zelenka's direction. "Mountain, this is Major Sheppard, over."

"Sheppard." Sure enough, it was O'Neill. But John's grin died as the colonel plowed on, all cold authority without a trace of humor. "I need you and Zelenka back on base asap."

John was already reaching for his boots. "Yes, sir. Is there trouble, sir? Should I take precautions?" Just because the SGC had never encountered hostile, intelligent life on the planet didn't mean it couldn't happen. Anubis' tendency to obliterate any perceived competition was driving many of the lesser Goa'uld lords to seek shelter on obscure, backwater worlds—the more remote and uncivilized the better.

"No. Leave your gear. Speed is the utmost concern."

"Sir–"

"As fast as you can get here, major," O'Neill repeated. Then the connection was dead.

Finishing with the laces on his boots, John refused to meet Zelenka's appraising expression. It was unavoidable, though, when he went to leave the tent and the damned man was still there, blocking his path.

"An in intriguing development, major."

"You wanna get out of my way? I can't even stand up in here."

Zelenka moved aside, and even assisted John with the door's zipper, but he wasn't finished. "Very intriguing. One might even say... convenient."

John didn't bother with his vest or his pack, didn't bother with anything besides pocketing the radio and his GDO, and shouldering the P90. "A scare tactic, you mean? No. I wouldn't put it past some of them–" Hammond, for one. "–but not O'Neill. If anything, his inclination is to downplay trouble. Whatever's making him recall us is real, and it's urgent," he said, striking out in the direction of the Stargate.

"How can you be so sure? He told you nothing!" When there was no answer, Zelenka got the hint that he was in danger of being left behind—not just in camp, but on the planet. "Major? Wait!" Muttering, he poured a canteen of drinking water over the tiny cooking fire, kicked the hissing ashes to scatter any residual heat, and pelted after John.

~~

When the wormhole spat them out, there was no one in the gateroom to greet them—save the ever-present guards, with their rifles at the ready, and postures that could go from casual to deadly serious inside a heartbeat.

"Ah, home sweet home," John said, swinging out of his P90 as he clattered down the ramp.

Zelenka was his shadow, pressing in close behind him as John relinquished his weapons to one of the Airmen. "Major, are we in some sort of trouble?" he whispered.

"Relax, this is perfectly normal. Any time anyone goes off-world, there's a risk they might return with... uninvited passengers. So we always take precautions, keep a close eye on incoming personnel until they've been through the post-mission decon and medical exam. Which is where we're going right now. This way."

"Ah," Zelenka said, following John, who was following their armed escort.

"So, um, is there any chance I could have my personal space back? No offense, but..." John really didn't want to parade around the SGC with Zelenka farther up his ass than a bad wedgie.

"Oh. Sorry."

"Thanks."

John thought it would be prudent to make use of the shower facilities in decon, and after a twinge of modesty, Zelenka did the same. It was one of the med techs who conducted the snake scan, and John didn't catch so much as a glimpse of Fraiser to ask her just what in the hell was going on. But even if he had, there was a good chance she wouldn't know anything, and putting out feelers for information would only alert Zelenka that things were far less routine than John was letting on.

He was rejoined by the scientist in the hallway outside the medical exam rooms. "All clear, doc?"

Shuddering, Zelenka curled his arms around himself. "Yes, it is great relief to know I am not carrying sentient alien parasite in my head."

"You have no idea. Whatever you're imagining, the reality is far worse, I assure you."

Zelenka drew back, alarmed. "You?"

"Yeah." His fingers itched to rub the scar on the back of his neck. "Rodney too. Forget the science and the tech and even the threat of prison. You want to know the real reason he's committed to the SGC? He's shared headspace with the enemy, and he knows what Earth will look like if the Goa'uld win."

"Now who is employing scare tactics?" Zelenka muttered.

John shrugged. "It's the truth, and you wouldn't believe me if I tried to sugar-coat it."

"No, no I would not." Shifting, Zelenka faced him. "What now, major?"

"We wait." And hope that O'Neill remembered he'd sent for them before John had to hunt the bastard down and sit on his chest until he coughed up some answers. "C'mon. I don't know about you, but I'm dying for a coffee."

They didn't make it as far as the mess. O'Neill himself caught them at the elevator. "Zelenka. Sheppard," he said, peering at John's bloodshot eyes. "You look like crap."

"Allergies, sir. You know how it is, encountering all that weird stuff off-world."

"Heh."

"Care to let us in on the big secret?"

The elevator opened, and O'Neill hustled them inside, punching a floor. "No time. Just follow my lead."

"Yes sir."

Zelenka shot John a look, and John could only smile blandly in return.

O'Neill led them straight to the conference room. The door was closed, which, in John's experience, was never a good sign. Pushing it open, the colonel announced, "Gentlemen, Major Sheppard and Dr Zelenka."

It was a full house. SG-1 was present, along with Major Davis and his unfamiliar entourage. At the interruption, General Hammond pushed out of his seat, saying, "Excuse me," as he moved to block the trio at the door. "Colonel, care to explain yourself?" he demanded, voice pitched low so it wouldn't carry.

O'Neill was playing it straight for once—also a bad sign. "I took the liberty of recalling Major Sheppard and Dr Zelenka from off-world. I figured that if this matter does involve McKay, they might be able to provide us some valuable insight. Sir."

Hammond snorted, unimpressed.

"It can't hurt," O'Neill tried again. "God knows we can use all the help we–"

"Thank you, colonel." Hammond turned on Zelenka. "Doctor, I don't have time for tact. You're not taking another step until I've heard your answer. Do you agree to work for us under our terms or not?"

Zelenka shifted, eyes darting around the room.

"Major, have a seat. Colonel, have a guard escort Dr Zelenka to the guest quarters. He can wait there until I've decided what to do with him."

"Yes, yes I do!" Zelenka protested, then breathed a few words in Czech that had the quality of a prayer.

Hammond assessed him a moment before relenting. "In that case, have a seat, everyone." He resumed his own at the head of the table, O'Neill trailing to take the vacant spot at his left.

The trek across the long room was particularly awkward, reminding John of the times he'd been caught trying to slip late into the back of a class. At least there were spare chairs, even if there weren't enough briefing folders to go around. Jackson casually slid his over for John and Zelenka to share.

"Thanks," John mouthed, and got a quirked eyebrow in response.

"As I was saying," Hammond launched right back in, "we're virtually in the dark. The phenomenon is interfering with communications on a devastating scale, and there are unconfirmed reports that it has had a negative impact on the power grid. Our sensors have been unable to penetrate the affected area, and satellite imaging is a no-go. In fact, all of our systems that rely on satellite relays are offline, with no ETA on recovery. We're working to import specialists on counter-terrorism and electromagnetic weapons, but finding them and getting them here is a problem."

Zelenka was leafing through the briefing report, but by the way his head was cocked, John could tell his attention was mostly for Hammond. And maybe he would be able to piece together whatever the hell Hammond was talking about, but John was lost. Damn it, I hate playing catch up. He snagged a notepad and scrawled a message for Daniel. What'd I miss? Borrow your notes?

Daniel read, nodded, and took the paper. Keeping one eye on Hammond, he wrote: Massive disruption in the Earth's magnetic field over south-central US. Cause unknown. No observed solar flares, etc. Could be high-altitude EMP bomb, except nothing was spotted entering our airspace.

Ah, now he understood why O'Neill had recalled them. John stole the pen back. They think Rodney's involved. Not a question.

Daniel found a pen of his own. The naquadria could power such a bomb. And the ship that took him does have a cloak.

John let out a frustrated sigh, and when Zelenka tapped his arm, curious, John slid over the note for him to read.

"We've dispatched a high-altitude reconnaissance craft," Hammond was saying, "and we should know more once it returns to base—although we lost radio contact soon after take-off, and standing orders are to abort the mission if any critical on-board systems are disrupted. Presumably all air traffic for the region has been diverted or grounded, but we don't know for certain because we haven't been able to maintain contact with the FAA. Likewise, Major Carter is in-bound from Area-51, but she may be forced to turn back."

Navigating without GPS or VOR? Yeah, that would suck. John flipped through the briefing report, which held a staggering wealth of questionably pertinent information: An abbreviated version of McKay's service record; a materials fact sheet for naquadria; technical specs for the Goa'uld cargo ship; an overview of EMP; dossiers for the former-NID thief, and for all known associates including Harry Maybourne and Senator Kinsey. A map estimating the dead zone, which covered... dear god, parts of Texas, Oklahoma, Kansas, Missouri, Arkansas, Louisiana, New Mexico and Colorado.

Zelenka handed back the paper. Under Daniel's note he'd written: What is naquadria?

John flipped back to the fact sheet, and felt Zelenka tense beside him as he ingested the details. If this is true, is incredible, he wrote in the margin.

Dangerous, John corrected. The people who kidnapped Rodney stole some. We've been afraid of what they might do with it. Now we know.

One of the people John didn't recognize spoke up. "All right. Assuming this rogue faction kidnapped Dr McKay with the intention of forcing him to make this device, this weapon." He made it clear by the emphasis that he doubted very much Rodney was anything but a willing, cooperative participant. "The drop point makes no sense. What's so special about the middle of Texas? Why choose an area with a relatively low population density? Why not target a major city? New York, Washington, Chicago..."

Davis said, "Or for that matter, if it was a terrorist attack, why hasn't someone stepped forward to claim responsibility or make demands?"

"Maybe they can't. They could be caught in their own communications blackout."

"No way. They have a spaceship. They probably dropped the device just inside the atmosphere, then returned to orbit to watch events unfold."

Frowning, Zelenka pulled the report away from John. He found the map again, and stabbed emphatically at the page a few times.

John made an I-don't-follow gesture.

Exasperated, Zelenka crossed out the point that had been plotted as the epicenter of the disturbance, and drew another point, north, closer to the top of the zone.

You sure? John wrote.

Zelenka nodded violently.

John snagged Daniel's attention and showed him the edited map.

Daniel's eyebrows crept toward his hairline. Forgoing the pen, he leaned in to whisper, "Zelenka thinks the epicenter was up there?"

"I don't know how, but he says he's sure."

Zelenka snagged John's sleeve, and John scooted back enough to allow him to join the huddle. He explained softly, "Earth's magnetic field is not... is not straight," and slanted his hand to demonstrate. "EMP interacts with field, is warped by it. Affected area would not perfect circle, more like..." Flipping his hand over, he cupped it.

Hammond's voice rumbled down the length of the table. "Gentlemen, do you have something to discuss with the group?"

"No sir," John apologized.

At the same time, Daniel said, "Yes sir, I think we do."

Aghast, Zelenka said, "Ah, no, is nothing. I am probably wrong."

"Tell him," Daniel pressed.

"Dr Zelenka, need I remind you that your purpose at this meeting is to provide scientific input? If you have something to contribute, do it. Otherwise, refrain from speaking out of turn."

Zelenka paled, and for a moment John was certain he would back down. But he gathered the map and rose slowly to his feet. "It is just this... ah, pardon my English. This area, it represents impact, yes?"

"From the sparse reports we've been able to gather, the region inside the zone experienced moderate to severe impact, including disruption or full loss of communications. The demarcation is an estimate and should by no means be considered accurate." Full stop, end of discussion.

But Zelenka wasn't finished, and now that he'd started, John could sense that he wouldn't back down easily. "I am not geophysicist," he admitted, "but unless there is one in the room, I am closest you have." There was a pause to allow contenders to step forward; when no one did, he made a very, very soft snort of vindication. "Okay, then it is up to me to explain. EMP interacts with Earth's magnetic field. If field was straight, area of effect would be circle, like this, with epicenter here. But field is not straight, and it would produce a curve, like so." His finger traced an arc on the map... not that anyone sitting as far away as Hammond could see what the hell he was doing. "Impact more severe to the south, less to the north. If you send your plane here, to search, they will take pictures of the wrong location."

Hammond snapped upright in his chair; Zelenka had his attention, whether the poor man wanted it or not. "I thought you said you weren't a geophysicist, doctor. Unfortunately, we don't have one on hand to consult, so I can't ask for a second opinion. I can ask you to explain how you acquired this... understanding of EMP technology."

All eyes at the table swung back to Zelenka; the ball was in his court. And John didn't know where he found the nerve to face down a general, but he guessed it probably had something to do with the frustration and outrage that had been simmering just under Zelenka's skin, since the moment John had landed a chopper in his yard and disrupted his quiet existence—not to mention his entire world view. "Ha!" he exclaimed, crossing his arms. "EMP is subject of much conspiracy talk. Scientific curiosity surrounding destructive potential is very great. Is common knowledge the United States military possesses such weapons, but they are very secretive and will admit nothing. But there are studies, many risk studies and threat assessments released by your own government. Is answer acceptable, or are citations required?"

In the resounding stillness that followed, each tick of the wall clock measuring out seconds rang like a hammer blow.

Finally, Hammond nodded. "Perhaps later, doctor. Are there any other points you would like to clarify?"

Well I'll be damned. Score one for the geeks.

Zelenka considered. "Actually, yes. The size of affected area is concern."

"How so?" Hammond asked sharply.

"There are two types of EMP. First is a... a side effect of nuclear explosion. Wait—I start over. Is like... like a shotgun! Shoot a close target, damage is condensed." He clasped his fists together, one inside the other. "Shoot a far target, damage is– Poof! Spread over wide area. The damage we see is too condensed to be result of high-altitude release."

"Dr Zelenka, if you're suggesting that someone set off a nuke on the ground, believe me, we would have noticed."

Zelenka flapped his hands. "No, no. I think it was set off on the ground, but not a nuke. Second type of EMP is non-nuclear. Energy component is traditional explosive, much, much less powerful than nuclear reaction. Damage very localized. Much smaller than what is seen here," he indicated the map again.

"The naquadria," O'Neill groaned.

"Yes, exactly!" Zelenka pointed at the colonel in triumph; when he dropped his arm John noticed that he was panting slightly, and his eyes were a little wild.

O'Neill had the look of a guy caught with his pants down in front of the class. "Exactly... what? That was just a guess."

"Naquadria," he repeated, stumbling over the pronunciation. "If I understand the properties correctly, there is more energy potential than anything found on Earth, maybe exceeding nuclear reaction."

"That is correct," Hammond agreed.

"So, if you take EMP bomb fueled with this naquadria and release it in the high atmosphere, damage would be on an unimaginable scale. The whole continent, surely. Perhaps even whole hemisphere. But release it on the ground, and this," he raised the map again, "is about right."

The unknown man frowned. "That makes even less sense. We assume that the individuals who took McKay and the naquadria have access to a Goa'uld ship. It's the perfect delivery vehicle. So why not set off the device in the atmosphere, where it would do the most harm? Why would they want to minimize the damage?"

"Hey, accidents happen," O'Neill shrugged.

"No," Zelenka said with a dawning admiration. "Rodney happens. Oh yes, this is something he would do. Ah! So brilliant! If, as you say, he is being held prisoner, this would cripple his captors. No electricity, no radio, no telephone, no computers... probably no vehicles, as all electronic systems close to the source would be destroyed. I do not think is accident. It is a big sign, shouting, Here I am, come get me!"

"Great. So now we're back to locating a needle in a haystack."

"If the needle's still alive," someone said, far down the table. John couldn't see who had spoken, which was probably a good thing. If he had a viable target, it would just increase the temptation to get up and choke the bastard. "If McKay intentionally detonated the device prematurely, I'd imagine his captors wouldn't be too pleased with him."

Hammond cut in, "Anything else, Dr Zelenka?"

"I– Er... at present, no." Zelenka stood there, almost dazed, like a boxer who hadn't heard the bell ring and didn't realize the round was over. He collapsed back into his seat when John tugged on his sleeve, dropping the briefing folder in the process.

It went under the table. All three of them—Zelenka, Jackson, and John—dove for it together, but it was Jackson who managed to snag it with a foot and drag it out. The pages were fanned and bent; he flipped to a clean one and wrote in the margin, Nicely done. Then he passed it along via John.

Zelenka shook his head, and his hand was unsteady as he responded, Is only theory that does not help Rodney.

John intercepted it, drew a line through what Zelenka had written, and corrected, Rodney's a wily son of a bitch. If he set off the device as a distraction, you can be damned sure he's using the opportunity to escape.

Not even bothering to wait for possession of the folder, Zelenka just bumped John's elbow aside and wrote, Trying, maybe. Underlined three times.

Shifting, John snared Zelenka's gaze, holding it for a fraught moment. Unreasonably angry, he scribbled, Well, I guess I know him better than you do.

Zelenka flinched as if struck, and his demeanor went instantly frigid. Capping his pen, he set it on the table with deliberation, between them like a barrier, and turned his shoulder to John to stare instead at the thoroughly captivating wall.

Fuck fuck fucking fuck– Hammond was speaking again, inquiring about Major Carter's progress. Good old Major Carter, the SGC's very own Wonder Woman. She would probably breeze in and tell them exactly what Zelenka had already said, except they would believe her. The words that fell from Carter's mouth were solid gold as far as Hammond and SG-1 were concerned; and just because it wasn't fair to begrudge her for something that was out of her control didn't make it any less true.

He liked Carter, he really did. It was just– Damn it, he should have handled Zelenka more gently.

Daniel nudged his knee beneath the table. John pressed back, just a brief Hey, and Thanks, and, Don't worry, I'm fine. Which of course wasn't true, so he buried his nose in the stupid briefing folder to preempt further displays of concern.

Daniel was SG-1. He sure as hell wouldn't understand, though he'd pester the shit out of John in trying.

The ex-NID agent who'd been caught on security footage at Area 51 was nothing special. But O'Neill's old friend, the (former) Colonel Harry Maybourne? Now there was a guy with a storied and notorious career. Page after page after page of it; John wondered how much of it had marched in step with O'Neill's own. The way O'Neill talked about the guy, John would bet money they'd served together at some point.

Zelenka's chin was tipped back. He'd probably abandoned the wall to count ceiling tiles.

A report came in that communication with Carter's flight had been reestablished. The plane was on schedule, if slightly off-course. And she'd taken the opportunity to review some of the preliminary data from the EMP blackout. The timing of the system losses, starting with terrestrial radio, then satellite, led her to conclude—surprise, surprise!—that the detonation had not occurred in the atmosphere as previously suspected.

Hammond took the news graciously. Zelenka took a disinterested rain check for the I-told-you-so.

Senator Kinsey was familiar, all right. The man in the photograph was thinner than John remembered him, less imposing. Less hair. Still had the same bad taste in ties.

And company.

Oh, fuck me!

The photograph had been snapped recently, at a social event of some kind. Probably a fundraiser. It was a candid shot, a cluster of people in the background, talking and holding drinks, while Kinsey was in the act of juggling his own glass to shake hands with a man approaching from the side.

Oh god, what do I do? Do they already know? The photograph could well be a plant. He could damning himself by holding his tongue. They could be waiting for the opportune moment to throw him out of the program. Sorry, been nice working with you, but we've just discovered that your connections make you too much of a liability to keep you on board? Or maybe they would want to send him back into the pit as a goddamned spy.

Then-

"Zelenka! The map. I need– Where is it?"

Zelenka seemed determined to adhere to the obstinate act, but something—maybe the snap in John's tone—caused him to relent. "Major? Ah, here."

"Show me," John demanded. "Look at this shape, and remember what you said about distorted fields. I need your best guess on the point of origin. Please."

"Major, is there a problem?" Hammond warned. And oh yeah, John got the message. Hammond played by two-strike rules. Once netted you a warning; twice and you were out on your ass.

"I do not know if I can. The map is so small and lacks detail–"

"Just do it. Try."

Daniel whispered, "John? Is this the best time?"

"Major..."

John stood. "General Hammond, please. I–" All or nothing—it was all or nothing, now. "I think I know where Rodney is."

Or was.

O'Neill, god love him, waded in to throw John a line. "C'mon Sheppard," he coaxed. "It's wishful thinking, right? A hunch? You don't really know where McKay is. I mean, how could you?"

"Here." Zelenka drew another dot on the map, circling the tip of his pen over and over until the ink had saturated the paper. "If I had to guess, I would say here."

It was close, no more than a hundred miles off. Far too close for coincidence. That lying son of a bitch. He told us the place held too many bad memories, said he sold it years ago.

"No, I do. I know where he is." John folded over the report so that Kinsey's photograph was face up, then chucked it down the length of the table, scattering other pages and almost knocking over a cup of water. "The man with Senator Kinsey in that picture is my father."

~~

John had never seen a room clear faster than when General Hammond said, "If you'll excuse me, everyone, I'd like a word with Major Sheppard. In private." O'Neill had tried to give him a bolstering look on his way out, until he'd been halted by a curt, "Colonel, you're included."

"Yes sir," he'd said, sinking back into his seat.

The door clicked shut; rubbing a hand over his head, Hammond mused, "Major, what am I going to do with you?"

You can start by not kicking me to the curb. "No idea, sir."

 "Get up here. Don't make me shout at you across the entire room."

"Yes, sir." He took the spot opposite O'Neill, who was flipping through Kinsey's dossier.

"Well? Out with it. And make it fast, major. I need to make a decision and I need to make it soon."

"Yes, sir." He didn't know where to start, but he had to pick a spot and dive in, even if he ended up telling it all backward. "My father is Patrick Sheppard, head of SPNG Industries. You might have heard of them."

O'Neill snorted. "No, really?"

"Colonel..."

"Sorry general, but this is pretty important, don't you think? I'm wondering when Sheppard here was planning to let us in on the big secret."

"The information is in his file, colonel, which you might know if you'd bothered to read it. Major, skip to the part concerning Senator Kinsey."

John tried to draw together his scattered thoughts, focusing on details he'd considered lost to the past. "This is going to sound ridiculous sir, but there was a time when my father considered our family the second coming of the Kennedys. The only reason I was encouraged to join the Air Force was because a couple years of 'service to the nation' look good on a political resume." He wasn't supposed to fall in love with the job and fight to make a real career out of it. "My father's always had political aspirations, but not for himself—he'd rather pull strings behind the curtain. He's always had a stable of lobbyists, and the ear of a few politicians. You can bet that Sheppard money has been fueling Kinsey's election campaigns for years."

O'Neill seemed engrossed in adorning Kinsey's photograph with a goatee and villainous eyebrows, but he muttered, "Wish you hadn't told me that. Kinsey's been a thorn in my side for years, and now that I know your papa helped put him there? Sorry Sheppard, if I ever meet the man, I'm gonna hafta clock him."

"No apology necessary, sir, unless you miss."

Hammond said, "It fits. We know Kinsey was involved with Maybourne's rogue operation. They courted entrepreneurs, sometimes releasing scavenged alien tech into the marketplace to finance their operations. The SGC shut them down about a year ago."

"Of course we were never able to pin anything on that weasel Kinsey, but we hit him where it hurts, right in the piggy bank. We arrested the ringleaders, including his financiers."

"Forcing him to secure new funding for his operations," John concluded.

O'Neill rocked his chair back, getting one knee up to brace it against the table. "Papa Sheppard fits the profile: wealthy, influential, and ambitious. But what about unscrupulous? Major?"

The easiest question yet, and the most difficult to frame into words. "I'm all too aware of what he's capable of doing with the power and influence he wields. Do you remember when I first came to the SGC? There was that whole mix-up with my records, and I was declared missing in action? My father is the reason I chose to let it stick, let my family believe I'm dead. And honestly, it... wasn't much of a loss. We've been estranged for years."

"Well, this is gonna be a mess to sort out," O'Neill predicted, almost cheerfully. "Any chance we can keep a lid on it until after we've solved the mystery of the missing naquadria?"

"No," Hammond said, "I don't believe that's a good idea. Major Sheppard's allegiances will only come under greater scrutiny if we look like we're trying to hide the relationship. It's out of the bag now. We leave it, and hope the mess over Texas provides sufficient distraction. Is that acceptable, major?"

"More than acceptable, sir. Thank you." For not grounding me, or confining me to base, or finding some pretense to put me up for review. Others would probably argue for it, once they learned, but Hammond appeared to be behind him on this one.

"Good. Now, one last matter. Where do you believe Dr McKay is being held?"

"Sir, I asked Dr Zelenka to make an educated guess concerning ground zero for the EMP disruption. He chose a spot in northern Oklahoma, near the Kansas border. There's not a lot there, sir. It's very... rural. But it also happens to be where the Sheppards originally made their fortune in oil. I remembered the old family homestead, and, well, when I saw that photograph, it clicked. There's a house and some outbuildings, but most of the property is wide open land, extremely isolated. Hell, you could probably park a Tel'tak on the front yard and no one would notice."

"Colonel?"

O'Neill had added a thin mustache and a top hat. The finishing touch was, John guessed, supposed to be a cravat. "We've gone on crazier hunts armed with less, sir." He made it sound like a point of pride.

"True. And I would like to have some progress to show Washington when they call demanding answers."

"Sheppard, think you can get us there?"

John's heart was inexplicably trying to crawl its way up his throat. "Sir, if I have to navigate with a road map and follow the highways, I'll get us there."

"General?"

Hammond folded his arms across his chest. "Assemble your team, colonel, for immediate departure."

~~

Rodney's first coherent thought was: I'm alive. Swiftly following was: Fuck, I wish I wasn't.

The pain in his head was a pervasive and indescribable turmoil. It swelled in a crash of white static; he thought he blanked out, but he didn't know how long it lasted. Perhaps seconds, perhaps minutes.

His body was numb. Which, on closer examination, was probably a bad sign. He hoped it was from the cold; at least, he thought he felt cold. Maybe he was dead, and this was hell. If wormholes and aliens were real, shit—why not the afterlife?

No, hell would be warmer. He was definitely freezing, and the icy concrete he was lying on wasn't helping matters. So, first priority: get warm.

Wait. That was too much at once. He needed more discrete steps. Revised first priority: get up.

Step one: assess injuries to determine if they impede locomotion.

Or... not. He was too damned numb to tell if anything was broken. But he couldn't seem to convince his legs to do his bidding—couldn't even feel them, and he couldn't see because it was too dark. Quelling panic, he groped down them with his hands just to make sure they were still attached. They were, thank god, and he didn't encounter any crazy angles or compound fractures. The motion even sparked some feeling, in the form of icy prickles as sensation slowly returned.

Along with the pain and the disorientation—it took him a half dozen attempts to finally stand, and he did so only by bracing against his cot, and then, the wall—surely a little short-term memory loss wouldn't have been too much to ask for? He could do without watching Barney's death throes on vivid mental repeat. And fuck, chances were good the body was still waiting for him in the outer room.

Okay, okay, okay, he didn't have to go out there. He could stay in his cell until... until he froze to death, which would be sooner rather than later at this rate. The EMP pulse had definitely killed the space heaters, so he needed to find another way to get warm.

The house. It had chimneys. There had to be at least one functional fireplace.

Yes, progress! He had a second priority. Now, he just needed to make it past Barney and get outside—oh, and hope to hell he hadn't been unconscious all day. The trek from the shed to the house would be impossible to make in the dark.

Luck was with him on all counts. The main room was brighter because the door was gone, blown completely off its hinges. There was daylight outside, feeble winter sunshine, but it be enough to get him to better shelter. And for a moment he thought that Barney's corpse had been claimed by the goons after all, until his sweeping eyes found it, a tangled shape he'd mistaken for shadows against the far wall.

At least it was turned away, so he wouldn't have to see that agonized visage again. Well, except in his head.

The workstation in the center of the room had been replaced by a monstrous scorch mark and a radiating field of scattered debris. And, surveying the destruction, it occurred to Rodney for the first time that he wasn't dead, but perhaps he ought to be.

Maybe I am, and I just haven't realized it. All my tests, all my calculations assumed naquadah as the power source. The generator wasn't designed to induce fission, but that doesn't mean, with the wrong fuel, it couldn't as a side-result. Oh god, I might have sparked a criticality accident like the one that killed Daniel Jackson. I'm a walking dead man.

He was already feeling the effects of radiation poisoning, wasn't he? The numbness, the incessant rush of empty noise in his ears, the disorientation and fucked-up equilibrium... hell, when he'd tried to take two steps away from the wall, he'd almost fallen flat on his face.

Calm down. Just... calm down and get a fucking grip. There was a concrete wall between me and the generator. That has to count for something, right? So maybe... maybe I didn't absorb a lethal dose. Maybe I'll just end up sterile or something. I could handle that. I mean, it'd be a shame not to pass on my superior genetics for the benefit of future generations, but it's not like I was planning on having kids or anything. Maybe there was no radiation. Just because the naquadria could have gone critical doesn't mean it did.

It would all be moot if he stood here and froze to death while he freaked out over something utterly beyond his control.

So, the house it was.

Even though it was a little too late for it, he added a third priority: don't panic.

~~

The rescue mission—or recovery mission, or whatever the hell they were calling it—was delayed long enough for Major Carter to slide down from her plane, sprint across the runway, and be hauled up into one of the waiting choppers. Then they were off, John and Fraiser and three SG teams, along with a mountain of paraphernalia. Barbie comes with fewer accessories, John had thought uncharitably, impatient with the delay while everything had been organized and loaded on board. And as glad as he was that someone had thought to pack hazmat suits and medical kits and cold weather gear when he was so intent on reaching Rodney that he wouldn't have noticed if he'd forgotten his pants... did O'Neill really have to arm them with enough firepower for a small revolution? Just what in the hell did he expect to encounter out there?

John didn't ask. He didn't really want to know; and besides, he more than had his hands full at the controls, with critical navigation systems offline, and others misbehaving badly. GPS was a lost cause, and VOR signals were coming in sporadic at best. Even an instrument as simple as a compass couldn't be trusted with so much lingering electromagnetic interference. He had radar... on a severely limited range, so that he might be forced into hard evasive maneuvers to avoid a collision if anything entered his airspace. It was a hope, not a certainty, that military craft were the only ones crazy enough to fly under these conditions.

He also hadn't counted on the snow. It started dribbling down somewhere near that tricky Kansas-Oklahoma-Texas border, not heavy enough for him to lose visual on the second chopper, but still a nuisance that slowed their pace and made him dump even more altitude in pursuit of the occasional landmark.

O'Neill's voice, on internal com, interrupted his concentration. "Sheppard, you seem... rather good at this flying blind stuff."

"Years of backcountry flying will do that to you, sir. If a mission went south, I'd sometimes get instructions like: New rendezvous, two klicks on the road out of the village, then find the goat path into the mountains. And haul ass, we're taking fire!"

"Ah."

"Of course, infrared helped," John added.

"Mm," O'Neill said, then admitted, "I didn't really want to know. I was just bored and making conversation."

John almost smiled. "I'm aware, sir." He knew damned well what O'Neill had been leading up to. "Next time, you can just ask me for an update on the ETA." Even though the colonel had already been teased for asking frequently enough to sound like a kid on a car ride.

A pause. Then, "Well?"

"I haven't been here in years, sir, and everything looks different from the air. But I'm pretty sure we're nearing the closest town. Once we fly through, I'd give it another ten minutes, tops."

"Time to rally the troops," O'Neill said, sounding a bit too cheerful about the prospect for John's comfort. "Signal the other bird to let 'em know, will ya?"

"Yes sir." He flickered his running lights, and waited for the responding flicker from the other chopper. "Confirmed, sir."

"Good. I'll be dropping in the first wave. When we reach the target, don't wait for my say-so. Let Carter pick the drop point, and as soon as you establish a stable hover, it's bombs away."

He pulled off his headset and clambered into the rear compartment. A few minutes later, Carter was far more graceful slipping in to take his place. John waited for her to settle, then switched over to cockpit only. "The colonel– Now, I hesitate to use the word giddy..."

Laughing, Carter adjusted her mic. "You used to fly special ops, major. He used to be special ops. It's probably been years since he's had a chance to throw himself out of a helicopter."

"So it's nostalgia."

Carter bumped his arm, very gently, so that he wouldn't bobble the controls. "Admit it, you're enjoying this just as much as he is."

"Maybe. A little," John said. It was hard to find enjoyment around his worry for Rodney; and even then, it was bittersweet, a reminder of the life he'd left behind for the SGC.

"Radio still down?"

"Ever since we hit that bad patch about sixty miles back." It was a shame; he missed the chatter that normally bounced back and forth between aircraft flying in formation.

"I'm not surprised. The readings I've been taking indicate that we're on the right track. The interference is still fairly strong here, while back at base it had already begun to dissipate."

"The colonel said you're going to choose the drop point. Any idea what we're looking for?"

"Not... exactly. If I'm right, the device that created the pulse was a flux compression generator. A flux compression generator converts chemical energy—in this case, the explosive energy inherent in naquadria—into a massive burst of electrical energy. The device would have been destroyed in the process, but the explosive potential should have been contained and directed. It wouldn't have been safe to stand next to the thing when it went off, but there won't be a giant, smoking crater for us to find."

"Wow, that's... um–" In all this mess, he hadn't confronted the possibility of Rodney blowing himself to smithereens. "Good to know."

Carter's confidence was almost reassuring when she promised, "Don't worry. I may not know what I'm looking for, but I'm sure I'll recognize it when I see it."

~~

Rodney didn't noticed the flaw in his plan until he nearly stepped on Barney's gun. It was lying near the door; the concussive wave that had thrown the body aside like a rag doll must have jostled the revolver loose. And of course, he should have realized that the house was the most likely place for the goons to have fled. They wouldn't be pleased to see him—or him them—but he might be able to convince them that a temporary truce was in everyone's best interests.

A weapon would, at the very least, put him on equal bargaining ground. Rodney didn't intend to be knocked out or tied up or taken prisoner again. Slipping his fingers around the grip—it was a damned hand cannon, far heavier than he'd anticipated—he found the safety like he'd been taught, and stuck it in his pocket before crawling his way back up the wall.

The trek to the house was arduous with nothing to lean on for support. He hadn't thought it possible to be any colder than he already was, but the wind buffeted him, cutting through his clothes and making his ears ring with renewed pain. Nausea was a constant companion now, which could have been attributed to the length of time he'd gone without eating. But something more than the wind was throwing off his balance, so much so that on several occasions he unexpectedly found the ground rushing up to meet him.

Or, to argue semantics, him down to meet it.

He hadn't planned on the house being cold and dark as well, but in retrospect, that little detail should have been painfully obvious. Even if the diesel generator had survived the EMP, the electrical surge washing back from the shed would have fried it, along with every electronic component attached to every circuit in the house. If the neighbors were lucky, the house wasn't hooked into the local grid, and the surge hadn't jumped to the phone lines. Not... that the EMP wouldn't do enough damage on its own. It would definitely have blown local power transformers, potentially causing cascading failures throughout the entire region.

The house was unlocked, thankfully. He'd slowed his approach at the end, searching for flickers of light or motion through the bare windows. He'd seen nothing, but that didn't prevent him from edging around the door with the revolver held low and ready, his heart pounding uncomfortably in his ribcage.

After waiting for his eyes to adjust, he ghosted from room to room—not just the servants quarters he'd been restricted to before, but the hollow, empty rooms of the house proper. To judge by the aging fixtures, the thick dust, and the little heaps of desiccated insects in corners and on window sills, it hadn't been inhabited in a very long time.

Unsurprisingly, the largest obstacle to his comfort and survival was his own curiosity. He knew he should have been preparing for nightfall, but he was repeatedly distracted by evidence of the EMP's destructive capabilities. The electrical sockets were charred, their protective covers melted in places. There were blackened—and in at least one instance, shattered—light bulbs, and he found an abandoned radio that was leaking battery acid. It made him want to punch through the plaster and lath to see if the wiring had melted within the walls.

He was damned lucky the surge hadn't started an electrical fire. It could have, easily.

Despite having his choice of fireplaces, there was nothing to burn. Nor had the goons left anything useful behind, no flashlights or spare clothing, no weapons or food. But the lack of those items suggested they'd been and gone, probably hours earlier, stocking up before scattering into the surrounding countryside in anticipation of the cavalry's arrival.

Rodney prayed that help had deciphered his message and was in fact en route, because his resources were slim. He'd discovered a few packets of jelly from a fast food joint and wolfed them down. The tap in the kitchen only gave him a trickle of water, which he greedily slurped out of his cupped hand. The property had to be on a well, but the pump that fed the house was definitely out of commission. He hoped he wouldn't be sticking around long enough to find out if there was an old fashioned manual pump somewhere outside.

He decided to make his base in what must have been the goons' center of operations. It was strewn with ransacked equipment and some makeshift seating, but he was more interested in the room itself, all sheltered interior walls with no windows to leech out the scant remaining heat. The downside, of course, was that the room was already murky, and would lose light quickly once the sun began to set. Judging by the slant of the shadows, he had a few hours at most before that happened.

Better not waste them.

~~

John had been afraid that he might not recognize the old homestead from the air, but there was no mistaking that house, even under a layer of snow and neglect. It was, if anything, even larger than he remembered. "This is it," he told Carter, the chopper's rotor wash kicking up a fine, white dust storm as he banked in for a closer look.

"Wow. It's–" Big, he expected her to say, but instead she finished, "–remote. You grew up here?"

"More of a vacation house."

"Swing by that outbuilding. It looks like... yeah, the roof's been damaged, and the door's lying off its hinges. I think you were right—I think this is the place. See any movement down there?"

"None." He wished his infrared was working. "Radiation levels still good?"

"Slightly elevated, but not to a dangerous degree. Move us into position, and I'll inform the colonel the drop is a go."

How had O'Neill put it? Oh yeah: Bombs away.

He couldn't hear the rear hatch being dropped, but a lick of colder air made it all the way up into the cockpit. Then there was motion on the ground below, a huddle of white-suited figures that quickly fanned out, weapons raised and ready. He watched the other chopper circle the house once, probably looking for runners, before it too dipped in close enough for another team to rope down and secure the perimeter.

John wasn't accustomed to hanging around after he'd made a drop; in a routine mission, it would be time to haul ass out of there. Instead, he maintained their position, Carter tense beside him as they waited for the signal—or worse, the muzzle flash from an exchange of fire.

The first team stormed the shed, but O'Neill—John guessed it was the colonel, by those funky sunglasses—exited almost immediately and gave the all-clear for John to put down. Then he was hurrying over, ducking through the vortex spawned by the still spinning blades, and hammered on John's window while making the kill gesture across his throat.

John cut the engines and kicked open his door. "Sir?" he shouted.

"Oh yeah, this is the place! No bandits, but I want Fraiser in here pronto!"

The doctor? God, no. "McKay?"

"It's not him, Sheppard. There's a body, but I think it's one of our bad guys. Carter, you're up too! I need your opinion on what's inside. Well, what's left of it, at any rate."

"Yes, sir!"

Fraiser had flown with the other bird. "I'll fetch the doc," John said, unfastening his safety harness and sliding to the ground.

~~

On closer inspection, there was plenty to burn—shelves and cabinet doors and decorative woodwork—provided he overlook the fact that it was all slathered in what had to be lead-based paint, given the age of the structure.

Okay, let's take this in perspective. Am I seriously worried about toxic smoke when I probably just absorbed a lifetime's radiation exposure in one big bang?

The only hitch would be getting it to burn in the first place, but Rodney had a plan. Somewhere beneath the house was a generator, and where there was a generator there was gasoline. Where there was gasoline and a spark, there was lovely wonderful heat and light, and all he had to do bring it all together was stumble around the basement in the dark, and oh god he couldn't put it off any longer. He had to go down there. He could do this, he was going...

Rodney turned and found himself facing down the muzzle of an assault rifle.

Oh fuck, oh fuck, the goons came back? I didn't hear anything. And where the fuck did I leave Barney's gun?

His right pocket, the closest thing he had to a holster. But got the feeling that so much as twitching in that direction would be an extremely bad idea. Instead, he raised his hands, fingers spread. "Don't shoot, don't shoot! Listen, I– You really can't hold me responsible for what happened to your boss, because I did warn him not to touch it. So I'm thinking that maybe we can work together to get out of his hellhole? You know, discuss our mutual options like reasonable people?"

The person holding the rifle was an indistinct form in baggy cold weather gear. He could rule out Rollo by size alone, which was almost a disappointment. He and Rollo had forged a connection... of sorts. This guy might be just as inclined to shoot him as listen to him.

There was no cover in the room at all, and his escape route was completely blocked. Even if he found a chance to go for the revolver...

Then, to his astonishment, the goon eased his finger off the trigger and stooped to put the weapon aside. He advanced a step on Rodney, mouth open to speak... but nothing came out.

"What? I don't–" Don't understand, he almost said. But that wasn't the problem. No, the rush of blank noise in his head was loud enough to drown out external sounds. "I can't– Stay back!" he warned.

Pausing, the man reached up to flip back his hood—and oh yeah, Rodney recognized him from somewhere. The shed, maybe, right before Barney had gone off like a Roman candle. Or maybe– Shit, where, where, where... The man tried to approach again, arms spread slightly as if waiting for an opportunity to tackle Rodney to the ground. More flapping mouth. Still no words.

"Yeah, well, you too," Rodney retorted. Why in the hell would he drop his rifle when he'd had Rodney dead to right? It was a huge tactical error, but surely even the goons couldn't be that stupid, could they? No, it had to be a trap. Maybe... maybe they were hoping he would make a run for it and give them an excuse to shoot. Maybe they wanted him alive, to build another generator—after which they would kill him anyway, so there was no reason not to go down fighting now. He waited for the man to advance another step away from the rifle, then darted into his pocket to draw the revolver.

It was the man's turn to put his hands in the air, eyes wide with surprise. He pleaded soundlessly.

"That's right, you cocky son of a bitch. You just hold it right there."

~~

John sent Fraiser back to O'Neill, then met up with team canvassing the house, offering his assistance. He wanted some time alone to wander through the old place, but he ought to at least try to make himself useful, unless he wanted to tell them the real reason-

One of the members of SG-6 barreled out the rear entrance, nearly slamming into John. "Sorry, sir, I didn't see you– Major Sheppard?"

Funny thing about uniforms. John wasn't always great with names, but he could usually match a face to the insignia he'd seen it wear. "Yes, lieutenant?"

"Even better. There's a situation inside, with Dr McKay. I was looking for Colonel O'Neill, but you might–"

"Dr McKay is alive?"

"Yes sir."

"Where?" John demanded, crowding the lieutenant back through the door, everything else forgotten in the simple, excruciating need to verify Rodney's safety for himself. "Where?!"

"Dining room, I think. Near the front," she pointed.

There was a graceless dance in the entrance way, with the lieutenant trying to get the hell out of John's way, and John determined to hit the ground running, even if he had to go through her to do it. He seemed to instinctively remember the layout of the rooms, the location of obstacles like tight turns and doorways; without thinking, he poured on the speed when he hit that long, straight hallway on the other side of the kitchen.

As he neared the end, he heard someone say, "Okay, I'm going to reach inside my suit for my ID, and I'm going to do it very... slowly..." Then he skidded around the corner to find Rodney backed against the far wall, pointing the biggest freaking handgun John had ever seen outside of a Clint Eastwood movie at a second member of SG-6.

He couldn't help it. The tension of the standoff didn't hit him until the words were leaving his mouth. "What in the hell is going on here?"

"Colonel O'Neill, sir?" the airman asked, not turning around, or even so much as shifting his attention away from the weapon.

"It's Major Sheppard," John identified himself.

At the same time, Rodney glanced over, his eyes going huge when he noticed John in the doorway. He whispered, "John?"

Jesus, he looked like shit, all jittery nerves, with an overly-sharp, feverish cast to his features. "Yeah. It's me." Even in the low light, John could tell there was dust or dirt all over his clothes, and smudges of grime on his face; he recognized pain in the hunched set of Rodney's shoulders. But none of that mattered, because he was okay. They'd found him.

"Sir, I don't think he can hear us. Look at his ear."

John would have noticed it soon enough, a rust-red trickle of dried blood that traced down the edge of Rodney's jaw.

"John?" Rodney repeated. There was still weary disbelief underlying his growing confidence.

"I've been trying to explain that I'm with the SGC, but I... think he thinks I'm one of the kidnappers. He called me a goon."

Smile, smile, he couldn't forget to smile. See? Everything's cool, everything's fine. Everything's gonna be fine, you just have to trust me on this, please... If words wouldn't work, maybe he could throw the sentiment at Rodney with everything he had, and somehow make him understand. "It's okay, lieutenant. I've got this. You can go find Colonel O'Neill, tell him we've got McKay. Bring Dr Fraiser back up here, too. I just sent her down to the colonel."

"Sir...?"

John eased into the room, slipping between them and into the line of fire. "Go ahead. Rodney won't shoot. In fact, I think he's figured out that you're one of the good guys. He's about to give me the gun. Aren't you, Rodney?"

Rodney shook his head and wiped his sleeve across his eyes. "Oh, you're still there. I'm not imagining this, am I?"

"No way, buddy. Colonel O'Neill knew better than to try to keep me off this rescue mission. Now let me just take that–" He closed in until he could get his hands around the gun, pressing it down and to the side, so that if it did accidentally go off, the floor would take the damage instead of his chest. "Jesus, McKay, what'd you do? Mug Dirty Harry?" The words weren't important; if anything, they were only helping him hold it together. Rodney was in no shape to see John crack. "Lieutenant?"

"Going, sir." But he didn't actually leave until he'd seen John slide the weapon out of Rodney's grip and set it on the ground.

That left just the two of them, no witnesses. John knew himself well enough by now to realize that dismissing the lieutenant had probably been a mistake. The need for propriety had always been a compelling safety net, and he was acutely aware of its loss. "See, that was easy, wasn't it?" It would be so, so easy to reach for Rodney and-

And watch Rodney desperately throw off the touch and stumble back against the wall, as far away from John as the room would allow him to retreat. "Don't come near me!"

The rejection stung; he couldn't bury his surprise fast enough to prevent it from reaching his face. Okay, so... not so easy. He should have known that nothing with Rodney would ever be. "It's me—it's John." He crept forward a step, enough to make his intentions clear, but not enough to spook Rodney even more by making him feel cornered or trapped. "You said my name. I know you know who I am." Hands low and beseeching. No tricks.

Rodney plucked at his clothes, the motion agitated, angry, almost violent. "No, you don't understand. There could have been radiation... I might be contaminated. You need to stay away from me!"

"Oh fuck, is that all? You really had me scared for a second." He closed the remaining distance in two swift strides, reaching out again. "It's okay. You're not contaminated."

He wasn't expecting Rodney to fight him, but suddenly it was a struggle, Rodney employing every dirty tactic he knew to worm free, and John just as determined to hold on. He had to rearrange his grip when Rodney unexpectedly ducked and twisted aside, trying to shed his shirt to escape. "John, you have to let go of me, please!"

"You're wrong, Rodney. Rodney, listen– Look at me!" He finally caught Rodney's face between his hands, forcing them into eye contact. "That's good, right here, look at me. Carter's been scanning with her little device, and she says it's safe. You trust Carter, right? You know she'd have us all in hazmat bags if there was any doubt, but look—I'm still wearing my flight suit."

Rodney subsided, his focus on John at last, but it was clear that he wasn't convinced. He still had hold of John's forearms, poised to renew his frenzied protest unless John could provide him a damned good reason not to. Fast.

"That's it, stay with me." His thumb was on Rodney's cheekbone, moving in slow, gentle arcs. "I'm gonna ease up now, and I don't want you to freak out on me, okay? Just listen. Or try to. Hell, I suppose it doesn't matter what I say so long as I look earnest enough for you to believe me. And I gotta remember to keep smiling, because everything's okay. I know it doesn't seem that way right now, but you have to trust me. It is. It will be. What's important is that we found you, and you're going home."

Maybe it was working. Rodney didn't try to jerk away as John had half feared. Instead, he was almost transfixed, as if John was some endlessly fascinating puzzle, and revelation was within his reach. He wet his lips and murmured, "John, you–"

"Don't, please don't." He must have shifted his hands without realizing, because he was holding the curve of Rodney's neck, fingertips brushing the short hair at his nape. Drawing them together.

Rodney swayed, but his body was still rigid and he didn't shift his balance fast enough. He stumbled into John, the impact rocking them both as John took more and more of his weight, until it was obvious that he wouldn't have remained standing on his own for much longer. Head bowed and pressed to the center of John's chest, he let his breathing gradually slow and even out.

"I've got you, it's okay, I've got you now..." Rodney was shivering, his skin clammy to the touch, and John had to squirm out of his coat one sleeve at a time, to avoid spilling him out of his arms.

"I'm sorry, it all went wrong, and Barney died because he was too fucking stupid to listen to me. I almost died, almost killed us all..."

John drew the coat around Rodney before hugging him close again. "But you didn't. You did good, Rodney. I knew you would, and I'm so damned proud of you," he whispered, eyes drifting shut as he nuzzled behind Rodney's ear, breathed in his scent. It was tinted with sweat and smoke and fear, but John couldn't care; somehow that made it more real.

"I was afraid I'd never see you again. So many times, I–" Rodney jerked back far enough to fix John with a half-curious, half-suspicious gaze. "Did you just kiss my hair?"

"I– Uh... maybe?" John stammered, but it wasn't any use trying to explain that the gesture had been easy, almost mindlessly instinctive, and that his first choice of targets hadn't been accessible at the time. It was now—Rodney's mouth even had that intriguing downturned slant, but he couldn't, not with Rodney staring at him like that, and– "Are you... laughing?"

"The look on your face right now... Jesus Christ, Sheppard, you are some piece of work."

"I suppose I am," John agreed, flustered. He must have inadvertently worsened the effect, because the tremors in Rodney's shoulders erupted into a full-blown fit of laughter. Helpless, John joined him, until they were clinging to each other through inelegant snorts and the occasional hiccup; and John's eyes were full of tears, but he had an excuse now.

When O'Neill found them like that a moment later, he could only stand in the doorway, shaking his head.

~~

Rodney took back every unkind thing he'd ever said about Dr Fraiser. Not only did she allow John to stay through Rodney's examination—granted, the tantrum Rodney had pitched when she'd tried to make John leave might have had some bearing on the decision—but she also kept Colonel O'Neill at bay, even though he was clearly itching to pry answers out of Rodney, one way or another.

Rodney was in no shape to answer anything. Fraiser, in her saintly beneficence, had given him the good drugs.

She'd set up shop in the back of one of the helicopters, convincing him to sit on a canvas stretcher while she cleaned him up as best she could and assessed his injuries. And Rodney's insistence that John stay had proven to be a smart one, because he'd acted like a court stenographer, passing her clinical questions to Rodney in a notebook, leaving her free to prod him and stick him and peer at him with one of those awful bright medical lights.

He'd known better than to watch her; doctors were good at hiding bad news. So he'd watched John closely instead, waiting for the reaction that would betray that something was horribly, terribly wrong.

It never came.

In the end, John retrieved the notebook and wrote: O'Neill wants to send one of the choppers out to look for your friends. Can't have gone far, EMP killed their vehicles. Doc's done all she can for you here. Investigation here not finished. Not enough choppers or people to go around.

"What... so you either take me to the SGC now and let the goons escape, or I stick it out here for a few hours while you hunt down those sorry sons of bitches? Jesus fuck, Sheppard, that's the dumbest– Don't even bother asking– I'll be fine. I'll be better than fine when you get the shitheads, okay?"

John nodded. Fraiser frowned, but continued packing away the gear in her field kit. Waiting for the verdict just outside the helicopter, O'Neill did a victory fist-pump and bustled off, presumably to mount the search.

Fraiser and John discussed something. It might have been a mild argument; Rodney couldn't tell. The drugs had hit him with a drifting sensation that made his head swim even more. He tried shutting his eyes, but that only made it worse, like he was inertial in four or five dimensions instead of just the three.

Heh. Ruptured eardrums. Not quite up there with a Goa'uld infestation, but still not something he ever wanted to repeat.

Vibrations jostled his attention. He looked around to realize that Fraiser had gone, and John was shutting the helicopter's door behind her. When he turned back to find Rodney watching him, he froze, looking decidedly guilty for no reason that Rodney could understand.

"So, what now?"

A shrug.

"Oh no, don't give me that bullshit. Fraiser gave you instructions or something. I saw her. Let me guess—you're my babysitter, supposed to make sure I stay quiet and rest."

Relaxing, John slipped into one of his self-deprecating smiles—the one that Rodney found oddly attractive at the same time he itched to slap right off John's face. Bastard had to know it, too.

"Hungry," Rodney sulked. "Cold, too. Turn the heat up."

John rolled his eyes, but he did snap to it; and Rodney might have been asking to have that powerbar chucked at his head, but at least John did it gently and gave him warning first. John also found one of those thick, wool blankets, which was the best idea ever. Except that after Rodney was finished inhaling dinner, John tried to spread it over him and coax him to lay down, leading to the worst idea ever. The swimmy head sensation combined with an empty stomach combined with food to make him... well, it was sort of like climbing the first hill on a roller coaster, gut panicking in anticipation of the inevitable drop.

Rodney pushed upright, swatting John away. "Urgh, no. No sir. Need to sit up. Feels better to sit up."

John stood there with the blanket, and Rodney could just see him trying to decide if it was worth pressing the issue. So Rodney crossed his arms and glared, assuring him in no uncertain terms that no, no it wasn't worth the hassle. "Not unless you want to fight me for it. Over it. Whatever. I'll do it. I'll win too, because I'm injured and you feel sorry for me," he said haughtily.

He hadn't expected John to utter a few words, then sling the blanket around himself and stalk away. Rodney was just about to call him back (and maybe adopt a slightly more, hm, congenial tone in the process) when John sat on the floor, squirming his shoulders into the curve of the airframe until he was comfortable. He flipped the blanket out like wings, pulled up his knees, and patted the space between his spread legs.

Seriously?

Rodney launched himself off the stretcher before John could come to his senses and rescind the invitation. Tottering over, he let John help him ease down, and was pulled in snugly before the blanket was drawn back around them both. And oh god, but John Sheppard was an absolute genius.

That part might have been out loud; he could feel the hum of a response, or it might have even been laughter.

"No, I mean it," he insisted, trying to find a safe place to arrange his hands. There seemed to be more than he ought to have, but then it turned out that some of them belonged to John—John, who had his arms loosely around Rodney, and who was the primary source of that sinful warmth... "G-e-n-i-u-s," he declared, "should be spelled S-h-e-p-p-a-r-d. You should get a Nobel Prize for this. For, I don't know, humanitarian effort or something. I wouldn't even mind if you got one before me, you deserve it so much."

John shook his head.

"Yes."

Again.

"Shut up, I'm the injured one, you have to agree with me. That's the rule. Sub-section D, chapter 8, look it up if you don't believe me. It's all there, black and white. The party of the second—that's you—shall–"

John tugged his sleeve to get his attention.

"Did I mention I nearly died?"

But John didn't let go. He shifted down until he'd caught Rodney's hand, turning it over and smoothing the fingers flat.

"What're you–" The first stroke was unexpected, tentative in a manner that was too-light and ticklish, and he lost track of the second and third. "Wait, start over. C... no, G. T? I? L? GL– Dammit, Sheppard. Who taught you penmanship? If you're gonna draw stuff on my hand and expect me to understand, at least do it the right-ward way."

Reversing the order of the strokes, John slowly repeated a capital letter A.

The larger problem was that deciphering the symbols took concentration, a substance he was decidedly lacking with John all warm and wrapped around him, lulling Rodney with the steady rise and fall of his chest. In, out. In, out. One, two. Such an easy tempo to match his own breathing to, until they were doing it in unison—one-two, one-two. "Glap? What the hell is glap? Give it up. Just... just do Morse code. I can do that shit in my sleep." Or, he hoped, when highly distracted.

As if cleaning a slate, John wiped across Rodney's palm before starting over. He tapped out, Glad you're okay.

"Dah-di-dah-dah, dit, di-dah, di-di-di-dit," Rodney recited, but had to stop so he could cackle at John's exasperated huff. "Oh, come on. Don't tell me you Americans still learn dots and dashes."

McKay...

"Sorry, sorry." John had said something nice. He should probably try to be serious and say something nice in return. But the only sober thought he could grasp was, "You know, if I'd died, the worst part wouldn't have been being dead. It would have been missing this... you, me, whatever this is. 's nice." Way, way more than nice.

It definitely wasn't his imagination when John's arm tightened around him, just the slightest bit. You should sleep.

That was okay, Rodney didn't want to talk about it either. Ever. Or at least not until an obscenely long time from now, when the whole near-death-by-massive-explosion experience was safely buried in his memories. "I'll try, but only if you say the magic word. Here's a hint: it starts with pluh and ends with eeeeez."

He struggled to make out John's reply, until he realized that it wasn't one of those lovely, biting comebacks. It wasn't code at all, just a random, barely-there caress.

Part 4

"Who wants to give McKay the bad news? Any volunteers?"

Cringing, John deliberately looked at Carter.

Carter looked at John... and so did O'Neill, Jackson, and Teal'c.

"I'll do it, sir," John sighed.

It was one of those informal gatherings, not a meeting so much as a chance to hash out logistical details of the plans that had already been made by far too many people sitting around a large table.

"Attaboy," O'Neill smirked, flipping the whatever the hell it was that he'd stolen from Jackson's desk in the air and catching it again. It looked like a grade school art project, but it was probably some priceless artifact, judging by the way Jackson twitched every time O'Neill let it fly.

John was secretly hoping for him to fumble and drop it. Would serve him right. "What's the time schedule? When should I tell him he'll be leaving?"

Carter stressed, "We'll be leaving as soon as Fraiser releases him from the infirmary and clears him to travel. Major Davis is returning this afternoon, and I don't want to leave him alone out there too long."

"What, me too?" It would be nice to be able to keep an eye on Rodney; the idiot might be able to hide problems from Carter, but he wouldn't be able to fool John. Though, on second thought... "Is that such a good idea? Washington's practically my home town. There's a chance someone could recognize me, and I'm supposed to be, you know, dead."

O'Neill pointed at him. "Already thought of that, Major Smith. Here's what you're gonna do. You're gonna stay in your dress blues as much as possible. Trust me, not many people look at your face when you're in uniform."

Naturally O'Neill would get that impression. When he was in service blues, people were probably too distracted by all the ribbons on his chest to notice anything else.

"Oh, and while you're at it, go out and get yourself a nice, regulation haircut. Voilà, instant disguise!"

"Yes sir," John gritted, wondering if it was the subject of yet another bet between O'Neill and Jackson. If so, he knew which one of them had money on John avoiding the razor, and he was so going to make O'Neill pay up. And speaking of... "Hey, about that dinner you owe me?"

"The what now?"

Daniel supplied, "You mean the one Jack promised you if you managed to recruit Zelenka into the program? That steak dinner?"

O'Neill shook his fist. "I did promise him that, didn't I? What about it, Sheppard?"

"Well, I'm thinking we should all go, once Carter and McKay and I get back from Washington. You know, sort of a combination welcome to the SGC, congratulations on not blowing up half the state of Oklahoma affair."

Carter had to bite her lip and duck aside keep a straight face. "Don't forget Kansas. My estimates show that if McKay had built the reactor to spec, the explosion resulting from the critical overload would have severely impacted parts of Kansas as well."

John had to hand it to the colonel. He knew how to fold graciously when he was outnumbered. Well, almost graciously. "Fine, fine... but under one condition! You have to behave in Washington. I mean it—McKay gets thrown out of the Capitol or makes one member of Congress cry, and all you'll be getting is Salisbury steak from the mess."

"Ooh, that's harsh," Daniel hissed. "Looks like it's all on your shoulders now, John. Make us proud."

 "What are you talking about? You like the Salisbury steak from the mess."

"It is not bad," Teal'c agreed. "But the mess does not have twelve varieties of alcoholic malt beverage on tap."

~~

John knew the first thing Rodney was going to ask him, so he made sure to hunt up Fraiser first, hoping she could give him an answer to have ready. "So, how's Prince Charming?"

Fraiser looked up, twisting her lips into something that mostly resembled a smile. "His Highness is enjoying a leisurely breakfast."

"What, at..." John checked his watch. "It's almost ten. I've been up for five hours."

"So have I, and four of those hours were the most peace I've had since Dr McKay entered my care. You ready to take him off my hands?"

"Yeah, I was gonna ask you about that." Leaning against her desk, John fiddled with a stapler. "They want him to make a trip to Washington to stand with Carter when she testifies before the congressional hearing." In light of the accusations against him, it wasn't a bad idea to trot him out as the hero of the day; further, John knew O'Neill was dying to rub McKay's innocence in the face of one particular Senator. "He gonna be okay to fly with his ears all messed up?"

"The pressure change related to altitude?" She thought about it. "Actually, he should be fine. The damage is already done. But I would appreciate it if you'd keep an eye on him, make sure he adheres to the care instructions I've given him."

He put the stapler down, squaring it neatly with the edge of the desk. "Yes sir, I'll do my best. Would you like the honors, or..."

"I've already drawn up his release forms. He's all yours, Major."

Courtesy of the temporary halt to off-world activities, Rodney was the only occupant of the infirmary. John walked in to find him presiding over a decimated breakfast tray, a cup raised half way to his lips.

A cup that looked suspiciously like it contained orange juice.

"Rodney, what in the hell are you– Rodney!" Shit, that was right, he couldn't hear. John sprinted across the distance and knocked cup out of his hand just in time.

"Sheppard! Jesus, don't scare me like that!" He looked down in dismay at the juice splattered all over his bed and the floor. "And what in the hell is wrong with you?"

"I should ask you the same question! Holy shit McKay, are you trying to give me a heart attack? Because I can't take too many more of these scares before something breaks!"

Rodney gaped at him a moment, and John shifted, suddenly nervous about what might be visible in his expression. Then, comprehension dawned, and Rodney said, "Ah, I forgot to tell you, didn't I? I guess with everything else it sort of slipped my mind."

Tell me what? John demanded silently, crossing his arms.

"The Goa'uld, when it was in my head... it decided that it would be 'inconvenient' for its host body to be deathly allergic to a common food, so it sort of... fixed me." There were drops adhering to Rodney's fingers. He looked around for a dry spot to wipe them off, then gave up and licked them instead. "See? All cured, no harm done."

John pinched the bridge of his nose. God...

"You know how stuff tastes better when you haven't been allowed to have any? Key lime pie. Oh my god, I ate three slices at the restaurant and took the rest home for later. I think the snake must have done something to my vision too, because I used to be slightly nearsighted, but wow, I haven't been able to see this well since high school. You know, before I made a habit of staring at computer screens for twelve hours a day." He paused only to sneak a breath before barreling on. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you. You looked really frightened just now. Did you think I was trying to kill myself or something? Because there's no way I'm gonna get that upset about a little hearing loss—and besides, Fraiser says it should be temporary, that these types of injuries often heal by themselves in a couple months. The ringing's already gotten better some since yesterday–"

Retrieving the miniature whiteboard they'd been using for communication, John sat on the edge of the bed, uncapping the marker with his teeth. He wrote, I don't know what I thought, okay?

"Yes, well, maybe you should be sorry for getting juice all over me. I'm wet and sticky now, thanks to you."

Sorry, John scrawled. Happy?

Rodney scooted over, allowing John more room. "I'd be happier if you'd spring me. How about it? I think I've been under observation long enough. I mean, if I was going to have a reaction or exhibit new symptoms, I would have done it by now."

We'll see. Got some news.

"Oh? Good or bad? By the way, you'll never guess who came to visit me yesterday. Radek! And since he was less than forthcoming about the circumstances that led to his being in an ultra top secret underground military bunker when he's supposed to be safe in Canada on sabbatical, I expect a full explanation out of you. See, I have this funny feeling that you're involved somehow."

John erased the board on Rodney's sleeve– "Hey!" -and wrote, Later. Good news first. Plan to expose inside man at A51 worked. The same day they'd rescued Rodney, O'Neill had managed to round up the goons, as Rodney called them. They were in custody undergoing questioning. But the plan had been to spread the rumor that the SGC had captured the ringleader, and that he was spilling his guts, naming accomplices to lessen his own sentence.

That part was even sort of true. They did have his body.

"Great! And? Who was it? Oh please, oh please, oh please let it be who I think it was."

That's the bad news. Someone tipped off Ingram before we could secure the base. He disappeared.

"Yes! I mean, fuck! Son of a bitch tries to kill me and he gets away? There's no justice in this world."

He's a hunted man. We'll get him eventually.

"Yeah, right. He probably escaped to Russia, sold the crap he stole on the black market, and retired to a country estate."

John wiped down the board once more. Then I hope he likes borscht. How's that for justice?

Pretty good, judging by the way Rodney burst into laughter.

~~

Daniel had to run his hand over John's new, ultra-regulation buzz cut a few times before he decided, "I like it. Good look on you."

O'Neill waltzed in, did a double-take, and said, "Dammit," while reaching for his wallet.

Rodney sulked through the entire flight to DC. John was only able to get back in his good graces by promising to grow it out again when the whole damned fiasco was over.

~~

Due to the sensitive nature of the subject, the Senate Intelligence Oversight Committee was holding its hearing on the "Irregular Solar Flare and Resulting Catastrophic Electromagnetic Phenomenon over the South-Central United States" behind closed doors.

John wasn't important enough to be on the guest list. He probably could have gotten his name added if he'd wanted to draw attention to himself, but he didn't. In fact, he was almost grateful to be left out, given the way Carter and McKay spent evenings back at the hotel venting about the sheer, unmitigated absurdity of the proceedings. (It was a little frightening that they managed to remain completely in synch when one of them couldn't hear the other. John began to wonder if Rodney's other senses had compensated for his handicap, sharpening to the point that he'd developed the ability to read minds.)

He caught Rodney staring at him with intense concentration often enough to make him worry.

Maybe it was the hair. God, he hoped it was just the hair.

"So then that fuckwit Senator Kinsey actually had the nerve to suggest that if I suspected my life was going to be forfeit anyway, I should have refused to build the device and let Barney shoot me on the spot. 'We don't give in to terrorists' my ass. You can bet he'd be singing a different song if he'd been the one looking down the barrel of that revolver."

"Actually," Carter corrected, "it's 'that fuckwit Vice President-elect Kinsey'. With the inauguration approaching, the man should have stepped down from his Senate seat already, but he's holding out to the last minute so that he can do as much damage to the SGC as he can with this investigation before he goes."

No, the real reason John was glad he wasn't attending the hearing was that he was certain he'd be overwhelmed by the temptation to walk up to Kinsey and choke the everliving shit out of him. "Sounds like it's working," he growled.

"Oh no. Rodney just looked him dead in the eye and said–"

"So I asked him what the estimated cost was for the damage done by my EMP, and he rattled off some number—I can't remember exactly, but it was impressively high–"

"One hundred and forty-three million."

"Then I said, So that's the price tag you put on a human life. Who died and made you God?"

"Total silence across the entire chamber. You could've heard a pin drop."

"Besides," Rodney said, angling his chair so that he could put his feet up on the bed, "do you have any idea what the budget is for developing this type of thing as a potential weapon? The way I hear it—ha ha, hear, get it?—is that their work will be advanced by a decade if the Pentagon gets their hands on my research."

"To be fair, it's kind of our research. I mean, I did reverse-engineer the naquadah generator that you used as the basis for your flux compression generator."

"And it wouldn't do them any good unless they could get their hands on a substantial amount of naquadria. Good luck with that. But the design principles I used are sound."

"I completely agree. Except for the power core mount." She sketched a shape out with her hands. "I don't understand why you didn't make it vertical, with the contact points–"

"Oh, do you mean the mount for the power core? Funny story. I'd intended to make it vertical, but I had a problem with the craptastic parts I had available to me, trying to figure out a way to channel it into the capacitors..." He reached for a napkin and started scribbling a diagram.

When Carter leaned in to join him, John knew it was a lost cause. "Uh, guys? I think I'm gonna wander back to my room, see if there's a game on." Or a Chuck Norris movie, or the Home Shopping Network... something, anything.

~~

Rodney was relieved when the day's session concluded early. Even Carter's impeccable calm was fraying. And he felt guilty about having left her to weather the brunt of it alone, but even with a clerk passing him the minutes as they were being recorded, the discussion had proceeded too swiftly for him to be of much use.

Not... that he'd had anything civil to contribute.

It was the first day that John hadn't been waiting for them outside the chamber, and even though he couldn't have known that they would finish early, Rodney couldn't help a pang of disappointment. "I wonder if Sheppard's back at the hotel," he said, holding Carter's briefcase while she donned her coat in anticipation of plunging into the overcast January afternoon. He realized that he didn't know what John was doing with his days while they were stuck in bureaucratic hell.

Carter shook her head, but she'd learned the Morse code trick early on. Smithsonian.

"Oh, really? No, let me guess, the one with the planes."

A nod.

"I think... I'll go find him."

That frown was definitely building to a "no".

"Come on, how hard can it be? Bad haircut, funny suit, he'll stick out like a sore thumb. Don't worry, I'll be safe," he promised before she could lodge a formal protest. "I mean, it's just across the street... practically. And it's broad daylight."

I'll come too.

"No, no, go on back to the hotel. Take a hot bath or something. Today was rough, and you could use a chance to unwind without us guys breathing down your neck."

She gave him a smile, almost shy. SG-1. Used to it. But she nodded anyway, and held up her thumb and forefinger against the side of her head, mimicking a telephone receiver.

"Yes, I'll make him call you, let you know we met up okay."

After seeing her into a cab, he dug in his pockets for his gloves, fixed his scarf, and set off down the sidewalk.

John proved just as predictable as expected, if slightly more difficult to spot. Rodney ran him to ground on the second floor, sitting on a bench that overlooked the X-15. He was leaning over, with his forearms on his thighs and his cap dangling between his knees.

Before approaching, Rodney hung back for a minute or two to watch him. He didn't move. He didn't look like he'd moved in a long time.

"Excuse me, sir, is this seat taken?"

John's head snapped up, but Rodney was already sitting. He stretched his legs out with a sigh. "Ah, this feels good. Warm in here. I like warm. Had enough with being cold, and it was plenty cold out there. Oh, you need to call Carter, tell her I found you okay. If you can imagine, she was worried about me walking across the yard by myself."

"Lawn," John corrected, or at least Rodney was pretty sure he did. It was just the one word, sweet and succinct.

"Whatever. So this is what you've been doing with yourself? Staring at jets all day?"

First gesturing to himself, John then held out his hand, horizontal, about three feet tall.

So he used to visit the museum as a kid. "You know, since you can't get inside the hearings, I was wondering why they made you come DC at all. Until I realized that between you and Carter, I haven't been alone for more than five seconds over the past four days. That's the reason, isn't it?"

John pointed to the star in the center of his coat button. Congratulations, Rodney's correct answer deserved a prize.

It shouldn't be so damned effortless for them to communicate like this. It was almost as if words got in the way, or were dishonest, somehow. Take some of them away and it became easier. He wondered what it would be like to remove them all, if perfect understanding would lie in the empty places, transmitted through touch...

You okay? was pretty easy to guess when John reached out, hesitant fingers brushing Rodney's sleeve.

"Yeah, I'm fine. I just–" He did a supremely selfish thing, covering John's hand with his own, trapping it there gently. "I'm fine. A lot's happened to me these last few weeks. Even my amazing brain is having trouble processing it, is all."

Shifting as if nervous, John didn't quite pull away. And all right, it was a bit awkward when one of the two men holding hands in public was wearing an Air Force dress uniform.

Rodney wet his lips. I want... god, I want ten minutes alone with you—in private—so I can figure out what the hell is going on. And I don't want you to have any warning when it happens, because I know how good you are at closing yourself off. He released John after trying to convey some of that sentiment in one last press.

It might have worked; John rubbed that hand absently against his thigh.

"So, you realize that in fifty years, the jumper's gonna be hanging from this ceiling, right? And one of the 302s, and your name's gonna be all over the plaques. Pretty weird to think about, isn't it? I know you didn't sign up for this hero to the future generations gig."

John shook his head, more wry than a denial. He'd considered the possibility, and it didn't exactly make him comfortable.

"I wouldn't worry too much," Rodney hastily assured. "I mean, next to Alan, you'll always be that 'other' Sheppard. And it's not like you need to lead a squeaky-clean life to be a good role model. Actions stand for themselves—the rest of that junk is sanitized before it hits the history books, anyway."

The resulting flat scowl could be either Gee, thanks, or Not helping.

"Er..." Enough about John. "I don't know if Carter told you or not, but we won't be around tonight. There's some bullshit dinner or political function or something we're supposed to attend. Glad I packed the funeral suit. It'll be appropriate for my outfit to match my mood."

A shrug. Either he hadn't known, or he had and it didn't bother him.

"I wish you could go. It might even make the experience bearable if you sat next to me. We'd mock the guests in code beneath the table, until Carter caught on and made one of us swap seats with her so that she'd be in the middle."

John rolled his eyes.

"Yeah, I know, like that would stop us. But Kinsey will be there, I'm afraid."

Finger across the throat. Absolutely not gonna happen.

"You sure he'd recognize you? That's a pretty awful haircut."

Sighing, John finally resorted to words. He tapped, Too risky. He was at my funeral.

"Fair enough. Hey, I saw the guest list, and I there's a Patrick Sheppard on it. I know this is almost your home town and all, and I was wondering if there was any relation..."

John froze. For a moment, Rodney was afraid he'd really, really fucked up somehow, and it was impossibly frustrating to not understand why, or how. And John sure as hell wasn't going to spell it out for him, because it was probably too complicated to put into a slow string of coded letters.

Or so he thought. But then, the motion stiff and curt, John said, Father. He rose immediately and stalked down the concourse, the direction apparently unimportant so long as it was away.

It was the clearest message he'd sent so far: Give me space, leave me alone, I don't want to talk about it.

~~

And wasn't that like a goddamned bolt of lightning from the heavens? It was the thing John hadn't been able to put his finger on, the one facet of the whole, fucked-up ordeal that had kept his anger hot and seething, just at the edges of his vision.

He expected that sort of unconscionable behavior from a man like Kinsey. But John's father, his own flesh and blood, had been involved in the plot that had nearly taken Rodney's life, along with the lives of thousands of other innocents.

The injustice eating John alive wasn't that his father was going to walk away free of blame. No, it was that he probably didn't comprehend what he'd almost helped to do.

~~

"If you'd just let me– I think it was straighter before you started messing with it," Rodney complained, pulling at John's hands.

Bullshit, John mouthed slowly. The tie was perfect now. Even Rodney must have agreed, because he examined himself in the bathroom mirror once more without attempting to improve upon John's fussing.

"Okay, I think I'm ready. How do I look?"

John took a couple steps back, letting his eyes crawl up the length of him. By the time they reached Rodney's face, he was coloring slightly and anxious for an answer. Shaking his head, John murmured, "You look..."

Rodney's shoulders drew inward. "That bad? It's the tie, isn't it? You changed your mind. It's okay, I can grab the other one. We're supposed to be leaving now, but Sam always errs on the side of caution where schedules are concerned. I don't think five extra minutes will make us late."

Catching him, John spun him around and made him stand straight. He brushed imaginary wrinkles out of the suit's sleeve, smoothing the fabric down Rodney's back as he paced a slow circle around him. "It's a huge test of will to keep my hands off you, and I'm losing," he whispered, allowing himself the barest stolen moment, bowing his head until it was almost, almost, almost resting against Rodney's shoulder. Then he snapped his eyes open again, plastered on a phony smile, and resumed his position front and center to shoot Rodney a thumbs up.

There was a knock at the door. John jerked his chin in that direction, saying, "Two guesses who that is, and the first one doesn't count."

"She's here already? Great, I can ask for a second opinion." He flung open the door, falling back to allow Carter entry. "Sam, come in! I've got a tiny little fashion emergency, and I'd like to know what you think."

"What, you don't trust Sheppard here to point you in the right direction?"

John struck a pose, looking utterly ridiculous barefoot, in a thin, worn t-shirt and baggy sweats. Comfort clothes that screamed: Hey, look at me, I don't intend to leave my room for the rest of the night! "Yeah, because I'm such a clothes horse. And you're wearing your uniform? That's cheating."

"I know, isn't it?"

Rodney was holding the other tie up beneath his chin. "So what do you think? Yes, no? Stripes are so conservative, but the abstract print might be too wild for where we're going."

Carter mock-whispered, "Which one did you suggest?"

"The one he has on."

She removed the second tie from Rodney's grasp and flung it over the bed. "Perfect. Let's go, our ride is waiting."

John saw them off at the door. "You kids have fun. And remember, company manners. There's a steak dinner riding on it!"

Throwing the locks behind them, he crawled onto the bed, mindful of Rodney's tie, and flipped on the television. Five minutes he waited, ten, fifteen, until he was certain they had to be too far away to return for any forgotten items. Then he peeled out of his sweats and thew on the outfit he'd had waiting at the top of his suitcase.

The notes were identical, one slipped under each of their doors. Decided to step out to visit some of the old haunts. Don't worry, and don't wait up. -John

~~

It was cold in the rental car, but John was frugal with the heat, blasting it briefly every half hour or so before shutting down the engine again. Exhaust coming from a parked vehicle wasn't likely to ring warning alarms unless you were crazy-paranoid, but he'd spent enough time with Rodney to take these details into consideration.

Nearly three hours elapsed before his target made its appearance. And each individual minute of that time was a battle John almost won, to let the good sense he'd been born with—or the wisdom he'd accrued through bitter experience—convince him to turn the fuck around and go back to where he belonged. Then he would picture Rodney, eyes haunted and hollow, saying, I nearly died... and he would stay, clenching the steering wheel until his knuckles protested the strain.

The hired limousine passed him a second time, speeding back in the direction of the city. Still he waited, another hour, maybe more, before he drove to the edge of the property, abandoning his car to make the rest of the way on foot.

Like the grounds, the house stood dark and drowsy. His approach cut through the rear garden, leaving incriminating footprints right up to the porch—where they promptly vanished as he balanced on the balustrade to haul himself onto the roof. From there, the window he wanted was a daunting distance along the steep, snow-crusted incline.

It was slick going, and dangerous, and he should have been scared out of his fucking mind. The fact that he wasn't should have scared him more. But ever since he'd left the hotel, he'd been riding a sense of dispassionate invincibility, that good old mission high. It let him believe that gravity wouldn't touch him, that luck would be with him when he tested the window and found it unlatched. That he could simply steal down the hall and into the master bedroom, undetectable on whisper-silent feet.

The man alone in the wide bed was more... human than he'd imagined. Slight, almost frail.

That didn't prevent John from clamping his leather-gloved hand over the man's mouth, exerting his strength to hold it there when the man flew awake, thrashing to a soundtrack of muffled cries.

"Quiet," John hissed, squeezing his jaw. Hard. "There isn't much time."

The man subsided, but John recognized the false, brittle calm of a strategist seeking an opportunity. He was certain of it when the man's eyes darted left, measuring the distance to the nightstand. Reaching over, John pulled out the drawer, sweeping around until his fingers encountered-

"Guns aren't toys. You shouldn't leave them lying around for anyone to find," he advised, cocking the pistol as he perched on the edge of the bed. "And now that I have your undivided attention, I want you to listen to me, and listen carefully. Nod if you understand."

The man nodded frantically under John's hand.

"Good. I'm here because of the little stunt you pulled at the old homestead."

Slowly at first, the man began shaking his head, denying it.

"Don't bother. I know you own the property through a dummy corporation. I know what you were trying to build there, and why. I even have a good idea of who set you up with the means to do it. Now, I want you to know that the scientist you abducted and tried to force to work for you is a friend of mine. A very close. Personal. Friend. He was hurt because of you, and that really pisses me off."

Eyes impossibly wide, the man fell still except for his rapid, shallow breaths. If his mouth had been open, they would have been gasps.

John added almost conversationally, examining the gun, "Of course, if he'd died, I would have killed you already. But he'll live, so you get to as well. Funny how that works."

A low, agonized moan seeped from the man.

"So you do understand. Then I'm sure you'll believe me when I say that if you ever step out of line again, I'll see to it personally that you receive what's coming to you. You do believe me, right?"

Trembling, he nodded again.

"Good. I'm glad we could have this little chat." John eased his hand away and stood, trusting that the man would have more sense than to shout. "Oh, and after I leave, you'll want to call your security company, tell them it was a false alarm. Unless you'd rather file an official report and try to explain my presence here tonight."

There was no reply, but John hadn't expected one. Heading for the door, he'd almost reached it when the man surprised him. "John?" Glancing back, he discovered that Patrick Sheppard had pulled himself upright and was propped against the headboard, gripping its spokes for support. "It's you, isn't it?"

John gave him nothing else, no words, not a sound. Just the hard glitter of his eyes as they locked gazes across the room, in the instant before John turned and was gone.

But that was probably confirmation in itself.

~~

The shakes didn't hit until he pulled the rental car to the side of the road, still about thirty miles outside of Washington. He had to get out, stumble to the center of the small bridge, and make sure that when he pitched the gun, it landed in the oily-looking water rather than on a patch of ice. And if there'd been anything in his stomach, he might have lost that over the side, too.

Jesus, fuck... what just happened? Waltzing into his house and threatening him at gunpoint wasn't the goddamned plan, John!

There hadn't been a plan, but he was positive that if he'd made one, that wouldn't have been it. That would have been the antithesis of a plan, the eventuality to avoid at all costs.

In the face of such a disheartening, self-inflicted folly, it was small consolation to know that his father would never breathe a word to anyone. The Sheppard pride wouldn't allow it.

It took him a few tries to get the keys in the ignition, and he was tempted to just finish the night there, slumped over the steering wheel on the shoulder of the road like a drunk. But Rodney and Carter would look for him in the morning. They would be concerned—or worse, suspicious—if he wasn't in his room.

He left the rental car in the parking deck; it would need to be returned during the day, while they were occupied at the Capitol. And maybe he could concoct some story, devise an illness to excuse the bout of reclusiveness he could feel building, even now.

Booze. Christ, yes, he could use a drink. He could hit the mini bar; he wouldn't even have to fake a hangover, and they would expect him to be out of sorts if they thought he'd spent the night drowning at one of his old watering holes.

There was no particular reason for stealth—Rodney's room might be the next one over, but he couldn't hear a damned thing, and John had warned him not to wait up. Still, John caught himself easing the door closed behind him, wincing at the loud click as the latch caught. He didn't bother with the lights—hell, he was pretty good at stumbling around in the dark by now—just peeled out of his coat and dropped it on the ground before edging over to the little refrigerator.

The bottles he wanted were on the door. He grabbed the nearest one, not caring what the fuck it was, wrenched off the tiny cap, and upended it in one go.

Vodka. Not a bad start. He balanced the empty on the edge of the dresser—by the time he was finished, there would be a neat little row of them—and reached for another.

The scant illumination from the refrigerator let him find his bed. Dropping on the corner, he was bending to unlace his boots when the comforter sat up with a groan.

"Jesus Christ!" He was half way across the room before the flight instinct registered, groping for the sidearm he wasn't wearing.

The bedside light clicked on, and there was Rodney, fucking Rodney, emerging from beneath the covers, sleep-tousled and peevish looking, and far, far less disoriented than John.

There was no respite, no chance for John to regain his composure or gather his scattered nerves. Rodney just dove right in. "Nice of you to slink home, finally," he said, twisting the alarm clock around so he could read the display. "Oh, I know your note said not to wait up, and as you can see, I didn't. I was going to, but I gave that up two hours ago."

"Rodney." John tried to pretend he hadn't been plastered to the opposite wall, ready to dive for the door. "This is my room, isn't it?" It was; he knew it was. He'd checked the number before entering, and he kept the key cards for Rodney's and Carter's rooms in a separate compartment of his wallet. "What are you– You know what? Just– Never mind."

Rodney threw back the blankets and slipped his legs over the side. He'd lost the tie and jacket, but he was still wearing his dress shirt, unbuttoned a few notches for comfort, and the matching (now badly wrinkled) dress pants. "Furthermore," he huffed, "you are damned lucky that Carter doesn't know you quite as well as I do. She was worried too, and she would have been waiting with me if I hadn't convinced her that this sort of behavior is normal for you. She's not dumb, Sheppard. She would have taken one look at you– Why in the hell are you wearing your BDUs, anyway? I know you have normal clothes. -and she would have known that your cover story was crap. Visiting some old haunts? Please. Where were you really?"

He couldn't fucking deal with it. Not the interrogation, or Rodney's concern, and certainly not Rodney himself. And the worst part was, he could have escaped it all if he'd been able to come up with a reasonable explanation, maybe a wisecrack or two, before politely yet firmly showing Rodney the door. But he literally could not do it. It was as if something had switched off inside him, as if the endurance that maintained the pretense had finally given out, leaving him so damned tired. He made a dismissive gesture, turning his back on Rodney to reach for another bottle.

"Just because I can't hear you doesn't mean you can ignore me! John!"

Watch me, John thought, removing the cap with a vicious twist.

Then Rodney was right there, in his space, smelling of sleep, with his pillow-flattened hair... stealing John's drink.

No matter. John could grab a replacement, just as soon as Rodney was no longer between him and the fridge.

"You and me, we're beyond this shit. You're not allowed to make me worry and then brush me off without an explanation or even one of your shitty apologies. Damn it John, look at me!"

He didn't, not quite, but the urge to obey was very strong. "It's no use, Rodney. Ask me in the morning. I'll have a decent story all thought out for you by then."

"Your hand." He snatched it up between both of his before John recognized the need to escape. "You're trembling," he accused. "Are you sick, are you hurt? You didn't go pick a fight, did you? God, that would be so typical, although not really, not for you." He was feeling John over, searching for injuries or blood or signs of illness, his irritation evident in everything except his touch, which somehow remained cautious, almost tender. "Tell me what's wrong. Please. Something must've happened."

John was reluctant to acknowledge Rodney's gaze, his expression, but unable to avoid it any longer. "You want to know what happened? You really want to know? I was stupid, okay? I went to see my father. I don't even know why I went, except that knowing he had something to do with you being hurt was driving me insane. Stop that." He shied away from the hand Rodney was trying to press to his forehead, checking for a fever. "I held a gun on him, Rodney, and told him that I would have killed him if you'd died because of what he did. And god, I meant every word."

"Maybe you should come over here with me and sit down. I'll turn on a better light, get you a glass of water, maybe some aspirin. Did you drink too much while you were out? You don't look drunk."

Oh sure, now Rodney decided to back off and give him room to breathe. It was far too late for that. John caught him, reeling him back in, because this was something Rodney had to understand. If not the words, then at least John's desperation. "I could see myself slipping my finger beneath the guard and pulling the trigger. I would have done it; it would have been so easy. And now I have to live with that knowledge. I don't know what happened, I tried to be so careful. I thought... I could keep my distance, but it didn't work. I still ended up so fucking involved in you that you can make me lose sight of everything else. It scares the shit out of me, and I can't–"

Whatever he saw in John's face, it was scaring Rodney, too. His eyes were startled; he flinched when John reached for him too swiftly, confusion and uncertainty warring with naked want.

"–I can't stop," John whispered, dragging his thumb across Rodney's lips. They were slack and unguarded, and remained that way when John touched his own mouth over them. Once, twice.

"Oh god," Rodney finally said, shoving John back to arm's length. "Oh my god. You're not drunk. You're crazy."

"Completely fucking mad. I would say it's your fault, but it's not, it's really not..." He drifted in again, and this time Rodney was there to meet him half way.

~~

John had imagined their first time would be all knocked teeth and clumsy hands and Rodney's insatiable hunger for new things. He wasn't prepared for this strange reverence that was incrementally undoing what was left of him.

Rodney's eyes were never still, and they never left John, not even when he was fumbling with buttons, or trying to help guide them to the bed without crashing into anything. And even that was a slow process, a knee first, gradually taking his weight when he was certain that John was following—as if John would break off the indulgent kisses even for a second, unless absolutely necessary, as when Rodney finally rucked his shirt up high enough to slip it off over his head.

It was a godsend, really, because when Rodney's mouth was free, he couldn't seem to halt his litany of oh god, and this can't be happening, with a sort of baffled fervor that bordered on embarrassing. He preferred Rodney silent; it highlighted his quiet confidence, the way he could read John effortlessly and make the most devastating observations, like the sting of teeth on John's throat, or the flutter of hands down his spine.

They'd landed on the bed full-out, side by side, but that had lasted just long enough for Rodney to tease open and coax John's pants off his hips. Then John was dragging Rodney on top of him, just... needing the solidity and the warmth to ground him. He tried to ignore the answering demand from his trapped cock when Rodney's settled into the crease of his hip, but it was no use, and the kisses surged dangerously deep.

"Here, wait. Let me–" Rodney was breathing hard through parted, kiss-reddened lips when he sat back, straddling John. He fought to release his arms from the shirt John had helpfully shoved off his shoulders; the undershirt followed, flung carelessly behind him, while John fell to work on those oh so complimentary dress pants. They wouldn't come off, not even close, but he did his best to get them out of the way before sliding his hands down Rodney's thighs, delighting in the feel of solid muscle beneath the fabric.

Groaning, Rodney was back on him in a flash, and John let his legs fall apart so that Rodney could settle oh god between them yes, right like that.

"I think I've figured out why you wanted me on top," he murmured, back arched so that he could mouth his way down John's chest. "I notice that I'm stuck trying to support my weight—ow, my wrist—while you still have the use of both hands."

"Strategic advantage," John chuckled, and demonstrated by grabbing Rodney's ass and hauling him down into greater contact. He might have hooked a leg over too, for the added leverage.

Rodney burst out with, "Oh, fuck!" And yeah, maybe that hadn't been the best idea if the goal had been to keep things slow and simmering, because suddenly Rodney had a hand between them, groping for John's cock. John tried to assist him, but ended up hindering more than anything else, until Rodney closed around him—just the right touch, a little rough, and a lot possessive—and it was all John could do to bite his lip and squirm on the pillow, desperate not to lose his shit all over the place like a guy coming off a two year dry spell.

It hadn't been nearly that long; it just felt like it sometimes.

"Careful," he warned, which Rodney, the bastard, chose not to heed. Oh shit, that's right, he didn't hear. John shoved his underwear down, gratified by the ragged gasp that broke from Rodney when he pushed his fist down over the head of Rodney's cock; he was far more gone than he was letting on. Next time they were totally doing this right, with lube and blowjobs and stamina for the love of god. But for now this was almost too much, their cocks locked together between them, with Rodney panting against John's neck, bucking into their clasped hands, and John arching off the bed in counterpoint-

-and he would say it was a damned shame about those dress pants, except it really, really wasn't.

~~

John was awake before dawn, an arm slung around Rodney, nose buried between his shoulder blades, dreading the questions that would shatter the ephemeral peace.

The answer, when it came to him, was so astonishingly simple that he had to smile.

There was a grumbled complaint when he slipped from the bed, and a catcall when he padded back, still shamelessly naked. Rodney had propped himself up on an elbow, torn between curiosity and a leer. And oh yes, bursting with those questions.

John leaned down to kiss him, a searing apology for the waste of a perfectly good morning arousal. Then he placed the notebook—the one from P3X-423, the one he'd completed in Jackson's quarters on New Year's Eve—on the pillow next to Rodney.

"What, that's it? I was sort of hoping for coffee."

"Pot's over there, make it yourself," John said, kissing him again before heading to the shower; leaving Rodney alone with the confession he couldn't take back now even if he'd wanted to.

Epilogue

The caller ID showed a familiar number. He debated just letting the phone ring, but he'd always tried to set a good example by not shrinking from uncomfortable responsibilities, and he sure as hell wasn't going to start this late in life.

[Patrick,] the voice on the other end of the line greeted. [I apologize for skipping the pleasantries, but I'm afraid my schedule is absolutely hectic. I need to have a word with you. Do you have a moment?]

"Of course, Senator. Actually, I wanted to have a word with you, myself."

[I hate to ask, but are you somewhere that you can speak freely?]

"Yes."

[Good. It's about the little project we had going out West. I'm afraid there's been a slight mishap, and I just wanted to be certain that the property you allowed us to use can't be traced back to you. And you're, er, aware that it would be in your best interests not to say anything if someone were to make mention of it.]

"Yes, about that, Senator." Patrick Sheppard took a deep breath. "I'm afraid I've had to... reconsider my involvement with your organization. I'm sorry. It's nothing to do with you, I assure you. Please consider it a... personal matter."

– END –