Fiction Main

Acknowlegements: The pretty, pretty cover above is by the astonishingly talented fatuorum. Huge thanks goes to ignipes, 20thcenturyvole, and enname for betaing this beast. The readable bits in here are their doing. The ones that are less so are entirely mine.

Notes: So, this one should be subtitled ‘Rodney McKay and the Planet of the Pot Smokers’. That would give the unfair impression that it’s going to be silly and light-hearted, however, and this one is a little too dark for that. Not dark!fic, but sunshine and roses it ain’t. If you need further proof, look to the drabbly offshoot predecessor. (Incidentally, the title refers to an insurance term relating losses suffered to the amount of coverage in effect.)

Rodney comes back damaged.

They hand over a fully functioning, loudmouthed genius with a penchant for sarcasm and slight irrationality. They get back a fully functioning, polite savant with a penchant for silence and serenity.

When he isn’t being terrifyingly helpful, Rodney isn’t talking. Rodney isn’t blinking. Rodney isn’t pacing as though he can walk to a thought. It’s only on close inspection that anyone can tell Rodney is breathing. On a scale of one to ten, this is an eleven of disturbing.

The Yolen people are absurdly pleased with their handiwork, presenting McKay as a gift to their new friends, like a good bottle of wine at a dinner party.

He will be more efficient now, they say. Dr. McKay will be better.

John’s sick with it. He never wanted this.

You got anything to calm him down? Breathe, Rodney.

They’re through the gate a grand total of ten minutes before Rodney is bouncing in that way that would be frightening on any other man approaching forty, but somehow isn’t on him. His hands are flying and his voice is dropping words here and there to catch up to his brain, and John joins Teyla and Ronon for the show.

It’s a short walk to the city from the MALP’s photos, and the whole way there Rodney’s eyes are on his readings. Teyla takes point, Ronon takes rear, and John reaches out every now and again to steer Rodney away from a rock in the path or a low-hanging branch. When they’re closing in, John clears his throat meaningfully and Rodney mutters, “Yes, yes” and holsters the scanner in favor of his sidearm. They’ve learned to be cautious.

They walk from the trees and into the first clusters of houses without confrontation. The pictures haven’t done the dichotomy of it justice. The houses this far out are small, functional units. They feel like office buildings, although the curtains in windows and children peeking shyly from doorways mark them as homes. The path abruptly goes from dirt to stone, though, and it’s like another city entirely. There’s suddenly pattern and form, all tall spires and graceful curves. The greys and browns become soft blues and greens. The one thing that doesn’t change is the cleanliness; John hasn’t seen so much as a candy wrapper yet.

The streets are filled with people. Men and women in loose, pastel clothing talk and smile and occasionally wave to John and the others. None of them seem to be doing anything productive, but doing it happily nonetheless. Very happily.

“So is it just me, or are you thinking all that’s missing is the Hendrix?”

John gets his point. “More like Marley.”

Rodney shakes his head. “I don’t care. This is definitely better living through chemistry.”

Teyla looks confused, but Ronon nods once. John’s going to ask about that later. Right after he figures out why the locals are giving them mellow smiles and otherwise ignoring their existence.

Except for the very large man striding toward them, flanked by two women who are barely dressed. John goes still and wary and feels his team do the same.

The man stops a few feet in front of them and inclines his head gracefully. “Welcome, Far Ones.”

“Hi. Lieutenant Colonel John Sheppard.” He waits, and gets only a bland smile. “And you …?”

“I am Iverik, Speaker for the People.” Same smile.

Initial contact meetings are usually like the first day of school: no one knows whether they’ll like each other, everyone’s a little afraid, and there’s an even chance someone will be bleeding by the end of it. John has learned to be very careful with the information he gives out. “Great. So, Iverik, you obviously know we’re not from around here. We’re explorers, maybe looking for someone to trade with. Any idea who we should talk to about that sort of thing?”

“Of course. I am at your service. You will need rest and refreshment, and then you must speak with our wisest councilors. Please come with me.” His tone dips and rises, fluid and loose as the robes that seem to be the style here.

John can’t find any reason to object, even if the voice in his head is screaming too easy. Iverik and his escorts turn, and John makes eye contact with his team. Teyla and Ronon shrug, and John nods and falls into step next to Rodney, who’s looking less than pleased. John keeps his voice low. “At least the flower children are helpful.”

“Just don’t drink the water.”

John almost grins, but stops when he sees the tightness around Rodney’s eyes. This isn’t something they can play off yet. He files that away for reference.

They walk down the middle of a wide boulevard paved with interlocking stones, and the crowds part effortlessly for them. There’s something oddly familiar about the city here, but John can’t quite put his finger on why. Iverik leads them to the doorway of what’s definitely a palace, high walls and towers and all.

Rodney’s got his scanner back out. He doesn’t say anything, but the way his hands poke demandingly at the equipment is loud enough. He waves the screen under John’s eyes for a moment and points, and rolls his eyes when John shrugs. John’s following the rising power readings just fine over his shoulder, of course, and Rodney probably knows it.

Their guides lead them through broad corridors to a chamber with a high glass ceiling. In the center is an Ancient control chair.

Rodney makes a sound like he’s swallowed his tongue. “Colonel...”

“Yep. We’ll work on it.”

Rodney’s voice is distant with want. “That would be good.”

Women wait on either side of the chair with garlands of flowers. Teyla accepts hers graciously, but Rodney hardly notices his own. John smiles at his attendant, and Rodney notices that. John smiles a little wider.

Ronon looks at the garlands skeptically and doesn’t bow his head for one. His gifter isn’t bothered, though, and loops it over his hand. Ronon looks at John from under his eyebrows, and John lifts a shoulder. “When in Rome.”

For the next hour, they get a crash course in the beauty of utopian life among the Yolen. The sum total of the historical knowledge of the Yolen people seems to be that life is good. They don’t need records or archives to tell them this.

Teyla patiently tries for more. “Surely you must have need of something. We have medicine and other goods that –“

Iverik very politely shakes his head. “Oh, no. Your offer is most generous, but we have all that we require. More would only burden us with excess.”

She doesn’t give up, although his calm seems to be taxing hers. Ronon shares a look with John, clearly amused. Finally, though, she resorts to invoking the boogiemen of the galaxy. When ‘Wraith’ gets her nothing but more blank looks, she tries her best to explain.

Iverik’s smile never wavers. “These sound like most unpleasant beings. I am glad they cannot be in a place so fine as this.”

That stops even Teyla.

John’s not impressed, but the energy readings aren’t getting any less fascinating, and he has a feeling this is going to be a long trip.

Slightly separated from them, Rodney is using the small words and big gestures that scream impatience as he drills his own cluster of locals. The Yolen’s seem to be catching on, though, and nodding more often. They’re pointing to a doorway on the far side of the room, using words like ‘source’ and ‘center’.

Rodney eventually comes over to explain that he’s on to something. There’s a ‘path to knowledge’, apparently, and only the very brightest are allowed to walk it. Also, it seems that knowledge is shy and doesn’t like crowds. The path is only for one.

It goes without saying who will be chosen. Rodney’s not even smug about it, just insufferably matter-of-fact. He’s too busy with the wonders he’s about to discover, trying to shape them with his words and his hands so that John will understand.

John doesn’t like it. Experience has taught him too much about the consequences of dividing themselves. The problem, however, is that the Yolen’s are strange, but there’s nothing threatening about them. Rodney tries to bludgeon him with logic, and since there really isn’t anything that he can hold up as a reason not to try it, John sighs and settles in for the duration. At least this crowd seems harmless enough.

It’s mostly a blur after Rodney comes back.

He goes off to the promise of ‘enlightenment’, and Jesus, they should know better by now. Rodney rolls his eyes and John grins a little, reminds him to keep his head up and check in every half hour, and that’s it.

Later, John will think there should have been something more there.

A few hours pass, and Rodney’s voice comes through the radio at regular intervals with exactly the impatience John expects. When the fifth checkpoint comes and goes with no word, though, the quiet voice of unease gets a little louder in John’s mind. Iverik insists that all is well and won’t elaborate. John is just on the verge of setting out after him when Rodney trails his Yolen escort back into the huge reception hall.

Rodney doesn’t say a word. That’s John’s first clue that anything is wrong. His second comes when Rodney doesn’t so much as glance at the control chair. He can visit the Atlantis version whenever he likes, and still Rodney’s eyes run over it like fingertips every time he’s in the room. Now, John raises an eyebrow at him questioningly, and Rodney just stares blankly back, smiling. The muscles across John’s shoulders tighten.

“You okay?”

Rodney gives a slow nod. “I am well.”

“That’s nice.” John squints at him. “Mind telling me why the hell you skipped that last check?”

It’s good bait, and John’s expecting at least a snapped comeback about the idiocy of time constraints on genius.

Rodney tilts his head negligently. “It doesn’t matter. As you can see, I came to no harm.”

John can’t see that at all.

John remembers asking Rodney where he’s been, and getting nothing but placid non-answers in return. He remembers firing pointed, sharp questions at the Yolens. He remembers a fair amount of shouting (his) and an equal balance of quiet certainty (theirs), the gist of which being that the gift could not be returned. He remembers Iverik’s calm, bland face.

He doesn’t remember pulling his sidearm.

Teyla stands beside him. She sights down her P-90, holding the Yolens in view, but her voice is pitched urgent and low enough for only John’s ears. Ronon’s hands are busy with Rodney and his own weapons.

And because they aren’t ready to wage a war, because they need more intel, because this is fucking out of left field, they maneuver Rodney through the city toward the gate. The Yolens follow them en mass, puzzled. Such ingratitude, their faces say sadly.

John keeps his aim for minutes after the gate closes.

He knows that Teyla’s right. This is just a drug, and it will wear off soon, and there’s no point in killing anyone over something that they’ll laugh about tomorrow. His hands aren’t fisted and his teeth aren’t clenched.

He knows it right up until Beckett comes back with blood screens that are clear and brain scans that aren’t. Beckett says chemical imbalances and blocked neural pathways, and John hears wrong and broken.

“Are we even sure this is McKay?” John honestly doesn’t know what answer he’s hoping for.

Carson looks away and then back. “The scars and genes and dental records are all a match with Rodney’s on file.”

John’s heart pounds and he realizes he wanted the opposite.

Elizabeth asks where they go from here, and this time he knows instantly that the right answer isn’t coming.

There’s only silence.

“The problem,” Carson says quietly, “is that Rodney is fine. Physically, there isn’t a thing wrong with him. Intellectually, he is as brilliant as he ever was. His scores for both strict cognitive function and recall are even a bit higher, in fact, and while his neural chemistry is off, it doesn’t seem to be having a negative effect on his mood. I honestly don’t know how to approach this.”

Rodney is not unbalanced, or unstable, or even unhappy. He’s simply not Rodney.

“Anything will need to be specifically calibrated to his brain. Whatever’s been done, it’s precise.” Carson shakes his head. “I can try antidepressants, even antipsychotics, but chances are they won’t have any desirable effects.”

He continues with details of serotonin levels and dopamine inhibitors, but they all mean ‘no’. John doesn’t look at the man that sits on the infirmary bed, silently absorbing their words and offering none of his own.

The natural thing to do, of course, is dial the Yolens and politely request the refund they denied earlier. John is fully prepared to do that. Politely.

Elizabeth sends Lorne’s team.

A week later, they know as much as the Yolens themselves. Enlightenment, they say, is achieved through the Cleansing. All of the brightest minds are Cleansed, and have always been so. It is a mystery and a miracle. Those chosen are simply brought to the inner chambers of the palace, pointed to the correct doorway, and the rest resolves itself. After, they work tirelessly to aid all, keep the City functioning, and give of themselves without question.

They say these are the honored.

They say this is as it must be. Unchangeable. Ancient.

Lorne doesn’t meet John’s or Teyla’s or Ronon’s eyes in the briefing. His team has found only an empty room and a hollow legend to go with it. Even the Ancient chair doesn’t react to them, and the working theory is that the power source is somehow disconnected. They can’t know for certain because they will not take Radek through the gate to perform the necessary tests, despite his insistence. One genius is enough.

Elizabeth bows her head, chews her lip, and applies the rationality that has saved them more times than not. Their best bet is to keep doing what they have been, keep weaving through the Yolens’ lives, until an answer is reached. Because there must be one.

John wants to be irrational.

They fall into new patterns. Rodney spends his time almost exclusively in the labs or in his quarters. He doesn’t collect John to go test modifications to the jumpers, which is really just an excuse to steer perpetually to the left until John falls for it and loses his cool. He doesn’t sit in the chair room for the inspiration he claims not to need. He doesn’t arrive at briefings ten minutes late and bright-eyed, or ten minutes early and ready to steamroll them all. He doesn’t forget to knock when excitement overrides everything else. It doesn’t, now.

They learn to specify that he should sleep at a certain point each night after a patrol finds him standing in a corner three nights running. John knows because he’s been told, but it takes him eight days before he can be in the same room with him. He wants to be unfair and think ‘it’, and manages just fine until John finally does stare him full in the face and sees Rodney.

After that, it’s harder to stay away. It’s no easier to stay close. He settles for watching from a distance that almost lets him pretend.

Almost. The labs themselves are too quiet, and Rodney’s people keep coming to John with minor problems to solve. He doesn’t understand why they won’t go to Zelenka until Simpson happens to make a mistake while John’s nearby.

Everyone freezes. Zelenka is clearly angry. “No, no. We have seen this, yes? You must account for variation in the third calibration. We cannot afford -" He cuts off, swallows. Finally he sighs, and his voice is gentle and weary. “Once more, please.”

She nods without meeting his eyes, and John gets it. He misses odd things, too.

The mess hall coffee isn’t strong enough.

They’ve had blue jello every Tuesday since they reestablished contact with Earth. Three weeks running, John's taken two bowls and thrown them both away when he realizes that he’s saving them.

His room is too clean. There’s a t-shirt that doesn’t belong to John over a chair. He lifts it every now and again and puts it back exactly where it was before.

He doesn’t sleep well. His blankets are suddenly sufficient. No one jostles him awake at three in the morning, pressing cold toes against his calves.

He’s glad he’s too tired to get his mind around the overall picture. The small things are enough.

John starts cataloguing the ways everyone else is handling the situation. He knows damn well it’s an avoidance mechanism, and does it anyway.

Elizabeth is openly concerned and less obviously angry. Carson spends hours in his own labs, coming close to a form of quiet mania as he searches for just the right drug or magic fix. Neither of these is a surprise to John.

Lorne makes John strangely proud of his command. The Major and McKay had never been especially close, but when Lorne gives his reports, it’s with a solemn knowledge in his eyes. It has nothing to do with Rodney and everything to do with the way Lorne runs his eyes over his own team before each trip through the gate, and the way he’s asked John to hold his letters for each of their next of kin on file.

Ronon follows John around like a large and quiet shadow. Not always, but often. When John steps from his room in the morning, Ronon is there. When he leaves his office, Ronon is waiting by the stairs. He’s gone back to saying as little as he did when they first met him. John tries to find a tactful way to ask, and fails miserably. He doesn’t put a stop to it because he knows all about the need to be sure of at least one thing.

Teyla avoids him entirely. When he catches sight of her, it’s in quick glimpses as she turns a corner, or at the briefings where she is guarded and precise. He starts deliberately putting himself in her way, and tries his best to trail her discreetly. That proves to be difficult, and he has to admit that the Pegasus galaxy is probably better stealth training than anything the U.S. armed forces have to offer.

It’s not until he finds her watching Rodney that he gets it.

It’s late and quiet in the labs, just the sound of Zelenka typing. Rodney is assembling something complex at a workstation. His hands are relentlessly competent. He doesn’t look up when John walks past the doorway, or when John stops at the sight of Teyla in a back corner. Her eyes meet John’s, and there’s a flash of guilt in them. At first he thinks it’s for the spying, but her eyes move back to Rodney and she suddenly looks tired.

John has understood their place in her world for a long time now, if he’s honest. Rodney is hers. They all are. A lifetime of being protector and keeper has made her unable to draw lines, and connection has always meant responsibility. Citizenship and chain of command don’t change that in the slightest. John can’t take one from her without the other, and he doesn’t try.

He backs quietly from the room and pretends he doesn’t know.

Two weeks after their first visit to Yolenira, Lorne’s team walks through the wormhole for yet another futile session of friendly questioning. They redial in under an hour.

Lorne’s voice, slightly tinny over the speakers, sounds stunned as he requests permission to return. No one objects, and the team is back in Atlantis within minutes.

Lorne says, “It’s gone, sir.”

“The chair,” John says, his first and immediate thought.

Lorne nods. “Yeah. The chair, and pretty much everything it was attached to. Sir, the city’s gone.”

They debrief, and send the MALP to do a fly over, and brief again. They stare at pictures of a gaping hole in the ground, miles deep and wide. When there are no life signs, they decide to go back in person for a closer look. Zelenka finally gets his way and is included on the team, along with Simpson, Kusanagi, and a geologist named Perkins. When they assemble at the gate, Rodney is with them.

John stares at Zelenka. “No.”

The straps on Zelenka’s vest apparently demand his full attention. “He is the best we have, even in such a capacity. He knows what should and should not be present. If we wish to find…” He frowns, but his posture is firm. “Dr. Weir agrees.”

John spends the next three hours watching them. It’s unsettling, and that’s somehow a relief. There’s no business as usual among the scientists. Radek directs, and the others follow him readily enough, but Rodney trails around after him waiting to be given a task. John notices that everyone is staring at anything else. Perkins stumbles through a question. Simpson and Kusanagi are both silent. There is a certain satisfaction in knowing that John’s team isn’t the only one unbalanced.

The silence can’t last; the tension is too high. Simpson insists that the residual energy readings point to some form of explosion. Perkins counters that the whole damn mess looks like a second Barringer’s, and says anyone but a moron could see it. By the time they degenerate into the truly nasty insults, Zelenka and Kusanagi are involved and the volume is high.

John watches Rodney watch the crater. He whistles sharply, and everyone falls abruptly silent.

Without facing them, Rodney says, “The energy output is fully consistent with that of several charged Z.P.M.s applied to this usage; namely, to make the city fly. The resulting crater is simply the natural fallout from takeoff.”

Problem solved, he turns and walks in the direction of the gate. His footsteps are loud in the silence. John turns to ask whether this is the answer they hadn’t found yet - although he already suspects it is - and sees Zelenka staring at McKay, his shoulders weary and his eyes old.

John gives the order to return to Atlantis.

He waits until long past midnight. This is the way he’s done it so many times before.

Rodney opens his door wearing a t-shirt and loose pants. Whoever gave him the instructions on sleepwear didn’t know him well enough; John knows he prefers boxers.

“Hello, Colonel. How may I help you?”

“I need to ask you something.” John watches his face carefully.

There is no flicker of knowledge. “Of course. Please come in.”

He stands aside, and John walks just far enough into the room for the door to close. When he steps too close, Rodney doesn’t so much as blink.

John leans in, and when Rodney’s eyes stay open John closes his own. There’s no hesitation in Rodney’s lips. They respond exactly the way they should, and his head tilts to the perfect angle.

It feels nothing like it should.

Rodney’s hands are still and empty at his sides. His mouth is talented and silent. By now, he should be stroking John’s head, or holding fists of his shirt, or slipping fingers under it. He should be making those sounds that John can taste on his teeth.

He should be here.

John pulls away slowly. He keeps his eyes closed for as long as he can. When he opens them, Rodney is watching him, blank and guileless. John steps back to the door and through it.

“You haven’t asked me anything, Colonel. What is it you wanted to know?”

“I figured it out. Don’t worry about it.”

Rodney smiles beatifically, nods, and wishes him goodnight.

John goes back to his room and eventually watches the light work its way across his ceiling.

It has to happen, and it does. Zelenka is off world with Stackhouse’s team when Ladon requests help to repair the Genii’s largest generating complex. When he specifically asks for Rodney, they can’t afford to explain why he’s unavailable. He’s the most qualified for the job, given his familiarity with their technology, and everyone knows it. It will be a long time before this is the type of alliance that allows weakness.

John and Teyla and Ronon are waiting at the gate, and Rodney is with them, and for just a moment it feels utterly right. The wormhole engages and they walk through to find the usual welcoming committee of Ladon and his armed guard. Leading an overthrow has made him very careful. The Atlantis team is searched, although it’s mostly for show and they keep their weapons. The whole thing is brisk and businesslike, and then the Genii scientists descend. Within a half hour they’re all ranged around the generator watching McKay work.

What kills John is that no one notices. Even Ladon - who is still a technician under the weight of office – misses the lack of the infamous Dr. McKay. Rodney is silent save when he needs a distant tool or clarification on the technology. At first, John thinks this last is proof, finally, that there was some loss of intelligence after all. Eventually, he realizes that Rodney would have asked, before; it just would have been hidden better in complaints about radioactive handling procedures and insults to their higher educational systems.

The Genii engineers answer him eagerly, proud of their expertise. Rodney doesn’t make them regret it. He doesn’t trade long-suffering looks with John, or huff just enough to make Teyla fight a smile. He acts as though these people are his equals, and they respond in kind, and John wants to tell them all just how wrong they are.

John almost wishes Cowen were here. He, at least, would have noticed.

Rodney has the main generator running within two hours and the outlying system functioning within four. The Genii engineers are ecstatic. They crow that the complex will be twice as productive as before, and Rodney doesn’t say a word about the accomplishment.

After the success with the Genii, they start going through as a team more frequently. The horrible thing is, the Yolens were right. Rodney is more efficient now. It's amazing what he can accomplish without wasting time for a personality. On M3X-547, he restructures an aqueduct within a day and the locals adore him. On P4F-934, he suggests they offer fruit for trade instead of the medical supplies they’ve tried before, and the toothless Gerilans finally agree to share the fungus that powers their homes. On M2F-721, he advises them that the caves holding what might be an Ancient weapon are too unstable to enter, calmly and without the slightest hint of regret. In Atlantis itself, the backlog of unclassified technology steadily dwindles.

Every post-mission check reveals that his brain scans are stable, and there is no indication that he’s anything but an asset to Atlantis. It’s only the rest of them that are out of synch.

John notices Teyla seems to be handling it best. She is polite and conciliatory. She remembers to give Rodney cues to rest and eat, and she’s taken up the slack of holding conversations with him. John has no idea how she manages it, given that she’s the only one with an opinion to contribute, but he’s grateful. She’s always with ‘Dr. McKay’, though, when he’s been mostly ‘Rodney’ for more than a year.

Ronon seems to be handling it worst. He’s openly suspicious, and when they’re off world he keeps Rodney in sight like he would an enemy. Since it’s really just another task, Rodney is fully capable of taking a watch when they choose to post one. The third time John wakes to take his own and finds Ronon sitting across from McKay, he realizes it’s a losing game.

John doesn’t seem to be handling it at all, and that’s taking more effort than he’ll ever admit. If he talks around Rodney, it’s only because Teyla is better at this than he is. If he usually splits the team with himself with Ronon, it’s just to give the man a break from his paranoia. He’s got the sneaking suspicion that he’s not nearly as covert as he wants, but no one calls him on it.

They limp along for more than a month. When it finally ends, the worst part is the sense of relief that John doesn’t quite feel.

They’re on a new planet, and they’ve managed to aggravate the locals through no real fault of their own. Later, they’ll find out it’s the result of a truly cosmic beaurocratic fuck-up, and these people just haven’t gotten the memo that the gene carriers are no longer wanted. Since they never quite got the original ‘alive’ portion of the message, the delay isn’t that surprising.

They’re speaking with the head of the village nearest the gate, and John’s just thinking that something feels off when Rodney steps in front of him almost casually. John never sees the knife. Rodney is in the way, and then Ronon, and then John has other concerns.

Rodney falls back against him without a sound. John’s arm goes instinctively around his chest, and the slick warmth on his palm tells him enough. He can’t afford to look, not until he’s made them safe again.

John doesn’t waste time checking on the village head. Ronon has him. Instead, John pulls his sidearm and fires on anyone who comes toward them, and behind him Teyla does the same. They retreat as fast as they can, John still dragging Rodney, and a minute later Ronon joins them with red hands.

Movement in a doorway brings John’s aim around. Rodney says no very quietly, and John pulls up just in time. The little girl blinks at him, wide-eyed, and John almost misses the village guard that charges from the alley to his right. Teyla doesn’t.

Crouched behind an outbuilding waiting for Ronon’s reconnaissance, John puts his mouth against Rodney’s ear and keeps his voice low. “Hey. Almost home. Just a little longer.”

“I’ll be fine.” It’s barely there, no pain or fear in it, and it doesn’t even ring like a lie.

By the time they fight their way to the gate, John’s hands are too slick to hold anything but a P-90 steady, Teyla is covering them, and Rodney is slung over Ronon’s shoulders.

The three of them sit in the hallway outside the infirmary, not making eye contact. John scrapes flakes of dried blood off of his hands until they are more pale than rust. At some point, Teyla’s hand reaches into his field of vision to offer one of the alcohol wipes from their first aid supplies. He contemplates using it to remove the dark smears on his boots, but decides they’re too far away. In the end, he tears the cloth into small, methodical strips.

Eventually, Beckett comes to tell them what they already know. Massive blood loss and very probable internal injuries are winning. He won’t know the full extent until he operates, but the fact that he’s proposing visitation beforehand says everything.

He’s not there when it happens.

He isn’t surprised when Ronon follows him, and even less so when Teyla stays. He says something stupid and light about looking after McKay until he gets back, and she nods gravely.

He looks past her to Rodney; she turns her back tactfully. There is no real privacy in the infirmary. He settles for slipping his hand under Rodney’s and stroking his fingertips over the inside of his wrist. He says what he can inside his head, leans down to whisper, and breaks just enough to feel skin against his closed lips as he pulls away.

He leaves quickly and doesn’t look for who might have seen. He pulls off his headset and takes a transporter to the farthest portion of the city they’ve explored. The rooms here are empty, doors wide open, and the lighting is dim. There’s a thick layer of dust on the floor. John follow the faint footprints of the exploration team, counts them until he loses track. It’s a four hour walk back, and somewhere in the middle of the second Ronon freezes with his hand pressed to his own earpiece.

The bed is empty by the time he gets to the infirmary. Carson is staring at neat, clean sheets and a pillow with no impression in it, shoulders rolled forward and hands pressed, palms together, to his mouth. He’s not seeing any of it. Teyla is nowhere in sight.

John leaves before anyone notices him.

He goes to his room, spends the next few hours staring at the walls, and waits for word on the autopsy. He keeps his headset on this time, and there’s some part of him that’s still expecting to hear that they’ve made a mistake. The chime of his door tells him all he needs to know, but he answers anyway.

Elizabeth holds her head high, although her eyes are red. “John. I though you should know…”

John makes it easier for her and looks away. He nods.

Her voice is too steady. “As Carson suspected, there –“

“He’s done?”

She goes very still. “Yes.” A long breath. “John –“

“Service tomorrow, right?” His nails are digging into his palms. He presses a little harder.

“Yes.” Her hands are twisting around each other, and he can’t stop watching them.

“I’ll see you there.”

She sighs, reaches out tentatively and rests a hand on his shoulder. He doesn’t move away, which is all he can manage. He’s glad there’s no I’m sorry. He doesn’t want to sort the things he does regret from those he can’t.

Their first week in Atlantis, they’d set aside a room three doors down from the infirmary and lowered the climate controls. John hasn’t been in it since.

It’s the middle of the night, his best chance at avoiding Ronon, because he really doesn’t want company for this. Really doesn’t want witnesses.

He’s not all that surprised, then, to find Teyla already there. It’s been that kind of life. Her head is bowed to her chest, and he knows she’s been aware of his approach for a while by how slowly she looks up. When her eyes do meet his, they’re solemn and clear.

There’s incense burning somewhere, smoky and almost rich enough to hide the sterility of this place, and he takes in the objects that don’t fit the purpose of the room. They all look very old and very well used. Anything that she values enough to keep so well must be important, and maybe some day he’ll ask what the small stone box holds, or what the carvings on the staff at her side mean. Not tonight, though.

His look must say something he doesn’t intend. “It was not his way.” She holds his gaze. “It is mine, however, and I believe he would allow me this.”

Her chin lifts just slightly in defiance and maybe she’s always done that, but right now they’re bleeding into each other and the movement is too familiar. He looks away.

“Yeah.” His throat is dry, and he coughs to clear it, too loud. “Yeah.” He stops. Everything else begins with the past tense.

She’s silent, and when he flicks his eyes over to her he sees the top of her head again. “How long…”

She doesn’t look up. “It is customary to sit one night. We say that it takes this time for the soul to find peace, but…” She trails off, and John understands. Funerals are always for the living.

He finds a chair along a wall, and sits. He’s far enough from the table that he can’t see much aside from the woven blanket draped over the shape there, muted Athosian patterns curling around and through each other. It’s not quite long enough, although it touches the floor on either side. The hem ends at the ankles, and John wants to laugh a little at the bare, graceless toes. His fingers itch to pull the cloth down.

Hours later, Teyla quietly stands. She lays one hand on either side of the cloth at the top of the table, then bows her head to touch the form under it. John can see the muscles in her lower back flex as she breathes slow and deep. She straightens and turns to John, and it’s all he can do not to run. He can’t make his legs work long enough to stand, though, and then she’s laying her hands over his ears and pressing her forehead to his. Neither of them close their eyes, and from this distance he can see the tears she isn’t crying. He doesn’t want to know what she sees.

Finally, she lets go and backs away. She doesn’t say a word as she gathers most of what she brought. She moves as quietly as ever, and it’s strange that she’s always been like a ghost when she’s the only one here who isn’t. She pauses at the door and looks back over her shoulder, and then she leaves.

Now it’s only John and the silence.

He thinks he can stay there, can sit until he decides to go. He thinks he can do that right up until the chair creaks under him and he realizes he’s standing. He wraps his arms around himself but he can't stop the chord around his chest from pulling him forward, shambling to the table. The force doesn’t let up, just twists instead of tugs, and he can’t quite draw a full breath.

His hands are clenched in the fabric under each of his arms. The right gives in first; the weave of the blanket is rough under his fingertips. He watches with horror movie fascination, instinct chanting not to open the door, not to look in the attic. It doesn’t work. His fingers are around the hem, pulling it slowly back, and this is worse.

There’s no blood. The body - he almost thinks a name, and doesn’t – is still and silent. A white sheet is drawn up to collarbones too stark with blue shadows. A single round stone rests in the hollow between them, painted with a mark John doesn’t know.

He’s grateful for the things he can’t see. The sheet covers incisions and obscene stitches. Most of all, he’s glad the hands are hidden.

There’s plenty that he can see. The closed eyelids are a last mercy, but the rest stings unkindly. Someone – probably Carson – shaved his face. There’s no quarter-inch patch of stubble under the left corner of his jaw, that last spot that distraction always saves. The hair is too neat, and the forehead is too smooth. The light in the room is low enough to hide the delicate stitching there.

John’s hands ache, but he won’t touch. He knows what a body feels like after, and he knows what this body felt like before, and he’s not going to let those two meet. He’ll keep that much.

He lays the blanket back in place very carefully. He straightens the hem, makes the line as precise as he can. He doesn’t think about hospital corners and flags.

He turns to go and sees Carson stopped in the doorway.

“Colonel, you -" He breaks off, sighs. There’s no surprise in his voice, just a bone-deep kind of tired. “John, don’t. You don’t need to do this.”

John nods and keeps his eyes on his feet. He leaves before Beckett can sort end from beginning.

He’s not surprised to find Ronon in the hallway. His eyes flicker past John and drag away slowly. Without a word, John turns down the hall. If he had the energy, John might wonder what a funeral looked like on Sateda.

He’s got just enough left to get him to a room that isn’t his own and onto the bed, and not enough to take off his clothing or pull down the sheets. Just enough to let him notice that the pillow doesn’t smell like either of them, and not enough to follow the thought home. Just enough to sleep without dreams.

When he wakes, it’s with a sudden zero to sixty style of knowledge. He stands, and he’s on automatic pilot as he grabs his vest and holster from his room. He’s already in the armory before he understands, slipping rounds into his pockets and loading whatever he can reach. He leaves the standard bandages behind in favor of a few more shells.

Ronon watches him silently. John looks long and hard at him, and Ronon’s eyes go shadowed. He reaches for a box of concussion grenades, and doesn’t look at John as he says, “This won’t fix it.”

John doesn’t pause. “I know.”

Ronon nods and keeps loading.

Teyla is waiting in the hall outside the gateroom. She’s armed. She lets John walk past her and slips in beside Ronon, just behind John’s right shoulder.

Elizabeth spots them from the control room and walks down the stairs to meet them. The slow inevitability of her movements tells him all he needs to know. The rest is a formality. “John…”

He keeps his back straight and his gaze locked barely to her left. He doesn’t bother to speak. She knows what he’s not saying.

“Damnit, John.” She’s tired. She draws in a breath, squares her stance. “Lieutenant Colonel Sheppard, you will take your team back to P3X-438 and acquire intelligence. You will report daily and return in one week. Am I clear?”

He finally meets her eyes, and he can see that she knows they’ll find nothing. It’s the only reason she’s allowing this. She’s trying to minimize the damage, to hang on to what she can. She thinks he needs closure.

She’s wrong, but he doesn’t care. “Yes.”

She presses her lips together and nods. He turns away. He’s avoiding mirrors these days.

Ten minutes later they’re through the gate.

It takes him three days to admit what he knew months ago.

The city is gone. The crater in its place is so deep and wide it takes a full day to skirt its edges. He knows because they’ve done it twice.

On the fourth day, he walks into the woods alone. He’s gotten just enough sleep to keep moving, and just little enough to give the air an odd haze. He makes his way to the crater edge and stares for a while. The sound behind him has him turning and firing with no conscious thought.

The animal is large and ungainly, like a deer in a funhouse mirror, and it watches him with wide brown eyes long after it stops breathing. He slips the safety back on with shaking hands, turns to find Ronon a few feet away.

John walks past him without a word. When he reaches camp, he pretends he doesn’t see the relief in Teyla’s eyes.

They’re back in Atlantis by nightfall.

They don’t have the luxury of falling apart. Standard procedure is to have teams back in rotation within three weeks of a fatality, and none of them want large amounts of unoccupied time. They handle the soft jobs, visits to planets that are either old friends or uninhabited, but they keep going.

On one of the unoccupied designations, Elizabeth recalls them a day early, and her voice holds a strange note. When she refuses to give details until they are back in Atlantis, John’s first thought is of Kolya. They go through the gate ready for a fight.

The gateroom is quiet, though, and Elizabeth meets them calmly. Nothing but the look on her face is unusual.

“John, there’s something you need to hear. All of you.” She’s pale, and the warning bells in John’s head are louder than ever.

When they are all in the conference room and seated – she insists that they sit down – she hesitates. “The gate engaged an hour ago. This data stream was the only thing to come through.” She pauses. “I can’t…” Another pause, and this time she seems like she’s searching for words. “John, it’s someone claiming to be Iverik.”

“Play it.”

Despite the warning, John still feels the blood rush under his skin when the recorded voice comes. Ronon makes a low sound, surprise and fury in it. Those soft, flowing tones ask them to return to Yolenira. The voice offers something beneficial to all, and apologizes for any misunderstanding that might have occurred on their last visit.

In the silence just after, none of them move.

“We leave in an hour.” John watches Elizabeth to see what strategy he’ll need to use.

She sighs. “I somehow knew you would say that. John…”

Teyla’s voice stops them both. “Is it not important that we investigate? Can we risk doing otherwise?”

Elizabeth looks from her to John. “And if it’s a trap? They’ve already proven to be far more advanced than we realized.”

John nods. “Exactly. We know what we’re dealing with this time. We go in prepared, and we don’t turn our backs. We deal with the Genii on a pretty regular basis. This isn’t any different.”

It is, and she knows it. “I won’t lose anyone else, John.”

That finds a mark, and he feels that unspoken something that’s been in the air between them all pull tight. “You won’t.” It isn’t an empty promise, or a light one. He can hear the steel in his own voice.

They stare at one another for a long moment, and finally she nods. “Alright. Make it two hours, and take Lorne’s team with you.”

John is halfway through the door when he hears her quiet, “Be careful.”

Iverik is waiting for them. “Welcome, Far – “

“Save it.” John speaks over the sights of his P-90. Teyla goes immediately to the DHD and begins to dial. “You wanted us, you got us. I’d start explaining fast, ‘cause I’m not feeling very patient.”

“Of course.” Iverik nods easily. “The Highest wishes to speak with you. This is a great honor, and –“

Ronon’s laugh is dark. “Yeah. Like the last one?”

Two more symbols light up on the ring. Still not a flicker from Iverik. “Oh, no. This is far more important. The Highest wishes to conduct an exchange. A trade, if you will have it.”

They can’t afford to ignore the kind of technology that can make a city fly, and they won't pass up the chance to meet the one behind it all. John reluctantly lowers his aim and Teyla lowers her hand. Iverik seems pleased, and turns away unconcernedly. After a moment, John follows him. Ronon and Teyla fall into step behind him.

There is silence for the first five minutes, and then John pulls even with Iverik. “So, how long since you had a working brain?”

That same damn smile that he saw for four months doesn’t waver. “I assume you are speaking of the Cleansing, although that is an inaccurate description. It has been twenty-seven cycles of the seasons since I was chosen.”

John doesn’t ask why, or whether it bothers him to be this way. He suspects there’s no answer for the first, and no honest one for the second. He spends the rest of the walk trying to forget the Scarecrow reference that there’s no one here to understand.

The path into the city is offset by an inch where dirt meets stone. It’s the only indication that anything has changed. The people are as pleased and oblivious as before, and the city itself seems untouched. They follow the same streets to the same palace, the same corridors to the same chamber, and that’s where there’s suddenly a difference.

The chair is still dark, but occupied. A tall man sits painfully straight, and if the general populace are a free love bunch, this is definitely The Man. He’s dressed in the same flowing robes as all the rest, but his brand of aloof is a whole new thing.

He spreads his hands imperiously. “This is the Audience Hall. You are most welcome here.”

“Yeah. I feel the love. I take it you’re the highest.” John drops the capitalization and adds a hint of slur.

“Indeed. We have summoned you to discuss the terms of trade. We are in possession of a resource you will desire, and in return –“

John’s glad he remembered the room’s glass ceiling and kept his sunglasses on. The barrier helps. “Really not interested in handing anything else over to you. Tends to fuck the resale value.”

Finally, finally, he’s managed to find a crack in someone on this planet. The Highest’s expression goes from benevolent to mildly angry, and his tone turns waspish. “Are all of your people so… vexing?”

John opens his mouth, but the reply doesn’t come from him.

“All of his people are. Most of mine are more polite. I’m just special like that.”

The sharp intake of air to his left is Teyla’s. The soft curse to his right is Ronon’s.

John doesn’t breathe.

“I can’t really vouch for Ronon’s or Teyla’s, except that the Athosian kids are kind of annoying, but then aren’t they all?” He's stepping into the room, out of the shadows of the doorway that wasn’t there a minute before. His arms are crossed over his chest, and his head is tilted at the angle that means all innocents should duck and cover. He’s still too far away to read his eyes, and the beard throws off the shape of his mouth, but John doesn’t need those.

Inside his head, there’s a roaring like every curse and prayer he’s ever heard gathered into one strong wind. It scours him out, sweeps through all the corners of his mind and throws the doors open, and he can finally see the footprints in the dust.

When his own voice comes, it sounds like rust on cellar doors.

“Rodney.” It’s been more than a month since he’s said the name, and longer since he’s meant it like this.

Rodney’s shoulders relax, just slightly. “The one and only. Nice of you to drop by, and can we go now?”

“I believe that would be wise.” Teyla sounds almost pleasant. It’s the best indication of just how shaken she is. It’s also fair warning. “There is nothing more we need discuss.”

The Highest shifts on the chair, and it’s not a bright move. John is only just getting feeling back in his arms, but Ronon is quicker. His arm and his aim are steady. “You don’t move.”

The Highest raises his hands placatingly and sighs. “Oh, fine. Really, we assure you we intend no harm. We simply ask that you return the resource which we issued you and you may be on your way.”

“Yeah. That’s not going to happen.” John keeps his eyes on Rodney.

“Don’t tell us you damaged it.” The Highest pushes off from the chair and takes exactly one stride.

There’s a flash in John’s peripheral vision and the floor where the next step would have fallen isn’t there anymore. In the sudden silence, the whine of Ronon’s weapon recharging seems very loud.

“You don’t move.”

John’s smile feels full of teeth. “It’s been a blast, but we’ll be leaving now. Don’t worry, we’ll see ourselves out. Rodney?” He waits until McKay and Teyla are both out the door. “Ronon.”

There’s a moment of hesitation, and then Ronon backs out of the room. John does the same, muzzle last, but the Highest makes no move to follow. The corridors are empty and no one tries to stop them, and that’s definitely not a good sign.

On cue, Rodney and Teyla freeze at the last doorway. When John pulls even with them and glances back over his shoulder, he’s not surprised to find the street crowded with silent men and women and children staring at them. There’s nothing menacing about them, save for the terrifying blankness on their faces and the sheer number of them.

Iverik stands in the front. “The Highest has not given his terms.”

Rodney’s eyes trace over the crowd. “You do have a plan, right?” A quick flick to John. “Right?”

He can’t stop the grin that slides onto his face. It feels a little manic. “Nah.” Rodney’s head whips toward him. “Better. I have backup.”

He clicks his radio three times, and two jumpers appear. The first is directly over the Yolens. The second is already on the ground, between the palace and the people. The back ramp is down and Lorne’s voice is all raised eyebrows over the radio. “Took you long enough, sir.”

“I promise we’ll be back in time for your programs, Major.” The grin gets a little wider as he steps onto the ship.

Lorne turns to face them from the pilot’s seat, mouth open, and that’s when he sees McKay. His jaw snaps shut. It’s another thirty seconds before it opens again. “Holy shit.”

“Yep. What do you say we talk this over in the air?”

He blinks, slowly. “Yes, sir.”

He stands behind Lorne's seat until they’re fully in the air, tense and watching for any sign of attack. When nothing comes, he lets the air out of his lungs and turns to the back.

He sits carefully on the bench beside Rodney, close enough to feel the heat of him. Teyla sits on Rodney’s other side, just as close, and Ronon watches them all from the other bench.

John slides his leg the extra inch to the side. “Hey.”

Rodney’s shoulders hunch forward and his breathing hitches. “Yeah.”

They don’t say another word for the rest of the flight.

This time, the three of them don’t wait in the hallway.

Revealing the sardonic streak that John maybe likes best about him, Lorne doesn’t give anything away. He sends the IDC through and radios a request for Beckett to be waiting in the gateroom to have a look at their ‘unexpected passenger’. Elizabeth confirms, her voice tense.

She manages, “What –“ before the words dry up. She stares at Rodney until he’s fidgeting almost nervously. Then she steps toward him and throws her arms around his neck, holding onto him, and he looks… probably just as stunned as John did, once.

Radek is frozen mid-way down the stairs, and Carson drops the stethoscope in his hand. Carson’s sweet fucking Christ is barely a breath, and John’s willing to bet that whatever Radek says is similar in sentiment. John understands entirely. Then they’re all smiling like fools and blinking too much and touching just to be sure. Carson curses again – which makes the second time since John’s known him – and pulls Rodney to him with a hand on his neck.

When he lets go, Radek fights a frown onto his face and punches Rodney lightly on the shoulder. He says something very fast and with many consonants, and Rodney laughs and uses Carson’s maneuver on him.

John wishes he had a language to lapse into. There are things he would like to be able to say in the open with no audience.

John feels eyes on him and turns to see Elizabeth watching. She tilts her head toward Rodney and closes her eyes, and John recognizes the silence for its absence. The smile on her face is close-lipped and gentle.

Rodney walks into the infirmary without hesitation. It’s John who needs a minute to make his legs take that final step. Teyla catches his eye, and he smiles wryly at her. They stay for the scanning and the drawing of blood, for all of the less invasive tests, and go no further than behind a privacy screen for the rest. Through it all, Rodney talks and they listen. They get snippets of an explanation, words about cyborgs and communes and clones that make no real sense.

In the end, Rodney finally spells it out for them while they’re waiting for the test results. If he notices the intensity of their stares, he doesn’t let on.

“The Highest is a robot? That explains a lot.” John perches on another bed, and watches Rodney’s hands talk for him. “Except, not. He… it was the only thing on the damn planet with half an emotion.”

Rodney’s lips turn down at one corner. “It’s not called Artificial Intelligence for its ability to do crosswords. Speaking of artificial… at least a quarter of the population is.”

“You mean Iverik’s not a real boy?” He ignores Elizabeth’s cough.

“Oh, he’s real enough. Both of him. I spent a good long time with the more animated version, and you of course met the other one.” There’s the barest pause. “I’m guessing the other me didn’t fare as well?” The uncomfortable silence draws out. “Okay. Well… that at least makes things easier.”

It’s not exactly what John would have said. Ronon beats him to it, though. “You died, McKay.”

Rodney goes very still. When he speaks, there’s a false note to his voice. “Well, no, actually, my clone did. But since we’re not interested in existentialist debate –“

Carson interrupts in a voice that says this is ground already covered. “Not a clone, Rodney. Cloning cannot produce –“

“ ‘An exact replica inclusive of identifying marks generated by environment and life experience’, yes, Carson, I know. When you have a more semantically correct term to apply, be sure and let me know.” He crosses his arms over his chest.

John can hear the grin Elizabeth isn’t wearing. “So, if I understand this correctly, the Highest decided it wanted to reverse the exchange. Any idea why?”

Rodney grins smugly, chin up. “Because it was simply no match for my wit and skill. I provided enough distraction to prevent it from running smoothly, and it eventually saw the light.”

“How do you distract a robot?” Ronon is using one skeptical eyebrow to its full advantage.

“It’s not… Oh, what the hell. It’s a very good facsimile, but still a fake. It runs on very ordered pathways and in very standard applications. When you make life…” His grin turns slightly maniacal. “Messy, it’s a little less able to cope. I just made sure all systems weren’t go. I think the final straw was disabling the Z.P.M. configuration, though. That really brought it to its knees.” His hands rub together gleefully. “Without the power source, it couldn’t make a new me, and I was the only one who knew how to fix it. Catch-22.”

John fights to keep his face blank. “So, basically, you annoyed it into submission.”

Rodney nods happily. “Yep. That’s about the scope of it.”

“Good thinking. Go with your strengths.” Rodney glares at him, and John loses the battle with his smile.

Teyla, as usual, is the voice of reason. “I don’t understand why the Yolens would allow themselves to be governed this way. Surely they have strong enough numbers to overcome this machine.”

Rodney nods. “They do, but first they have to know it’s a machine.” He frowns. “Actually, first they have to know that they’re not space cadets, and then that it’s a machine. As near as Iverik and the others had it figured, once upon a time there was a whole group of Ancients that were pretty convinced the Wraith were going to win at any moment. Apparently, when you’re a city full of glass-half-empty Ancients, you design a program to run your daily lives and drug yourselves into oblivion.”

His lips twitch. “The only problem was, they did a really good job with the hiding. They erased all record of the city’s existence, picked a planet that had already been searched and written off, and used basically the same cloaking technology we did. The Wraith never did find them, and the Highest program wasn’t so fond of being obsolete. It never bothered to tell the Yolens to stop taking their medicine. The stolen Yolens –" He stops, tips his head to the side, and shrugs. “They think it started editing out anyone in the population who showed any hint of getting wise to the whole thing, keeping them in isolation as its own tech squad, and replacing them with duplicates when people started getting suspicious. How it figured out how to make them…” He shrugs again. “It had ten thousand years and no television. What else did it have to do?”

Radek speaks almost reverently from his chair in the corner. “Fascinating.”

Elizabeth looks less thrilled. “I was going to say frightening. Any ideas on what we might be able to do to help them?”

Teyla’s voice is firm. “I do not believe that would be wise.”

John’s just about to agree with her when he catches the satisfied glint in Rodney’s eyes. “McKay?”

Rodney smiles secretively. “That won’t be necessary. The situation should be resolving itself as we speak.”

Elizabeth looks wary. “Rodney, what did you do?”

“Oh, just showed the Highest why it’s never wise to mess with a man who possesses both coding expertise and a working knowledge of modern cinema.”

It takes a moment. “You didn’t.”

“Oh, but I did.”

John snorts. “How long…?”

“By the end of the day, they’re all getting the red pill whether they like it or not. Welcome to the revolution.”

John wishes he could watch Iverik kick his own ass.

Carson decides to keep Rodney in the infirmary overnight for observation. Rodney grumbles, and John nearly backs him up until he remembers that thousand yard stare on Carson’s face and keeps quiet.

He’s got a few things to take care of while he has the chance. He gives an excuse involving food and takes requests -- Ronon’s for anything not moving, Rodney’s for something lacking all nutritional value– and slips out of the infirmary.

He’s in the hallway leading to long-term storage when he meets Lorne. There’s a box under his arm that John remembers packing.

“Major?”

Lorne meets his eyes and nods. “Sir.” John raises an eyebrow at the box, and Lorne nods again. “It’s taken care of, sir.”

John goes perfectly still. “Thank you, Major. Dr. McKay will appreciate it.”

Lorne’s lips turn up wryly. “I hear he managed to turn on the charm. Word has it he can even piss off machines.”

A few months ago, that would have been an insult. Now, under the humor John can hear the proprietary pride. “Damn right. He saves his best routines for us, though.”

Lorne chuckles. “Yes, sir. Good to have him back.”

If the look in his eyes is a little more serious than his tone, John lets it pass.

He grabs whatever he can carry from the mess hall. When the infirmary door opens, the lights are low and it’s very quiet. Carson looks up from his desk and smiles, then bows his head again over stacks of paper.

On the bed farthest from the door, Rodney is curled on his side, arms wrapped around himself, breath slow. Ronon is on the floor, leaning against the foot of the bed, his hands lax and empty. He doesn’t stir when John walks past him. Teyla is sitting gracefully on the next bed with one leg folded under her and one leg drawn up to her chest. Her chin is resting on her knee, and she turns her face to John when he sits by her.

She smiles and faces forward again. They keep watch.

Teyla’s soft voice wakes him.

Carson is bent low over Ronon, voice gentle. Ronon rumbles something back and stands, stretching. The warm spot along John’s side tells him where Teyla was, but she’s standing over Rodney now. He blinks up at her owlishly.

Carson moves to John. “Aye. That’s the way, Colonel. Time you all found your beds.”

John opens his mouth to protest. Carson shakes his head. “Him, too. Go on, now. Off with the lot of you.”

The frosted infirmary windows are dark, and a glance at his watch tells him it’s hours yet until dawn. His eyes meet Carson’s and he doesn’t quite ask. He gets only a quiet smile in return.

Teyla and Ronon walk with them part of the way, branching off as the hallway to their quarters appears. Then it’s just Rodney stumbling along beside him. John reaches out now and again to steer him down the right corridor or away from the wall, bringing them to his own room.

Rodney sits on the bed when John pushes on his shoulder, and grumbles something that sounds like I’ve got it as John slips his shoes off of him. Another careful nudge has him settling back against the mattress and pulling his legs onto the bed. He sighs as he curls into himself.

John doesn’t bother with anything more than his own shoes before easing in along Rodney’s back. He tucks his forehead against the back of Rodney’s head and spreads his palm open across Rodney’s chest, and takes long, even breaths.

He wakes slowly. He’d almost forgotten how.

The bed is empty next to him. Rolling his head to the side, he sees Rodney by the windows, backlit by the early light. From this angle, John can’t see his face. He’s holding something in his hands, though, and it seems to have all of his attention. John sits up and slides his feet to the cool floor, and stops, watching.

“Five months.” He doesn’t look up. “It was five months, John.”

“No, it wasn’t.” He keeps his voice quiet. He looks at his toes, pale against the dark tile. “It was four months, twenty-one days, and three hours.”

Rodney’s head snaps toward him. “Is that supposed to make me –“ He stops. “Oh.”

Another moment of silence. John picks at the fabric over his knees.

It comes out barely audible. “I thought… maybe… maybe you didn’t…”

John nods and stands, slowly. He stops just next to Rodney, not quite touching. “I did.”

Rodney nods. “Yeah.”

He’s holding his own t-shirt in his hands, fingers stroking over the lettering. It makes John see this room, suddenly, the way he hasn’t in a long time. Nothing out of place, nothing out of order, and he wonders if Rodney understands.

John looks back at the shirt, and remembers lifting it every now and then and laying it back over the curve of a chair, pulling the sleeve to hang just so, and thinks maybe he does.

Rodney sighs, a deep, shuddering sound. His head dips, making his neck a strong and vulnerable arch, and John is done. He leans forward slowly and presses his lips to the skin just below an ear. “I did.”

Rodney swallows hard and turns toward him. At first, the kiss is soft, almost careful. John’s not sure which of them pushes first, but it’s not long before there’s a desperate intensity to it. Rodney has one hand clenched around the collar of John’s shirt and the other woven through his hair tight enough to hurt and it’s perfect.

John draws his teeth lightly over a lip as he pulls back, and Rodney makes a sound of protest. John whispers him quiet and strokes down his back. He gets them both over to the bed and pulls his own shirt off, then Rodney’s. The pants are more difficult with Rodney trying to take an active role, but they manage it.

Rodney asks what he’s doing even as he lays back, John’s hands giving him his cues. It’s soft enough, though, that John ignores it and just stretches out next to him. They lay on their sides facing each other, watching in the grey light. John reaches out and pushes him gently onto his back and lays himself carefully over him.

Rodney doesn’t ask again. His brow wrinkles with confusion, then smoothes under John’s fingertips. John raises himself and kisses lightly, lightly where the skin is whole. He presses his lips to each eyelid and feels lashes against his chin. He tastes the corner of Rodney’s mouth, and searches out the rough touch of stubble under his jaw. He lingers on the hollow between collarbones until he can feel the rumble of Rodney’s voice through his lips and teeth and tongue.

He follows the center of the body beneath him. His nose presses against the solid force of Rodney’s chest, and he opens his mouth to taste where there is no blood, just soft skin and the faint hint of salt.

John runs his hands down strong thighs. The spot behind each knee feels paper-thin under the calluses of his fingertips. The ankles stop him. He wraps his hands around the bone to keep them from shaking, but it only makes the rest of him join them. Rodney strokes the hair at the base of his neck and whispers that he’s fine, he’s fine, and everything is alright until John’s body believes him.

Rodney’s hands shift to his shoulders and pull. John crawls to face him, and Rodney turns them back onto their sides. He keeps one hand on the back of John’s neck, and the other is slow and knowing. John tries to respond in kind, but mostly he just wants to feel.

Finally, Rodney goes absolutely still. His breathing stutters, and his head tilts back slightly. His eyes are wide and unfocused, and John leans forward to kiss him lightly. After a moment, Rodney’s hand moves again, and John pants against his lips and shudders.

The first thing he becomes aware of is the finger barely trailing up and down his neck. He opens his eyes to Rodney’s, grey in this light. Rodney’s expression holds something like a quiet wonder.

“I did,” John whispers.

“I know.” Rodney closes his eyes, faint smile still on his lips.

John watches his breathing turn deep and even, watches the light turn brighter a shade at a time, and finally, finally rests.

end