Black Helicopters at Dawn

Screw the bet. Rodney was going to prove the existence of extraterrestrial intelligence. Oh, and incidentally, he might just catch the United States Air Force with their pants around their ankles.

Notes:

(See the end of the work for other works inspired by this one.)

Work Text:

It was the sort of amiable summer day that enticed normal people to mow their lawns, or wash their cars, or tend their gardens, or shave their cats.

Wait, not that last one. Rodney had shaved his cat once, so he reasoned it wasn't an activity condoned by normal people.

Neither, likely, was hosing down a fifteen meter satellite dish. Bonus points for weirdness because the satellite dish was mounted on the roof of the squat, cinder block building Rodney generously referred to as his house.

There was always something to clean off the dish. In the warmer months it was green crud. In the winter, when the weather in northern British Columbia was inimical to all living things, it was snow.

Rodney preferred snow. It had taken him all of thirty seconds to deduce that tilting the dish far enough vertical allowed gravity to solve the problem for him. Then it had taken him just under two weeks and six dish re-calibrations to determine that his roof was beginning to buckle.

Two weeks of data had had to be discarded. While shoveling a mountain of snow off the roof, Rodney had considered contacting the architect responsible for such an engineering travesty and teaching them a thing or two about structural integrity. But he'd concluded that he would have been inside enjoying a warm cup of cocoa if the architect had been capable of grasping basic physics, and shoveled faster.

Besides, given the age of the building, the idiot was probably retired or dead.

Requisite shoveling sessions included, snow was still better than summer greenery. The inaugural cleaning fiasco had involved ladders and scrub brushes on long handles and buckets of disinfectant and far, far too much of his precious time. Not to mention an agonizing soreness in his arms that had persisted for days. Months of practice and a pressure washer had streamlined the process considerably, but made it no more enjoyable. There were insects and deadly UV rays to contend with on the good days, when the weather cooperated.

He finished the final rinse, shut off the compressor, and stepped back to inspect his work. Not a spec of green anywhere on the smooth, eggshell surface. Satisfied, he stowed his equipment and slithered down the ladder to head inside.

Just under two hours. Not his best time, but close. If he hurried, he could have the dish repositioned and calibrated and be back in business in another hour. The rest of his weekly maintenance should be complete by then: system checks and reboots, disk scans, the works. Everything by the book, obsessively documented, exhaustively reviewed.

Rodney wasn't taking chances. When he broke the alien conspiracy wide open, his evidence had to be irrefutable.

If Rodney was going to quibble semantics -- he always did, given the choice -- the dish wasn't a satellite dish any longer, just as his house hadn't been an operational cable television head-end for years. But Rodney detested explaining things to stupid people, and while few could grasp the attraction of living beneath the world's most sophisticated amateur radio telescope, everyone assumed that a geek with a fifteen meter satellite dish had access to every porn channel on the planet.

He knew which explanation earned him more admiration and envy. Plus, the big dish pick-up line, while never exactly effective, never lost its entertainment value either.

Considering he'd bought the place for the dish and the convenience of being wired into what passed locally for an industrial power grid, Rodney hadn't fared too badly on the domestic side of the equation. So what if the exterior was homely? He didn't have neighbors to complain about the peeling paint, and the fact that his front yard was a weed-dotted asphalt parking lot meant that he didn't own a lawn mower. Hell, it was even considered chic by some bizarre standard to live in converted commercial space -- not that Rodney had done a lot of converting. The bathroom had already had a tiny shower, and the break room, barely worthy of being called a kitchenette, was a perfect match for Rodney's culinary abilities.

His bedroom was an old office. What it lacked in closet space it made up for in quaint, middle-management charm, complete with safety-glass half windows overlooking the control room. He'd considered putting up blinds for privacy, but a shortage of windows in general made him appreciate views even of the internal variety, and it wasn't like he gave a damn if the cat watched him change clothes.

Best of all was the control room, which pulled double duty as his center of operations and living room. Hunkered between the couch and the server racks was the old cable control console. If Rodney had ever felt true, honest to god affection for a piece of hardware, he felt it for that console, with its dozens of buttons and switches and sliders and fiddly knobs. As an expression of his love, he'd rigged it to control not only the dish but his entertainment system as well.

Abandoning his sodden shoes by the front door -- he really should buy something waterproof one of these days -- Rodney threaded his way to the console to check the progress of his maintenance routines. Not finished yet, but they should be by the time he finished taking a nice, hot-

Wait.

Something was out of place. Something in the room, amid the homey hum of equipment fans and the ozone scent of warm electronics, did not belong. It would come to him, his intuition would pinpoint it, if only that blasted beeping would go away and let him concentrate.

The beeping. Of course -- of course! No wonder he hadn't recognized it; he hadn't heard it in so damned long. It was the alarm his monitoring program triggered when the dish picked up a signal.

Practiced fingers moved over the console, quieting the alarm and displaying the logs.

There. An activity spike, a big one. No, more like huge. He pulled the graph back, expanded the y-axis... oh god, it repeated at regular intervals.

And he'd almost missed it because he'd been hosing down the stupid dish.

Adrenaline flooded Rodney's bloodstream as he tagged the spike segments on the log and prepared to dig the audio out of the archives.

It was potentially the most promising signal he'd ever recorded. When he convinced Zelenka it was genuine, it was going to win him the bet and a very fine bottle of liquor. And he didn't want to hear any excuses this time; Radek was going to make good even if he had to smuggle the goods through customs personally. Furthermore, Rodney did not want to hear the gory details about how that was accomplished.

Stop. Stop stop stop. Screw the bet. Rodney was going to prove the existence of extraterrestrial intelligence.

Oh, and incidentally, he might just catch the United States Air Force with their pants around their ankles.

Area 51. Roswell, little grey men, reverse-engineered alien technology being fed into the mainstream economy. The transistor, black helicopters, faster-than-light travel, teleportation, all of it. The entire world had a right to know the truth.

They were going to have to create a Nobel Prize for exposing government conspiracies at the highest level, because the single prize for physics wasn't nearly reward enough for this kind of achievement.

And he'd like that apology from the Air Force in writing, thanks.

Audio from the first spike was queued. His finger hovered over the button, not depressing, not yet. This was history in the making. The moment should be savored, analyzed, filed away to reference in future prize-acceptance speeches.

Or... he could always let his impatience take over. He jabbed the button and held his breath.

When the sweet, sweet sound of scientific breakthrough failed to materialize, he jumped to the beginning of the recording and listened again. Then a third time, annoyance now vying with bewilderment, because what he thought he was hearing just wasn't possible. It should have been a blip, a spot of static, a crackle in the background noise of nothingness. It most certainly should not have been a voice, an unmistakably human voice speaking English.

So much for extraterrestrial, and he wasn't holding out hope for intelligence either.

Rodney suddenly clutched at his head. Oh, damn it! Dish cleaning day. It was dish cleaning day. How could he have forgotten that he'd taken the dish out of alignment? It had been pointed down, not up at the sky, and he was the world's biggest moron for getting excited over picking up some yokel's amateur radio experiment.

The yokel in question was still droning on audio loop.

[This is Shepherd calling the Mountain. I repeat, Shepherd to Mountain, please respond. I've got a bit of a... situation here...]

Forget fixing the dish or finishing the maintenance routines. Disappointment sapped him of the energy to do more than swat at the button that powered down the speakers before he retreated to the solace of a nice, scalding shower.

It was a curious path that had led Rodney McKay, PhD (twice over) to become the proud owner and operator of the most advanced amateur radio telescope on the planet.

His "premature retirement" party had been interesting, to say the least. When he'd informed his co-workers that he was quitting his cushy job in Research and Development to eavesdrop on aliens, they all assumed he'd been seduced by the competition and was just too cowardly to admit it.

Like his four year old niece couldn't concoct a better lie.

As a result, he'd been forced to sign the non-competition agreement from hell, with his retirement fund forfeit in the event of breach of contract. Not a problem there. Extraterrestrial radio signals didn't have a lot to do with the telecom industry. Oh, except for the fact that eight percent of the technology in the average mobile phone had been reverse engineered from alien prototypes.

When they'd realized he was serious, his co-workers had started an office betting pool over when Rodney was going to give up the nutty recluse gig and return to sanity. Right after they'd all applied for his job. A former colleague -- Simmons or Simon or something -- still e-mailed him gossip and the latest odds.

At least Rodney had the freedom to let people know what he did for a hobby-slash-career. Poor Zelenka was still in the SETI closet. But Zelenka was tenured at a respectable university, and couldn't afford a reputation tarnished by pseudo-science, whereas Rodney had been considered something of a crackpot even prior to his early mid-life crisis.

Their words, not his.

Besides, he didn't mind if the whole world thought he was unbalanced; it would be just one more reason to gloat when he proved them all wrong.

It was Zelenka who'd lured him into the whole search for extraterrestrial intelligence thing. They had been roommates in grad school and friends ever since, even if they had a funny way of expressing it. Mostly, they squabbled. The topics of their disputes ranged from the hard sciences to the various merits and flaws of the yearly batch of Eurovision contestants.

The argument for extraterrestrial contact had been so ludicrous that Rodney hadn't believed he'd been hearing it from someone whose intelligence had, on numerous prior occasions, been strongly substantiated.

"What the hell is wrong with your brain!?" he'd shouted. (The joys of VoIP meant he could shout rather than type in caps, which wasn't nearly as satisfying.)

Radek had grumbled something in Czech, the tone of which suggested that he thought Rodney's finesse with insults was slipping, and said, "I don't care if you think it sounds crazy. What about Drake? And Fermi! Statistically it makes sense."

"Yeah, well, one-hundred percent of Canadian geniuses polled think you've been hitting the vodka too hard," Rodney had snipped. "How do you like those statistics? And Drake's equation is full of outdated assumptions."

"So correct it. Do the math yourself, Rodney."

Rodney did the math, because he was stubborn, and because that bastard Zelenka knew he couldn't resist a chance to demonstrate just how much smarter he was than someone else.

The results had proved... intriguing.

Digging deeper had made him feel squeamish. The sheer press of crazy had played hell on his claustrophobia, but at the same time he'd been unable to ignore the tantalizing hints of... plausibility, leading like a breadcrumb trail to crevices of the internet he hadn't even known existed. He'd spent more time trolling sci.astro.seti than sci.astro.research. In dark, sticky IRC channels he'd courted conspiracy theorists and UFO chasers, gaining their wary acceptance as they slowly revealed the injustices being perpetrated at the highest levels of government.

In his own begrudging way, Rodney came to believe.

A little.

In the true spirit of being scientifically open-minded.

Then that whole misunderstanding with the Air Force provided Rodney the incentive -- and oddly the means -- to hunt aliens full time.

Rodney's shower was a failure in the sense that it only made him clean. Relaxation didn't happen; instead he barely felt the hot water sheeting down his back as he focused on just how uncompromisingly gullible he'd been. All giddy over nothing. Worse than nothing. The worst kind of nothing.

In a fit of petulance he decided that the remedy was to avoid all reminders of the incident for the rest of the day. It became a game, to discover new routes to every corner of the house that didn't involve setting foot in the control room. He won when he reached the kitchen by exiting the front door, circling the building, and climbing in the window.

Night arrived. He noticed because the cat spent five solid minutes weaving the symbol for infinity around his legs. The gesture was oddly placating, even though he knew a demand for food when he saw one.

Rodney even managed to sleep, though he awoke the next day with the uneasy feeling his dreams had been bad, despite not being able to remember them.

Breakfast helped. So did coffee. By the time he was drumming his fingers on a second mug, he was feeling settled enough to contemplate the mystery signal with curiosity rather than dismay.

Out of habit, he dissected the quandary, poked at its individual parts.

Starting with the voice.

It was male... probably. The sound quality could have been better, but he hadn't expected to record speech. If he had to describe the speaker in a word, he'd say it sounded like... a yokel. Probably a religious wacko, with a handle like Shepherd. Either that or he had a thing for sheep. Sheep and mountains. Hell, he'd come to the right place. Nothing but mountains for hundreds of kilometers in every direction. Well, except west. West was mountains, Alaska, more mountains, and, for a little variety, the Pacific.

There were so many mountains, most of them didn't have names.

Rodney shoved his chair away from the table and stood. This was stupid, useless. There was absolutely nothing of value to glean from the signal, and the sooner he scrapped yesterday's data and re-initialized the systems, the sooner he could return to the very serious business of catching the United States Air Force enjoying appropriate relations with little grey men.

He ambled to the control room to find that irritating beeping was back. His monitoring program was going crazy, at least as annoying as the cat when he missed a feeding. And that was because... it had detected more than thirty new signals.

There were a dozen reasons why he shouldn't pull up the logs and read the time stamps. Good reasons, grounded in common sense and sanity. His curiosity -- purely scientific, of course -- overrode them all.

Oh two hundred hours, three hundred, four hundred... the hell? Didn't this guy ever sleep?

Some spikes, Rodney noticed, were more like plateaus, indicating that more than a handful of words had been transmitted. Shepherd had been downright chatty at three in the morning.

Maybe he was an insomniac, and "shepherd" was a reference to counting sheep. "There are drugs for that," Rodney informed the console as he set his coffee down on the USB cup warmer and started to verify the completion of the automated maintenance tasks. "Honestly, you should seek professional help. Or at the very least a shortwave license. Who knows, you might hook up with some other lonely bastard willing to listen to you whine all night long. It could be mutually satisfying, like... oh, I don't know, an actual conversation. Which you are never going to get broadcasting on this frequency. I'm probably the only person who noticed your puny little signal, and let me tell you what a fluke it was that-"

Stop. Stop right there.

Three hertz?!

Rodney's index finger rubbed at his monitor. There were some zeros missing right about... there.

Okay, so his frequency reading was off. Maybe there was a programming error; maybe he'd forgotten to carry a decimal point, and all this time he'd been so used to it being wrong that his brain had automatically compensated, without his realizing.

That was it. Rodney McKay had made a mistake. A stupid, careless mistake -- the kind that went into textbooks exemplifying how lazy programming killed projects and cost millions and lost lives.

And he was okay with that. Because the alternative was-

"Fuck."

Back in the kitchen, Rodney wore a groove in the linoleum while waiting for a fresh pot of coffee to brew. He was going to need caffeine in sickening quantity.

Extremely low frequencies. What could he remember about extremely low frequencies? Once upon a time, they'd been used to communicate with submarines.

Ha, a submarine! It was a signal from a passing sub. There was water out there, to the west; that was the direction the dish was pointed, more or less.

Except... the power requirements to transmit were astronomical, and the antenna configuration, well, the antenna would need to be much larger than the submarine itself. That was why the broadcast stations had all been land-based. Subs had only ever had the ability to receive signals, not send them. Besides, the technology was thirty years obsolete. There had never been more than a few broadcast facilities in North America, and they had been dismantled in the advent of cheaper, more efficient forms of communication.

So, back to square one. Because only Scooby-Doo would accept the phantom submarine explanation.

And it sure as hell wasn't some yokel's amateur radio experiment.

He should call Zelenka. What time was it in Prague? Oh, right, he'd be in the middle of teaching his afternoon class.

That was unfortunate, because Rodney really could have used an intervening voice of sanity to remind him that Canada had an extradition treaty with the United States. Because his curiosity had the gravitational pull of a black hole, damn it.

Helpless, he returned to the control room, turned the speakers back on, pulled up a comfortable chair, and settled in to listen.

[This is Shepherd calling the Mountain. I repeat, Shepherd to Mountain, please respond. I've got a bit of a... situation here...]

He let it repeat, sifting through nuances. The voice sounded unconcerned, but there was an inflection on the word "situation" that Rodney found particularly alluring.

The second, third and fourth signals, all received within the first hour, had been variations on the same message.

Then, exactly one hour later:

[Mountain, this is Shepherd, authentication code Bravo Delta Charlie Alpha Niner. I'm officially rescinding the order for radio silence, please respond.]

Military. Damn it. Rodney had suspected, given Shepherd's punctuality. But confirmation meant he could no longer lie to himself, pretend the messages were innocuous. Nor could he plead ignorance when the black helicopters came in the middle of the night to scoop him up for questioning after he-

That was, if-

See, now this -- this was the cue for his sense of self preservation to kick in, make him turn off the recording and wipe every trace of the mysterious Shepherd from his hard drives. Useless sense of self preservation. Always slacking off when he needed it the most.

The next message repeated the order to break radio silence. Rodney couldn't be sure -- he would have to run it through a voice stress analysis filter -- but he thought Shepherd was sounding... not anxious, exactly. Apprehensive.

[Okay Mountain, as you already know, the rendezvous is a no go. Since I don't have much of a choice, I'm just going to sit tight and await assistance.]

And:

[Listen, I don't know if you received my SOS. Hell, I don't know if you're receiving me now, but if you are, I'd sure appreciate a lift. It's gonna get dark soon. Primary systems are out. I've got a smattering of secondaries, but that's not going to help me stay warm when it gets pretty damned cold in a couple hours.]

Rodney winced. It did get cold at night this far north, even in the summer. It would be worse if Shepherd was stuck on some mountain; the higher peaks retained their snow caps year round.

At least Rodney didn't have to skip ahead and spoil the ending to know Shepherd had survived the night. The continuing hourly broadcasts were a pretty good indication he was still out there.

Eighteen hundred hours mentioned a failed attempt to re-route power to boost signal strength.

Nineteen reported that a source of fresh water had been located, and Rodney didn't think he imagined that Shepherd's voice sounded smoother, less worn.

Twenty was a rambling critique of the various flavors of Power Bars. Rodney had to agree that Milk Chocolate Brownie didn't taste nearly as good as the name suggested it should.

After that, Shepherd seemed withdrawn. His tone was flat as he described a plan to interrupt his sleep hourly to send messages that would probably never reach home.

The messages that followed were perfunctory at best.

Until three in the morning.

[The stars are really something out here. Shame I can't get above the trees, see the whole sky. I can't remember the last time I bothered to just lie back and look up. Kinda says a lot about this job, doesn't it?]

He'd laughed, a low, discordant sound.

[So yeah, that's my epiphany, stars are pretty. No surprise I couldn't do better. I'm not very good at this kind of thing. And by this kind of thing I mean introspection. The whole being alone and self-sufficient thing I probably do too well.]

There was a crinkling noise that Rodney guessed was a thermal blanket like the type usually found in emergency kits.

[I should have paid more attention during wilderness survival training. After satisfying basic physical needs, there was a step that involved self-assessment of mental state, and, I don't know, something about stress impairing judgment. I wonder if it's bad that I'm not. Stressed. Hell, this is like a vacation compared to the last time I went down. I'm not even being shot at. A little campfire, a bag of marshmallows, and this would be downright cozy.]

This time, the rustling definitely sounded like a body shifting for comfort.

[Of course, if I'm still out here a few days from now, I'll deny having said any of that.]

Rodney was reaching for the key to advance to the next message when Shepherd's voice startled him. What he'd taken for the end of the transmission had been just a long pause.

[Wish I had that copy of War and Peace with me.]

Suddenly Rodney had heard enough.

"You bastard, it's your fault I'm in this predicament."

"It's always a pleasure to hear from my good friend McKay," Radek sighed. "Why, I was just thinking that I hadn't been called an idiot in nearly a week."

"Fine. You idiot, it's your fault I'm in this predicament." Rodney was on the couch playing minesweeper on his laptop, because going anywhere near the console was a temptation he couldn't afford.

"You know, I'm never sure how to respond to that. Do I ask first what the predicament is, or request an explanation as to how you consider me responsible?"

"Oh, right. Pleasantries. How was your afternoon class?" Rodney inquired viciously.

He was rewarded with a few dark words in Czech. "Officially it went well. Unofficially, teaching undergraduates makes me fear for the future of the human race. What is this predicament, Rodney?"

"What predicament?" He would have liked to continue the ruse, but he currently lacked a little thing called willpower. Also, Zelenka needed to be brought up to speed so that he could talk Rodney out of doing something suicidal. "Ah yes, that predicament. I received a signal on the telescope you suggested I install."

"A signal?" There was a clatter that sounded like a dropped pen. "That's great!"

"No, it isn't."

Radek continued cautiously, "So... I don't owe you that vodka?"

"Not exactly," Rodney admitted.

"What kind of signal did you receive?"

"Damn." He hit a mine, and cleared the board to start again.

"Rodney..."

"A voice. I heard a voice speaking English."

Here came that common sense he needed so badly. "The International Space Station?"

"I checked. It was in orbit over Africa when I picked up the signal."

"A high-altitude aircraft then," Radek countered.

Sadly, Rodney had an answer for that too. "It was dish cleaning day. I had the thing pointed at the ground. Besides, the direction and strength suggests the source has been stationary for more than twenty-four hours."

"So you picked up someone on shortwave, so what?"

"At three hertz?"

"Three hertz." After a significant pause, Radek breathed, "Jesus..."

"Please. If I thought I was hearing messages from God I would be on my way to check myself into the nearest mental hospital, not talking on the phone with you."

"Still, three hertz. What would be the benefit of broadcasting on such a frequency? The power requirements alone would be-"

"I know. But you may be on to something there. Of course! I've been looking at this all wrong!"

Radek grumbled, "I knew this would happen. You blame me for a problem I did not create, then take all the credit when I help you solve it."

"Quiet," Rodney snapped his fingers. "I'm thinking. Why isn't it useful to broadcast over land with these frequencies?"

Radek was familiar with the sounding board routine, and supplied, "The waves are very large and slow."

"But they were used to communicate to vessels under water because...?"

"Water is an excellent conductor of the sound waves. They would carry much farther through water than through atmosphere."

"Exactly! Atmosphere!" Rodney dumped his computer on the couch and got up to pace. "There isn't any particular benefit to using these frequencies on Earth. But in space, a large wavelength could be resistant to distortion from contaminants like radiation. I mean, each wave would only need to retain enough of its shape to be significantly distinguishable from the preceding and subsequent forms. The tolerable variance would be huge."

Radek let out a thoughtful hum, which Rodney always took as indication that he'd been dazzled anew by Rodney's mental prowess. "Even though I've never heard of such a thing, that leads us back to the space station, or maybe an orbiter."

"Actually, I think he's military. He was using some kind of ridiculous code name." Rodney omitted the part where Shepherd needed help... for the sake of clarity, that was it.

"No." Radek's accent became stronger, his syllables more clipped, when he was warming up for a real argument. "Trouble is what you'll be in if you pursue this. The Americans threatened to press charges if you annoy them again. How could you forget that?"

"He might not be American," Rodney lied.

"Rodney, I say this as a friend. Forget you heard anything. If you have any recordings, destroy them. I think that with the habit you have of... well, insulting people, you would not last long in prison."

"I only insult people who deserve it," Rodney sniffed. "Besides, if I did expose some top secret project, they wouldn't charge me with anything. They'd just toss me into one of those private, ultra high security detention centers."

Radek nearly growled, "Do not even joke about it."

"If I disappear, there's a house key under the doormat. Send someone to feed my cat."

"You know, I hate it when you are like this."

"Radek, trust me. I never make the same mistake twice. The military terrifies me, and I wouldn't dream of tangling with them again unless I could guarantee my continued freedom by... oh, I don't know, digging up such a huge scandal that they couldn't look at me without Amnesty International crawling up their ass."

"I can't recall a single time you've asked me to trust you that I haven't lived to regret," sounded a lot like resignation. Which meant Rodney had won.

"There's a first time for everything."

"You say that like a man who still holds hope of losing his virginity."

"Thanks, asshole." Rodney meant it. "For everything."

"Any time, shit for brains."

Beaming, Rodney hung up the phone.

It was conversations like these that really made him cherish Zelenka's friendship.

All the most daring, dangerous scientific endeavors had "project" in their name.

Rodney settled down that evening with a whiteboard to christen his.

Project Radek Will Laugh if This Lands Me in Jail was an early contender, but in the end he decided on Project BELF: Broadcasting Extremely Low Frequencies.

Unfortunately the name would make Radek laugh if he ever heard it, but Rodney couldn't spare the brain power to come up with anything better. He too busy calculating what the thing was going to do to his monthly power bill when he turned it on.

That was the most seductive aspect of the project. Rodney didn't need to build anything. He was sitting on an extensive web of abandoned coaxial cable that was perfect for his needs. Sure, there was some coding to do, and some devices to convert from listeners to, well, senders. But on the whole it was going to be the least amount of effort he'd ever expended to potentially incur the most dreadful consequences he could imagine.

Worse, he was too busy congratulating himself for devising such a clever, efficient plan to feel any apprehension whatsoever.

It was good to be back on the front lines, so to speak. The dish had been the last project to let him tinker with actual hardware. Too much of his Research and Development job had involved committing brilliant ideas to paper so that other people could tinker with them. It hadn't felt much like science.

Shepherd kept him company as he worked through the night. Mostly there was the soft crawl of static through the speakers, but the monitoring program was set to detect activity and amplify the output.

Forty hours after Rodney had received his first signal, the man was still as punctual as ever.

Oh three hundred hours:

[All I can say is, there had better be at least three teams combing the woods for me.]

"Three whole teams? Aren't you Mr Important Pants." Rodney put down his voltage meter long enough to gulp down the last cold, sludgy inch of liquid in his coffee cup. "Well I hope they don't find you. I mean, considering all the effort I'm devoting to this project, it would be downright inconsiderate of you to be rescued before it's finished."

Oh four hundred hours:

[I'll be what I am. A solitary man, a solitary man...]

"Marginally less painful than listening to fingernails on a chalkboard," Rodney complimented the console. "That is, your voice is fine, but your taste in music sucks. Get some sleep. You obviously need it. I'll be right behind you, just as soon as I tighten up these calculations."

The next day, Rodney coded until his eyes crossed. The day after that, he broke out the soldering gun and voided a dozen warranties. He spent Monday trying to remember how to put back together everything he'd taken apart on Sunday, and by Tuesday morning he was fairly certain that when he flipped the main switch his house wasn't going to burn down in a spectacular electrical fire.

There was no fanfare when he powered up the transmitter for the first time. He just sort of ambled through his final checklist and punched it. And was satisfied when nothing happened.

Make that almost nothing. He didn't know if power meters had redlines, but his was putting out RPMs like it intended to answer the question for him.

Of course there was no way of knowing if it worked until he tested it. In the meantime, he'd take the lack of sparks and smoke and system alarms as a positive sign.

It was still a little before the top of the hour, and Rodney had the vague notion that it would be, well, rude to just start talking on another man's private channel. Besides, Shepherd might be napping. So he fired off an e-mail to Zelenka.

Here goes nothing, wish me luck! -R

Then, right on schedule:

[I think I would literally kill for a cup of coffee.]

This was it.

Rodney wet his lips, leaned close to the microphone... and broke into a cold sweat.

Oh hell. He was going, he had to go now, that was his opening, and why, why hadn't he thought about what he was going to say?

"Um, hello?"

[Oh thank god!] Shepherd sounded like Rodney had just informed him that Santa Claus was real after all. [Where the hell have you been? I missed the rendezvous five days ago! Look, there was a malfunction, I went down... I sent an SOS that I guess no one heard, because my ass is still sitting in the middle of the woods waiting for rescue!]

There was an expectant pause.

It worked. Shepherd could hear him.

Shepherd could hear him and speak to him and wanted a reply.

Shit shit shit shit shit. "Uh, sorry about that. We were busy."

[Who is this?] Shepherd demanded, suddenly formal without a trace of drawl. [Identify yourself.]

"Um..."

The transmission dropped into silence.

Not static, just nothing.

Rodney's jaw worked uselessly, still at a loss for words that might have forestalled the other man from severing the connection.

Finally he moaned, "I should have written a script," and hunched over to bury his face in his arms.

The next twenty four hours were misery.

Rodney had had no idea how much he'd come to- Not appreciate, or enjoy. Expect. That was it. How much he'd come to expect the transmissions until they ceased.

Okay, so he was a sucker for order, but he totally wasn't cranky enough to make the cat avoid him over something as minor as an interrupted routine. (Did it even count as a routine if he'd subscribed to it for less than a week?)

He wasn't worried. Not with three whole teams out there. Searching, oh, a few million hectares of forest. That figured out to roughly seven hundred and fourteen thousand hectares per searcher, and left Rodney imagining what it might be like to not exist in a constant state of anxiety because his brain compulsively converted every scenario into grim statistics.

A piece of accurate but tardy advice arrived from Zelenka: Only idiots require luck, so I wish you plenty of it. -R

Optimism was foreign to Rodney, so it took real effort to convince himself by supper that Shepherd had been rescued. By the time he was stripping for bed, he'd reverted to form and concluded that Shepherd had been eaten by a bear.

Darkness shrank his bedroom, causing claustrophobia to prickle his nerves. So, it was going to be one of those nights. He lay on his back willing the ceiling to move farther away, and that's when it blindsided him: this mystery was going to haunt him for the rest of his life.

The morning heralded acceptance. Rodney scribbled a checklist of all the conversions he would need to un-convert in order to bring the telescope back online. It made a decent eulogy.

As if summoned, Shepherd's voice crackled out of the console speakers like a call from beyond the grave. [If you're still out there eavesdropping, I'm ready to talk now.]

Luckily Rodney's lap was empty. He shot to his feet with such force that any of the items it usually held -- bowl of chips, laptop, cat -- would have been ejected to the floor.

[Hello, anyone?]

Rodney rushed to the console and slapped until he found the button that activated the microphone. "Hello, yes, I'm here. Don't hang up!"

[Wow,] Shepherd managed after a considerable pause. It was possible he was as stunned to hear Rodney as Rodney was to hear him. [I... I won't.]

"So, um..."

[Maybe I should...]

"You first. This is your... your channel, after all." His chair was across the room, but Rodney wasn't going to leave the microphone to retrieve it. He stretched as far as he could, kicking backwards, and somehow managed to snag the thing with his foot and drag it over.

Shepherd mumbled something to himself, then raised his voice again. [You're a civilian, aren't you?]

Rodney hesitated. "Yes."

[You picked up my signal?]

"Yes."

[And you can respond?]

"Obviously," flew out with more sting than it should have. Rodney softened it with, "I mean, it's not that simple."

[How long have you been listening?]

"Hey, is this an interrogation or do I get to ask some questions of my own?" Because really, the last thing Rodney wanted to admit was that Shepherd had serenaded him with Neil Diamond at four in the morning.

[Fair enough,] Shepherd conceded.

"I heard enough to know you're stranded. Can you tell me what happened?"

[No.]

All righty then. "Is there anything I can do to help?"

[No,] was marginally less firm.

"Want to tell me how to contact someone who can?"

A pause was encouraging. Then, [No.]

"So why are you talking to me at all?"

[Guess I just needed to hear a... friendly voice.]

"Oh." The fact that that was flattering indicated Rodney needed to get out of the house more often. "Well, uh, I don't know if I qualify, since- You're American, right?"

The silence that followed suggested Rodney was straying too close to information Shepherd preferred he not have.

"Your accent gave you away."

[I have an accent?]

"It's rather..." Rodney demonstrated with his hands, "not Canadian."

[Canada. Huh. Are we at war with you guys? I can never remember.]

"The truce lasts until hockey season."

That earned a shot of rough laughter. [Funny. Well, it was nice talking to you, but I think I'm gonna sign off here for a while. I probably shouldn't-]

Panic seized Rodney around the throat. "Are you dying?"

[What? No!]

"Good, good." What a relief. "Because it would haunt me for the rest of my life if I never got to learn more about you."

[See, that's exactly why I shouldn't be talking to you.]

"Excuse me, you were the one who initiated this conversation, remember?"

Nothing.

"Hello? Uh, Shepherd? Hello?"

[You're supposed to say "do you copy".]

"You're still there."

[Yeah, I guess I am.] Shepherd cleared his throat. [What made you think I was dying?]

"That's always what happens in the movies." Rodney explained. "Two guys will be talking on the phone and one of them doesn't want his partner -- they're cops or something -- to know he's been fatally injured. But he's afraid to die alone, so he pretends he's okay. Instead of using the last of his strength to tell his partner where the bad guys hid the bomb, or apologize for taking the last chocolate donut that morning, or... or say goodbye, he wastes his breath on inconsequential crap while he slowly bleeds to death."

Somehow, Shepherd's silence managed to convey astonishment.

Way to go, Rodney. Tell a depressing story to a man who'd been stuck in the woods for a week. "I- Sorry. I'm a natural pessimist. I don't do reassurance well."

[I hadn't noticed. Look, I'm fine. I really am. I'm not just saying that to-]

"You're sure?"

[I'm not injured, I've got enough food and water to last me... a while, and my guys are out there right now looking for me.] That last bit was Shepherd trying to convince himself, Rodney was sure. [Rescue is just gonna take longer than expected, and I'm all settled in with nothing left to do.]

"Stir crazy," Rodney sympathized. "I'm not good at waiting either. Once, I missed a connecting flight and was stuck at the airport for five hours. It almost drove me nuts."

[Five whole hours. What a hardship,] Shepherd intoned.

"It was! Their wireless internet was down."

That earned a snort.

"We can't all have exciting stories about crash-landing in the wilderness."

Rodney knew that was a mistake as soon as it left his mouth. It had taken a lot of practice to get the tinfoil hat crowd to open up and talk to him, and Shepherd's secrets seemed to be just as jealously guarded. He needed to ease up to the information that had his curiosity salivating. Win a little trust here, give a little something back there. Not blunder in with a segue that had the grace and subtlety of a brick to the head.

[I'm going to sign off now,] Shepherd informed brusquely. [This is probably wasting more power than I can afford.]

"Wait! Can I talk to you again sometime?"

The request must have sounded awkward even to Shepherd, who took his time replying, [I'll think about it and let you know.]

"Don't you want to know my name before you go?" Rodney was grasping and knew it.

Shepherd's transmission ended with a hesitant, [Save a few surprises for next time.]

Message received: apology accepted.

Next time proved to be sooner rather than later. Not... that Rodney had been puttering around the control room with one eye on the clock, because-

Okay, that was exactly what he'd been doing.

[So what is your name?] Shepherd crackled, abrupt enough to make Rodney jump.

He approached the console and keyed the mic. "Don't scare me like that," came out girlishly high, so he cleared his throat and tried again. "It's Rodney. Rodney McKay."

[Scare you?]

"More like startle."

[Uh huh.]

Rodney settled into a chair to explain. "You broke your hour rule." Which was also sort of flattering. "You're always so punctual that I wasn't expecting to hear from you for another... twelve minutes at the earliest."

[I'll be sure to make an appointment in the future.]

"That won't be necessary," Rodney assured, ignoring the sarcasm. "Do I, um... do I just keep calling you Shepherd?"

[Why not?]

"Don't take this personally, but as code-names go it's kind of... dumb."

Shepherd's drawl didn't quite mask an undercurrent of amusement. [I don't know how else I can take that but personally.]

"It doesn't fit," Rodney grumbled. "Shepherd, Mountain? Shouldn't you be calling the Farm or the Barn or Little Bo Peep or something?"

[That's S-H-E-P-P-A-R-D. It's my name.]

"Oh," was all Rodney could think to say, and was he ever grateful Sheppard wasn't in the room with him to see his mouth work soundlessly in the way his sister always told him made him resemble an asphyxiating fish.

[Yeah. You really thought-]

"Forget it," Rodney groaned, cutting him off.

[Just curious. Would it kill you to humor me? I'm kinda desperate for entertainment here.]

"Then you weren't calling to let me know you'd been rescued."

[No Rodney, I'm still... still here,] dropped off to a sigh.

Rodney couldn't be uncharitable to a guy alone in the woods who probably had a better chance of being eaten by a bear than being rescued. "Are you sure you don't want me to launch some kind of search on my end? Call someone? The Mounties maybe? It's been, you know, a while."

[My guys are out there,] Sheppard was firm. [Just gotta give them time. How close am I to Juneau?]

"Alaska? You don't know?"

[Let's pretend for a minute that I was a little off course when I crashed.]

"Well," Rodney keyed up the logs. "Your signal strength has remained... huh, shockingly consistent. The problem is, I've never seen anything like it before."

[Not a lot of people have.]

"I'm not a lot of people."

[Oh, so you're some kind of communications expert.]

"As a matter of fact, yes."

[Well, the reason you haven't encountered it before is... it's new.] Sheppard must have sensed that a bullshit answer was safer than trying to explain a concept he didn't understand to someone who could nail him for his mistakes.

Rodney decided to nail him anyway. "I think the word you're grasping for is obsolete. The technology was contemporary to the eight-track and the laserdisc. I've just never seen it used in this fashion before."

[I guess you're not as expert as you thought you were.] Sheppard managed to be awfully smug for a guy who was stuck in the woods and who was also wrong.

"Fine. You want to know where you are? I'll pin it down to a few thousand square kilometers." Rodney pushed away from the console, snapping his fingers. "Yes, this could work. I know the direction of your signal to within two degrees. And I know the speed the waves of this frequency travel. If I could just get a response ping off your system..."

[Well, that's not going to happen, because I don't know how to do that. All I know about the radio is that I talk and people can hear me on the other end.]

"Mm, that's a shame. Are you sure that you don't- Because even bush pilots should have at least a basic mechanical understanding of their planes, in case they need to repair something in an emergency."

[I'm not a bush pilot, and this sure as hell isn't a... isn't a little puddle jumper.] The comparison must have been wildly inappropriate, because it earned a gruff laugh.

"But you are a pilot."

[Yes, I'm a pilot. For those keeping score at home, Rodney has just confirmed another useless fact about John Sheppard.]

Why yes, yes he had. First name: John. "Have you ever flown a Cessna?"

[There's lots of different kinds of Cessnas. That's like asking someone if they've ever driven a Chevy.]

"Well, have you?"

[Yes, and yes.]

"Do you think you could unclog a fuel line?"

[Probably.]

"There you go."

[I couldn't figure out how to ping a whatsit from a Cessna's radio either.]

"Pft. Easy. I could walk you through that without even pulling up the technical specs. So what else have you flown?"

[Choppers.]

"And?"

[I went up in a glider once.]

"What else?"

[Rodney...]

"What happened to your co-pilot? Oh god, did he die in the crash? You didn't eat him, did you?"

[I didn't have a co-pilot.]

"Huh. That's odd."

[No kidding,] was wry to the point of suspicion.

"What?"

[Nothing. Don't you have to go to work or something?]

"Nope. I'm sort of retired."

[Retired? How old are you?]

"Thirty six."

[Isn't that a little young to-]

"Whatever you're going to say, I've heard it before. I put in ten years at a multi-national telecom. It was ridiculous how much they paid me -- even I didn't think I was worth that much. Then after I quit I did a six month contract job that paid enough for me to be able to buy this place outright."

Sheppard scoffed, [Must be nice.]

"The house? Not really. It's a cinder block box on top of a hill. The nearest town has a population of five thousand, my neighbors gave me a shotgun as a housewarming present, and it snows three hundred and sixty days out of the year." Okay, so one of those statements was a slight exaggeration.

[Sounds... charming.]

"Try quaint. Honestly? I couldn't live out here without my satellite internet hook-up." Thank god for Amazon and UPS. "For the holidays, my sister thinks it's funny to send me gift certificates for restaurants I would have to drive four hours to reach. When I visit her, I end up using them to take her family out to dinner."

[So why live there?]

"I did mention that I have a rather large dish, didn't I?"

The little choking sound Sheppard made was ample reward for the effort of working that one into the conversation. [You did say dish?]

That just never got old.

"I live in an old cable television relay station," Rodney clarified. "The enormous satellite dish on my roof used to pick up feeds from the orbiting network satellites. Those little digital dishes killed the market for cable TV up here -- there wasn't much of a market to begin with -- and the station went under. That's how I got it so cheap. Er, plus the place is a real dump. It was empty for a couple years before I bought it."

[So, what? You still use your big dish to pick up television signals?] And wasn't that boggling? Sheppard mimicked the phrase with a cheerful filthiness Rodney had never achieved, for all his practice.

Show off. He was just miffed Rodney knew way more about his fancy radio than he did. Therefore, Rodney was perfectly, innocently justified in answering, "Every porn channel in this hemisphere."

[Seriously?]

"Of course not! I converted it into a radio telescope."

[This is the part where I pretend to know what that entails so you don't offer to explain it for me.]

"I thought you were desperate for entertainment."

[Yeah, entertainment being the key word. If you're going to start spewing technobabble I could find something more exciting to do. Like take a nap.]

Rodney huffed, "Excuse me for selecting the wrong conversational topics. If I'd known you could only tolerate macho crap I would have brushed up on Walker, Texas Ranger so I could hold an informed discourse on-"

[Rodney.]

"-the merits of the classic roundhouse kick versus-"

[McKay!]

"Yes?" Rodney snapped. "Go ahead, add interruption to insult."

[It was a joke,] Sheppard soothed, unruffled. [Honestly, I don't give a shit what you talk about. You could read the user's manual for a Commodore 64 and I'd be thrilled just to have a friendly voice to listen to.]

"Oh." Damn it, Sheppard needed to stop doing that to him. And by "that" Rodney wasn't sure if he meant the thing where Sheppard dropped an off-hand comment that derailed Rodney entirely, or the thing where Sheppard dropped an off-hand comment that derailed Rodney and also made his mouth tug into a grudging smile.

It had to be deliberate, except that it couldn't possibly have been.

"I- Since you mentioned it, I might actually have one of those lying around."

[Whoa! I appreciate the sentiment. Truly. But I think I heard something and I need to go check it out. Then I do want that nap. I've been trying to catch some sleep during the day. At night the cold kinda keeps me awake,] Sheppard admitted.

Right -- night. Cold, lonely, awful. "That's good, because I need to run a few errands. No, not good. Convenient. You should rest while it's warmer, and I'll do my stuff, and tonight-" Rodney swallowed, hoping the offer would be considered more generous than pathetic. "I live alone, so it doesn't matter when I sleep. Since you're going to be up all night, I could, you know..."

Sheppard put him out of his misery, sounding genuinely touched. [Thanks. That'd be-]

Then Rodney's brain caught up with his ears. "Wait, did you say you heard something?"

[In the underbrush, maybe a few hundred yards away. What kind of wildlife you got up here?]

"All kinds. Especially the kinds with bad attitudes and big teeth. I mean, I thought the shotgun was some kind of initiate-the-outsider joke until they started telling me about-"

[It's slow and noisy. That narrow it down any?]

"A bear," Rodney breathed; he was Googling "survive a bear attack" before he realized his hands were on the keyboard. "Okay, if you want to live, do exactly as I say. First, don't draw attention to yourself with noise or sudden movement."

[I'm not afraid of a bear.] Sheppard, god rest his soul, was definitely not taking Rodney's advice. In fact, if first person shooters had taught Rodney anything, that background hiss-click was the sound of a weapon clip being seated.

"Fine, get eaten."

[I'm armed. Also, I think I'm hungrier than whatever's out there. If anything, it's going on the menu, not me.]

"You're actually going to check it out, aren't you?" Rodney moaned. He'd just encountered a photo on a bear attack site that he fervently wished he could purge from his brain.

[Yup. Rescue should be a little more vocal, but I'm not exactly, uh, visible where I am right now, so I have to go out there just in case it is the cavalry.]

"Visible," Rodney challenged.

[It's difficult to explain.]

"You could try shouting."

[And draw attention to myself if it's a bear?]

That's when it hit him: despite having logic and common sense and Googled facts on his side, Rodney was going to lose this argument.

John Sheppard was clearly insane.

"Don't say I didn't warn you."

[Warning duly noted. Rendezvous on this channel at twenty-hundred hours.] There was a pause. [That means go run your errands, and I'll call you around eight.]

"Yes I know what it means!"

[Great. Sheppard out.]

"Wait! John! Do you think you could, you know, contact me sooner just to let me know you weren't rescued or eaten? Because that sort of apprehension will be nothing short of torture!"

It was too late though; the connection was dead.

What time was it in Prague?

After losing that last round to Sheppard, Rodney needed something to lift his spirits. Or at the very least provide a distraction until eight o'clock.

An epic round of gloating would have satisfied both requirements, yet for some reason he found himself reluctant to make the call. Sheppard was his secret, the culmination of Rodney's ideas and Rodney's hard work on the project that Zelenka had scoffed at, damn it. Plus there was the potential danger to consider; Rodney always made an effort to secure his digital communications, but if the government wanted to listen in badly enough they would find a way.

In the end, he settled for a nice, cryptic e-mail.

OH YE OF LITTLE FAITH.

PS: I think I made a new friend.

PPS: You owe me at least a partial pay-up on that bet.

-R

Then he grabbed his wallet and keys, jumped in his station wagon, and started winding down his driveway.

A kilometer and a mild case of vertigo later, he reached his mailbox and the main road. Of course there was nothing in the mailbox, despite that he hadn't been down to check it in several days. He did all of his banking online, and he wasn't expecting any packages. Hell, he sometimes went weeks between pieces of junk mail, and even those tended to look worn, like they'd been passed around the post office a couple times before being dropped in his box.

Hey, it was a small town, and he couldn't fault an incredibly bored postal worker for checking out the current prices on amateur astronomy equipment. Rodney was probably the only person in town who got interesting catalogs, shit that wasn't L.L. Bean.

Okay, so he go those too. The fact that they were addressed to Ben Kenobi might have been due to Rodney's insistence that his name not be associated with anything containing so much plaid.

He wasn't hurrying, really he wasn't. It just happened that his favorite parking spot was available when he hit town, so his base of operation was a nice, central location, with his targets splayed out around him like points on a star. He started at the library (a copy of War and Peace) and worked his way clockwise to the cafe (a pound of fresh roasted Costa Rican) and the grocery store (cat food, genius food).

In hindsight, the library should have been his last stop, because that damned book was heavier than his other purchases combined.

He wasn't hurrying, but he located everything he wanted with ease, and there weren't lines at the checkout, and he'd barely wasted an hour by the time he was dumping his haul into the back of the car.

Eight o'clock had never seemed so far away, nor could Rodney easily recall the last time he'd been so anxious to hear from someone.

It occurred to him that maybe he should take a nap like Sheppard, if he wanted to stay awake through the night. Except -- oh right, coffee.

So with several hours to blow and a mystery to solve, Rodney did what any good scientist would do: he launched an investigation. When he left town, he turned in the direction leading away from his house, and within half an hour was crunching into the gravel parking lot of something that claimed to be an airport but looked a lot more like a big, flat field with a cluster of sheds at one end.

Steve must have recognized Rodney's car, because he was ambling out of the tower before Rodney had his seat belt off.

"Dr McKay," he grinned in that predatory way that was good for Rodney's ego, but as subtle as a slap on the ass.

Rodney didn't give him the opportunity; he climbed out of the wagon and sidled sideways until he could swing the door closed, keeping his ass safely pressed to the vehicle. "Hello Steve."

"You shoulda called ahead. I've got a supply run this afternoon. I'd take you as my co-pilot but I'm skimming the weight limit as it is. And, you know, regulations." He shrugged his brawny shoulders, failing to recognize the opportunity for innuendo.

Thank god for small favors.

Rodney waved both his hands defensively. "No, I'm not here to take you up on your offer to take me up in your flying death trap."

"Aw, you're not?" The flying death trap comments had ceased to elicit outrage after Rodney had pointed out that part of the Cessna's rudder was reinforced with duct tape.

"Sorry," Rodney lied. "I'm here on official business."

Pretty much everyone knew about the aliens, after Rodney had made the mistake of telling, like, one person. Stupid small town gossip network. "Oh," Steve winked knowingly. "How can I help?"

Rodney let him lead them into the tower, which was only called that out of deference to tradition, not because its height exceeded the breadth or depth of its base. "Do you have anything resembling a functioning radar here?"

"Um." Steve glanced around the tower's rather Spartan interior. "We have a radio."

"Damn. It was a long shot anyway." Rodney remained at the edge of conversational range, keeping his back to a solid object at all times. "Still, maybe you could tell me if you've heard or seen anything out of the ordinary."

"What, like...?" Steve didn't actually say "UFO", but Rodney guessed that the motion he was making with his hands was supposed to mimic a flying saucer.

"Nooo, more like an actual airplane."

"What, not one of ours, you mean?"

"That wouldn't be out of the ordinary, would it?"

One of Steve's better qualities was that no matter how thickly Rodney piled on the sarcasm, the man never broke under the weight. "I guess not. When?"

Rodney counted back days until he'd first picked up Sheppard's signal. "Last Thursday, give or take. Or anything since then." An American rescue party would fly out of an American base, probably in Alaska, but if they were out there at all and sweeping an ever-widening area, Steve might have noticed something.

Steve shook his shaggy head. "Sorry, I don't- Wait! Yes! Todd -- you remember Todd, right? Tall guy, funny-"

"You've only introduced me to him three times."

"He placed his supply order a couple days ago, mentioned seeing a couple helicopters..."

Helicopters. Black helicopters. Shit.

"That's not," Rodney gulped, "normal?"

"What, helicopters? A few solo jobs around. Don't usually see them in pairs. Must have been a training exercise or something."

"Yeah, or something," Rodney agreed weakly. Steve had that fragile expression Rodney's junior researchers used to wear between the time they turned in their reports and the time he started delivering his verbal feedback. It inspired a pang of delicious nostalgia, but eventually he cut the poor bastard some slack. "Thanks. That was... helpful."

Steve lit up like a thousand watt work light. "Any time, Dr McKay. It was my pleasure."

Okay, that time he managed to work in some innuendo, which was Rodney's cue to get the hell out of there. He inched for the door. "You've given me a lot to think about, so I better go-"

"Hey, how 'bout tomorrow for that ride?"

Rodney tugged, then realized the door swung out, not in. "Very busy tomorrow!"

"We could stop and get a drink afterward..."

"I don't drink!"

"Okay, some other time then."

Steve tailed him outside, but Rodney was faster. He waved goodbye out the car window while Steve shrank in the rear view mirror.

It wasn't that Steve was awful. He was almost attractive, in a rugged sort of way. When he kept his mouth shut. And not so long ago, in a moment of weakness, Rodney had nearly scrounged up something to use as a gag and said "yes". Because any change to his social life would have been an improvement.

God, did Sheppard count?

Sure, they hadn't met face to face; they never would. Sure, they'd only spoken a couple times under less than optimal circumstances. But as a scientist, Rodney couldn't deny that they shared a... He chose the word "connection", even though Radek would have mocked him for it. But what the hell else did you call it when both parties understood the sarcasm and the irony and all the things left unsaid?

Oh. They spoke the same protocol.

That was a good one -- he was going to have to remember it.

Was it eight o'clock yet?

There was an e-mail from Zelenka waiting for him at home.

Congratulations. You're the first person I've known over the age of six to have an imaginary friend.

PS: I'll open the bottle, pour you a glass, and send it in the post. Let me know if it arrives okay.

-R

Rodney fired back: Imaginary or not, John's got a way bigger vocabulary than you. -R

Following a late lunch, the couch and a nap were the sensible things to do. So Rodney grabbed his laptop and plopped down, figuring one out of two wasn't bad.

After all, he was in the middle of an investigation.

Sadly, air traffic control data was sparse on the net. Some of the larger airports hosted their own live feeds, but there was little in the way of historical data, and nothing for the region of interest. Besides, even if he had located radar feeds for the days in question, scary black helicopters flying top-secret salvage missions would be equipped with radar jammers, or stealth technology, or whatever the hell they called it these days.

It was impossible to determine if Sheppard's rescue was actually out there, but he felt better knowing he'd tried.

Next on the agenda: Sheppard himself. Rodney had a first name now, and while that wasn't enough to significantly narrow down a search, what about a combination of "John Sheppard" and "United States Air Force"?

Shit. Eighty-two thousand hits. Just what in the-

"There's a Sheppard Air Force Base?!" Rodney squawked aloud. "That is so not fair!"

He closed his laptop, set it down, and stretched out, lacing his hands over is stomach. Screw the investigation. Because seriously, eighty-two thousand hits.

Not expecting to sleep, it came as a surprise when Sheppard's shouting woke him almost an hour later.

[McKay! You there?]

The only reason he didn't roll off and land on the laptop was because he'd had some weirdly miraculous foresight to slide it beneath the couch. And god, his back... "Coming, coming..." He limped to the console and hit the mic button. "It's eight already?" His voice was creaky with sleep.

[If I'm disturbing you I can call back later.] Sheppard must have heard it too, because surely it took effort to sound so awake and chipper and not at all like a man who hadn't had a hot shower in a week.

Maybe he'd been busy getting rescued during Rodney's nap.

He tested that theory. "So, um, how are your friends the trees?"

[Kinda shy, not great conversationalists.]

Rodney sensed the silent unlike you, because he and Sheppard were on the same damned wavelength. Oh god, literally.

"Been the victim of any bear attacks lately?"

[For your information, it was a- I don't know what it was, but it was a lot smaller than a bear.]

"You probably shot it anyway," Rodney accused, trying to think up an excuse to slip away and relieve his bladder.

[It didn't look like it would taste good,] Sheppard mourned.

"Well, don't worry. It's like airline food. Once you're hungry enough- Can you hang on a minute? That's my phone."

Funny thing was, it really was his phone. Sort of. If Zelenka trying to connect a call over the internet counted.

[Sure. Take your time.]

Rodney refused Zelenka's connection request, sprinted to the bathroom, and was back in his chair in what had to be a new world record (hand washing included).

"Sorry, I'm back."

[Hey.]

"Hi."

[So.]

"Mhm?"

Wow. Zero to awkward in two seconds flat.

[I can tell this is going nowhere good,] Sheppard rescued them. [How about we get the painful stuff out of the way and see what happens next?]

"Sounds like a plan, but what's the painful stuff?" Was this where Sheppard let slip that the government operatives would be breaking down Rodney's door any minute to confiscate his equipment and throw him in prison merely for talking to John?

[Somewhere in all the excitement, we skipped formal introductions.]

Oh.

[My name's John Sheppard. I'm from Virginia. Career Air Force, but that might change on account of the... the crashing thing.]

He'd aimed for a light tone, but Rodney heard the brittleness. Poor bastard. His life and career were in jeopardy.

[Anyway, I like college football, Ferris wheels, and things that go faster than two-hundred miles per hour.]

Rodney hated to point out the obvious, but, "Ferris wheels don't go more than two-hundred miles per hour."

[Neither does a football, typically.]

"So...?"

[Let's just say a Venn diagram of my likes wouldn't have a lot of intersections and leave it at that. What about you?]

"I'm Rodney McKay. Dr Rodney McKay. I'm Canadian, and... I like cats. Well, not all cats. Very few cats are actually tolerable to live with. Mine happens to be one of them."

When the intervening pause grew uncomfortable, Sheppard prompted, [Go on.]

"That's it."

[You're not done. I said three things, so now you have to say three things.]

"Oh." Rodney fidgeted. "Uh... honestly? There aren't a lot of things I like."

[Surely you can come up with three.]

Forget fidgeting; Rodney was all the way to squirming. Three was easy -- until he removed all variants of "naked" and "men" from his pool of possible answers.

[Okay, how about three things in general. You know, about yourself.]

"Can the cat thing count as one of them?" he nearly begged.

[Yes, liking cats can count.]

"Well, I'm... deathly allergic to citrus. Oh! And I'm going to win a Nobel Prize some day."

[See? That wasn't so hard, was it?] Sheppard's praise was like a verbal pat on the back, warm and tempting.

"You're right, it wasn't." He had to smile; he couldn't help it.

[Quick: Favorite sports team.]

"What? I don't-"

[Five, four, three, two, one. Ehh, time's up. You lose. I get to ask another one. Favorite Beatle?]

Rodney blurted, "John! Shit, wait..."

[Interesting,] Sheppard mused. [I'd pegged you as a the Paul type. Your turn.]

Huh. This was... kind of fun, in a nerve-wracking way. "Favorite movie," Rodney challenged. "And if you're considering Top Gun, let me warn you that I'll preemptively lose any respect I could ever possibly develop for you."

[Terminator,] Sheppard shot back, and Rodney had to admit that it was an acceptable response. [Ginger or Mary Ann?]

"I refuse to answer that on the grounds that I would be dating myself just as badly as you just did."

[How do you know I'm not some fresh-faced kid with a taste for old, bad television?]

Well, for starters, Sheppard's poise in his current predicament suggested nothing but maturity. Then there was the thing he'd crashed. Sheppard was so secretive about it that it had to be experimental or classified; such an aircraft would only be entrusted to an experienced pilot. But mostly there was his voice, mock-lazy and armored with confidence.

Not that Rodney cared to repeat any of that aloud, so, dignity intact, he conceded, "Mary Ann."

[Yeah, me too,] Sheppard agreed. [And don't worry about dating yourself. I know how old you are.]

"You do?"

[You told me.]

"I did." Something else occurred to him. "You remembered."

Sheppard just grunted, reminding Rodney it was his turn.

"Oh, right. Um, Cal Tech or MIT?"

[Neither. Georgia Tech.]

"Huh." Option C indicated an actual opinion on the subject; Sheppard wasn't just selecting at random to pretend he had a clue. "Yes, well I suppose their engineering department has a decent reputation, and they do have an aerospace program..." He wondered if he'd luckily stumbled upon Sheppard's alma mater -- locating information on John Sheppard, former student, would be a hell of a lot easier than John Sheppard, pilot -- when it hit him, and he groaned.

[They also have a decent football team,] Sheppard said, and Rodney could literally hear the shit-eating grin in the words.

"Okay, I get it. No more dumb questions."

[Superman, Spiderman, or Batman?]

"What?! Oh, that is just... intentional," Rodney spat, because hell. Since when were Air Force guys allowed access to the geek handbook?

[Five, four-]

"Wait. I need to know what criteria we're using. Superman had that whole invulnerable thing going, unless his enemy happened to come at him with a rock."

[Spiderman got the girl.]

"Batman had a childhood tragedy that drove him to become a dark vigilante-"

[With the coolest toys.]

And a really gay sidekick, Rodney thought. So yeah, "No contest. Left or right handed?"

[Right. Fries or onion rings?]

"Rings. Chocolate or vanilla?"

[Chocolate,] Sheppard moaned. [God, no more food ones, okay?]

"You started it," Rodney was required to point out. "Dogs or cats?"

[Dogs.]

Figured.

[Fast or slow?]

And whoa, Rodney was reading way too much into that; he had to be. Worse, he already knew Sheppard liked speed, so his answer somehow mattered more. Or it would, if this was some bizarre compatibility test, and not a stupid game to pass the time and stave off boredom. "Methodical," he decided in the end, and it took a lengthening pause to remind him that it was his turn. "Um... Harrison Ford or Sean Connery?"

Sheppard sputtered. Translation: direct hit. [Damn it, that question should be illegal.]

"Han Solo was a pilot. And he got the girl."

[James Bond had the coolest toys, and got every girl.]

"That's probably not all he got. Can you imagine how many diseases he picked up sleeping his way across Eastern Europe?"

[Way to ruin my childhood,] Sheppard complained.

"You know, I can hear you snickering, so don't even pretend you're not entertaining the notion that James Bond was a disease-ridden man whore."

[I bet Han Solo smelled like a Wookie. Like, permanently. No amount of bathing could get rid of the stench.]

"Oh my god," Rodney wailed, "now who's ruining whose childhood?"

[It's your fault for asking an illegal question.]

"I didn't realize this game had rules."

Sheppard explained patiently, [All games have rules, Rodney. Otherwise how would you know who won?]

There was a new inflection on "Rodney" every time Sheppard said it, as if his mouth was growing comfortable with an unfamiliar combination of sounds. This time the vowels were teased, the end softened.

Not that Rodney noticed. Hell no. On a scale of folly to catastrophe, noticing would have rated a solid disaster. Noticing would have sparked the urge to catalog all the ways John Sheppard could mangle two little syllables. (Though that last time he'd almost succeeded in dragging it out to three.) And Rodney absolutely wasn't estimating how much sample data he would need to collect before this theoretical catalog could be considered complete, because yeah... disaster.

"You seriously expect me to believe you've been keeping score?"

[Just for that, I won't tell you who's in the lead.]

"Please. That would only work on me if I was burdened with an extremely competitive personality. Besides, you could say anything you wanted and I wouldn't be able to contradict you because you've just been making shit up."

[So now you're going to be a sore loser about it?]

Rodney huffed, "Who said I was losing?"

[Actually,] Sheppard caved, [you're winning.]

"I am? I mean, of course I am."

[But it's my turn. If you were stranded on a desert island and could only bring one item with you, what would you bring?]

Damn it, that was a good one. Naturally the poor schmuck stuck in the middle of the woods would think of it first. "I need some parameters. Are we talking one item in addition to the clothes on my back?"

[Yes Rodney.] (Two syllables, clipped, tinged with too much amusement.) [One item not counting the clothes on your back.]

"Is there any possibility of rescue from this hypothetical island? I'm not going to bring a radio if you're going to turn around and tell me that the battery is dead, or that salt water fried the circuits, because then I'd be stuck with a broken radio and no form of entertainment and that would just be-"

[Hell?] Sheppard supplied.

"Your radio works, and I must be entertaining or you wouldn't still be talking to me."

[Well, desperation does tend to lower my standards...]

"Hey! I don't have to stay up all night with you. I have a big, cozy bed waiting for me in the other room."

[It is getting late. You should sleep if you're tired; don't keep that big cozy bed waiting on my account.]

And whoa, that was wrong, for the touch of honest concern if nothing else. Rodney was pretty sure it was the job of the guy who was warm and safe and comfortable to worry about the guy who was alone and cold and miserable -- not the other way around. "Like hell I'm giving up! I'm just about to hit my second wind. I scoff at stable sleep patterns. My best work has always been accomplished between midnight and four AM, no joke."

[I just-] Sheppard hesitated. [I don't want you to feel obligated to keep me company. You've done so much already.]

"I've- What?!" Rodney's voice lifted sharply at the end, but he gulped some air and pushed on, "I've held a lot of conversations with a lot of idiots, but that has to be the biggest line of bullshit anyone's ever tried to feed me. I could do something useful if you'd let me. It's been over a week, Sheppard. You and I both know damned well that the Air Force has the... the resources and manpower and technology to find a needle in a haystack. If they haven't found you by now, chances are they never will. And I'm not talking about a hunch. I'm talking statistics. I'll run the numbers if you want, but don't you dare hang up on me until you hear me out!"

Silence held just long enough for Rodney to fear that Sheppard had cut the connection mid-outburst. Which would have served him right; railing at Sheppard was petty, no matter how satisfying.

Rodney held his breath and waited.

Sheppard gave himself away with a sigh. [It's not that simple. God, I wish it was.]

"Why not?" Rodney pressed.

[Because it isn't.]

"Do you want me to explain why that is a completely inadequate answer, or would you rather just try again?"

[That's enough, Rodney,] was a request, as if Sheppard knew the impending argument was unavoidable but had to try anyway. [I get that you're worried. I get that. I'm pretty damned scared myself.]

Rodney wanted to tear his hair out in frustration. "You need help. I want to help you. What the hell is the problem? Unless... oh. You don't think I can."

[I know you don't understand what's at stake.] It was a statement, not a challenge.

"You mean other than your life? Because I can't think of anything more important, and that includes your career, your big military secrets, and the millions of dollars of government property you turned into wreckage."

It was meant to hurt. Sheppard needed a jolt, but he was as maddeningly calm as ever when he repeated, [Like I said, you don't understand.]

"I'm a genius. I would understand if I had all the information!"

[Probably. If I could give it to you.]

"Then we'll do things your way! You come up with the plan. Tell me what you need me to do and I'll do it. I won't- I won't argue, or ask troublesome questions. Just do something besides sit on your ass and wait for rescue that isn't coming. Please."

[You won't call me an idiot again?] Sheppard asked. Yes, finally, his confidence was faltering.

"Not even if your plan sucks," Rodney swore.

[I- I'll think about it. A plan, I mean. None of the stuff I tried before did any good, but you've put some new resources at my disposal, and-] The noise he made was too raw to pass for laughter. [I might get out of here after all.]

"Do you want me to, um-"

[Get some sleep, McKay. I've got a lot to consider, and you'll only distract me. Besides, I'm going to need you fresh and rested tomorrow.]

"So you're-"

[Good,] he promised. [Or, I will be.]

"Good, good. That's-" God, a relief.

[Oh, and Rodney?]

"Don't!" Because he already knew what Sheppard was going to say, and Rodney never knew how to respond to that without resorting to sentimental drivel. It was best to forgo the whole song and dance. "I haven't done anything yet, but when I do, we can just say you owe me one. And don't worry -- I intend to collect some day. That work for you?"

[Yeah,] Sheppard said, bewildered. [Works for me.]

It was time to re-write his Nobel Prize acceptance speech.

Speech re-writing was a last resort when no other distraction could hold Rodney's attention. For an introduction, he liked to cover recent events in his field. (Astrophysics or engineering, it didn't matter.) When he ran out of notable achievements of his own, he touched upon those made by his friends. And because he was all for equality, he also had to mention the exceptional failures of his enemies.

Rodney had plenty of enemies, all of them insufferable and moronic. There was never a shortage of new material to incorporate.

He skipped the introduction this time, and went straight for the punchline of the best joke he would ever tell:

And that's how my I turned my sophisticated radio telescope into a glorified answering machine.

Cue laughter and applause.

He wasn't sure yet how he was going to work Zelenka into this draft -- a requirement of a bet he'd lost -- but he was definitely going to mispronounce the asshole's name, because Zelenka had had the nerve not to answer Rodney's phone call this morning.

Rodney didn't give a shit what time it was in Prague.

Clutching a fresh mug of coffee, Rodney cruised past the control room and eyed his glorified answering machine balefully. His monitoring program was idle; Sheppard had been silent since last night.

That was pretty damned inconsiderate of Sheppard, because here Rodney was, rested as promised, charged like a capacitor with no outlet for his energy. Well, aside from writing drafts in his head. While pacing. And drumming his fingers against his thigh; he belatedly recognized the rhythm from a Grieg piano concerto.

There wasn't even anyone in town he could drop by and annoy. Steve would be in the middle of a mail run, the bar didn't open until noon, and the last time he'd loitered in the cafe, the aging hippie who owned the place had pinned him with the evil eye like she'd caught Rodney messing up her feng shui.

Of course, that had been after he'd griped about the speed and security of her complimentary internet access.

Come on, John. Give me something to do. You're killing me here.

Rodney glared at the console. The console didn't love him anymore, and refused even to blink any lights at him.

"Find! I'm going to go... read War and Peace!" he threatened aloud, and when absolutely nothing intervened on his behalf, he was feeling perverse enough to stomp off and do exactly that.

It was after lunch -- and seventeen agonizing pages -- that Sheppard finally let Rodney know he was still alive.

[Hey,] he said.

Rodney took his time wandering over to respond. "So what's the plan?"

Sheppard must have been napping; his enunciation was even more haphazard than usual. [Good afternoon Rodney. Good afternoon to you too, John. How are you? Been better, but nothing a gallon of hot coffee wouldn't fix. You?]

"Oh, I'm sorry. I figured you'd be anxious to start working on getting you back to civilization. If you'd prefer to chat instead..."

[That's all right. It's just... you're an interesting guy sometimes.]

Interesting, Rodney knew, was a blind-date euphemism for you're strange as hell but I decided to wait and ditch you after dinner because I'm hoping you'll pay. He'd heard it often enough to have a standard response, which was to pretend he'd mistaken it for a compliment. "Thanks. Now, the plan?"

[Right, plan.]

"You're stalling. Tell me you have a plan."

[I have a plan, Rodney. I'm just-]

"Thinking about backing out, which you must know I won't let you do. So out with it."

[Okay, okay. Do you have something to write with?]

"Yes," Rodney lied, scrambling for a pen and paper.

[I need you to make a phone call for me.]

"Right, because I couldn't have done that days ago when I first offered." Rodney fumbled the pen just as he'd gotten a grip on it. "Oh my god, you're serious!"

[McKay, you promised-]

"This isn't even your plan! If you were going to plagiarize someone else's plan, at least you could have picked a good one!"

[So you admit your plan sucked.]

"It wasn't even worthy of being called a plan. It was barely one step in a greater plan!"

[Then pretend this is step one and write down the damned instructions.] Sheppard's patience had apparently reached its limit. Rodney recalled that tone from way back on day one; it was Sheppard's military voice, brusque and bristling with authority.

"Writing," Rodney agreed hastily.

[You need to speak to General Hammond. That's Hotel-Alpha-Mike-Mike-Oscar-November-Delta. He heads a division of the Air Force known as the SGC.]

"General Hammond, SGC. Got it."

[Now, this is extremely important. I'm going to give you my authentication code, which you are to give him only after he's verified his identity. Then you are going to tell him everything you can about my status and location, and you are going to answer all of his questions truthfully and to the best of your abilities.]

Rodney scribbled, because even though this sounded like common sense, he gathered that it was vitally important or something. "Authentication code, answer questions. I can do that. Got the number for me?"

[No.]

"No?"

[You're smart. Find it yourself.]

"Oh, I suppose SGC is right under 'Air Force' in the yellow pages."

Sheppard growled, [If I could give you a number, I would. The problem is, I don't know how badly I've been compromised. I know who I can trust on base, but until you reach Hammond I can't help you. You can't mention my name to anyone but him, or give my code to anyone but him. I can't afford to have you ringing in on a line that might link you to me. Is that clear?]

"Y-yes," Rodney stammered, because holy shit. "Find a public number, bluff my way in. I should probably admit that social engineering was never my forte."

[You can back out,] Sheppard relented. [I can't make you do this.]

"There's got to be another way. I know this guy, he's got a plane and he owes me a favor. We could fly out and, I don't know, circle around. You could light a big fire..."

[Good. If you didn't understand the risk you wouldn't be frightened.]

"No, I don't think you understand the risk! I'm not exactly on the best of terms with the Air Force. If they even suspect I've been sniffing near their secrets, I'll be on a plane bound for the United States before the ink has dried on my extradition orders!" The worst part was, that wasn't much of an exaggeration.

[What?!] Sheppard hissed; there wasn't as much ice in Antarctica as he managed to pack in that one tiny word.

Rodney whimpered, "Forget it," because he already knew he was going to do what Sheppard asked against all reason and common sense and god what was wrong with his mind? "It was all a misunderstanding, I assure you. I'm incredibly paranoid -- I'll take precautions, be discreet."

[What kind of misunderstanding?]

"The kind where they might have made me an offer and I might have been a little rude in turning them down," he winced. "Then they might have pulled the plug on a project of mine, and I might have voiced complaints that might have been misconstrued as threats by someone who might have had their sense of humor surgically removed upon enlisting, but hey -- look at it this way. I wouldn't have been given security clearance if they hadn't trusted me at the time. And I'm a coward at heart; I'd be running in the opposite direction if I didn't think I could do it."

Sheppard took a moment to digest all of that. [You're sure?]

"Yes." Rodney had never been less sure about anything in his life.

[I can't-] Sheppard muttered something vehement, cut himself off, and regrouped with a slow breath to try again. [If it goes bad, I'll do what I can to protect you. I'm not in a good position to protect anyone, not even myself, but... I'll do what I can.]

"I know," Rodney said. Because naturally Sheppard was going to watch out for him, just like he was going to risk his neck for Sheppard. Total strangers did that kind of stuff for each other all the time; it made so much sense. "Best case scenario, I pull this off, you get rescued and owe me one. Times infinity."

[Worst case scenario?] Sheppard prompted softly.

"I might be a genius, but my sense of self preservation is defective as hell. It was only a matter of time before I accidentally removed myself from the gene pool. Say, can this wait until tomorrow? I need to do some research, make some arrangements." Write his will, find his passport and book a flight to South America... "I intend to make the call untraceable, but failing that I'm going to make them work their asses off to find me."

[Sure buddy, take whatever time you need. Another day or two eating bark won't kill me.] Even for a forced joke it was terrible, but Rodney could appreciate the effort and sentiment behind it.

"Tomorrow morning then. In the meantime, do you want me to, um, put on some music for you?"

[You can do that?]

"Sure. Worst that can happen, the CRTC catches me operating an illegal radio station and picks me up before the Air Force can."

[Is that like the Canadian FCC?]

"Close enough."

[Hey, instead of music, think you can see if there's a game on?]

"Oh, now you're pushing your luck."

There were so many preparations to make that Rodney's brain overloaded and shut down. It was a defense mechanism, like snacking when he was nervous. And hey, look at that -- he'd never been less surprised to glance down and discover his hand had acquired a bag of chips.

Correction: a mostly empty bag of crumbs.

He was in the kitchen hunting for a fresh bag when it occurred to him that it was supper time. Possibly the last supper he would ever eat before the black helicopters swooped in to take him away; his actual last supper. That was worth a trip into town. The bar served a halfway decent steak, and hadn't managed to poison him with lemon garnish. Yet.

Alcohol also sounded like a smashing idea.

On his way out the door, he stopped by the console long enough to notice that he'd missed a call from Zelenka.

There was a game playing on the television above the bar, and Rodney felt a pang of guilt for not trying harder to meet Sheppard's request. (Oh, who was he fooling? He hadn't tried at all. He'd re-routed system sound to the microphone input, set his playlist for random, and left Sheppard to suffer the results.)

He shouldn't be thinking about Sheppard on what was possibly his last night as a free man. Then he wasn't thinking about Sheppard, because Steve spotted him and took the fact that Rodney had a pulse as an invitation to slide into the opposite side of the booth and strike up a conversation.

Steve stole steak-fries from his plate, and might have tried to play footsie a little under the table. Rodney might have let him a little, because Steve kept ordering Rodney more beer, and hey -- last night as a free man.

The game ended twenty to seventeen, but Rodney didn't catch the name of the winning team. He thought they were maybe the ones wearing red.

"Dr McKay-"

"Call me Rodney."

"Okay... Rodney."

"No, on second thought, I like the doctor." Steve couldn't mangle Rodney the way Sheppard could.

"Okay. Dr-"

"Maybe just McKay."

"I think you should let me take you home."

"Nonsense! I'm fine." Because really, what was the worst thing he could hit between the bar and his house? A moose? Those things were just as easy to hit sober as drunk, and did just as much damage when they bounced off your hood and came in through your windshield.

"At least let me take you to your car." Like Steve didn't already have Rodney by the elbow, propelling him for the door.

Half way across the parking lot, Rodney freed himself with a wobbly pirouette. He faced Steve and blurted, "You're trying to pick me up." Three drinks earlier, this wouldn't have come as a revelation. Three drinks earlier, he would have been able to keep his mouth shut.

Steve scuffed a rusted bottle cap with his boot and looked everywhere but at Rodney. "So that's a no?"

"Yes. I mean, yes it's a no. That is... now is like the worst possible time. I'm going to be up all night. Working on a very important project!" He started patting down pockets to locate his keys. "God, this is why I never drink."

"Never? But you just had-"

Rodney stabbed a finger at him, demanding silence. "Ask me again when you can explain the difference between literal and rhetorical."

Steve beamed. "Okay. I'll look that up and call you maybe next week?"

"Next week. Peachy," Rodney agreed, and trudged to his car.

Poor Steve was going to be crushed when the black helicopters showed up to take Rodney away.

Tripping up his steps and fumbling his keys in the dark, Rodney recalled another reason not to drink: he hadn't gotten around to installing motion sensitive lights, or that biometric lock for the front door.

He left a trail -- shoes, socks, pants -- between the front hall and the bathroom. Then, after starting up coffee and swallowing two preemptive aspirin, he wandered to the control room to get down to business.

Rodney had done some of his best work while devoid of pants. No joke.

Settling in, he stared blankly at his array of monitors. Nope, not feeling it yet -- the panic, the crush of a looming deadline. There was still ample opportunity for procrastination.

He checked his e-mail, which contained a gem from Zelenka: Tag, you're it. -R

What time was it in Prague?

Rodney concluded that he didn't care, and dialed Zelenka's land line.

A thick, groggy voice answered in Czech with what was either Hello? or Do you have any fucking idea what time it is? Judging from the number of syllables, it was probably the latter.

"Get on your computer. This call is costing me like ten dollars a minute," Rodney snapped, and hung up.

Then he spammed the connection request button until Zelenka accepted ten minutes later.

"Took you long enough."

"Consider your next words carefully," Radek warned, "because the desire to hear that some disaster has befallen you is the only thing preventing me from returning to bed."

"I slept with Steve," Rodney said.

"You what?"

"Okay, that's a lie, but it got your attention, didn't it?"

"McKay, you are an ass."

Rodney stuck his hand down his boxers, scratching an itch. "Tell me something I don't know."

A torrent of Czech ended with, "I am hanging up now."

"Wait! Let me try again. If it's a disaster you want, I don't think you'll be disappointed."

"Prison," Radek growled. "Explosion. Laboratory accident involving gamma rays."

Rodney was in a the rip the band-aid off quickly and get it over with mood, so he launched into his explanation at full throttle. "It works. The low frequency antenna works. I can talk to Sheppard, and Sheppard can talk to me. He's the guy who crashed his whatever out in the woods and he's been there more than a week and I finally convinced him that his would-be rescuers are incompetent and I said I would make a phone call for him."

"Rodney, I swear, if this story doesn't end with you fleeing the country..."

He threw down his trump. "Sheppard is Air Force. As in, United States."

"What, you can remember the international dialing code for the Czech Republic but not for the United States? I will give you a hint: it is the same as Canada."

"He wants me to call some bigwig general," Rodney tried, annoyed by Zelenka's blithe disregard for his safety.

"Be polite," Radek suggested.

"You just aren't getting it, are you?"

Radek groaned. "I know there are hard feelings between you and the Air Force. I took that into consideration when I gave you my advice. It was sound advice, which you chose to ignore as usual. Now you are on your own."

"Hard feelings? They threw me off my own project!"

"They offered you a permanent position and you insulted them! Once my contract is finished I'm done whoring myself to the military. Those were your words, yes?"

"Close enough. Their offer was preposterous! They wanted me to sign away all my intellectual rights so that they could take my hard work and use it for their nefarious purposes without giving me any credit!"

"It didn't stop you from signing away your intellectual rights when you took the contract job."

Rodney sniffed, "That was different."

"How? I cannot wait to hear you rationalize this."

"It was a one time deal, in a field I don't give a shit about, and I needed the money."

"You had reservations going into it but you took it anyway," Radek corrected.

"In case you hadn't noticed, I have a habit of making dire predictions about every aspect of my life. They're not supposed to come true!"

"They kicked you out, so what? They still paid you. As far as I'm concerned, you have nothing to whine about."

"Whine?" Rodney choked. "They insinuated I play for the wrong team!"

"They said you aren't a team player. It wasn't a comment on your sexuality!"

"Says you. I know how it works. They have to beat around the bush because they can't make accusations openly."

There was a clatter that may or may not have been Radek's head hitting his keyboard. "God in heaven, please tell me you didn't interrupt my sleep to rehash old arguments."

Rodney rolled his eyes. "Of course not. I interrupted your sleep because it's your job to talk me out of doing stupid things." He glanced over Sheppard's instructions, picked up a pen, and doodled a little helicopter on the edge of the paper.

"Rodney, right now I am praying for the Air Force to throw you in prison so that I can go back to bed."

"I'll name you as an accomplice when they do."

"Naturally. What are friends for?" Radek sighed, and hung up before Rodney could squeeze in another word.

Rodney McKay, PhD twice over, was by no means an amateur researcher.

Perhaps that was his problem. He hadn't stalked truly elusive information since his grad school crawls through esoteric academic databases. He'd grown soft in the private sector, where he'd had the luxury of handing off menial tasks to lackeys.

Lackeys. That's what the nutty recluse gig lacked. Maybe it was time Rodney hired help.

The advertisement would go something like: World renowned scientist seeks dedicated assistant. Must pass IQ test. Working knowledge of spectrographs and pressure washers required. Barista training a plus.

Hell, Sheppard should apply. They would be a perfect match. Rodney needed an assistant; Sheppard was going to need a job when the Air Force fired him for crashing his... thing. So what if he didn't meet the qualifications? He'd demonstrated the ability to uphold his side of an intelligent conversation. That was a rare, innate gift; the rest of that crap could be learned.

Rodney wondered what Sheppard's salary requirements would be.

Was it possible to be fired from the Air Force? A certain Canadian genius had managed it, but that had been more of a working along side situation. He was certain that Sheppard was in, as in dog tags and uniforms and yes sir, no sir, please may I have another sir.

Rodney scrubbed his hands through his hair. "Oh my god, what's wrong with my brain? It was only a few beers!"

Focus, focus.

SGC.

The SGC could go fuck itself. According to every online directory and military glossary and acronym database Rodney had queried, the SGC didn't exist.

It gave a whole new meaning to the phrase "unlisted number".

Sheppard wouldn't lie. Probably. Therefore, the SGC did exist. It was just so goddamned secret that-

"Wait." Rodney snapped his fingers, urging his brain to forget dog tags and uniforms for five seconds -- was that too much to ask? -- and concentrate. "Yes. Wait. Almost..."

Yes.

He hadn't done this in far too long. His methods were crap, his logic was lousy. Only a half-drunk idiot searched open, public databases for a secret military project. It was just as likely to succeed as... as searching a police station for an escaped convict. An escaped convict would be paranoid. They would go to ground someplace private, quiet, and more than a touch disreputable.

It was time to become reacquainted with the tinfoil hat brigade.

His passwords had expired for the first four sites he tried. The fifth site had vanished off the net without a trace. It happened sometimes; one of the conspiracy nuts would disappear for a few months, then reappear with a new alias and a story involving hypnosis, subcutaneous transmitters, and Men in Black.

(Rodney's foray into the lunatic fringe had not only taught him what a subcutaneous transmitter was, but also how to detect and disable one if ever he suspected he'd been implanted.)

Site number six hadn't been his first choice for a reason. Its definition of "conspiracy" was broad; its collection was inclusive, bordering on indiscriminate. However, Rodney was in no position to argue with a working password. He pulled up the letter S and started scanning.

Three-quarters of the way down the page, between secret societies and shape-shifting alien reptiles, there it was: SGC.

See also: Stargate Command.

"Wow."

What the hell was that supposed to be, a cross between Watergate and Star Wars? Whoever had coined it deserved to have their naming privileges revoked. Permanently.

Rodney re-read the utterly ludicrous description on the screen. Then a third time, aloud, because he sensed a pattern, a connection just beyond his grasp. "Section of the US military, salvaging alien artifacts, blah blah, headquarters beneath NORAD in the Cheyenne Mountain Complex, blah blah..."

NORAD. That was that joint US and Canadian airspace defense thing, wasn't it?

Oh hell, he'd just implicated Canada in a conspiracy involving alien artifacts and a secret lair buried beneath a mountain. What next? Bigfoot? Elvis? The Loch Ness Monster?

The connection, when it hit, nailed him like a punch to the gut, and sobered him just as effectively. He choked, arms flailing as he almost tipped over his chair.

Sheppard. Mountain. Sheppard calling the Mountain.

It was a pity Rodney didn't believe in coincidence, because the alternative was even more unsettling.

Still coughing gently, he cracked his knuckles and hunkered down over his keyboard. Screw Zelenka. He didn't need Zelenka. He was fully capable of talking himself out of making suicidal phone calls to secret underground military bunkers.

While he was at it, screw Sheppard too, and Sheppard's (probably justified) paranoia, and Sheppard's oh so specific instructions. When Meredith Rodney McKay's ass was on the line, Rodney's way was the only way.

There was a new agenda, and the item at the top of the list was more information.

[Morning Rodney,] Sheppard hailed airily.

Like it wasn't close to noon; like Rodney hadn't been ignoring Sheppard's increasingly agitated messages for hours.

"Morning John." Rodney had to consciously unclench his jaw to grind out the greeting. "If John is your real name."

Sheppard hesitated. [Has been since I was born. What's the matter with you?]

"Oh, I'm just reconsidering my decision to help you. I started thinking about it last night, while I was researching your SGC -- which, by the way, doesn't officially exist."

[Well, my paychecks come from somewhere. Look, I knew it was a long shot, but I was betting on your genius to dig something up. Not... to imply that you failed. It really was an impossible task, which just... demonstrates the faith I have in you,] Sheppard reasoned.

Rodney had to admit, he was good. Very, very good. Flattery with a touch of guilt and a hint of challenge. Even Zelenka had never managed to hit so many of Rodney's buttons with a single, delicate salvo.

Sheppard wasn't just a lying son of a bitch. He was dangerous.

"Tempting as it is to let you stroke my ego some more, I think you should know that I'm on to you."

[What? I wasn't-]

"Bottom line is," Rodney drawled, mocking the other man's lazy tone, "I don't risk my ass for total strangers."

Sheppard made a wounded sound. [Rodney, I'm hurt. After all the time we spent getting to know each other...]

"Who are you really?"

[Major John Sheppard, United States Air Force.]

"Major?" Rodney sneered. "Congratulations on the promotion. Your obituary lists you as Captain."

Sheppard's abrupt silence was every bit as satisfying -- and damning -- as Rodney had imagined it would be.

"You were betting on my genius to dig something up? Well, records for active military personnel are classified, but I found John Sheppard's obituary in the newspaper."

[Shit.] Sheppard strangled on the word.

"It's funny, because at first I assumed your signal had to be some sort of practical joke. Zelenka was the obvious culprit until I talked to him; he's an exceptionally poor liar and couldn't have sustained the ruse for more than five minutes."

[Rodney-]

"Don't fucking Rodney me! I'm only talking to you because I want to know who's responsible. I mean, what man of my stature hasn't stepped on a few toes? Kavanagh was seething for months after I got the promotion instead of him, and Li still insists I incorporated some of his work when I applied for that patent, even though he was never able to prove it. But it never occurred to me that I might have enemies, actual enemies, vindictive enough to stage such an elaborate... shit, I don't know what to call it."

[Try the truth.]

Rodney's momentum hadn't slowed. "Want to know what frightens me most? Whoever put you up to this knows way too much about me. They knew about the satellite dish, that I take it down to clean every Thursday. They knew when to send your phony little signal so that I would pick it up. They knew I have a weakness for conspiracy theories, knew my curiosity wouldn't be able to resist the bait. I almost- Do you know what would have happened to me if I'd been stupid enough to harass the Air Force again?"

[Are you done?]

"No! Er... maybe. For now."

[Good, because I don't want to be interrupted. When I'm finished, then you can tell me all about how you still don't believe me.]

"Fair enough."

[Read it to me,] Sheppard said.

"What?"

[My obituary. Read it to me.]

He didn't need to find it again; the document was still open on one of his monitors. The shock of its discovery had been akin to stumbling upon a crime scene. He'd simply backed away, reluctant to touch anything until he'd had a chance to process the ramifications -- which had first required sleep and a clear head.

"It says... Captain John F. Sheppard, U.S. Air Force, age 35, was killed while flying a combat mission on November seventeenth. His helicopter was shot down near Kabul, Afghanistan."

[Regrettably, his body was not recovered,] Sheppard continued gently. [He is survived by his father, Patrick, and brother, Dave, neither of whom have spoken to him in years. Despite their... differences, Dave read a surprisingly heartfelt eulogy over an empty casket. Or so they tell me -- it would have been a little awkward for me to turn up at my own funeral.]

"They buried an empty coffin. See, this is exactly what I was talking about! Everything is a conspiracy. No one can make up shit this good; you've got to be reading from a script!"

[No script, no lies. I guess you could say that I'm so deep under cover I don't exist anymore. And I absolutely regret the necessity of telling you, because the knowledge isn't safe for you to have. The Air Force is the least of your worries. There are other players you don't know about, ruthless-]

"Will you drop the goddamned act long enough to tell me who put you up to this?"

Sheppard's cool was fraying for the first time Rodney could recall. [No one put me up to anything! I am alone,] he gritted, [in the middle of the fucking wilderness, and I am going to die out here if I can't convince a petty, stubborn bastard to stop worrying about his own ass long enough to do something selfless and decent for once in his miserable life!]

"That's it -- I'm calling the Mounties."

[What would it take to convince you?] Sheppard's anger deflated with an audible hiss of breath. [What can I give you? Tell me.]

"Proof. I want proof."

[How? All I've got left are words, and you don't seem particularly inclined to believe a thing I say.]

"You've got that right," Rodney agreed bitterly. So much for their rapport. It had been just another of Sheppard's lies.

Sheppard, god help him, was either desperate or doing a damned good job of faking it. [I could give you phone numbers, contacts, but you wouldn't be able to trust any of them. Anyone you call would only tell you exactly what you assume I want you to hear.]

"Correct." He left Shepard to flounder alone. Rodney was through offering assistance to manipulative assholes masquerading as dead men.

[Maybe you could contact someone and they... they could bring you some sort of tangible evidence.]

"No fucking way am I telling you where I live."

[You could meet in a neutral location...]

"In other words, I walk into a trap. Is that what this is all about? Someone wants to kidnap me?"

[God damn it, McKay! Not everything is about you!]

"I disagree. This entire set of circumstances -- the signal, your story, everything I researched -- seems tailor made to grab my attention and reel me in. I can't believe I was beginning to like you," he added viciously.

[All according to my nefarious master plan.] It would have been a lovely, scathing retort if Sheppard hadn't sounded so weary.

Of course that was the point, otherwise it wouldn't be acting. Rodney crushed the bubble of sympathy that was forming in his chest, until it was nothing but a dense, manageable ache. "I can't believe I was so gullible! I mean, that part about your rescuers being unable to find you was weak, very weak. And if you're so deep undercover, why in the hell would you tell me your real name? Not that I believe it's really your name; you obviously stole it. Oh my god, you stole John Sheppard's life. Right down to his fondness for Ferris wheels. He must have loved them a lot, to include them in his obituary. Except... nobody writes their own obituary, so it was probably one of those misunderstandings where you mention once that you like a certain thing but people assume that means you adore it and pretty soon they're bringing you cat calendars and mugs with cats on them and stuffed cats to sit on your desk and you can't refuse the crap because they're gifts no matter that you're sick to death of-

That was the problem with ranting. Rodney could only continue doing it while he had air. He gasped, refueling his lungs.

[You're actually complaining about what I wrote in my obituary,] Sheppard said, incredulous.

"It's. Not. Yours. Everything I know about you is a fabrication based on someone else's-"

[I figured it out,] Sheppard interrupted.

"What?"

[I swear that once you get me out of here, I'll tell you everything. Everything about myself -- who I work for, what I was doing out here... the name of the girl I had a crush on in the fifth grade. Hell, if you're dumb enough to want it, I'll tell you all the classified shit too. I've got nothing to lose. This fiasco is going to put my career into a tailspin.]

"I'm not-"

[Yes, you are. Got a piece of paper? Write this down.] And damn the man, when he mustered that much quiet authority, Rodney was mobilized by an urge to obey.

"Hold on damn it! Okay, ready."

Sheppard rattled off a string of numbers, and made Rodney repeat it back to him three times.

"Erm..." Further instructions had to be forthcoming.

[You claim to be so smart. Figure it out.]

"It's a server address," Rodney fumed. "Just because I know what it is doesn't mean I know what to do with it."

[Oh, I think you do. You can trace ownership on that server. You and I both know damned well that can't be faked. Go find your solid, tangible evidence, Rodney, and don't bother contacting me again until you're ready to help me.]

"You aren't listening to me. Why aren't you listening to me? For the last time-"

[Sheppard out.]

Rodney tried re-establishing the connection. There was nothing more infuriating than being cut off in the middle of an argument he was winning; he'd been on the brink of laying into Sheppard with a statistical analysis of exactly how unlikely Sheppard was to receive aid from Rodney in any form. But the link was dead, severed on Sheppard's side, and no amount of shouting at the microphone or pounding on the console buttons could resurrect it.

Rodney picked up the scrap of paper with Sheppard's server address written on it and tore it to tiny pieces.

The problem with John Sheppard -- well, in addition to the other problems too abundant to list -- was that he was smart.

Staring at the confetti littering his keyboard, Rodney realized why Sheppard had made him repeat the server address so many times. Not to verity that Rodney had written it down correctly, but to make certain the number was seared into Rodney's brain, where no amount of shredding could purge it.

"Fucking hell."

Rodney had a stable of favorite proxies, and a second string of less-reliable ones he threw into the conga line when he was being exceptionally paranoid. It made his otherwise perky connection crawl like a slug, but such was the price for near perfect online anonymity. After establishing the chain, he opened a fresh window and typed in Sheppard's server address from memory.

He let the blinking of the cursor mesmerize him while his finger hovered over the "enter" key.

"No. You know what? I'm not going to fall for this shit." Rodney jerked his hand away and flung himself out of his chair to pace. "I can walk away from a challenge. Do you hear that, Sheppard? Your pathetic little gambit isn't going to work, because I do not feel compelled to solve every puzzle thrown at me! You're smart, but I'm smarter! Oh, and one more thing: I hope you die out there!"

Who was he kidding? Sheppard -- Rodney didn't know what else to call him, and sadly the stolen moniker had already stuck -- wasn't in the woods. He was probably sitting in his basement in front of a short wave radio, eating cheese doodles and swilling beer. He was probably bald and unattractive too, and still lived with his parents, and-

Shit. How was Rodney supposed to learn the name of the mastermind behind the plot if he never spoke to Sheppard again? Failure wouldn't stop such a demented individual; at this very moment they were doubtless devising an even more diabolical plot to destroy Rodney's life. He couldn't exist under the shadow of that kind of fear. In order to protect himself, he needed a name, and Sheppard was going to give it to him. This had nothing to do with Sheppard personally; Rodney would be happiest if he never had to hear the bastard mangle those two little syllables ever again.

In the end, he'd left the cursor blinking on his screen, the server address waiting expectantly for the keystroke that had never come.

His house had offered only temptation and irritation, while town had beckoned with supplies and distraction. Though, glancing down at the shopping bags he was carrying to his car, Rodney noticed he'd splurged on comfort food and wondered if the distraction part had succeeded after all.

He caught sight of Steve ducking into the library and almost followed, until he remembered their conversation in the bar parking lot. Once Steve had his definitions, he'd turn to Rodney and request that strongly-implied date. And Rodney knew he was in a precarious mental state. The shit with Sheppard was lingering in his head like a bad break-up. Which meant... Rodney was on some kind of rebound. Oh god, he might be vulnerable enough to say yes, and that couldn't be allowed to happen!

Rodney spun on a heel, doubling back to take a circuitous route to his car. Then he drove to a little field on the edge of town, got out, sat on his rear bumper, and tossed crumbled Pop Tarts to some birds.

Because really, even he knew the difference between comfort food and six boxes of Pop Tarts.

"Radek, do you know anyone who might hate me?"

The dilemma of the blinking cursor had been solved. Rodney had turned his chair away from the monitors, and voila! What he couldn't see was no longer a temptation.

"If they knew you? The whole world," Zelenka cheerfully supplied.

"Even you?"

"Especially me."

"Okay, I get it, this is revenge for waking you up in the middle of the night."

"Technically, Rodney, it was closer to morning."

Rodney missed phones with cords. His hands fidgeted, and it would have been soothing to have something to wind through his fingers. "I'm trying to be serious here. I think I may have acquired a nemesis, and I need to know their identity."

"Did you forget your sister's birthday again?"

A burst of panic flooded Rodney, and it didn't start to recede until after he'd checked his system calendar. Twice. "That's not until next month. And don't scare me like that!"

"So," Zelenka tried for nonchalance, "what makes you think you've acquired this nemesis?"

"Things," Rodney evaded.

"Things."

"You know, recent events..."

"Sheppard?"

"Is a lying son of a bitch and I never want to hear his name again. Let's move on to another topic, shall we?"

Zelenka obliged, with a grumble implying the matter was sidetracked, not shelved. "That man Kavanagh seemed irate when you were promoted instead of him."

Turning around to check the system calendar had been a bad, bad idea, because the cursor was blinking at him again. "Oh, totally. You know what was even better? When I left, I had input into choosing my replacement, and I made sure that slime didn't get the position. I mean, uh, I made sure the job went to the most qualified candidate."

"If you already know who it is, why are you asking me?"

"I don't think it's Kavanagh. This mess is too subtle, too intricate. He's more the type to bash your kneecaps with a tire iron. Well, not personally. He'd hire a thug."

Blink. Blink. Blink.

"What mess, Rodney?"

"I can't tell you." You'd laugh. But that didn't sound as good as, "It's probably classified, and I don't want to put you in danger as well."

Zelenka snorted and mumbled, and one of these days Rodney was going to confess that he'd picked up far more dirty words in Czech than Zelenka suspected.

Blink, blink, fuck it.

"Hey, do I still have access to your university's network from the time I helped with that conference?"

"Possibly. I don't know. Why?"

Rodney tried it and yes, he was in. Perfect. "No reason. Just need to bounce a little data anonymously around the net, and one more node can't hurt. If anything weird happens, you'll let me know, right? Like, say, the Air Force requesting the server access logs. If they try to come after me, I'm going to need all the warning I can get."

The beautiful thing was, Sheppard wasn't real. It was all a hoax. The Air Force wasn't going to send black helicopters after him, and pressing "enter" was going to prove it.

"Rodney, what are you doing?" Zelenka sounded agitated, but hey -- what else was new?

Rodney tapped the key. The request cascaded through the proxies, finally hitting Sheppard's server at the end; the data returned to Rodney using the same convoluted route.

"How anticlimactic. It's just a log in screen."

"What is just a log in screen?"

It wasn't even a good log in screen. The design was stark and utilitarian to the extreme. "Whoever did this either doesn't program very well or has no imagination. Maybe both. I mean, the only thing on it is an input box and text requesting an authentication code."

"So what are you going to do?"

The answer was so easy that Rodney had to smirk. "Input an authentication code." Specifically, Sheppard's code, the oh so secret string of alphanumerics that Rodney had vowed to give to Hammond and Hammond alone.

The screen refreshed; the prompt now read: Acknowledged, Major John F. Sheppard. Please attach key device to proceed.

Major. John Sheppard died a Captain. What the hell?

"Well?"

"This is, um, interesting." And by interesting he meant troubling. "Shut up and let me think."

Possibility one: The server belonged to Sheppard -- the fake one -- or the mastermind behind the plot. Consequently, the server would be programmed to tell Rodney whatever they wanted it to tell him. Rodney could trace it, get the name of some server farm, and come away with little more than confirmation that the entire thing was a farce.

Dilemma: That wouldn't explain why Sheppard had been so confident that Rodney would help him after tracing ownership on the server.

Which led to possibility two: The server belonged to -- god, please, no -- the Air Force. Sheppard would be exonerated, Rodney made to feel guilty as fuck, and why was there something familiar about this stupid, bland log in screen?

"Rodney?"

Rodney gulped. "There... is a slim chance that I just made a very, very, very grave mistake."

"Is anything on fire?" Radek inquired helpfully.

"No fire," Rodney whimpered. Now he had to trace the server, despite already knowing what he was going to find.

"Then things could be worse," Radek encouraged, true friend that he was.

Suddenly Rodney didn't need to do the trace, because he remembered.

He remembered where he'd seen that log in screen before.

"Son of a bitch."

"Now there is fire?"

"Sorry Radek, I've got to go."

He hung up, unleashing the full attention of his wrath on his hapless monitor. If looks could kill, the sucker would have burst into flames.

The Air Force had completed Rodney's security project without him.

Rodney's life had just taken a leap from the realm of coincidence to the magical land of statistical impossibility.

This shit was unreal.

Yet there it all was -- double verification that the server belonged to the United States Air Force; Major John Sheppard; the classified project Rodney had been hired for... and subsequently fired from.

A disaster of this quality should have sent Rodney's composure into meltdown. Instead, he achieved a surreal sort of calm, where logic took on a crystalline clarity, and options ceased to exist. There was one course of action. One. Best of all, it was a solution and an opportunity for revenge expressed together in a seamless, elegant package.

The only thing lacking was the power necessary to break Rodney McKay's unbreakable cryptographic protocol.

In part to apologize, and in part because Zelenka occasionally proved insightful, he sent an e-mail.

I need to hijack about five hundred teraflops of raw computing power. Any idea where I could find something like that? I'm serious -- make a beowulf cluster joke and I swear the next thing I invent will be a protocol allowing me to reach across the internet and strangle someone sitting on the other side. -R

Then he went to brew a pot of double-strength coffee, because acquiring computing muscle that eclipsed all but the most powerful modern supercomputers was merely the first step to hacking Sheppard's server.

A brute force attack would fail by design. Moore's law was too dangerous to ignore; DES had proven that. Rodney's answer had been to incorporate a time element into his scheme. Even if, by some miracle, a brute attack uncovered a key, that key would be invalidated within seconds. The only way to appease the server would be to remotely feed it the next key in the sequence, and the only way to do that would be to install the matching, customized device whose sole purpose was to compute key after key after key.

Rodney didn't have one of those devices. Only authorized Air Force personnel would. However, he could emulate the same activity with software; in fact, he was one of the few people in the world who could, because he was one of the few who fully understood the algorithms driving the process.

After all, he'd written them.

Damn, that was some really strong coffee. He sipped again, shivering from the bitterness that grazed his tongue, anticipating the coming buzz.

Zelenka was still awake; there was a reply waiting for Rodney when he returned to the control room.

Beowulf cluster? No, distributed computing is the way to go if you are in serious pursuit of a prison sentence.

P.S. I would ask why you need so much power, but I am probably better off not knowing what you intend to hack.

-R

Distributed computing.

"Huh."

In the moment of enlightenment that immediately followed, Rodney might have loved Radek Zelenka more than just a little.

He almost sloshed coffee dropping his mug and typed: Remember that time we were drunk in Amsterdam -- well, you were drunk and I was completely wasted -- and you mentioned a theoretical back door to the SETI distributed computing platform? Think it still exists? -R

Radek's response was a quick, terse: I never said such a thing. Your memory is faulty and should have your head examined.

No signature.

That meant yes.

By the next day, Rodney had populated one and a half classroom-size white boards with ragged, jittery -- damn that coffee was strong -- handwriting.

Quandary: Hacking secure Air Force server will result in jail sentence if caught.

Solution: Don't get caught.

Quandary: Even with proxies and other precautions in place, safety is not guaranteed.

Solution: Brush up on jail-house slang and shiv fighting techniques, just in case. Also, ask if Steve will feed the cat.

Quandary: Steve thinks I owe him a date.

Solution: Convince Steve that I found religion and abandoned my sinful, homosexual past.

Quandary: Radek will laugh and say I told you so.

Solution: Name him as an accomplice and share the misery. Also, plea bargain for a reduced sentence for being cooperative.

Quandary: Sheppard is still stuck out there and thinks I am a horrible person.

Solution:

There was no solution. Given the choice between solving the Sheppard quandary and actual work, Rodney had chosen work. The rest of the writing was longhand code, formulas, efficiency tweaks for the initial brute force attack, and estimates for the amount of time it could take to get lucky. DES was cracked in fifty-six hours. Add the power of distributed computing and that number fell to twenty-two hours. Hell, these days Rodney could probably do it just as fast on his home system, but as an analogy to his current undertaking, the numbers remained fairly consistent.

Hijacking SETI demanded more patience than brainpower. The nature of the distributed platform meant that if he wanted the majority of nodes crunching his data, he had to wait for the new instructions -- illegally patched and uploaded shortly after midnight -- to propagate through the system.

That left Rodney with the emulation software to program.

Oh, and Sheppard to... something.

Screw it. Rodney could talk and code at the same time. Sometimes he even did so without making mistakes.

He keyed the microphone button, unsure if Sheppard would even allow the connection.

"Um..."

Sheppard was slow responding. [McKay.] He didn't sound angry, or upset, or like a man bereft of hope. He just sounded like Sheppard ought to sound, though it would have been even more of a relief if he'd used Rodney's first name.

"Sunscreen," Rodney blurted; as soon as it was out he knew it was right.

[Excuse me?]

"My one item. The one item I would bring with me to a desert island. I have fair skin and a healthy fear of melanoma, so... sunscreen."

[Oh.]

Rodney held his breath, and when the silence grew unbearable he realized Sheppard might have been holding his breath too.

"Listen, I-"

[Does this-]

"Sorry, you go ahead."

[No, you. I insist.]

So much for being able to talk and code at the same time. Rodney could barely coordinate talking and breathing, thanks to the two small words lodged in his throat -- the impossible ones that began with I'm and ended with sorry. Instead, he managed, "I may have made some accusations that were- No, not unfounded. Given what I had to work with, I was completely within reason to- Hasty! That's it. I'm aware that I may have been hasty with some accusations, and I want to make it up to you by helping you get home. But it's going to take time, and you've already been waiting so long. Can you... hold on?"

[Sure Rodney, I can hold on for you.] Strangely the emphasis was on you.

"Great! That is, I'd better- I've been awake for more than a day and I've got a lot of work ahead of me, but before I go, I kind of wanted to know..."

[A surfboard,] Sheppard said, without Rodney needing to ask.

Because John Sheppard and Rodney McKay were on the same damned wavelength.

Literally.

Rodney wondered if it was amusing or disturbing that he couldn't tell the time by the angle of the sunlight tilting in the window, yet he could by the length of the stubble adorning his jaw.

Probably amusing. Disturbing would have been accuracy to within the hour.

Scritch scritch.

He'd been asleep for... the better part of a day, which made the sunlight mid-morning rather than late afternoon. That would make sense, given that he'd spent a solid ten hours on the emulation program before patching the entire system together and stumbling to bed to recuperate from two sleepless days.

Rodney tipped his head, listening hard, and was reassured by a definite lack of blaring system alarms. That, taken with the fact that he hadn't been roused from sleep at gunpoint by a black ops strike force, led him to assume everything was functioning according to plan. His commandeered network over three hundred thousand computers was at this moment crawling through every possible permutation of the key that would initially unlock Sheppard's server. Once the key was discovered, Rodney's emulation program would take over, jamming the door open long enough for him to peek inside.

There had to be something useful on that server. Access to e-mail, a file repository, a damned telephone list -- something that would allow Rodney to contact this General Hammond while minimizing the risk to himself. Risk had always been the flaw in Sheppard's plan. That was the problem with military types. They were followers, not thinkers. They were team players. Rodney was a maverick. The Air Force didn't need people like Rodney -- didn't need them championing their doom and gloom scenarios, didn't need them abandoning the schedule and stalling progress to obsess over unrealistic potential exploits.

Their words, not his.

The incredible, delicious irony more than made up for Rodney missing out on the biggest "I told you so" of his professional career. All gloating had to remain strictly private, in the interest of safety.

If his estimates held, he could expect to see results between twenty and sixty hours; less if he got lucky, more if he didn't.

Since Rodney didn't believe in luck any more than he did coincidence, he was resigned to a long wait. There was ample time for a shower and a shave and lunch and oh god he'd missed a feeding. A hungry cat was a vindictive cat. So, cat food first, then the shower, then Rodney food. Then he'd poke his system, see how his revenge -- er, Sheppard's rescue -- was proceeding.

[You know what's funny?]

"Don't know, don't care, but you're going to tell me anyway, aren't you?"

[Remember how you accused me of being the punctual one? Yet here you are, calling in for your hourly check-up.]

"I'm not-" Rodney floundered. "This isn't-"

[Busted.]

"Well excuse me for being concerned! You've been out there way too long, and I know your supplies were running low days ago, and last I'd heard you weren't sleeping well because of the cold."

[You didn't let me finish. I was going to say that I appreciate it. Hell, it'd almost be touching if it wasn't so... creepy.]

"Creepy," Rodney repeated, scowling, because he couldn't work up any sort of protest or outrage. He was too busy being relieved that he and Sheppard were talking normally again. Well, "normal" relative for two guys who'd never met face-to-face.

[You can stop worrying on one count. I got tired of freezing my ass off at night and closed the rear- I mean, it can't stay closed all the time. The air gets pretty stale in here without functioning- You know what? Just forget I mentioned it.]

"Wait a minute. Are you saying that your plane is still airtight after crash landing in the woods?"

[Rodney...]

"Jesus, what the hell is that thing made of?"

[You know I can't tell you, so do us both a favor and stop asking.] It was rote now, whenever Rodney pried after too much information.

Rodney pried often, because he still held hope of catching Sheppard off guard -- more for the satisfaction of doing it than any potential information gain.

[Anyway, what happened to your super secret plan to get me rescued? Aren't there things you could be doing instead of bothering me? You interrupted a really nice daydream,] Sheppard mourned.

Rodney didn't need to question his motives; he knew they were prurient. "What was it, hot blondes?"

[No, no hot blondes.]

"Seriously?"

Sheppard snorted. [How do you know I'm not a hot blond?]

"I- Well, because I... don't." And oh, that galled. "That has absolutely no bearing on the- You could... and there would just be two of you," he finished, barely holding his voice level.

[Whoa, hold that thought! I'm not blond, I'm not hot, there never was nor will there ever be two of me anything, and the daydream was about a hamburger.]

Rodney was still hung up on the twin hot blond Sheppards. "Hamburger. Okaaay."

[It was big and juicy, with the cheese melted just the way I like it...]

"Wouldn't that make it a cheeseburger?"

[Hush, you're spoiling the moment.]

"John, listen to yourself. You're desperate. We have got to get you out of there." Rodney gave himself points every time he managed to sneak "John" in the place of "Sheppard" without sounding awkward. His tally was small but growing steadily.

[No shit. What happens next, McKay?]

"Don't worry, I've-"

[No. You keep saying that you have a plan, that you have everything quote under control. I don't even know what that means!]

"It means-" Rodney caught himself making frustrated gestures at the console -- which was about as helpful as shouting in sign language to a blind man -- and gripped his hands together to hold them still. "I really really hate waiting, but there is nothing else to do. There's nothing else left to do. Preparations are complete, the pieces are in place -- hell, we've passed the initial threshold after which I expected to see results. It could literally happen any time now. Please be patient and trust me a little longer."

[How much longer?]

"What, aren't you going to pretend to be suspicious in order to make me placate you? It's like you just skipped to the last part where you grudgingly give in."

Sheppard sighed.

"Two days, tops."

[Thank you.]

"Guess I'll go check the progress of the... thing."

[Good, do. In the meantime, guess I'll... go enjoy my hallucinatory cheeseburger.]

"You should expand it to a diner scenario, include a hot blonde waitress," Rodney suggested. Then, fearing reprisal, he cut the connection with a hasty, "McKay out."

Rodney's first coherent thought after crawling back into his skin was: Perhaps 110 decibels was a bit excessive.

He sprinted from the kitchen to the control room, where he commenced pounding buttons on the console until he found the one that killed his signal monitoring program. Then he thumped his chest a few times, because his heart was racing so fast it hurt.

His eardrums were a lost cause.

The good news was, it worked. His monitoring program had been repurposed (complete with a souped-up alarm) to alert him when the shanghaied SETI platform found a viable key. Which meant he'd broken his own cryptographic protocol in... holy shit, well under forty hours.

It worked, and he was in, and he couldn't tell a single person what he'd done.

Collaborating with the military sucked. Rodney's effort and brilliance and ingenuity were going to languish unacknowledged and unrewarded. Oh sure, hacking a public network to use it to break into a secure server might be illegal, but that in no way lessened Rodney's achievement. Was it so selfish of him to want recognition? It didn't need to be extravagant; a pat on the back or a "nice job Rodney" would suffice.

Sheppard. He could-

God, no. He could never tell Sheppard he'd hacked an Air Force server using Sheppard's credentials. And oh shit, why hadn't he thought of that before? Sheppard's credentials. As far as the Air Force knew, Sheppard was missing, possibly dead. Either way, Sheppard wouldn't have access to a computer, making it a little difficult for him to log in. Ergo it wasn't Sheppard logging in but someone masquerading -- oh, the irony! -- as him.

The Air Force was going to know they'd been hacked just as soon as they took a close look at their server logs.

Rodney's system was automated; it had already started its delicate crawl through the server's directory structure, flagging files of interest for later acquisition. Well, he might not have time for window browsing, so Rodney shut down the auto-pilot, took over the controls, and went shoplifting. Portability was key. Large files would only bog down his connection, so he avoided multimedia and executables. He hit directories at random, downloading anything with a potentially high value. He needed documents, log files, maybe a database or two if the connection held.

It didn't. When his access was terminated after only six minutes, he knew he'd been detected. There wouldn't be another chance. Now that the Air Force was aware of the security breach, they would take precautions against a second intrusion. Rodney had to hope that the answer to John Sheppard's rescue was hidden somewhere in the five hundred and twenty-six files he had managed to acquire. Then he had to pray that he was better at playing the mouse than the Air Force was at playing the cat.

At the click of a key, five hundred and twenty-six files rearranged themselves across Rodney's monitors.

Opening and visually inspecting each individual file was an appalling prospect, but searches for Hammond (three hundred and eighty hits) and all variants of telephone directory (zero hits) had left him with little choice. Which led to his current dilemma. The files needed to be inspected in some sort of order, and whatever scheme Rodney devised had to appease both his desire for efficiency and his limited attention span.

"Know what the problem is with alphabetization?" If the question was a little garbled, it was because his chin was propped comfortably in his hand, and he couldn't be bothered to lift his head to allow unrestricted jaw motion.

[I thought we were working on a way to get me rescued,] Sheppard prodded, making it clear that by "we" he meant "you". [Or was that supposed to be a rhetorical question?]

See, now, if Rodney could find a man with Sheppard's brain and Steve's uncomplicated eagerness to sleep with him, Rodney's life would be substantially more interesting. "You decide."

[Lack of spontaneity?] Sheppard guessed.

"Um, wrong. Lack of spontaneity is the whole point. Order is good. Finding things where you expect to find them is good. Unexpectedly finding things where they don't belong is bad."

[So you're saying that if I went home one day and unexpectedly discovered -- to borrow your example -- a hot blonde in my bed, that would be bad?]

"Correct. Let's say for the sake of argument that the hot blonde isn't your wife. Otherwise it wouldn't be unexpected to find her... um... Is your wife a hot blonde?"

[I'm not married, Rodney.]

"Oh." Oh, what a relief. Also, he deserved major points for working that question into the conversation without being awkward or weird. Much. "Okay, so totally unknown blonde in your bed. You don't know who she is, or what she wants, or how she got inside your house. What's the first thing you do?"

Sheppard obviously thought the answer should be, well, obvious. [Talk to her.]

"You wouldn't call the police? She could be a burglar, or a crazy stalker or something!"

[Or she could just be an ordinary person who went out of her way for a chance to talk to me,] Sheppard reasoned. [It's happened before, though always when I least expect it.]

"If that isn't fitting..."

[Besides,] Sheppard cut him off, [I can take care of myself, and the police would want me to fill out a whole bunch of paperwork. I'm sold on the talking idea. Now what were you saying about alphabetization?]

Rodney knew a deflection when he saw one, but let himself be redirected anyway, because it was preferable to envisioning how Sheppard's heart-to-heart with his hot blonde stalker might play out. "I was saying, the problem with alphabetization is that you have to wait until the end to get to the really good stuff."

[What, like the letter Z?]

"Zed you mean."

[No, I'm pretty sure I mean- Never mind.]

Rodney contemplated color-coding the five hundred and twenty-six files, but that would require criteria for assigning colors to files in the first place Then the colors would need to be sorted, and Rodney had no way to measure the benefits of using, say, ROYGBIV over a standard palette that could easily be converted to hexadecimal. "I can prove it statistically. The first half of the alphabet isn't as much fun as the second half. The final third contains a higher concentration of fun than the first two thirds combined."

[Fun. That's objective.]

"Entertainment value can be quantified."

For the man who was supposed to be keeping Rodney on track, Sheppard was doing an awful lot of derailing. [The letter F,] he considered, [has got to be the most fun letter in the entire alphabet. Fun begins with F. So do football, Ferris wheels, french fries, flying...]

Fucking, Rodney's brain supplied, because it was occasionally cruel that way. "Failure."

[That's it? One word? I thought of five.]

"Some of those were compounds," Rodney sniffed, scowling at the thirty or so files with helpful, descriptive names such as P something something dash something something something. When he arranged them by file date, the file names were out of order. When he arranged them by name, the dates were out of order. What the hell? Did the Air Force subscribe to the absolutely-haphazard-let's-hope-we never-need-to-find-any-of-this-shit-ever-again system of document management?

[They still count.] Sheppard was attempting to sound wounded in a bid to cover his amusement. Seriously, even if he'd been successful, that tactic had lost its effectiveness against Rodney days ago. [Fine, what letter do you like?]

"S." Rodney didn't elaborate. He was busy perusing a P something something file.

[S for sex?]

The file was worse than worthless; it was boring. All it contained was a smattering of environmental variables -- temperature, humidity, barometric pressure, air quality and soil toxicity... hell, there wasn't even a site name or a set of coordinates to indicate where the readings had been taken. The files that followed the same naming convention were probably all site surveys, but he couldn't be sure unless he opened and visually inspected each and every-

Wait. What had Sheppard just said?

"No, S is not for sex!" Even though they both knew it was. "S is for science, and satellite dishes, and space." Stars are pretty, he recalled with a pang.

[SOS. Survival training.]

"You and those compounds. Try soy lattes. And sarcasm."

[Sacasm's a good thing?]

"Damned right it is."

[Stress. Separation. Starvation.]

Sheppard had an S, but Rodney couldn't say that. "I get it, I get it. I'm working on your rescue at this very second." And, because he didn't want that to be a lie, he selected a random file and opened it.

Jackpot.

Well, not in the sense that the contents of the file would help Sheppard get home, but in the sense that Rodney could finally concede that hacking the Air Force server hadn't been a complete waste of time.

[Working on what, Rodney? Maybe if you'd let me in on the-]

"Oh, now that is interesting."

[What's interesting? What?]

"Shh, now is not the time for talking." Because interesting didn't begin to describe this... just what in the hell was this thing supposed to be?

Sheppard's grumble wasn't comprised of discernible words, as if he was daring Rodney to shush him again.

"Don't make me mute you," Rodney threatened anyway. The blueprints that craved his full attention were enormous in scope and complexity. Fortunately, document navigation proved to be intuitive, and soon he was zooming in to study individual systems, then zooming out again for an overview of how the parts interconnected and interacted.

In theory.

The blueprints had to be theoretical; in reality, the thing would fly with as much grace and success as a rock. It lacked all the ordinary accoutrements of flight: wings, rotors, tail. The laws of physics stated that lift had to be generated somehow, yet no part of the... ship even vaguely resembled an airfoil in shape. He would have called it a submarine, except that it didn't have a propeller or a pump-jet drive either, and he was dealing with the Air Force, not the Navy.

What it had was a pair of elements that curved close to the main fuselage. They were definitely a propulsion mechanism, and looked to be retractable, though what benefit that would be Rodney couldn't guess. He zoomed in to read the description... and suddenly the entire John Sheppard puzzle flopped upside down like one of those goddamned ambiguous illusions depicting two opposite realities. The kind Rodney had never been any good at, because switching between realities demanded that he relinquish cherished assumptions, and Rodney wasn't good at letting go. Oh god, that was why he hadn't noticed before. It was exactly like the alien thing except he hadn't had Zelenka to force him to see the other side. He should have noticed a lot sooner that his own shortcomings were blinding him to the... the truth. It couldn't be anything else. No other explanation managed to incorporate the disjointed pieces so cleanly, and oh god he should have done the rational thing and deleted the blueprints as soon as he'd seen the phrase TOP SECRET emblazoned across the top of the document.

Not that liberating project reports, environmental surveys, and internal memos from a secure military server was rational either. But Rodney had done irrational things before and escaped unscathed. He hadn't known there were degrees of irrational. He hadn't been aware of an irrationality so severe it equated to the complete and utter destruction of one's entire life. Because that was exactly what Rodney had just done. Oh god, if they knew he'd seen these prints, there would be no point in running. The Air Force would hunt him literally to the ends of the world, and after they found him, if there was enough left to toss into a prison cell, they would throw away the key before bricking up the door.

[Rodney, what's wrong?] Sheppard repeated with growing concern. Rodney recognized actual words this time, and wondered how long Sheppard had been asking.

"Oh my god." For an atheist, he'd fallen into the habit of saying that with alarming frequency. "Oh my god..." It was also possible that he was hyperventilating, judging by the way his head was floating like a helium balloon. Rodney pushed his chair away from the console and leaned over, trying to stick his ears between his knees. Or, damn, was that the treatment for some other malady? He could never remember.

[Talk to me, buddy. You're starting to scare me.]

At any rate, it helped. A little. Or maybe Rodney had finally gotten a handle on his breathing. In, hold, out, slow, deep, yes.

[Rodney!]

"I'm here," Rodney cringed. This would be so much easier if his indignation would hurry up and overcome his shock. "I'm... no, I'm not okay! Do you know what I've just done? How could you let me do that?! You knew I couldn't resist a challenge but you gave me that stupid server address anyway, and what in the hell did you think I was going to do with it? Run a traceroute and let it go? I've been told I have a very attractive ass. Do you have any idea what happens to men with very attractive asses in prison? I don't, and I want to remain ignorant!"

[Jesus, will you calm the hell down and explain?] Sheppard asked, managing to strike a balance between impatience and indulgence. [Slowly. From the beginning.]

"Sub-light engines," Rodney said. "It's printed right on the blueprints: sub-fucking-light engines. Nothing but a spaceship would be powered by sub-light engines. So at first I thought the Air Force was drawing up theoretical schematics for an imaginary spacecraft. Which would have been crazy enough! But I was wrong. It's not theory. They've built it. They're testing it. And it has a radio that operates at three hertz, which as you would know is not particularly useful for broadcasting in atmosphere, but is well suited to bouncing signals through the vacuum of space!"

He allowed a dramatic pause, but Sheppard didn't leap in. Instead of the feeble denial Rodney expected, there was only with silence.

"Admit it," Rodney tried again, haughty with triumph, because he'd figured it out and he was right about everything. "You didn't crash an experimental airplane in the woods. You crashed your flying fucking saucer."

Then he waited, and waited some more for the guilty admission that should have been forthcoming but mysteriously wasn't.

"Sheppard? John?"

When Sheppard finally spoke, his voice was so moderate that Rodney would have preferred shouting. It would have been less eerie. [Let me get this straight. I provided you a server address and asked you to verify my story. Instead, you broke into that server and stole highly classified blueprints.]

"I'm a liberator, not a thief. Information wants to be free!"

[And to think,] Sheppard continued reasonably, [all this time, I believed you when you said you had a plan to help me.]

"I did! Do." If the strength of Rodney's own protest surprised him, he could ascribe it to Sheppard playing dirty and not pulling his punches. "The only reason I was on the server-" Well, the only reason that didn't pertain to Rodney's vendetta against the Air Force. "-was to find a safe way to contact your General Hammond. I ran out of time, started swiping files at random. I didn't know what the blueprints were until I opened them five minutes ago!"

[Break into an Air Force server. For safety. Great plan.]

"It was! Is! Because it's still going to work. I grabbed enough stuff. One of these stupid files," he tapped a finger on the closest monitor, "is your ticket home. I just have to find it."

[Rodney...] Three syllables, each emphasized, as if Sheppard was preparing to gently break some bad news. [This changes everything.]

He snapped, "I'm aware of that. Were you listening to a word I said? I don't want to spend the rest of my life playing Don't Drop the Soap in a maximum security detention center!"

[You should have thought of that before you broke into an Air Force server,] Sheppard suggested. [They do get cranky about that kind of thing. Though frankly I'm as much to blame as you are. I never would have given you the server address if I'd known what you were capable of doing with it.]

Rodney huffed, "Hello, genius? Expert in digital communications? I even told you I worked with the Air Force in the past. Who do you think wrote the security protocol that was supposed to keep people from doing exactly what I just did?"

[So it wasn't a fluke that you were able to break into the server. You had privileged information.] Sheppard was leading somewhere with this, and Rodney could already tell he wouldn't like the destination.

"If you're asking whether someone else could have done it, the answer is no. The security protocol was good work. I wouldn't sabotage a project, no matter how much the Air Force pissed me off. I have a reputation to uphold."

[When you said that you ran out of time, what did you mean?]

Getting caught after six minutes wasn't going improve Rodney's reputation in Sheppard's eyes, and that shouldn't matter but somehow did. "That's hardly-"

[Just answer the question, Rodney. I need to walk through this, and I need your help to do it. I need you to be honest.]

"I was using your credentials," Rodney admitted. "You've been missing for two weeks. Someone must have noticed that you shouldn't be accessing the server and terminated the connection."

[Right.] Sheppard sounded grim, like he'd found the final piece and the picture it completed wasn't pretty. [The nature of the intrusion makes it pretty clear it was the work of a professional. Right now, I guarantee the Air Force is compiling a list of potential suspects -- people with not only the skill but also the motive and opportunity. You're a disgruntled former employee with intimate security knowledge. Your name is going to be at the very top of that list.]

Sheppard was right. Oh shit, he was right. "They're going to know it was me," he squeaked, popping out of his chair. "They won't be able to pinpoint me by following my trail, but they'll be able to narrow my location down to at least, oh, a quarter of a hemisphere. That's enough to rule out a lot of the other potential suspects... and with the correlation... I have to leave the country."

[No, you don't,] Sheppard said, using his peculiar and vastly unfair habit of phrasing unquestionable orders as suggestions. [What you need to do is keep working on a way to get me out of here.]

"That's crazy! Even if I magically stumbled upon Hammond's direct, private line, I couldn't call him! If I contact the Air Force now, I'll just be drawing attention to myself, making my guilt that much more obvious." He dropped back into his chair. Pacing would just wear him out, and he was going to need all his strength to prepare for his forced exile.

He should have asked if Steve would take the cat.

Sheppard repeated, [You're not going to leave the country.]

"Oh yeah? And how do you propose to stop me?"

The answer was nice and concise, as all the best threats were. It must have been an option Sheppard had given a lot of thought. [I'll destroy the ship.]

"You'll destroy the ship if I leave the country? Honestly, that logic is a little shaky. I'm not the one who wasted billions of dollars designing and building the thing. I don't give a damn what happens to it," he swallowed around a lump in his throat, because surely Sheppard wasn't insinuating that he would kill himself in the process. The ship, though revolutionary, was replaceable. The man wasn't.

[The Air Force didn't build it, Rodney. They found it. Go back and look at the schematics. The technology isn't advanced, it's alien. The ship is alien, and very very old. It's unique, and so are the opportunities -- military and scientific -- it represents.]

"Bullshit," Rodney muttered, but his gut knew it was true.

[I have my orders. If at any time the safety of the project becomes compromised, I will do everything in my power to guarantee that the ship doesn't fall into the wrong hands. That's my final recourse.]

"Jesus, you are going to kill yourself."

Sheppard's chuckle was dry and not nearly evasive enough to be reassuring. [It's not like I'm walking out of here. Maybe I could have made it if I'd left that first day, when I still had plenty of supplies. I'm a lot weaker now, my injuries haven't had a chance to heal properly-]

"Injuries? What injuries? When I asked if you were hurt you said you were fine!"

[Few cracked ribs, I'm past the worst of the concussion, probably should have had stitches for the gash on my brow but it's too late now. Bled like a bitch before it closed up. Other than that, the expected bumps and scrapes.]

Rodney shouted, "In what universe do cracked ribs and a concussion equal fine?"

[Cracked ribs aren't life-threatening,] Sheppard argued, almost petulant, [unless I do something stupid like fall on rough terrain, break them for real, and puncture a lung. Staying put was the best option then, and it's the best option now. I can't make it out of here without help, which means that if you don't come through for me, I won't make it.]

"You know this is emotional blackmail, don't you?"

[Yes. I'm sorry.] And even though he knew Sheppard was a lying bastard, Rodney was inclined to believe him this time.

"Go back to the files," Rodney mumbled to himself, forcing his eyes to focus. The strain of staring at a screen for too long was making the characters on the monitor blur and bleed. "The answer is somewhere in the files."

It had to be.

Sheppard had signed off to "make preparations", and as ominous as that had sounded, Rodney had made him agree to check back in at the top of every hour. It would be another twenty minutes before Rodney could report -- again -- that there was nothing to report. There was no progress, no solution. He'd read every goddamned file twice, and the highlight had been an internal memo reminding Air Force personnel that they were forbidden to return from missions with live souvenirs.

Duh. Just what kind of idiots did the Air Force employ? Oh, right -- the suicidal, self-sacrificing kind, just like that paragon of idiocy Sheppard. Why, while Rodney was working furiously to save his ass, he was probably preparing his Viking-style funeral. How did he intend to destroy the ship? Did he have explosives on board? Were charges already set? Was there a self destruct mechanism?

Rodney decided to reward himself for still being awake enough for curiosity, and pulled up the ship's blueprints again.

No, there wasn't an obvious mention of an integrated self destruct, but Rodney could spot at least one way to trick the engines into overloading. Whatever the hell they were made of would create one hell of a bang, and god he wasn't considering sharing this discovery with Sheppard, really he wasn't. It didn't matter that Sheppard would be calling in a few minutes and Rodney had nothing to give him. He was tired of disappointing Sheppard, but not tired enough to give the man a loaded gun to point at his own head.

So, back to the files.

His finger hovered over the key that would close the schematics, but an uneasy feeling -- not a suspicion, not quite -- made him lift his hand away. Why couldn't the answer be here?

Or perhaps the better question was: Why had he expected to find the answer anywhere else?

Rodney was pacing again, covering the width of the control room in short, agitated strides.

"So I started thinking about some of the things you said, and some of the things I said, and I looked at the schematics again -- who the hell came up with the name Gateship anyway? That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard in my life."

[The name is under contention. Area 51 likes Gateship.]

"Do you?"

[Nah. The ship doesn't need a majestic name. It's not all that impressive to look at, more like a space taxi than anything. That's why we pilots call it a puddle jumper. Affectionately, of course.]

"Of course." Rodney paused, derailed by Sheppard's knack for blindsiding him with fascinating concepts. "You don't think you'll actually win, do you?"

[Against those geeks at Area 51?] Sheppard's words had a grin in them. [Beauty always beats brains. I learned that in high school.]

"You- I- Wait, did you just say Area 51? You've been inside Area 51? You are so going to have to tell me all about it later!"

[Yes Rodney,] Sheppard agreed, so demurely that Rodney knew he had no intentions of ever doing so. [Now would you like to get to the point?]

"The point. The point is that I noticed some incongruities in the schematics. At first I thought I just wasn't grasping the technology -- I mean, whoever drafted the schematics was trying to represent the ship's anatomy according to the so-called laws of physics, which as you know is useless, because, my god, the engines alone will require an entirely new branch of physics just to describe what they do, let alone how they draw their power!"

[Focus.]

"And did I mention the inertial dampeners? This thing literally has inertial dampeners. It's been theorized for decades that negating inertial force is a prerequisite of advanced space travel, but we haven't even begun to figure out how to accomplish it!"

[Like I said, space taxi. Smooth ride, lots of leg room, big trunk. Could use some cup holders though.]

Oh, Sheppard was doing that deliberately. Rodney retaliated with, "Inertial dampeners. C'mon Sheppard, you're the pilot, you should have figured this out way before me."

[So the puddle jumper has inertial dampeners. Just means hard maneuvers aren't as much fun.]

"How are your ribs feeling?" Rodney asked, because this was getting ridiculous.

[My ribs? They're- Oh.]

"Now you've got it! Stop me if any of this sounds wrong. The dampeners had to be functioning or you would have been killed on impact. But! If they'd been functioning correctly, at full strength, you would have escaped without a scratch on you. Yet you hit hard enough to fracture ribs, smash your head... To me, that suggests the inertial dampeners were malfunctioning prior to impact."

[I'm with you so far,] Sheppard confirmed after a pause. His voice had lost all of its previous lightness.

"Tell me why you crashed. I mean, I highly doubt pilot error, given that we're talking about the most advanced ship on the planet." Sheppard had to be one of the elite, the best the Air Force had to offer.

He hesitated, [The controls were sluggish. That's how it began. The jumper was damaged when they found it. Took a lot of work just to make it flight worthy. But things have been breaking less frequently of late, and they wanted to try a long-distance test flight. The systems all checked out, double and triple checked. The flight wouldn't have been given a green light if there'd been any doubt. Maybe that's why I didn't notice at first. It began so small, barely a wobble. Then before I knew it flight stability was shot to hell and I couldn't keep it in the air.]

"And you suspect sabotage."

[What?] A note of alarm infused Sheppard's voice. [I'm pretty sure I never said-]

"You didn't," Rodney soothed, "but you didn't have to. It makes sense and that's what matters. I always thought it was fishy that the Air Force couldn't rescue you on their own. It should have been easy for them to find you. Hell, in the unlikely event that both your radio and transponder malfunctioned, they still could have extrapolated your position from previously known coordinates and done a visual satellite sweep for wreckage. But you're afraid of being found by the wrong people -- you've said that more than once. So until-"

[Until I could be sure I was being rescued by friends, I made sure I couldn't be found at all. I hid the ship. The cloak was still functioning after the crash. If I hadn't had that option, I would have been forced to destroy the jumper immediately. Instead it looks like I only managed to buy myself some time.]

Sheppard had bought himself time; now it was up to Rodney to stretch it into enough time. "Well, failing to disable the cloak was the first mistake your saboteurs made," Rodney said brightly. "I bet they planned to use it to transport the ship away from the crash site. But you can't transport what you can't find. I would have planted a tracking device somewhere on board."

[I thought of that. They probably did. I'm guessing the cloak interferes with it.]

"The signal?" Rodney let the implications permeate his brain. "Optical camouflage is decades away from practical application, but I suppose in theory if you can bend the light spectrum across three dimensions there's no reason you shouldn't be able to do it to other wavelengths. Holy shit. That is really, really-"

[Classified,] Sheppard reminded.

"I was going to say cool, but that too. Anyway, the second mistake they made was neglecting to cover their tracks."

[How so?]

"I figure that for some reason -- tight security, rigorous documentation of work orders, whatever -- it wasn't possible to just walk up to the ship and introduce the desired flaw. Instead, they had to incorporate the flaw into the actual blueprints. This little-" He pointed at his monitor. "It would be easier if you could see it, but this bit here in the dampener manifold is backward."

[Backward.]

"In a sense. Not physically perhaps, but still wrong. The power flow isn't supposed to merge into the larger system in that direction. Think of it like a car trying to enter the interstate from an exit ramp. When you started your test flight, the initial disruption would have been minor, just little ripples and eddies as the energy turned around the right way and merged into traffic. But it still wouldn't be as efficient as being pointed in the right direction to begin with. The ripples would cause delays, and the delays cause a bottleneck, and over time you're looking at a serious backwash that could severely impact flight stability."

[Shit, you really do understand all that technical stuff.] Wonder and pride mingled in the words.

"Please," Rodney preened, "I was soldering circuit boards before I hit puberty."

Sheppard had to laugh despite himself. [And after puberty?]

"Circuit boards were still more accessible than girls." Boys, on the other hand...

[So this wasn't something spur of the moment. It was planned and executed well in advance. They make any other mistakes?]

"You mean aside from not killing you in the crash? No, I'm serious. If it's an inside job, they have to know you'll defend the ship with your life. And from what you've said about not letting the ship fall into the wrong hands, I assume they want it intact. Hell, if they'd wanted to destroy it, overloading the engines would have been easier and less risky. No, they went to a lot of trouble to make sure the damage to the craft was crippling but minimal, and that you had to touch down far away from home, where it would be simple to swoop in and retrieve you."

[Also explains why I was sent out without a co-pilot,] Sheppard mused. [And it doesn't sound like a mistake. If their goal was to drop me out here crippled and alone, they sure as hell succeeded.]

"Yes and no," Rodney said, excited now, because this was like working through a problem with Zelenka only a thousand times better, and he sensed he was on the verge of something important. "Remember, they had to make all systems check out before the flight was cleared, so they couldn't remove anything vital. And you said very specific systems were impaired."

[Engines, communications, navigation, life support...]

"Some of those are not even remotely connected to each other. Not to mention, if you'd noticed a problem with any one of those systems, you would have aborted the flight and returned to base. No, the dampener backwash must have triggered a cascade of deliberate malfunctions in the other systems, probably starting with the radio. That SOS you sent? Never reached home. By the time you knew you were in trouble, most of the power had already been cut to communications, severely limiting your signal range. Whoever did this was smart, really smart."

[That's nice to know Rodney, and oh, by the way, thanks for making me feel like even more of a sitting duck out here.]

"You still don't get it." Oh, but Rodney did. Suddenly he did, and it was brilliant. His best work ever, no question. "What's the one thing your saboteurs don't want you to do?"

[Get help. Get rescued. Get home.]

"Technically that's... three things, but we can work with it. That's exactly what you're going to do."

[Excuse me if I'm being a little slow here,] Sheppard sighed, [but how is this different from the plan we've had all along?]

The difference was, this new plan offered a more than statistically insignificant chance to save Sheppard's life and spare Rodney from a lifetime of incarceration. "I'm not going to help you, John. In fact, as far as the Air Force is concerned, you've never spoken to a man named Rodney McKay. You managed to fix your ship and radio for help without any outside intervention whatsoever."

[The blueprints.]

"The blueprints. Crippled is intact, and intact is repairable," Rodney's hands sketched the connection in midair. "With these schematics, I'll be able to talk you through the repairs as if I was there doing the work myself."

Thunderstruck was the only way to describe the silence that followed. Then Sheppard began, unsteady, [Rodney, you are-]

"I know, don't say it," Rodney begged, because there was a condition, a stipulation Sheppard hadn't considered yet, and it was twisting Rodney apart inch by inch.

In the end he'd lied, told Sheppard he needed time to make sure he understood the schematics correctly and to plan the repairs. It all went back to that not being good at letting go thing. Sheppard had also let him dance around certain topics rather than resolve them, and Rodney had been so, so grateful for the reprieve that he would have hugged the man if he'd been able to reach him. Instead, he'd signed off before Sheppard could notice how badly he was dragging his feet.

He deleted six e-mails from Zelenka, unopened. But that was petty (and possibly melodramatic), so he compromised by restoring them and then refusing to read them.

While filling a bowl of cat food, it occurred to him that the cat should finally have a proper name. He tried: "Here Sheppard, here John, come and get it." The cat blinked quizzically at him from across the room, insisting that it just wasn't the same. Which of course Rodney already knew, because he was the genius and she the one who bathed with her tongue.

During what ought to have been a perfectly relaxing supper, he connected the metallic flecks on his formica tabletop into constellations with his fingertip, and wondered if it would be creepy or just weird to visit the cemetery where Captain John F. Sheppard's empty casket was buried.

Mostly, he avoided thinking about how much worse it was going to be after they said their official goodbyes.

Oh, fuck it, he decided later, lingering in the control room doorway for the billionth time. Anticipation was just another word for prolonging the agony. He crept over and keyed the mic as he slid into his chair. "Sheppard? John? You there?"

[Yeah?] Sheppard answered after a few beats. His voice was thick, and Rodney guessed he'd been napping. ['s it time already?]

"I can't do it," Rodney blurted, "unless you let me know, after. Otherwise, I wouldn't know if you'd been rescued or... or eaten by a bear, and frankly that's the kind of mystery and guilt that would haunt me for life."

Sheppard's brain must have been sluggish from sleep; he sounded offended when he finally said, [Of course I will.]

"It's not a dumb request?"

[You want to know when I'm safe. How is that a dumb request, Rodney?]

"Oh." Thank god. "It's not, I just... wasn't sure on account of the no talking thing. I mean, the danger to you is minimal compared to the danger to me. I know you promised you'd try to protect me, but that was before I hacked into the server. If you've changed your mind I'm screwed anyway, so I might as well make it easy on you and tell you how to find me. Maybe in return you'll give me some advance warning when they come for me. A day or two would be great, but I can work with a few hours. The trade-off seems reasonable to me -- what do you think?" He bit his lip.

[I think,] Sheppard said, [I'm still stuck on the no talking part.]

"Your radio," Rodney prodded. "They silenced you by drastically reducing the distance your radio can penetrate through atmosphere. Once its full range is restored... this is a party line, Sheppard. You might have an encrypted channel you can use to communicate with your base, but you, me, this-" He waved his hand rapidly back and forth between his chest and the microphone. "It's all open airwaves. Anyone could eavesdrop if they had the equipment and knew where to look. Now, I know my signal would never reach to Colorado, but-"

[Just a reminder, the less you admit to knowing about the top secret Air Force program, the better.]

Rodney snorted. "Call it a lucky guess if it makes you happy. Anyway, were you listening? Once you fix your radio, that's it. We're done. No more talking. Unless of course you want to explain to the Air Force why you were holding one-sided conversations and referring to yourself in the third person as 'Rodney'."

[If it's all the same, I'd like to avoid that, thanks,] Sheppard chuckled dryly.

Damn it, he still didn't get it.

"John, this is goodbye."

[Is it? Huh.]

"Yes," Rodney tried again. It hadn't sunk in yet; he was sure it hadn't. Sheppard couldn't be completely immune to the same regret that was constricting Rodney's chest, making it difficult to talk, difficult to breathe. "I'll walk you through the steps until you're confident you can duplicate them on your own. It's a fairly straightforward process, since we're not trying to fix everything, just cannibalize enough power from the remaining systems to restore signal range."

[Okay, what do I do?]

"You could start by not sounding so... resolute."

[Oh, I'm sorry. Am I not supposed to be anxious to get the fuck out of here?]

"No," Rodney began. "Yes, that is- Shouldn't you be apprehensive? Worried? Scared? Once you finish the repairs, you'll be on your own. If something goes wrong -- not that it will, but it could -- I won't be able to help you. It's also possible, remotely possible, that the schematics aren't up to date, or I read them wrong, or I don't understand the power infrastructure as well as I think I do. I'm not trying to alarm you, but I just... think you're being a bit hasty."

[That's what this is about? Rodney, I trust you.]

"Yeah, well... maybe you shouldn't!"

Sheppard made a sound somewhere between a sigh and a growl. [If I had a choice, I'd still trust you. Want to know why? You're the only person I know who could refer to anything dealing with the jumper as straightforward. You spotted problems that people who should have been far more familiar with the ship failed to notice. And you don't have anything to gain from leaving me out here to die.]

"Yes I do! It would be a lot safer for me if you-"

[Shut up, you know I'm right.]

"At least let me help you come up with a contingency plan," Rodney pleaded. "In case-"

[I have one,] Sheppard cut him off with increasing irritation. [If the repairs fail I'll blow the ship. But it won't come to that because you won't disappoint me.]

Damn it. Of course Sheppard was going to continue blackmailing him, so long as Rodney continued to make such an attractive target. "Under any other circumstances I'd fuck up intentionally, to teach you a lesson," he informed with as much spite as he could muster, which wasn't much at all.

[I'll keep that in mind for the next time I'm forced to put my life in your hands. Now tell me what to do so I can get on with it, before I actually do lose my nerve.]

"Okay, okay, okay. Just- Find something to write with." It was going to be over too soon, too suddenly. Rodney told himself that it would have been easier if he'd been prepared, that the loose ends were his fault. If only he could accept blame and be angry at himself; anger was preferable to... to this cocktail of other messy emotions. But he knew -- logically, instinctively -- that nothing could have prepared him for John Sheppard.

Now, a suicidal spaceship pilot falling from the sky and landing on his metaphorical doorstep, that was different. Rodney should have had a plan for that eventuality.

[And something to write on, I suppose.] Sheppard's voice grew distant, accompanied by rustling sounds. [You aren't going to make this easy on me, are you?]

Rodney didn't deny it. "You don't keep a notepad with you?"

[When I'm flying? Oh, that would be great. "What happened out there, Major?" "Well sir, just before the collision I took my hands off the controls to add something to my grocery list."]

"I keep one in my car," Rodney argued. "It wasn't such a long shot."

[You write while driving?]

"Yes! At red lights and stop signs and things," he amended, because he'd learned long ago that if he was going to be a menace to traffic it was safest to do it by not moving when people expected him to, rather than moving in an unexpected fashion. "Some ideas need to be captured immediately, before the spark can escape."

Sheppard was close to his microphone again. [Spark, sure, whatever. This will have to do. I'm ready.]

Stalling was easier than deciding where to start. "Please tell me you're not writing on your hand."

[It's a wrapper from the med kit. Rodney, if this works -- when it works -- they won't just give me a lift home and turn me loose. There is going to be an incredibly long, painful debriefing, during which I will have to commit treason in order to omit all mention of you. Any instructions I write down now will have to be burned after I use them. My story is going to be weak enough as it is. I don't need to show up with evidence in my pocket that could debunk it entirely.]

"Oh shit," Rodney breathed. "Why didn't I think of that? If the ship has a flight recorder or some type of communications log or repository, those will need to be wiped too." But this was good. He could piddle with the schematics, soak up a few more hours of Sheppard's company.

[I do know how to access those. It's already taken care of.]

"Oh."

[Rodney?]

"Right. The, um- Don't write this down, obviously, but remember it. Two five zero, eight four seven, nine eight nine one."

[Two five- What is that, your phone number? How is that supposed to help fix the ship?]

"Two five zero, eight four seven, nine eight nine one," Rodney insisted. "You need it because you promised to contact me once you're safe. Just... don't be stupid about it. Use a public phone, make sure you aren't followed. If it looks at all suspicious they'll lift the phone records and find out who you called and I think it's important enough to bear repeating that I don't want to spend the rest of my life in prison. Have someone else make the call if you can't. Two words is all I ask for. Two little words: John's okay."

[Okay,] Sheppard agreed, placating, but Rodney recognized his tone as the one he used when he wanted Rodney to think he was being reasonable despite intentions to the opposite. [If I can't call, I'll think of another way to contact you.]

Emotional blackmail was a two way street. Rodney reminded him, "You promised. Two five zero, eight four seven, nine eight nine one. Say it. Two five-"

[Jesus, I've got it.] Frustration bled through, enough to let Rodney know that Sheppard really did have it, and not in short-term memory either, where it could easily be jettisoned. Which meant Rodney had won a round. Too bad it didn't come close to evening up the score.

There's going to be a pop quiz at the end, Rodney wanted to add, but Sheppard didn't need to be nudged any closer to an explosion. If it was all the same, Rodney preferred their final conversation to be civil, maybe even warm -- something he could gaze back upon with nostalgia. "Okay then. Um... let's begin?" There wasn't a reply; he hadn't been expecting one. He forged ahead, "I'm afraid you'll be working in the aft compartment, so you'll be moving back and forth a lot. I'm sorry, I'll try to raise my voice, but I don't want to go hoarse shouting."

There was the sound of movement, muted, then Sheppard said loud and clear, [No problem. Rear communication port. It's got to be on the schematics.]

"What do you know? There it is. But why-"

[Didn't have a reason to turn it on before now,] Sheppard finished for him, which was a tad unsettling because he'd answered the right question. [And aft?]

"What? That's the proper term. It's on the specs!"

A snort.

"Oh, I forgot about you pilots and your pilot jargon. Fine, what do you call it?"

Sheppard's timing was impeccable. He paused just long enough to let Rodney think he was considering, then said airily, [The trunk.]

"I hate you," Rodney sighed, when he really meant the complete opposite.

[Back at you, McKay.] It was an opposite thing for Sheppard too, Rodney was certain. [What now?]

"Now... say you're facing the rear of the ship."

[I am facing the rear of the ship.]

"Okay, turn to your left and face the wall."

[Turning.]

"Look up."

[You could have just told me to open the left access panel, Rodney.]

"Have you opened it?" Rodney demanded.

[Not yet, no. I've been following your tedious instructions.]

"Well... you can open it now."

There was a soft clatter as the cover swung loose. [Just skip to the part where you tell me how to fix it before I give up and start pulling these... fuses out at random.]

Rodney gritted his teeth, and was quite proud of himself when he didn't tell John -- in vivid detail -- exactly why that would be a bad idea. "Crystals. The schematics call them control crystals, which is of course a massive simplification of the technology involved-"

[They're all lit up. Am I supposed to be sticking my hand in here while this thing is running?] Thank god the man exhibited at least that much sense.

"Don't stick your hand anywhere until I tell you to! But yes, it should be perfectly safe. What good is an access panel if you get electrocuted trying to access what's inside?"

[Not helping.]

Rodney almost argued that they didn't have time to waste on an explanation that was peripheral to the task at hand. Then he remembered he wanted to stall. "It's a control system; the electric current running through it is weak at best. Think of it as- Okay, wait. When I say it it's safe what I really mean is that it's safe so long as you do exactly as I tell you. The crystals can access every system you can control from the cockpit, and some you can't. More importantly, they can disengage some critical fail-safes and allow you to manipulate the systems manually. Yes, you can restore the radio from here, but you can just as easily overload the engines, blow up the ship, and take out half of British Columbia in the process."

[I hope that's an exaggeration.] Sheppard sounded impressed despite himself.

"Probably not," Rodney said sourly. "It's a rough estimate based on what I know of the engines' power output, converted to potential blast energy-"

[The Air Force is never gonna believe that I poked around in here without inflicting catastrophe on myself and the local scenery.]

"Are you kidding? After two weeks they'll have a hard time believing you made it out of the woods at all. Just play stupid, and act shocked when they slap your hand and lay down the worst case scenario for how badly you could have fucked up. They'll attribute your survival to pure dumb luck."

[More like divine intervention.]

If Rodney didn't know better, he'd say that Sheppard left that one open for him intentionally. "Stop, you're embarrassing me."

John laughed, a clearer, freer sound than Rodney had heard from him in days. The resulting surge of affection twisted Rodney's insides into new and interesting knots. They would take weeks, months to untangle, if it was even possible to straighten them out at all.

It wasn't fair. It wasn't goddamned fair.

"Back to business..." he shifted, desperate, and was amazed when his voice remained level. "I want you to remove the fourth crystal from the left, top tray, and describe the pattern on its surface. And before you start turning it around, make sure you remember which direction the notch was oriented!"

[Give me a minute.] A hiss of concentration overrode the vestiges of amusement, and the crystal gently clinked free. [Got it. It's got- This is writing, isn't it? Looks like it's etched into the surface.]

"The one we're looking for should have three symbols. The first is an inverted L shape with a dot at the bottom left corner." Rodney leaned close to his monitor. "The second is kind of a stick thing with a wedge at the top."

[The third is like an E without the top slash, right?]

Maybe. If you squinted at it.

Okay, that was a much more concise description than the one Rodney had been about to give. "Correct. Put that one aside, and remember which way the notch was oriented!"

[I won't forget the notch, Rodney.]

"I'd feel better if you wrote it down."

[I'll write it down,] Sheppard lied. [What next?]

"The second crystal is the..." Rodney zoomed the schematics out again, to double and triple check that his count was accurate. "Bottom tray, sixth from the left. Once you take it out the radio will go dead. You'll have to replace it before you can talk to me again."

Another clink, then abrupt silence. Rodney would give a kidney for quality time alone in a lab with one of those things. He was no chemist, but even by the scant information on the blueprints he could figure out that the crystals were made of a synthetic material exhibiting properties unlike anything ever seen on Earth. Whoever deciphered the material would be guaranteed a Nobel Prize -- provided they could find a way to publish their work without revealing the source. He was fairly certain there wasn't a prize category for scavenging alien technology.

If there was, he could imagine the scandal when the Air Force won it year after year after year.

The radio cut back in. [This one has a stick, a square snowman, and a sideways hat,] Sheppard told him. Which was being courteous, because the "stick" character strongly resembled an erect penis to Rodney's biased eye, but if Sheppard wasn't going to say it, neither was he.

Rodney wasn't sure his nerves could have survived hearing Sheppard say penis. Or dick, or wang, or cock, or wood, or- God.

[Rodney? Is it the right crystal?]

"Yes," he almost whimpered. "That's the one. Remember the orientation of the-"

[The notch, yeah, I got that. So do I... swap them?]

"Something like that. You have to reprogram the power pathway first. But don't do anything until you're absolutely ready to go to full radio silence. And write this down!"

[Writing,] Sheppard paused, for once not trusting it to memory.

"There's a stylus on a cord. Well, it's not a stylus, but close enough. It should be made out of the same material as the control crystals. See it?"

[Yes.]

"You're going to use it to link the crystals to their new positions by touching the tip to the indentation on the side of the crystal, then to the corresponding indentation next to the slot. Both crystals must be out of their slots when you do it. There is also a column of indentations off to the left, which are... commands, I guess you'd call them. In between each link you need to insert a null command. That's the second indentation from the top. The order goes: top crystal, top slot, null. Top crystal, bottom slot, null. First indentation, tap twice. Bottom crystal, bottom slot, null. Bottom crystal, top slot, null. First indentation, tap twice. Here's the tricky part: the bottom crystal needs to be inserted last, and with the notch facing the other direction. I strongly suggest you don't remove it again after that. If you've done it right it should light up like the rest."

There was furious scribbling, accompanied by what was likely muffled cursing. Then, [Oh my god, I'm going to blow up most of British Columbia.]

"You are not," Rodney snapped, because he was allowed to joke about it, but the man with the suicidal end game sure as hell wasn't. "You're a spaceship pilot, for god's sake. I'm sure you have amazing reflexes and incredible hand-eye coordination and your brain can't be too shabby either because they don't trust idiots with the most important scientific discovery ever stolen from an alien culture. Not... that I had to infer the thing about your brain from the enormous responsibility you're shouldering. Just talking to you, it... it shows. You can do this," he added hastily, to mask the declaration he'd been about to make. He had no idea what that declaration was. But Sheppard's impressive brain might figure it out, and a healthy dose of embarrassment was all that was lacking to make this the most awkward conversation of Rodney's life.

Goodbye was hard enough on its own.

[I-] Rodney didn't see it coming. He was too caught up in his Did he? and What if? and Sheppard's opening was stealthy like a sucker-punch, with the same impact. [Before we go any further, I'd just like to say...]

Oh. Shit.

[This sort of thing doesn't come naturally to me,] Sheppard began again, and when he stalled, again, Rodney was both grateful for the reprieve and irritated that Sheppard wouldn't just hurry up and make his misery complete.

He noticed his hands were gripping each other in his lap, and pried them apart a finger at a time. "Then don't bother. I have a feeling I already know what you want to say, and some things..." Are cheapened by words. Or worse, made concrete by them.

[Need to be said anyway,] Sheppard finished. But rather than enlightening Rodney as to what those things might be, he shied away with, [So that's it? I do the thing with the light pen, put the crystals back in, and the radio works?]

"Yes. Um, I'm not sure how resilient the jumper's superstructure is." Jumper. See? Scientists could be cool and use pilot slang. "You might need to power down and power back up again. You know, like a re-boot. Also, we're diverting some of that power along routes it isn't accustomed to traveling. The ship can handle it! But I wouldn't be too alarmed if you get some sparks, or maybe a burning smell." Radek would be so proud if Rodney went down in the unofficial history books as the first human to set an alien spaceship on fire.

[I appreciate the heads up.] If it sounded forced, Sheppard was probably doing his best not to be horrified. [Thanks. For- Well, you already know. Also, I hate dragging these things out. Take care, Rodney.]

"Good luck," Rodney replied automatically, before he realized that the connection was gone. Just... gone, severed at the source.

Take care, Rodney.

"Oh no, no no no. Not like this." Rodney's hands fumbled on the console, verifying every setting, attempting to restore contact. "Sheppard! You're a coward and a son of a bitch! You hear me? Sheppard!"

There wasn't going to be an answer, he knew. He slumped back in his chair, resignation already settling into his bones. Or perhaps that numbness was shock, and the worst was yet to hit him.

The transmission log flashed in the corner of his monitor, catching his eye. He read the timestamp for the last incoming message: 9-2T05:35Z. John Sheppard's final message. Take care... And then his name, those two little syllables, gently attenuating to nothing.

"You too," Rodney murmured. He powered down, flipping switch after switch after switch, letting his systems rest. Hard drives halted, monitors blanked, LEDs grew dim and winked out. When it was finished, he got up and just stood there, leaning over the console, his palms flat on the age-polished surface.

Eventually he cut the lights on his way out of the room.

Part 2

"And that," Rodney summed up, "is how I turned my sophisticated radio telescope into a glorified answering machine."

Damn. That had sounded much better in his head.

Radek agreed, judging by the frosty silence which emanated from the other end of the line.

"What? What is it now? You were miffed that I didn't call you sooner. I apologized. You wanted to know what happened. I told you. I-"

"More than a week!" Zelenka shot back. "More than a week without evidence that you were even alive! The last I knew, you were... obsessed with some dangerous military man in the woods!"

"He wasn't-"

"You tell me you plan to do something stupid. As a friend, I beg: Don't. You talk about going to prison. Prison! I call, I send e-mails, there is no response. Most people, Rodney, would have the decency to alleviate the worry they have caused!"

A phone call, that's all Rodney had wanted. Two little words: John's okay. He swallowed down a lump in his throat and offered, "I know. I'm sorry."

"I almost called your sister. Do you have any idea how troublesome that would have been?" Radek's mind caught up with his ears. "Did you just say sorry?"

"Yes." Rodney felt his chin lift in defiance. "Even I'm allowed to say that when I screw up. I just screw up so rarely that you're probably not accustomed to hearing it from me."

Rather than mollify Zelenka, the apology had the opposite effect. "You," he sputtered, "are even arrogant when you try to make amends. That is not sorry! It is... I do not know what it is, but it makes me furious!"

"I apologized! I don't know what else you want!" Perhaps Rodney should play it a little more contrite. Radek only slogged through an argument in a single language when he wanted to make sure Rodney understood each and every epithet.

Zelenka breathed in, hard, through his nose. "Stop lying. I would like that."

"Oh, now wait just a- Everything I told you was the truth!"

"Maybe the truth made of Swiss cheese!"

Damn it. Rodney saw two possible escape routes, neither of them pleasant. But there was no guessing what dangerous secrets Zelenka might badger out of him if Rodney owned up to the omissions. Deflection, then, was the logical choice. "Fine." He reached out, embraced some annoyance of his own -- anything to help ease him through the disgrace. "I didn't want to tell you..."

"Tell me what?" Radek finally prompted with a sigh.

Dramatic pauses were well within Rodney's right, damn it. And perhaps this one was slightly less intentional than Zelenka imagined. Rodney squirmed in his seat, cleared his throat. "After Sheppard- Once he got his radio fixed, there was no reason for him to continue talking to me. Hell, the ingrate barely said goodbye before scampering back to his military chums." Bitterness crept into Rodney's tone, but that was just another artful touch for authenticity's sake, right? Before Zelenka could interrupt he pressed on, "I didn't feel like talking to you because you'd only say that you were right and I was stupid."

"Rodney..."

"No, that's a fair assessment, I just wasn't prepared to face it sooner. I'm also not used to being lonely, and I hadn't realized before how isolated I am out here in the boondocks. There's no one in town who could..." Patch the gap Sheppard had left behind. Or maybe it was a permanent gap and Sheppard had only bridged it temporarily. It amounted to the same thing. "You know, on the same intellectual level. So I started thinking, it wouldn't be a meeting of minds, but damn it, there's no reason I couldn't-"

"You didn't..."

"Your concern for my virtue is touching," Rodney said, rueful, "but ultimately unfounded. Not for lack of trying."

Radek let out a huff. "He refused you?"

This might just work. The confession was definitely embarrassing enough to convince Zelenka it was the worst Rodney had left out of his story. "As if. Steve's been trying to get into my pants since the first time he laid eyes on my shapely posterior. No, I figured I'd hunt him down, take him to the bar for a few drinks, and let the evening progress to its natural conclusion. I asked around in all of his usual haunts, and can you believe he actually left a note for me with the bartender? Written on a napkin! He flew a charter up to Juneau for a couple days of sightseeing, and left a note telling me where he'd gone, when he'd be back, and when he wanted to schedule our date. Can you believe the nerve?"

Radek was back to muttering in Czech; that was a relief. "I take it you have reconsidered your incredibly senseless impulse to sleep with him?"

"Damned right I have. It was a used napkin, with a water ring on it and everything. I don't care how long it's been since I got laid. I can't make a connection with a guy like Steve, not even a physical one, not even for half an hour of hot and heavy groping before I throw him out of my house. But by now the whole town's probably said I was looking for him, and his pal the bartender has doubtless told him I got his note. What am I going to do?"

"Hmm-" Radek began.

Rodney squealed, "Is that laughter I hear you trying to muffle?! Some friend you are, mocking my pain rather than trying to help me find a way out of this mess!"

"I'm sorry," Radek wheezed. "No, I take that back. It is too funny. You are both acting like adolescents. Be a man and politely tell him to fuck off."

"Like I haven't tried that before," Rodney groused. He knew he'd never been firm enough about it, because as a last resort Steve had been a comforting cushion at the back of his mind. That cushion was gone now, ripped away by that asshole Sheppard with his empty promises and it would serve him right if he really had been eaten by a bear. Would one little phone call have killed him? That was all Rodney needed.

Actually... Rodney needed a lot of things, but that phone call would have been a decent start.

Stupid fuckhead. Insensitive prick.

God, let him be safe.

Still snickering, Zelenka advised, "Try again. Use small words this time."

"Thank you, Ann Landers."

"At least I did not refer to him as your Rustic Romeo." The Rs were trilled outrageously.

"Augh!"

Ten seconds after Rodney hung up on him, Radek called back. "One final thing. I am glad you are not in prison."

"I-" Rodney said. "Thanks." And hung up far more gently the second time.

The first week after Sheppard disappeared had been rough, really rough. In the weeks prior, Rodney had abandoned all concept of a normal schedule, surviving instead on caffeine and nerves. He should have spent his first post-Sheppard night binging on sleep, not staring awake at the dark space where his ceiling was, listening for the dull thud of a spaceship exploding in the distance.

Would the blast be large enough to reach his town? Would the house be lit by a flash; would the ground tremors reach him before the shock wave did? (Shock waves sparked by a highly explosive material would be supersonic, traveling at the detonation velocity of the explosion. The tremors would function as sound waves in the atmosphere, but could travel more than twice the speed of sound -- 2*1440 meters per second -- through solid bedrock. What was the detonation velocity of a spaceship engine, and how much bedrock lay between him and Sheppard's ship?)

Would the fallout be radioactive?

Would Sheppard feel any pain, or would death be instantaneous?

Still, Rodney had had hope to buoy him. The first day... that would have been far too soon for news. The second also. The third... possible, but unlikely. The fourth had been the first real disappointment, followed by the fifth and the sixth without relief, and dwindling supplies had finally forced Rodney to leave his house and go to town.

The change of scenery hadn't prevented him from wandering zombie-like through the grocery store, alternately listless and bored.

He'd almost made a mistake with Steve, vented to Zelenka, called Sheppard an asshole and sort of meant it.

That should have been the end of it. Call or no call, he shouldn't still catch himself lingering in the control room doorway, peering at dormant equipment. Wondering when, if ever, he was going to reverse all the modifications he'd made, turn the answering machine back into a telescope. Give up, let go, move on. Alien life was out there waiting for him to discover it. A government agency was waiting for him to discredit it.

Rodney backed out of the doorway and into the hall. Tomorrow, maybe.

The third week, hope gave way to despair.

Then the helicopter came.

The whuff whuff in the distance was tenuous, barely snagging at the edge of his senses. Rodney had more important things to do than identify strange sounds coming out of the woods. Like contemplate a third cup of coffee. He'd had one before breakfast and one with. It was late morning now, and he was definitely starting to see the appeal of a caffeine booster.

Besides, the stuff burned if it sat on the warming plate too long.

By the time the roar from the rotor blades was close enough to intrude, it was also close enough to identify as immediate danger. Rodney sloshed coffee, then simply gave in to panic and threw both mug and carafe into the sink and bolted from the kitchen.

Oh God. Oh God. They traced the server attack. Sheppard was captured by the saboteurs and tortured until he talked. Sheppard lied about protecting me and told the Air Force everything. I knew I should have dug that cellar escape tunnel!

He skidded to a halt in the middle of the hallway as he realized: I have blueprints for an alien spaceship stored on a computer in my living room.

The data, the machines had to be destroyed. Even if the Air Force had proof he'd taken the documents, being caught with them in his possession could only exacerbate what he knew was going to be a merciless jail sentence.

Overhead, the roar had graduated to a thunder. His ceiling creaked and complained as the dish must have caught backwash from the blades, and strained against the mount holding it in place. Typical Air Force. Only an idiot would bring a helicopter so close to a satellite dish. Didn't they have any idea how difficult it was to position and calibrate a dish of that size? Not to mention the potential damage it could sustain from such a strong wind shear. Rodney was going to tell them exactly what he thought of their careless behavior, even if he had to do it while being led away in handcuffs. Hell, even if he was led away in a gag! And if they tranquilized him, well... yelling at them would be the first thing he did upon regaining consciousness!

The backwash struck his house, rattling the windows. But of course the helicopter had to move in close, in order to open its doors, unfurl black ropes from its black underbelly, and drop a black-clad strike force onto his roof. He probably had seconds before they kicked in his door -- weapons drawn, laser sights darting -- and wrestled him to the ground by kneeling on his spine.

Or they might just shoot him.

Rodney rushed to the control room, and was momentarily startled to discover the system unresponsive, the monitors blank. Oh shit, they've already cut the power and the phone lines. Except he still had lights, so-

Damn it! The system was down because he'd shut it down; then he'd been too consumed by his concern for that lousy asshole traitor Sheppard to bother bringing it back up. He attacked the console, booting fast and dirty, no peripherals, just the critical stuff. Storage. Logic center. He needed time to get it online, then he needed more time to run the emergency self-destruct subroutine he'd written in case of compromise.

In hindsight, perhaps the installation of security-grade, bullet-resistant doors and windows should have been included in his budget when he'd bought the place.

The noise outside was subsiding, winding down from a howl to a whine. Rodney didn't have any spare brainpower to consider what that might mean; he was too focused on trying to figure out why his subroutine refused to run. He was certain he had the-

Oh. Oh, right. The subroutine he'd designed but neglected to actually write, because all his spare time that month had poured into a last valiant push to achieve ascension for his Nethack archaeologist.

Of all the damned strange things, the helicopter chose that moment to shut down its engine. The whuff whuff slowed until the blades lacked the speed to cut the air with any force; his house was plunged into a preternatural stillness. Even the inhabitants of the surroundings woods were silent, awed.

Rodney's hands were poised motionless over the console. He gasped and remembered to breathe.

A cheery bleep let him know his system was fully online and functional.

His doorbell rang.

Oh, so those fuckers wanted to play nice and polite. More like they didn't have a shred of concrete evidence against him, but wanted to spook him into running or looking guilty or otherwise doing something stupid to give himself away. Well, Meredith Rodney McKay sure as hell wasn't going to give them the satisfaction! Just let them try to intimidate him on his own turf, landing their obnoxious black helicopter on his front damned yard. He'd tell them exactly where to stick their unauthorized request for a premises search. Warrants existed for a reason -- hell, the United States Air Force was on foreign territory here! They'd obviously abandoned the proper channels and procedures. Anything they discovered today wouldn't hold up to a stiff breeze, let alone scrutiny in a court of law!

The doorbell chimed again. Let them be inconvenienced for once, Rodney thought, the inconsiderate morons. He detoured along the way to the door to straighten his hair, and change into a shirt that didn't have a splotch of coffee drying on the sleeve.

Rodney's hand was on the doorknob when the imbecile on the other side gave up ringing and started knocking. Like they hadn't heard the bell, knew it worked. Rodney fixed a haughty smile on his lips, yanked open the door, and inquired icily, "Can I help you?"

At least that's what he intended to say. He made it as far as, "Can I he-aaah..." There was a lone man standing on his front steps; Rodney's gaze took in the sage green flight suit and aviators and cataloged "pilot" before leaping over the man's shoulder to a far more interesting sight. "Holy shit, there really is a helicopter in my front yard!"

Rodney had fully intended to ream the guy out for his lousy parking job, but it was kind of hard to let loose on someone who was aiming a big, doofy smile straight at him. Then the pilot slipped off his aviators, and... hello. "Dr Meredith Rodney McKay?" he asked, shifting his grip on the flight helmet tucked into the crook of his left arm.

Rodney blinked. The no-nonsense tone was completely at odds with that crazy smile. He slouched and glanced around to see if he could spot reinforcements hiding in the tree line. No way the Air Force was dumb enough to send one guy alone to deal with Rodney, even if that one guy did have the advantage of knowing Rodney's hated first name. "Maybe," he said, admitting nothing.

"Rodney..." the man tried again, and it finally hit him. The two syllables teased closer to three, the exaggerated consonants. More obvious things, like pilot and United States Air Force; and some that he had to look again to notice, like evidence of fatigue lingering on Sheppard's slightly wan face.

Sheppard. John. Was alive.

"You're not dead," Rodney blurted.

Relief morphed Sheppard's smile into something more cocky, as if he hadn't expected Rodney to catch on so quickly. "Not unless you're hallucinating."

"That would make sense, given that you're-" Thank god -- thank god -- Sheppard chose that moment to pull him into what was a cross between a manly shoulder slap and a one-armed hug, thereby preventing Rodney's mouth from maiming Rodney's dignity. He'd been on the verge of making a quip about hallucinations and tall dark strangers -- in aviators no less! That was one of Rodney's cherished universal truths: nobody looked good in aviator sunglasses. Blam! Blown out of the water by Major John fucking Sheppard, USAF.

When they drifted apart after some silent, mutually agreed upon length of time, Rodney balled up a fist and punched Sheppard in the shoulder.

"Jesus, ow!" Sheppard danced aside, complaining, "what was that for?" He nearly dropped his helmet, and a twinge of actual pain pinched the spot between his eyebrows. Which made no sense, because Rodney hadn't put much force behind it, only enough to demonstrate his annoyance...

Oh yeah. Cracked ribs.

Luckily, Rodney wasn't the type to let a little guilt stand between him and a well-deserved dressing down. "You scared the shit out of me, flying that thing in here! I thought it was the Air Force coming to haul me away to prison! Oh god." He skewered Sheppard with a glare. "Is that what this is about? They're coming to get me but you came first to warn me and now we have to flee the country. Does that thing have enough fuel to fly to Russia? Think we can get enough for it on the Black Market once we're there to buy ourselves new identities and a comfortable retirement?" He blinked as another logistical problem occurred to him, and straightened to ask in an almost conversational tone, "Do you speak any Russian? Because I sure as hell don't, and I somehow doubt that the smattering of dirty phrases I know in Czech is going to get us very far."

Sheppard rolled his eyes skyward, but his grin was back. "Rodney, we're not fleeing the country."

"Well that's a relief, because -- and don't tell Zelenka I said this -- I've never been particularly fond of borscht." He remembered that he was furious with Sheppard, and why. "Also, you promised you'd call," he rallied. "I spent weeks wondering if you'd been rescued, or eaten by a bear, or if the saboteurs had found you and shot you and dumped your body in a shallow, unmarked grave." That last scenario had featured in nightmares. Sometimes Sheppard was too weak to run, sometimes they shot him in the back as he fled. It always ended with a furrow of freshly-turned earth, abandoned on the forest floor.

"Hey. Shut up a minute, will you?" Without further warning, Sheppard's hand clapped over Rodney's mouth. "What do you know, that actually works. You have no idea how many times I wanted to try that but couldn't reach you before," he confided. "Now be quiet and let me talk."

Mute, Rodney gave the barest of nods, wary of any motion that could put his mouth into more intimate contact with the palm of Sheppard's hand. He was therefore relieved and disappointed in disproportionate parts when Sheppard backed away.

"I did promise, but I also warned you that it could take time. Your radio fix worked. I mean, of course it worked. I'm here, aren't I?" He spread his arms slightly and glanced down at himself, then back up to Rodney. "Once I got through to Hammond, it didn't take long for rescue to find me. I was put under guard in the infirmary as soon as I got back to base, in case the saboteurs wanted to take a second shot at me. I couldn't contact you -- I couldn't even go to the bathroom un-escorted. And the more I thought about it, the more a phone call didn't seem adequate anyway. I wanted to meet the man who'd saved my life and thank him face to face. So as soon as I could escape I borrowed a chopper and here I am." He smiled disarmingly and rocked forward on his toes.

It worked. Oh how it worked. It wasn't blackmail; Sheppard hadn't asked for any favors. But he was obviously preparing Rodney for something, some disappointment. Building him up so the fall wouldn't hurt as much. "Let me guess, you're AWOL."

"Do I look like I'm here without permission?" Sheppard gave a nod over his shoulder to the helicopter. It sat, sleek and not actually all that black, in what had to be the exact center of Rodney's front... parking lot.

(It was, now that Rodney thought about it, a precise, almost surgical parking job. He knew Sheppard had to be good, but there was good and then there was good.) "No. I don't know. You could be. The Air Force doesn't just loan helicopters to people."

"I asked nicely." Sheppard shifted his grasp on his flight helmet and thrust it at Rodney. "Find somewhere to put this, then come help me unload some stuff."

The helmet was much heavier than it looked; Rodney had to shift his balance to avoid dropping it when Sheppard abruptly let go. He tried to ask what in the hell he was supposed to do with it, but Sheppard was already striding down the steps in the direction of Rodney's gargantuan new lawn ornament.

Wait... stuff? What stuff?

Aside from the floor, there wasn't anywhere to leave the helmet in the front hall, so he ducked in and dropped it on his coffee table. Next, shoes. He shoved his feet into the first pair he found. By some miracle, they matched.

Hell, Sheppard should count himself lucky that Rodney had answered the door wearing pants.

He stuffed his keys in his pocket, even after checking to make sure he wasn't locking himself out, and scuttled toward the helicopter. It was, on closer inspection, bigger than gargantuan. There was absolutely no mistaking it for one of those cute little civilian numbers, oh no. Everything from the drab paint to the cryptic identification marks screamed military.

Just as Rodney wandered close enough to nudge one leg of the landing cage thing with his toe, the rear door slid back from the inside, and Sheppard leaned out. "Heads up," was all the warning he gave before chucking an enormous duffel bag straight at Rodney's head.

"Oh shi- Oof!" Somehow, he caught it; his arms barely reached around the thing. "What the hell, Sheppard? You could have damaged my brain! That's, like, an indictable offense when you're as smart as I am." He dropped the duffel to the ground and was disappointed when he didn't hear anything fragile shatter on impact.

"Relax, that one wasn't heavy." Sheppard finished unsecuring an identical bag. He grabbed the handles, paused long enough to flash Rodney one of those unsettling grins, and said, "But this one is."

Rodney squealed and backpedaled until he was safely out of the range of ballistic luggage. "Okay," he shouted, "I could forgive the helicopter. I mean, maybe it's hard to get a rental car when your name is on a tombstone in some military cemetery somewhere. I could even forgive that you scared me half to death by landing on my front yard. By the way, do you have any idea how lucky you are that I don't live closer to civilization? You did fly in from the south, didn't you? Tell me you flew in from the south, not directly over main street. Because you don't understand the gossip networks in these small towns. Shit like this," he waved his arms to encompass Sheppard and his accoutrements, "is exciting enough to make the newspaper. I don't think either one of us wants that kind of attention! But I could forgive you for all of that, until you-"

"Rodney..." Sheppard's lips were pressed tightly together, like he knew it was in his best interests to pretend that Rodney's tirade hadn't been amusing -- or worse, endearing. "I'm not going to throw the heavy one at you. Get back over here and help me with it. I'm not supposed to be lifting stuff at all for another few weeks until my ribs have healed."

Oh. "Idiot," Rodney declared, stomping back over. He tugged on the end of the duffel bag and let it half slide, half fall out of the helicopter. "You should have said something."

Sheppard stooped to hand Rodney a much smaller box that actually said "fragile" on the side. After weighing his options, Rodney set it gently on the ground, then watched Sheppard sit down on the lip of the passenger compartment, his legs dangling out the side. "So which is it? Either I'm an idiot for lifting stuff I shouldn't, or I'm an asshole for throwing stuff at your head. Can't have it both ways."

"I see no reason why I can't," Rodney scoffed. "You're an asshole for dropping in on me without warning, and an idiot for coming here at all, but I forgive you for that too. The thing is, I- It's so good to see you," he admitted, his stern tone dropping into something far more sincere. To meet you, finally. To know you're safe. And my god, I didn't expect you to be so... hot.

Assessing, Sheppard inclined his head. "It's good to see you too," he said, as if having finally decided it was true. "We got on so well on the radio, I wasn't sure how this whole meeting in person thing would work. But nothing's changed, has it?"

And nothing had changed, until he mentioned it. Then everything did.

The house was a wreck. Rodney didn't entertain; he never invited company home. Even Steve had never made it past the front door, and he was really, really motivated. But all Sheppard had to do was show up -- out of the blue, back from the dead! -- and waltz right in. While Rodney played porter, no less!

"There are only two acceptable explanations for the weight of this bag," Rodney griped, lugging it across the threshold. "You're smuggling either gold bullion or weapons grade plutonium." Sheppard had stepped in first, which meant that Rodney had lost his opportunity to bottleneck him in the front hallway; he could move into any room he liked and start exploring, and that was dangerous. "The living room is on the left, if you'd like to make yourself comfortable. I'll go make coffee... or lunch?" And a frantic phone call to Zelenka, if he could finagle the privacy to do it. "Say, you don't happen to know what time it is in Prague, do you?"

Sheppard turned to give Rodney a funny look, then thought for a moment and said, "Nine."

Rodney blinked. "Truly?"

"I'm used to working in a lot of different time zones," the other man explained with a lopsided shrug. "Since you're trying to be all hospitable, think we could skip food for now and do a tour?"

"Tour, right. Haha." Shit, he was serious. At least there was some benefit to speaking to John Sheppard from a distance of two meters rather than two hundred kilometers. Visual cues made all the difference in deciphering his more ambiguous remarks. "Let me- I'll just... find somewhere to put these." He kicked his burden beside the other and managed to get the door closed. Why Sheppard needed luggage at all was a mystery, and Rodney noticed he hadn't been forthcoming as to the contents, despite the hint.

"It can wait." Sheppard turned on his heel and ambled off. His gaze didn't linger long in any one spot, but it touched everywhere. Rodney wondered if he was paying more attention to the clutter and the dust or the vintage geek decor, and which was the more obvious confirmation of Rodney's bachelorhood.

Rodney narrowed his shoulders and squeezed down the hall, yanking his bedroom door shut before Sheppard could get there.

Sheppard retaliated by peering through the safety windows to where Rodney's unmade bed and open underwear drawer were on display. "Interesting set up you've got."

"Yes, well, I warned you about the place." The irritating man refused to be hustled or herded, insisting on setting his own pace while Rodney crowded behind on his heels. He wasn't a tour guide, damn it, didn't know what to do other than offer the occasional inane remark such as, "This is the kitchen." Like the refrigerator, stove, and sink weren't dead giveaways.

Eventually Sheppard's route looped them back to the pile of luggage in the hall. Hands jammed deep in the pockets of his flight suit, he pivoted abruptly and shifted his attention from his surroundings to his companion. "Nice," he declared, "but where am I gonna sleep?"

"Sleep?" Rodney repeated. Understanding dawned slowly, like a cold engine sputtering to catch.

Sheppard nudged a duffel bag with his boot. "You didn't think I flew all the way up here just to reminisce for a few hours, did you?"

John Sheppard expected to sleep here. Like some kind of uninvited house guest! Rodney's hands flapped, driving the suggestion away. "This isn't- There's a motel- You can't stay here!"

"Give me one good reason why not," Sheppard was equally composed and amused. He'd anticipated -- or worse, provoked -- Rodney's reaction.

"There's no room," Rodney mumbled. Who was he kidding? The control room alone was large enough that his furniture, huddled together at one end, appeared to be seeking safety in numbers.

"I'm used to living on base. I don't take up much space."

"I don't have a spare bed," Rodney tried again. "If I did, Jeannie would want to come visit me, and that would be a disaster, so I-"

Sheppard shouldered the lighter of his two bags and headed for Rodney's bedroom. "Not a problem, you can sleep on the sofa. Mind grabbing the other one for me?"

"Yes I mind!"

Pausing, Sheppard glanced back. Which meant he'd heard, which meant that Rodney's brain-to-mouth filter had failed, because that wasn't supposed to have been out loud. "Hey, normally I'd offer, but the doc would have my head if I did anything to strain my ribs while they're healing. No sleeping on the couch," he started listing forbidden activities, "no lifting heavy objects, no acrobatic sex... or was that strenuous exercise? I can never remember the difference."

Oh god, oh god. John Sheppard wanted to sleep in his bed. Rodney followed, cursing and dragging the heavy duffel. Admitting defeat in posture if not words. "But- I need a special mattress for my back..."

"Perfect -- just what the doctor ordered. I'll be back in fighting trim in no time." When Rodney neared, Sheppard gave him a backhanded slap on the chest. "This'll be great, you'll see."

That could have been either a promise or a threat, until Rodney noticed Sheppard's victorious grin. Then he knew which it was for sure.

In the end, Rodney had taken advantage of Sheppard using the bathroom -- It was clean, wasn't it? Marginally? -- to wade into his bedroom unsupervised and kick incriminating evidence beneath the bed, into the closet, and strip off the sheets to wash them. Then, arms laden with laundry, he'd directed Sheppard to the living room while he'd retreated to the kitchen. Even if Sheppard didn't want coffee, Rodney needed something to fortify himself, damn it, and it was too early in the day for a stiff drink.

He took the time to survey his cabinets, and realized there was a lot more he needed. So, a trip to town.

What if Sheppard wanted to go? What if he didn't want to change out of his flight suit first? What would people say? What would they think? What if they'd heard the helicopter?

What if Steve showed up and started in with his dumb questions, and Sheppard and Rodney hadn't gotten a cover story straight, and both answered different things at the same time? At least they wouldn't screw up when Steve asked if Sheppard was Rodney's boyfriend -- Steve would definitely ask -- because the truth was easy. No! Although Sheppard might embellish his reply, something like: Hell no, I didn't even know McKay was a fag. Then Steve would try to make Sheppard eat his own teeth, and while that could be a fight worth watching, it was also a scenario to be avoided at all costs. Despite everything, Rodney sort of liked Sheppard, and had risked his ass to get him out of the woods in one piece. Was it too much to ask that he stay that way for a while?

Rodney wondered how Sheppard would handle being offered Pop Tarts for lunch.

He didn't have to find out, because when he returned to the control room, Sheppard was asleep on the couch. Feet propped up on the coffee table, he was wedged into the corner against the armrest, head lolling back, looking uncomfortable.

It was the boots that did it. They were so foreign, with their heavy, utilitarian soles, the tread pattern worn down from abundant use. From there, Rodney's gaze drifted up, cataloging the way Sheppard's face looked even more wan when relaxed; the way both of his hands made loose fists in his lap; the fact that he felt safe enough to let himself be made vulnerable by sleep.

Rodney watched longer than was polite, thinking things like he's safe and he's here. He watched as long as he needed to believe those things, at last. Then he crept away to fetch a pillow.

Sheppard woke when he got close, which was a relief, because Rodney hadn't known what to do with the pillow, where to tuck it for the greatest benefit. Sheppard really needed to do that for himself; besides, startling strange men while they slept was a good way to end up with a black eye. Sometimes, they came up disoriented and swinging. It took Sheppard's odd, bleary expression for Rodney to realize that he was clutching the pillow across his chest in the classic movie villain I-am-about-to-smother-you-in-your-sleep pose. He squeaked and dropped the thing like it was on fire.

The motion was almost languid, Sheppard's arm drifting to snag the pillow out of midair. Of course, Rodney had reasoned that a hotshot pilot would have damned good reflexes and the hand-eye coordination to match. But the evidence in action was startling, another hammer blow on the realization that was incrementally being driven home. Like the boots on his coffee table; like Sheppard's too-handsome face and easy, intimate smiles.

"Thanks," Sheppard said, jamming the pillow behind his head. He squirmed for comfort, crossing his arms. One of his long sleeves crept up, baring a wrist dusted with dark hair, the wide band of a very business-like watch. "I still get tired easy, and the flight up here took more out of me than I expected."

Rodney couldn't rip his eyes away. Thank god, Sheppard's were drifting closed again. Maybe he'd been caught gawking, and Sheppard was doing him a courtesy. "Oh. I didn't sleep well for a long time, either. And I'm not the one who was stuck in the woods." That probably wasn't a good thing to bring up. Who the hell would want a reminder of something so miserable? Quick, change the subject! "I'd offer you the bed, but the sheets aren't dry yet, and..."

"This s'fine." Sheppard's lips barely twitched out the words.

"I... um... need to run into town for some supplies. I could do that now, if you don't mind being left here alone."

"Mmhm."

"Then I'll just..." Rodney started backing for the doorway, until he remembered that Sheppard wasn't watching, and it wouldn't matter if he turned tail and unceremoniously fled. So he did exactly that.

He missed seeing one of Sheppard's eyes, the one that was cracked just enough, drop the rest of the way shut.

The helicopter in his front yard had refreshed Rodney's horror. He'd had to maneuver his car around its grotesque bulk just to reach his driveway, and then he'd spent the kilometer down to the main road suppressing yet another panic attack.

The safe and here had sunk in, hit bottom. Now Rodney had to contend with concepts like: Sheppard was dangerous, Sheppard's motives were unknown. Sheppard was intelligent and engaging... okay, that was an old lesson, he'd just needed a refresher course. But the chapter where Sheppard was attractive enough to make Rodney fall a tiny bit in love with him -- more than the fraction he already was -- that was new. New and distressing as fuck.

So. Left or right?

Rodney's hands redoubled their grip on the steering wheel, but his foot didn't lift off the brake.

One direction for town. One for the highway. He could still flee the country... except he hadn't packed any of his things, didn't have his passport, just the clothes on his back and twenty bucks in his wallet. He had nothing of value he could trade on the Russian black market except his body or his brain. (Oh, who was he kidding on the body part?)

Lack of options made his indecision all the more troubling; he wasn't accustomed to either. Then again, he'd never been so far out of his league in his entire life.

What would Sheppard do if Rodney just didn't return? After that stint in the woods, it wouldn't be surprising if the guy had developed abandonment issues. How long would he hang around waiting? A day? More? Would he still sleep in Rodney's bed? Would he poke through Rodney's things, piecing together a clearer picture of a man he barely knew?

He could be doing that right now. He could be trolling through Rodney's underwear drawer, or snickering at the impending expiration date on the (unopened) box of condoms in Rodney's nightstand. Oh god, only the world's largest idiot would leave John Sheppard alone in his house.

Turning around wasn't fast enough. Rodney seriously considered backing up his driveway, until he remembered that backing was only easy when there weren't obstacles to avoid. Like hundreds of trees. And his driveway was about as straight as Elton John... Not to mention, Sheppard would probably want to know why he'd returned early without any supplies, and Rodney could hardly explain that he'd been worried about Sheppard unearthing his stash of Bel Ami videos.

Sheppard might sleep for a while, might wake and not remember how long Rodney had been gone. He definitely wouldn't know how long a trip to town could take. He might be cautious, and keep his snooping to a minimum. But the next time Rodney left him alone... okay, so there couldn't be a next time. This was no longer risk management; it was damage control.

Shunning the turn signal, Rodney yanked the steering wheel to the right and stomped on the gas. Driving haphazardly, one hand on the wheel and only one eye on the road, he groped his cell phone out of his pocket and punched up Zelenka's number.

After a few rings, Radek's faux pleasant voice answered, "Rodney! To what miracle do I owe the pleasure of this call?"

"Fuck off," Rodney gritted, dodging a sign post that had no business being so close to the shoulder of the road. "This is officially an emergency and I need your help."

"You need my help and... I'm sorry, what did you just ask me to do?"

"Are you deaf or something? I said- Wait, scratch that."

Radek snorted. "You really are losing your form, you realize. First, you call at a normal time without managing to interrupt me in any way. Then you- Well, for anyone else I would say they were being rude, but for you that was nearly civil."

"I'm serious," Rodney begged.

"Then apologize."

"What? What for? Oh, right. I'm sorry I told you to fuck off. Now if you're done being butt hurt maybe we can focus on my emergency?"

"Maybe I'm not done," Radek replied primly. "Maybe this isn't about fuck off. Maybe I am still annoyed from the last time I spoke to you, when you pulled that stunt with Steve."

"That wasn't a stunt! I actually was in danger of sleeping with him! But- Just-" The words jammed, couldn't be ejected fast enough. "Forget Steve! Sheppard! This is about Sheppard!"

The pause said he more than had Zelenka's attention. "The crazy man from the woods? I thought he was imaginary."

"Not crazy," Rodney whimpered. "Imaginary... I only wish. My imagination didn't come close, and I must have wasted entire afternoons wondering what he looked like. There are things I totally didn't expect! I mean, lanky's generally not my type. And there is no way that hair spent any significant amount of time under a helmet."

"Hair? What-"

"Yeah, you know." With one hand snapping rapidly, and the other pressing his phone to his ear, that left no hands to steer the car out of oncoming traffic. Thankfully there wasn't any. "I'm sure you've dated someone who was fussy about their hair, always teasing it and putting tons of crap in it, and you're not allowed to touch it because you'll mess it up."

"Well-"

"And then you take them in the bedroom for a round of hot, nasty sex, and the next thing you know it's all matted with sweat and sticking up in inappropriate spots."

Radek considered. "Okay, yes. I do know what you're talking about."

"Yes, like that! Nobody should look like that all the time." Like he'd just rolled off of somebody's pillow. Somebody else's pillow, because nothing even remotely like John Sheppard had ever been in Rodney's bed. At least not concurrent with Rodney. But tonight, Sheppard wanted to- Oh god.

"Rodney, you are speaking nonsense," Zelenka warned him. "What does your emergency have to do with amazing sex hair?"

Rodney blew out a sigh that was embarrassingly close to a whine. "I told you, Sheppard!"

"Is the emergency, or has amazing sex hair?" And god, the only way Rodney knew Zelenka wasn't doing it on purpose was the absence of hysterical laughter. Zelenka never had been good at holding that sort of thing inside.

"Yes, and yes!" Rodney snapped, slowing to just under the speed limit to roll through a stop sign on the outskirts of town.

Zelenka processed in silence for a moment. Then, "Wait. How do you know what this Sheppard looks like?"

"I was beginning to wonder when you'd traded in your brain for a bowl of lukewarm tapioca. Sheppard turned up on my doorstep this morning."

Radek was impressed enough to hum a few words of Czech. "I know you are not accustomed to visitors, living where you do. How did you know it was him?"

"He introduced himself," Rodney defended, realizing that Sheppard had done nothing of the sort.

"And you believed him." Zelenka clearly disapproved. Which was only rational. Hell, Rodney disapproved, just not enough to stop himself.

"He has a peculiar way of saying- That is, I recognized his voice." Rodney's favorite parking space wasn't available, but the one he took was closer to the grocery store, which suited him just fine. He dropped the car into park, flung open the door... and attempted to decapitate himself on the safety belt he'd forgotten to unbuckle. Ow, ow, fuck, ow.

"I hear choking. Are you all right?"

"Fine," Rodney wheezed, stumbling to the sidewalk. "Little equipment malfunction. I'm good."

Zelenka sounded skeptical. "Is something on fire?"

"What is it with you and fire?"

"Did you never wonder, Rodney, why the labs in which you were scheduled to work came equipped with extra fire extinguishers?"

"No," he snorted. "Though now that you mention it... Augh! Not relevant, totally not relevant!" He might have continued shouting, except the clerk behind the counter at the grocery store had a reputation for gossip, and she'd fixed Rodney with a hungry stare the minute he'd burst through the door. He dropped his tone, hissing, "Can we please reminisce later? You know, sometime when Sheppard isn't alone in my house going through all my stuff?"

"He's- You let him- Now whose brain has been traded for porridge, eh?"

"I didn't think about it until it was too late."

"You should not have let him inside in the first place! Even if he is what he claims to be, you have no proof outside of his word."

Rodney was half way down the first aisle when it occurred to him that two weeks worth of supplies would never fit in his arms -- especially not when one arm was holding a phone to his head. (He'd be damned before he got one of those cordless ear pieces. People who used them in public looked like they were crazy, wandering around talking to themselves.) He backtracked, snagged a shopping cart. "This guy's legit, Radek. He landed a helicopter -- a military helicopter, with guns! -- in my front yard. Scared the shit out of me! I don't know why he came, or what he wants. He hasn't tried to shoot me; he's had ample opportunity. I think he plans to stay a while. And since I already made the mistake of leaving him alone, I need to be sure that I stock up on everything I could conceivably need for the next two weeks, so that I don't have to make additional trips to town. That's where you come in."

Oh shit, here came the laughter. "A shopping list. You need me to make you a shopping list. That's it, isn't it?"

Rodney couldn't spare the time to deny it. "Yes," he growled. "The essentials, the extras, I need it all. So start listing. And for god's sake, don't forget anything!"

"Hm." There was typing in the background, always a positive sign. "Coffee," Radek suggested.

"Got it." It was safe to calculate his normal intake and just double it, right? There was no way Sheppard consumed as much coffee as Rodney did... right?

"Milk, eggs, butter..."

"Good, great. Keep 'em coming."

"Beer. Toilet tissue. Aspirin."

"Oh, good call." It was a small store, not one of those mega-marts like a larger city could support. Still, pushing the cart quickly grew cumbersome, with Zelenka's list forcing Rodney to backtrack every few items. He abandoned the cart at the end of an aisle and started making strategic strikes on foot.

"Condoms," Zelenka snickered.

Rodney fumbled his phone, almost caught it, then ended up chasing it as it skittered across the floor. At least the call was still connected when he shoved it back against his ear. "The man is American military, and you are an asshole who obviously wants to see his best friend sent to prison! And I promise you that I will seek revenge for this betrayal!"

"Bread, toothpaste, laundry detergent..."

"Damn it, slow down! Those things are on opposite sides of the store!"

"Well then, you'd better hustle. Every minute you waste here is a minute Sheppard could be making humiliating discoveries in your CD collection. Didn't Jeannie give you the Celine Dion greatest hits album for your birthday?"

It had been retribution for forgetting her birthday the same year. "Fuck." Rodney jogged a few steps, then broke into a run.

Rodney had this thing about pairs, and it extended to his shopping.

Maybe he'd never liked to see solitary food items looking lonely in his cart, or maybe it was the techie in him, craving redundancy. Whatever it was, it made buying for two seem less unnatural than it ought to. It also saved him from being asked awkward questions at the check out, because the clerk was nosy enough to already know about his strange habit.

The one thing Rodney hadn't anticipated was the sheer volume which comprised two weeks worth of staples, times two. His cart groaned under the weight, and insisted on getting hung up on every crack in the sidewalk on the trip back to the car.

Between the running and the bending and the lifting, Rodney's back was beginning to complain as well. He wasn't looking forward to loading and unloading the car. (Damn it, he'd helped Sheppard carry stuff from the helicopter; Rodney had better damned well have help getting the groceries inside!) Therefore, he wasn't inclined to refuse when a helpful hand lifted two of the heavier bags for him and deposited them in the back of the wagon, with the growing pile.

The hand belonged to plaid flannel arm; the arm belonged to Steve. "Hey Dr McKay, lemme help you with those," he offered.

Just great. Trust the man to disappear when Rodney wanted a self-destructive pity fuck, then turn up again after Rodney had regained his senses and wanted nothing- Whoa, wait. "Steve. That would be... nice. Thanks." Rodney stumbled aside to give him room to work, cautious as always to keep his backside out of harm's way.

Steve positively beamed as he shifted the mountain of groceries; Rodney had the oddest urge to tip him. "This is a lot," he observed. Well, for Steve it counted as an observation. For anyone else it would have been a statement of the excruciatingly obvious. "You stocking up or something?"

"Or something," Rodney evaded. Come to think, it hadn't taken Steve long to find him. Almost as if Steve had been lurking by his car; like he'd seen Rodney roll into town and tracked him as far as this block of shops. He'd probably decided to wait for Rodney to exit rather than check them one at a time and risk missing him. Rodney tested his suspicion. "Thanks for the help, but isn't it close to lunch time? I hope I'm not interrupting."

"Nah, I just finished." Steve's gaze darted in the direction of the bar, and he licked his lips.

Bingo. Guilty son of a bitch had probably abandoned his window booth as soon as he'd spotted Rodney's car. In fact, Rodney would bet good money that Steve's lunch was at this very minute growing very cold. "Oh, then I suppose there's no hurry." Serves you right for lying. I hope you've got a beer getting warm, too.

Steve hid his dismay passably well. "Nope, none. Say! Did you notice the helicopter this morning? It flew right over town, looked like it was headed kinda in your direction. I know you're interested in strange stuff, and I dunno if that counts as strange, but I figured I'd mention it anyway. Just in case."

Just in case... what? Just in case Rodney hadn't noticed the damned thing land in his front yard? "Uh, thanks."

After Steve finished with the groceries, he insisted on closing the wagon's tailgate. Then he didn't move, just sort of hulked there next to the bumper, and it took Rodney a moment to realize that the positioning was intentional. He was trapped between two cars, with Steve cutting off his forward exit. Oh, sure, he could always retreat out the rear, but the second he turned around he'd be lucky if Steve's eyes were the only things all over his ass. So Rodney tried to stare him down, willing Steve to stagger back under the sheer malevolence of his glare.

It might have worked, if Steve had been looking at him. Instead, he was watching his finger as it traced a grove on the fender of Rodney's car. "So, I was thinking we could get together for dinner later..."

Oh no you weren't, because thinking requires a brain. Rodney was convinced that the only thing beneath Steve's mop of hair was more hair. "I'm sorry," he began, which was one of those stupid rote responses that tended to get him into trouble. He wasn't sorry at all! He didn't want to let Steve down gently; in fact, this was the perfect opportunity to deploy Zelenka's firm fuck off.

He wasn't fast enough. Steve looked up at him -- he was taller than Rodney, how was that even possible? -- and Rodney swallowed down everything he'd been about to say. The expression Steve wore was hopeful, so hopeful, like he wasn't aware he was tottering on the brink of disillusionment. And Rodney, finding himself burdened with previously undiscovered reserves of decency, couldn't quite push him over the edge. Instead he explained, stumbling, "I can't- I have company back at the house."

"Company? Oh." Steve's shoulders wilted. Then a fresh spark of interest caught behind his eyes. "Ohhh."

"No no no, it's just an old friend!" Now he was trying to reassure Steve, how dumb was that? "They dropped in unexpectedly, and we, um, have a lot of catching up to do. So much has happened since we last saw each other." Which was never.

"You could bring, uh, them too." So now they were playing the pronoun game.

"Him," Rodney stressed. "And I don't think that would be a good idea." His hands wanted to fidget; he made fists and pulled them up into his cuffs. "We're kinda into the same things. We'd just talk a lot of shop. The stuff we're into is really, really boring."

Wrong excuse. Steve perked up even further. "He hunts aliens too?"

"No!" Rodney squeaked. He turned the too-high sound into nervous laughter. "God no, and you must never bring that up around him!" Rodney intended to do his best to prevent the two from ever meeting, but Steve had that lousy habit of turning up in unexpected places. "He doesn't believe in aliens, and doesn't approve of what I do because... he's a scientist! Whenever we get together, we mainly talk about science. With all the, you know, big words..."

"Oh," again. It was thoughtful, suggesting Steve's determination was intact, just waylaid by curiosity. "Some other time," he promised absently.

Shit, what have I done? Given time, the situation might have still been salvageable. But time was the one thing Rodney didn't have, not while Sheppard was alone with all of Rodney's stuff. So he agreed, "Some other time. Now, if you'll just-" He made move-the-fuck-out-of-the-way motions with his hands until Steve took the hint.

After that, he figured it was Steve's problem if Steve was still standing behind the car when Rodney cranked the engine, dropped it into reverse, and shot out of the parking space.

The good news was, Sheppard was in the control room when Rodney returned. The bad news was, he wasn't on the couch where Rodney had left him. The even worse news was that he'd changed clothes, redecorated -- if removing luggage from the front hallway counted -- and helped himself to Rodney's beer.

Rodney dropped the grocery bags he'd been carrying and glowered. At least, he would have glowered if Sheppard hadn't chosen that moment to stand and greet him, and incidentally rekindle Rodney's love affair with BDUs.

Sheppard's zip up, long sleeve shirt wasn't regulation, but the trousers... oh, those trousers. Rodney had a couple similar pairs stashed in the bottom of a drawer somewhere, a guilty little affinity he'd taken from his stint with the Air Force. (It was impossible to argue with the convenience of thigh pockets that could hold a cordless screwdriver and a pair of wire strippers on one side, two cans of soda and a power bar on the other.) However, he was certain his had never hung -- clung? -- quite the way Sheppard's did, molding across muscle as he moved, the fabric looking faded and soft from too many washings.

Rodney got the message. Both messages. The one that said I'm the hottest piece of ass you'll never touch might have been unintentional. The one that troubled Rodney was the one that warned I can do casual, but never mistake me for a civilian.

"Help you with those?" Sheppard inquired, pointing at the groceries with his beer.

Of the sundry replies Rodney had at his disposal, perhaps the one he least expected to hear himself fire back was, "I have glasses, you know."

"It's okay, I don't mind drinking from the bottle." To demonstrate, Sheppard lifted it to his lips and took a swallow; somehow, it was balanced by the neck in the crook of his thumb and forefinger.

Rodney averted his eyes and scrambled to retrieve the bags. "There's more in the car," he grumbled, retreating for the kitchen.

That was a tactical error. The kitchen was small, and small translated to intimate once it was crammed full of two men and a couple dozen shopping bags. Sheppard tried to help put things away, until Rodney, in desperation, threw a package of frozen peas at his head and told him to go sit at the table, out of the way, since he didn't know where anything went anyway.

Sheppard obeyed, and kept himself entertained by dragging his finger through the condensation ring his bottle left on the tabletop while Rodney assembled a late lunch.

"Why are you even here?" Rodney demanded over his half-finished turkey sandwich.

They'd had to scrounge up a second chair -- a stool actually -- and the height advantage was all Sheppard's as he glanced over from the crumbs on his plate and said, "I told you already. I'm on medical leave until my ribs pass muster. Figured I'd take the opportunity to come and thank you personally for everything you did."

"And since you've been such a good boy, the Air Force just gave you a helicopter when you announced your intention to leave the country." Rodney dropped into the combative verbal give and take he and Sheppard had shared over the radio, and it won him back some of his equilibrium.

Sheppard made a what-can-you-do face. "They kind of insisted."

"Okay, that's the official story. Now I want you to come clean with the unofficial one."

"Unofficially... I'm grounded until the puddle jumper is repaired. The best estimates on when that will be are appalling. The day after I went down, two project members, one on base and one from Area 51, just didn't show up for work. The assumption is that they're our saboteurs. The suspicion is that they weren't working alone, and that their disappearance is supposed to throw us off the scent of their associates, who are still sitting pretty under cover."

Right beneath the Air Force's nose. "Where they could make another try at you."

"That's a concern, yes," Sheppard told him frankly. "I'm in the interesting position of being too valuable to risk in the open, but too risky for a temporary reassignment. On paper, I'm the man who doesn't exist." His smirk was perhaps too fierce, as if self-deprecating humor was his antidote for the loss of identity.

"So they gave you a helicopter and told you to get lost." That was... pretty shitty, once he thought about it.

"Not exactly. They told me to get lost, but take a chopper in case they need to call me back to base in a hurry. Commercial airlines aren't fast enough," he elaborated.

"And that's it. You're just... here, for the duration." Rodney craved an explanation that was reasonable and complete, and this one came so, so close.

Sheppard somehow shrugged using just his eyebrows. "Couldn't think of a better plan, so yeah. The brass knows where I am, but no one else does; there's no possibility I was followed. This place is as safe as any I could be, right now."

"You're just going to leave a helicopter parked on my front yard."

"Why not? 's not like the bears are gonna steal my hub caps, Rodney."

Irritatingly good point. "And this whole-" Rodney waved a hand back and forth between them. "I mean, I already know way more about this shit than I'm supposed to. You haven't tried to arrest me or shoot me, and you would have by now if it was on the agenda." He swallowed, because his curiosity was fucking killing him -- had been non-stop since the first time Sheppard's voice had crackled at him out of the audio archives. And Sheppard had promised to answer all of Rodney's questions if they both came through the ordeal alive. Which left Rodney stranded between the fear that John wouldn't honor that promise, and the equal fear that he would.

"We can talk," Sheppard assured, understanding the heart of Rodney's concerns no matter how convoluted their presentation. "I'm not trying to scare you, but there are certain factions that would take an unhealthy interest in you if they knew that you know what you do. Arming yourself with more information can't hurt."

"Yes, I get that." Rodney's voice dropped, and he leaned forward to compensate. "But is it... safe?"

Sheppard's lips tugged at the edge, like he knew a great secret, but instead of answering he fished around in one of those huge, marvelous pockets and withdrew a PDA. He put it on the table and pushed it with his fingertips the short distance over to Rodney.

It wasn't a model Rodney knew. Not surprising, given that the tech was big and clunky, probably a decade or two out of date. Broken too. When Rodney tapped the buttons the screen stayed dark. "Okay, explain." He crossed his arms; Sheppard had scored a direct hit, baiting his curiosity like that, but Rodney sure as hell wasn't going to advertise how effective the tactic was.

When Sheppard touched the device again, it powered up obediently. He stretched his hand back, leaving the thing near Rodney's elbow. "I scanned your house for bugs."

"You scanned my- Electronic surveillance, you mean?"

"While you were at the store. You're clean, by the way.

Rodney was only half paying attention to the device's screen, which displayed an operating system -- and hell, a language -- he didn't know. "Did you plant any?"

"No."

"Well, that's good to know. It's a shame I can't be sure you're telling the- Oh my god." Rodney's instinct was to recoil. Funny how his hands missed the memo, and were dragging the device -- the fucking alien device -- up to his face for a closer inspection. "The alphabet is the same as on the ship's control crystals. What the hell is this thing?" On the screen, a couple of dots remained stationary inside a wire frame structure that looked suspiciously like the floor plan of his house.

One dot trailed Sheppard when he went to the fridge for a second beer. "Life signs detector, they call it. I know -- dumb name. It's more like an everything detector. I'm not supposed to have it, but thought I might need it. Besides, they can't even use it without me to turn it on."

Rodney waved the detector around, then aimed it at Sheppard. "You stole an alien Newton." His eyes never left the blips on the screen.

"Borrowed."

"Oh, just like I borrowed the spaceship blueprints off that server?"

Sheppard teased, "I thought you preferred 'liberate'."

"Whatever. Get your ass over here and show me how to calibrate this thing. I am dying to take it for a spin."

It was a bribe, plain and simple.

Rodney couldn't have cared less.

While it would have been fascinating to learn how the tech worked, he'd gathered that disassembling the everything-detector into its component parts did not fall under Sheppard's blanket: I think you've got the basics, have at it. So he'd devised a battery non-invasive tests to determine the detector's range, sensitivity, and limitations.

The range was pretty good. Not all the way to town, but he had picked up a humanoid-size-or-larger blip roaming about four kilometers from his house. (The or-larger part had been troubling.)

Sensitivity was excellent, though he also could have done without the knowledge that insect and arachnoid residents at chez McKay outnumbered humans at a ratio of approximately thirteen to one.

An impromptu game of hide and seek had confirmed that the detector read through both drywall and cinder block. Rodney's bemoaning the lack of a lead-lined closet -- to perform what he'd dubbed the Kryptonite Test -- had led Sheppard to point out that only the device needed to be shielded. After setting up a video camera to record the results, they'd sifted through some of the old equipment left from the building's cable television heyday, looking for anything solid, metal, and thick.

The detector read through six millimeter alloy of undetermined composition topped by industrial beige lead-based paint, too. That finding had led to a discussion concerning the potential for lead-based paint to thwart Superman's x-ray vision. And that was how Rodney had found himself curled on the couch with Sheppard and a stack of old comic books, and absolutely no comprehension of the steps he'd taken to get there.

The strangest thing was, it wasn't awkward at all. Until he thought about it. Then he nearly jumped out of his skin the next time Sheppard's knee bumped his; he was on his feet before the conscious decision to move had been finalized.

The awkwardness spread. Sheppard looked startled, and Rodney pretended not to notice the way his right hand groped where a gun holster might normally rest. "Something wrong?"

"No, no, nothing wrong." Except replace "nothing" with "everything". Rodney made soothing, stay-seated gestures. "I just-" Just what? Just finally noticed how far he'd let down his guard? Just recalled how long it had been since that couch had seen any amorous action? Don't make excuses, you can't lie to save yourself. Deflect, deflect! "I just realized how late it was. How does supper sound?"

Sheppard rose anyway. Stretched. One of those luxurious stretches, with his arms clasped far above his head and his back arched. Rodney's eyes slammed shut when the hem of John's shirt lifted enough to bare a sliver of skin. They jostled open again when John nudged him. "Sounds great. I'm gonna need something in my stomach if I'm gonna keep drinking."

Rodney followed him into the kitchen where, good to his word, Sheppard snagged another beer. Rodney had lost count somewhere around four; the man was far from drunk, but he was also maintaining a steady, almost methodical pace. "Should you be drinking?" He wanted to add "so much", except that it wasn't, not really. It only seemed that way when Rodney started thinking in terms of quantity rather than rate of consumption.

"Absolutely." He protected his hand with the cuff of his sleeve and twisted off the cap.

"It might cause interactions. You know, with whatever painkillers you're taking."

Bottle rose to lips, paused. "I'm not on painkillers. I don't fly doped if I can help it, and my ribs aren't more than a nuisance these days." He drank, then added, "And a nice cold six-pack was one of the things I promised myself if I ever made it out of the woods. This is the first opportunity I've had to indulge myself, and I'm taking advantage of it."

Oh. Rodney's mouth formed the shape, if not the sound.

"Want one?"

"I don't drink."

Sheppard waggled the evidence at him. "This was in your fridge."

"Very well, I prefer not to drink alone." Supper was going to have to be simple. Rodney's cooking rarely rose above adequate, and never when he was distracted. He couldn't think of anything more distracting than John Sheppard leaning skew-hipped against his kitchen table.

"I don't count as company?" He tried to pout, which should have looked ridiculous. Grown men didn't pout. Military men didn't pout. Major John F. Sheppard, USAF, should not be physically capable of doing that sulky bottom lip thing -- a weapon which Rodney had surmised existed solely in the arsenal of young girls. So much for that theory.

Perhaps it was a result of being off balance. The truth came easily. "I have trouble drinking with company too. See, I had this roommate in grad school. Czech guy. I think he was weaned straight to vodka from breast milk. It was dangerous to get drunk with him. He had twice the tolerance of anyone else, and could get real creative with the permanent black marker he always kept in his shirt pocket." That was how Rodney had discovered that Zelenka actually liked him: Radek had restrained his body art to portions of Rodney's anatomy that could be hidden beneath clothing.

Of course, that had given Zelenka rein to be even more vulgar than usual, and until the marks had scrubbed off a few days later, Rodney had had to piss with his eyes closed.

Sheppard drifted to the fridge. "I promise not to draw on you."

"That beer was a housewarming present," Rodney balked. "It's over a year old."

"It is a little flat," Sheppard agreed, "but no worse than the stuff we got in Afghanistan." He was starting to do that, drop tantalizing hints as if to see which ones Rodney would follow, and how far. It had to be deliberate, the way his gaze rested on Rodney like a question.

Rodney shuffled in place, storing the information for later. "I bought more at the store today." Zelenka's suggestion, god bless him.

"Holdout," Sheppard rolled his eyes, even though it was possible he'd seen Rodney unpack it that afternoon. He dumped the rest of his bottle down the sink.

Instead of Afghanistan, there was something else Rodney could ask about, while Sheppard seemed amenable. "What other sorts of promises did you make to yourself, when you were stuck out there?"

Sheppard's eyes flicked in the direction of the control room. "Promised I'd finish reading War and Peace."

Shit, shit. The library copy... Rodney had left it sitting out. He hadn't thought to hide it. It was... god, it was sitting on the end table next to the couch, and there was no way Sheppard could have missed it, missed the connection. So he'd used it, and now Rodney's options were to either turn chickenshit or ante up. His chin jutted out. "I have audio logs of most of your transmissions. If, you know, you were ever interested..." In revisiting what had to be one of the more miserable experiences of John Sheppard's life.

It wasn't the offer that Sheppard paused to contemplate. "Maybe. Eventually. Not today." Then, slyly, "You listen to them all?"

"Yes."

"Hm." Tap, tap went his finger against the empty bottle. "Where did you say you were hiding the good stuff?"

That was how it worked, after that.

Sheppard answered any question Rodney asked, so long as Rodney was careful not to ask questions that began with "why". Information flowed freely. (Sometimes too freely; Rodney had to start asking himself whether or not he really wanted the answer to a particular question before posing it to Sheppard.) Reasoning, logic, and motives did not.

Rodney thought about it that night, laying awake in the dark. He couldn't decide if Sheppard expected him to infer motives from everything else, or if the subject was simply off limits. Until he understood the rules, he was exercising caution.

His back twinged, already longing for his own bed. He flopped on his side, rearranging the sofa's throw pillow under his head. Sheppard had his real pillows, just like Sheppard had his bedroom, and his bed, and a fresh set of sheets, while Rodney made do with a blanket procured from the helicopter. It was green and scratchy; the antiseptic smell that clung to it should have been disconcerting. But Rodney's brain had given it some sort of irrational connection to John, so it didn't trouble him.

That was the most disconcerting thing of all.

Was Sheppard having trouble falling asleep? Were the strange surroundings bothering him? Was he anxious about sleeping in such close proximity to another person?

Since the Air Force knew where Sheppard was, did that mean they knew where Rodney lived?

Rodney examined those questions, then put them on the list along with the rest he preferred not knowing the answers to.

There was another list, a shorter one, of questions Rodney thus far lacked the fortitude to ask. It started with: How long was Sheppard going to stay?

The next morning, there was coffee waiting for him, and a gun in a million pieces on his kitchen table.

Both were Sheppard's doing.

"Morning," John greeted, like it wasn't six fucking AM. Like the ambrosial scent of caffeine hadn't combined with his body's litany of complaints to finally drag Rodney awake.

"If the sun's not up 's not morning," he croaked, groping for the coffee machine, half intending to drink the stuff straight from the carafe.

Sheppard got in his way and put a steaming mug in his hands. "Sorry. I'm not- Time zones and sunlight don't mean much to my internal clock."

Rodney was in the tee-shirt and sweats he'd slept in. Sheppard was dressed. Unfair.

"This bother you?" Sheppard returned to his spot at the table and started expertly wielding a miniature brush. "It's another unshakable habit of a lifetime."

"No," Rodney decided, offering further, "I have a gun."

Okay, Sheppard didn't have to look at the piece he was scrubbing. He knew it well enough by touch. That was unnerving. "Shotgun in the front closet, I saw it."

Found it when you were snooping around yesterday, you mean. Rodney should have been upset by revelation, except he knew he'd have done the same thing in John's place. "I've never fired it," he defended, suddenly wanting to distance himself from Sheppard's familiarity with firearms. "My neighbors gave it to me when I moved in. Apparently I'm supposed to use it if a rabid moose ever tries to kick in my front door."

Two of the little pieces slid together with a click, also guided by touch. "But you know how, right?"

"Yes." Honesty got the better of him. "In theory." Which was just shy of admitting that most of his experience with weapons had come from first person shooters. "If I had to, I could always look up a manual online..."

One of Sheppard's eyebrows crept up in a dangerous fashion, while the rest of his gun pulled neatly together. He tested the action, then, satisfied, wrapped it in the cleaning rag before pocketing it. "Perfect. I was wondering what trouble we could get into today."

Rodney choked on a mouthful of coffee. "Oh no. No no, you can't be serious."

"The Air Force takes combat arms training and maintenance very seriously," Sheppard assured him, expression perfectly bland. He would have pulled it off too, if not for the alarming glint of mischief behind warm green eyes.

"But I- I'm not-" Oh god, I am so fucked. He acknowledged it for the first time while it was still an inkling -- long before it became the lesson he would learn to his detriment, to the core. Rodney was incapable of refusing John Sheppard much of anything, whereas John Sheppard was the sort of man who was capable of asking Rodney to follow him to hell.

Target practice in the woods wasn't hell, in Rodney's opinion. Merely in the neighborhood.

They set out late morning with the two guns -- Sheppard's standard issue M9, along with Rodney's battered secondhand shotgun, which Sheppard had identified as an M12, something of a classic -- a stack of homemade targets, and safety equipment purloined from the helicopter. Rodney had almost argued that Sheppard had planned this all along, the way equipment kept unexpectedly appearing from the helicopter. Except it made sense even to a civilian that the chopper crew -- if he was going to hang out with a pilot, he should remember to call it a chopper -- might need hearing and eye protection, so he'd gamely looped the drab olive headset around his neck.

Sheppard was in his damned aviators again. Rodney didn't know if they were supposed to be shatter resistant, or if he just wanted to look cool.

Rodney didn't look cool, coerced into wearing the hideous orange fleece jacket that had been a retirement gift from Zelenka. (Even the color nearly gave him an allergic reaction.) But Sheppard had insisted, smirking and quoting regulations about safety and visibility, and hell -- what was one more blow to Rodney's dignity after he'd caught John Sheppard digging through his coat closet? (In addition to the fleece, the bastard had unearthed a box of shotgun shells Rodney hadn't known existed, so complaints about the invasion of privacy had been summarily dismissed.)

"This looks good," John declared, squatting at the tree line to inspect an old stump. "Any houses or roads or anything in that direction?"

"Maybe a kilometer from here. I own all the land between." It sounded like a lot until one recalled that it was all trees and rocks and hillside, not useful for anything but clearcutting.

Nodding, Sheppard dropped the target, counted back ten paces, then settled in to explain the finer points of firearms handling with patience that, frankly, Rodney didn't deserve.

They started with the Beretta, which was somewhat less intimidating. Sheppard interrupted the lesson frequently to ask if Rodney was following. Every time, Rodney had to rip his attention away from the deft motions of Sheppard's hands on the gun to assure him that yes, he was- Okay no, he'd missed that part entirely. Would Sheppard mind repeating it? Again? Please?

Thank god -- thank god -- Sheppard didn't adjust Rodney's posture by pulling their bodies in close, like always happened in the movies. Rodney's nerves were stretched thin enough without Sheppard murmuring encouragement against his ear, perhaps nudging a knee between Rodney's legs to correct his stance...

"Rodney? You okay, buddy?"

"Shit, sorry, sorry. Could you show me that again?"

After an hour, he was judged safe with live ammunition. Safe, he gathered, meant that he was unlikely to shoot himself in the foot, because he was timid as hell every time he pulled the trigger; the recoil startled him even though he steeled himself for it; and he couldn't hit the target for shit.

Sheppard's turns with the Beretta left tiny clusters of holes in the paper, and even Rodney was aware that his ignorance with marksmanship left him less impressed than he should have been. And he was really damned impressed.

Handling the shotgun was easier once Rodney started imagining that the target was a zombie that wanted to eat his juicy, oversized brain. He was so delighted when he managed to put a spray of pellets more or less where he'd intended that Sheppard had to move them back another ten paces, pull the shotgun against his shoulder, and match Rodney's performance with his eyes closed.

He even took off the aviators first so Rodney would know he wasn't cheating.

And so what if Sheppard was a smug show-off bastard? So what if they spent half an hour picking spent shells out of the weeds, and returned to the house reeking of gunpowder? So what if Rodney had come perilously close on several occasions to making inappropriate passes at a man who probably didn't need the loaded gun in his hand to end Rodney's life in under five seconds?

It was seriously the best day that Rodney could recall in recent memory.

Rodney managed to hold out until seven o'clock, despite the tempting aroma wafting from the coffee maker.

Sheppard announced over breakfast -- his cooking, surprisingly edible -- that he wanted to see Rodney's big dish.

Rodney's response was to attempt to exhale coffee through his nose. "Oh, right, the satellite dish," he managed after he finished choking. "Sure, why not?"

So they spent the morning crawling over Rodney's roof. He attempted to extend John the same patience that John had extended him the previous day, but it was difficult, so difficult, to keep the discussion to the level of a layman's understanding when Sheppard kept asking such insightful questions. The first time might have been an accident, the second a fluke, but the third time it happened he let himself go, expounding the technical benefits and drawbacks of this particular type of motorized mount until Sheppard's eyes began to look a little glassy.

That probably shouldn't have been as vindicating as it was.

"So basically what you're saying is that you press a few buttons downstairs and this bad boy up here does all the work?"

Rodney knew a declaration of defeat when he heard one. "That's a vast simplification of the- Okay, basically, yes," he agreed. "I can show you the control system later."

Sheppard might have groaned; or it might have been a gust of wind catching the dish.

Rodney gave it a critical once-over. There was no telling how badly it had been knocked out of alignment by the landing heli- Chopper. Not to mention, it had gone far too long without a decent cleaning. And hey, what a coincidence? The day was mild, he had an extra pair of hands at his disposal, yes... yes, this could work. "Stay here," he told Sheppard, "and don't freak out when the dish starts to move. You can help me with something. There'll never be a better time for it, considering that I have to re-calibrate the damn thing anyway."

"Okay..." Sheppard said, warily shifting to a safe distance.

The motorized mount made as much racket as Rodney remembered; he would have given a lot to see Sheppard's face when the thing rumbled to life. And maybe it had been a little evil to leave him on the roof like that -- Rodney would contritely take the bitching out he was due -- but it wasn't as if it was unsafe.

Or so he'd thought.

When Rodney pulled himself back up the ladder, over the crest of the roof, the first thing his eyes fell upon was a black-clad figure stretched flat on its back.

"Oh my god, Sheppard!" He crossed the distance mostly on his knees, because he was already there from scrambling onto the roof, and it was easier than rising. Please don't be dead! fought What kind of idiot stands beneath a moving satellite dish?! to be the next thing out of his mouth. Thankfully he got out neither, because that was when John propped himself up on an elbow and squinted at Rodney.

He didn't look dead. Or hurt, actually. More like... bemused.

"Problem?" he asked, gifting Rodney with a slow, knowing smile.

Rodney tried to channel some of his panic into outrage -- with very limited success, considering that what he really wanted to do was kiss John in relief. "No. Yes! What are you doing?"

Sheppard reclined again, lacing his fingers behind his head. "Sunbathing."

"On my roof. In your clothes." When that failed to elicit a reaction, Rodney railed, "It's like fifteen degrees out!"

"What's that translate to in Fahrenheit?"

If the tactic was intended to distract Rodney and pull him up short, it worked. He considered, "I don't know, sixty-ish?"

"Beautiful weather for it," Sheppard agreed. Then, perhaps an apology, or perhaps something more significant, "It feels so damned good to have the sun on my face, after spending three solid weeks under a mountain. I never get used to it, being cut off from the sky."

Rodney sat down, hard, on his ass, and just stared.

Eventually Sheppard grew annoyed enough to crack and eye and drawl, "You gonna join me or what?"

Rodney would have liked to imagine that the satellite dish eventually got clean because he'd threatened to turn the pressure washer on John. (On the most gentle setting, of course.) The truth of it was that Sheppard's patch of sun had run out. It hadn't been large to begin with; when they stretched out side by side, their feet had never been in it at all.

That evening, Rodney made good on his threat to introduce Sheppard to the intricacies of the rest of the system, past and present functions included. Sheppard doggedly stuck through it, pressing Rodney to continue whenever Rodney paused to apologize for having to be so, well, technical. But his tenacity didn't preclude the glassy-eyed look from surfacing during some of the longer expositions.

The fourth time Rodney noticed it happening, he decided to rescue them both. He picked up the everything-detector from where Sheppard had, in a considerable display of trust, allowed it to remain since the experiments. "So I was thinking," he began, and was gratified to watch Sheppard come alert pretty damned fast, "if I ripped the guts out of this and patched it into the telescope, I bet I could discover some pretty interesting stuff."

No joke -- he really had considered the possibility. The detector's sensitivity might even be able to handle the sheer deluge of data he tried to monitor. His programs... okay, they worked for the big stuff, but what it really amounted to was trying to filter out subatomic particles with a chain link fence. And surely even Sheppard would appreciate the irony of using an alien device to search for evidence of extraterrestrial intelligence.

"I bet you could," Sheppard replied, lifting the detector out of Rodney's hands.

"I'm confident I could put it back together again when I was done," Rodney assured, just to be evil. "Well, reasonably confident."

Sheppard pulled the detector closer to his chest. "I don't..." he licked his lips, the first time Rodney could recall seeing him nervous, "-don't think that's such a good idea."

Rodney said breezily, "You're probably right. I mean, the components could be toxic or radioactive or worse. Still," he relented, "the technology is incredible. Maybe you can't appreciate it -- I guess nothing rates above 'pretty cool' once you've piloted a spaceship -- but trust me, it really is impressive."

Catching on at last, Sheppard thew him a perfunctory glare. "If it was really cool, it would play Pong."

Rodney had to admit, Sheppard totally won that one. Flawless victory, even.

He retaliated the next day by secretly programming his own version of Pong, complete with a stick-figure-quality head that was supposed to be Sheppard's -- you could tell by the crazy hair -- in the place of the bouncing dot. He installed it on his third-best laptop, gave it to John, and was rewarded by a burst of genuine laughter.

Point to Rodney.

Then Rodney had to worry about surviving the escalation of hostilities when Sheppard asked, "Does this thing have internet?" and retreated to the couch so Rodney couldn't see the devious things he was doing on the screen.

Sheppard had no misgivings about fighting on Rodney's turf. The next day, an unusual thing happened. A vehicle approached Rodney's house -- all the way up his driveway, past the damned chopper, right to his front door, where it deposited a man wearing a brown uniform. And while Rodney was still gripping his chest, trying to recover from a near-fatal heart attack induced by the unprecedented sound of his own doorbell, Sheppard went to sign for his package.

"UPS?" Rodney read the shipping label. "That was a UPS truck? Jesus, you could have warned me!"

"And spoil the surprise?" John returned blandly. He dropped the package on the kitchen counter, produced a knife that looked like something off a ninja's Christmas wish list from somewhere on his person, and began slicing it open with all due ceremony.

"You had it overnighted, didn't you? And you- Oh my god. You used your name. Your real name. To deliver a package. To my house. Are you insane?"

A last flourish of the wicked little knife had the box open. "Relax, Rodney. Obi-Wan Kenobi gets catalogs delivered here, and he's dead and imaginary."

"You read my junk mail?" Rodney squealed. And seriously, those catalogs were addressed to Ben Kenobi, a name practically innocuous to a non-geek. Sheppard was good.

"Your e-mail was password protected," Sheppard shrugged.

God help him, even staring straight at the man, Rodney couldn't tell if he was serious or not.

Sheppard leaned against the counter, crossing his ankles, and dangled a retail box in front of Rodney. "Have this yet?"

It was the latest in a series of loathsome American football video games. Of course Rodney didn't have it. The filth wasn't welcome in his home. And of course Sheppard knew that he didn't have it, because Sheppard had purchased the correct version for the game console Rodney owned, which meant that at some point Sheppard had browsed Rodney's collection. But admitting that he knew that Sheppard knew would have put him even farther behind in the points game, so he just sniffed, "No," with as much disdain as he could muster.

"Great." He at least put the knife away before giving Rodney one of those weirdly acceptable backhand slaps on the chest. "You're gonna love it."

"I'm learning to dread hearing you say that," Rodney whimpered, nevertheless allowing himself to be dragged to the living room.

The football game was just as hopelessly stupid as Rodney had feared -- right up until he figured out how to work the statistics to build a team that won no matter how badly he mismanaged it. Sheppard pouted and plied him with beers, perhaps hoping that Rodney's aptitude for cheating -- his words, not Rodney's -- would degrade.

It didn't. But Rodney was feeling downright affectionate toward John Sheppard. Hell, he could even man up to it and admit (privately) that the football game rated just as high on the unexpected success meter as target practice had. So he started to let John win again.

John had the ingratitude to accuse Rodney of doing it on purpose.

That was pretty much the end of football, but they'd only begun to delve into Rodney's video game collection. A true geek knew that replay value was directly proportional to sentimental value; and the older the console, the less likely it was to be touchy and decide not to work just because you'd left it in a closet for a few years.

Rodney won an unspecified bet when he let Sheppard blindfold him -- a real professional job, not even a sliver of light got through -- and beat the first level of Super Mario Brothers.

"How did you do that?"

He wanted to ask the same about the blindfold. Sheppard had used a necktie, for god's sake. Rodney pushed it up to see again; the tail dangled over his temple. "Pft. I can still hear. The game board never changes. The monsters and obstacles are always in the same place. I just translated the visual cues to audio and timed the keypad inputs to the music."

Sheppard shook his head, impressed.

"Oh please, I'm sure you learned stuff just as useful in college."

John clinked his beer against Rodney's. "Someone tried to teach me to open bottles with my teeth. But, yanno, I like my teeth." A smile flashed right before he took a drink.

Rodney's stomach did a woozy little flip that had nothing to do with alcohol.

The other benefit of working their way down through the console generations was that each successive controller had fewer buttons to deal with. By the time the Atari made an appearance, a single button was just about right for Rodney's impaired hand-eye coordination.

They settled on Combat as the ultimate level playing field upon which to unleash their competitive instincts. The game responded so slowly that Sheppard's superior reflexes lost their advantage. And while Rodney had always considered himself a master of the ricocheting kill shot, Sheppard proved equally adept at calculating trajectories. The mild intoxication of the combatants merely meant that it took longer than usual to acquire a target lock.

John stopped announcing, "Fire in the hole!" when he shot, once he realized that it served as a warning for Rodney to move his tank out of danger.

Which allowed Rodney to stop cracking up every time he imagined Sheppard accidentally slipping that phrase into his bedroom repertoire. Eyes closed, head thrown back, nearing climax...

Fire in the hole, indeed.

Days bled into a week, threatened to stretch into two.

Rodney's back only dimly recalled the comfort of his orthopedic mattress. It was, he pinpointed it at last, akin to the homesickness he'd felt when he'd left his family and Canada for university in the States. His first night in the dorm, it had been an all-encompassing ache; by the second night it had been utterly eclipsed by the interesting things happening around him, to him.

Sheppard had that same effect on him.

The damned man thought he was on vacation. There was no other explanation for it. Every day he had some new, infantile plan to distract Rodney: the movie marathon during which pants were declared anathema; the Scrabble game they'd set to "expert" mode by removing half the vowels; the lesson on the proper way to shortsheet a bed.

Rodney couldn't not get swept up with that sort of boundless enthusiasm. But as they knocked items off Sheppard's things-to-do-if-I-make-it-out-of-the-woods-alive list, Rodney's own list of impossible questions grew and grew. He could no longer remember which he'd avoided out of apprehension, and which because they dealt with the certainty of Sheppard flying away, leaving his peaceful little existence in tatters. There wasn't a reasonable distinction between them, anymore.

Christ, it was worse than that. Since when had staying out of prison become a lesser worry than never again hearing the soft, almost-three-syllable way Sheppard had of saying his name in the stillness of pre-dawn, when talking felt too loud?

You have to go back eventually. What am I supposed to do then? Rodney thought, hard, at the back of Sheppard's head.

Sheppard didn't bother turning to say, "I hope you like your eggs scrambled, because that's what I'm making and that's what you're getting."

Yeah, that was the way it was with John. Craving something else, but making do with what was offered.

It beat starving.

"Your phone's ringing." John was on the sofa, leafing through the now horribly overdue copy of War and Peace. He flipped the entire book upside down for a moment, as if that might help it make more sense -- or be less boring.

Rodney pointed at his ears. "These work, you know." Then went back to the e-mail he was drafting for Zelenka, explaining why he'd been incommunicado for so long. He kept returning to the second paragraph, struggling to achieve just the right pity-inducing tone.

"Aren't you going to answer it? Could be important."

"The only people who ever call here are telemarketers and the recruiters who managed to bribe someone at my old office into giving out my new contact information. Everyone important has my e-mail address."

The ringing cut out when the answering machine picked up. Rodney hadn't altered the generic, computerized please-leave-a-message prompt, because anonymity was always safest. (And, okay, yeah, he didn't know how. He'd thrown out the instruction manual before realizing that even his genius intellect could be stumped by the world's most user-hostile electronic "convenience".)

After the beep, a familiar voice hailed from the speaker. "Dr McKay! Hey, it's Steve."

Steve? Sheppard mouthed, eyebrows doing something exaggerated and inquisitive.

Rodney's jaw dropped open. What? No! he gestured silently with both hands. It didn't matter what tone Steve was using, there was no way Sheppard could think- Like hell Rodney would ever- He'd only seriously considered it once, in a moment of supreme weakness that had been all Sheppard's fault!

For starters, if they were an item, why the hell would Steve call him Doctor McKay? Unless Sheppard thought it was some kind of kink...

Whoa. Hold on a minute. Calm down. Idiot! Sheppard wasn't even supposed to know he was into men.

Steve kept blathering; Rodney seemed to have missed some of it, because surely he'd not just heard the word "pilot", had he?

Had he?

"I mean, the whole town knows you've got a helicopter in your front yard, and I'm pretty sure it's not yours because you never mentioned that you flew all those times I said I'd take you up. Anyway, what I was wanting to know was..."

Something -- call it instinct, clairvoyance, whatever -- made Rodney jerk his attention back to Sheppard at the same time Sheppard lifted his away from the answering machine. Their gazes met, locked, and Rodney swore he could read Sheppard's intent in that moment of weird, frozen clarity.

They lunged in unison.

Sheppard was faster.

"Hi Steve," he cooed like a coed on the make, slapping Rodney's hands away from the phone. "John Sheppard here."

Rodney clutched his head and stared at the man in horror. What kind of idiot working undercover for a top-secret government project gave out his real name to strangers on the phone?!

Sheppard just rolled his eyes and turned his back on Rodney. "Oh, I'm an old friend. Yeah, me and Rodney and, uh, science go way back. I had some time off, thought I'd drop in for a visit. ... Well, if anyone's monopolizing anyone, I'd say it was the other way around!"

Rodney tried to sneak an arm around Sheppard and steal the phone back before more than his dignity suffered irreparable damage, but Sheppard's defense was a flawless offense; he casually shifted back and stomped on Rodney's foot.

"Beauty isn't it? ... Sure I've got a pilot's license."

This was so not happening.

"I can't believe you agreed to do this," Rodney muttered, for about the tenth time in as many minutes. He jammed the car into park and cut the engine, but left the keys dangling in the ignition on the outside chance Sheppard might come to his senses. "Furthermore, I don't recall agreeing to do this." He gestured rapidly between himself and the man in the passenger seat. "You and I are not a package deal."

Sheppard leaned over and snagged the keys. He spun them once, caught them against his palm. "We are today."

"Hey! Give me those!"

"Nope." The keys went in John's pocket. Not one of the big loose ones on his thigh, where Rodney might have been willing to stick his hand, in desperation. No, they went in the front, in a motion that was at once mesmerizing and frustrating. Those keys were as good as lost until Sheppard decided to shimmy them back out again. He knew it too. He flashed Rodney one of his cherubic smiles of impending doom and climbed out of the car.

Damn it. Rodney followed, slamming his door behind him.

Sheppard made a great show of flipping open his aviators and sliding them on. Apparently they were past the stage in their relationship where he felt the need to coax Rodney into participating in his idiotic schemes. Hell, he hadn't even threatened that Rodney was going to enjoy himself. It was implicit in the smile.

Rodney caught up to where he stood surveying the little airstrip. "So... what? I'm a sure thing now? You didn't even ask me. You just committed us both!"

"Yeah Rodney, you're like that girl in high school everyone wanted to take to the prom because she was guaranteed to put out," Sheppard snorted. "Except -- oh wait -- I bet she didn't complain the whole night."

Rodney leveled a finger at him. "You admit that you think I'm easy!" Of course, Rodney was easy. He couldn't even despise himself for knowing that the right words -- hell, the right expression -- would have him instantly on his knees with his face buried in John's crotch. No, the problem was that John was never going to ask. He was content using his unfair advantage to coerce Rodney into playing his goddamned sidekick.

"No comment." Sheppard sucked on his index finger, then stuck it in the air, pretending to test the wind. "I'd say... ten miles an hour, from the north east."

"And I say you're insane. Doesn't this-" He swept his arms wide, indicating the barely demarcated runway, the huddle of unimpressive buildings. "-worry you? You're used to flying fancy things out of nice airports. I mean, Steve's idea of safety equipment is a ten year old fire extinguisher that was, at some point during its career, deemed ornamental and painted to match the walls!"

"McKay..." Two syllables, but teased out like a thread of cold, sweet molasses. "I once landed an MC-130 on an unimproved mountainside. In Afghanistan. Under fire. Trust me, I can handle a flat, grassy meadow."

"I wasn't... insinuating that you couldn't," Rodney retreated. The story could be total bullshit designed to make him feel better, or -- knowing John -- it could be the deeply intriguing truth. He made a mental note about combat missions in war zones before switching tactics. "Steve's nosy. He'll talk. We can't trust him."

Sheppard strolled in the direction of the dilapidated aluminum shed -- the one Rodney had to call by its correct name now that he hung out with pilots and was supposed to know the lingo. Hangar. That was it. "I thought he was your friend."

"He is. Sort of. He just-" Sheppard would understand, soon enough. "Just- Did you have to wear those boots, those pants? He'll never in a million years guess you're military with you being so subtle about it."

"Anyone who knows about the chopper has to know I'm military," he reasoned. "It's kind of obvious. Trying to hide it would be even more obvious, so I'm going to treat this like any other flight and wear comfortable, sensible clothes."

"Yes, but-" Rodney whimpered. He hurried up behind Sheppard and caught his elbow, pulling him up short. "Believe me when I say he'll ask questions. We didn't even come up with a decent cover story! How long have we known each other? Where did we meet?"

Sheppard turned the tug into a spin, fetching up dangerously close against Rodney. And yeah, maybe Rodney still had his elbow in a loose grip, but it wasn't like Sheppard couldn't have broken free with no more force than a shrug. "Fifteen years, you dated my sister in college."

Rodney choked.

"Good point. I don't have a sister."

Maybe he should make a grab for the car keys after all. Worst case scenario: his aim was off and he groped Sheppard's dick by mistake. Best case scenario: Sheppard didn't punch his lights out for it. "I see what you're doing now, and for the record it's not cute. Go ahead, insist on exposing yourself in public! But you can damned well listen to my misgivings first!" After all, he was hanging Rodney's ass on the line just as certainly as he was his own. No, more! Sheppard could rely on the support and protection of the Air Force, while Rodney had... well, his brain was admirable, but it was just as likely to drag him into trouble as pull him out of it. That left a rusty old shotgun and a cat who'd defected to Sheppard's side -- she knew which human was punctual when it came to filling her food bowl -- as the sum of Rodney's defenses. You better believe that if the situation turned ugly, there was only going to be one ass hanging naked and exposed, and that ass sure as hell wouldn't belong to John Sh-

"Son of a bitch," Rodney marveled. "How do you do that?"

"Do what?" He still hadn't broken their contact, as if he'd rather make Rodney do it for him. "What misgivings?"

"Even when I'm aware of it, I still fall for the same dumb trick. You've made me run myself completely off topic," he accused, easing his hand off Sheppard's elbow. For some reason, the hetero-normative spatial buffer didn't reassert itself between them. Neither man moved. "So um-" Rodney licked his lips, unaccountably nervous. "Pretend that I just made an eloquent, impassioned plea, as per usual. We'll call it even, forget the whole thing, and go play upside-down Tetris instead."

Upside-down Tetris had been the original plan for the day. Rodney still contended that inverting the monitor would be sufficient, but Sheppard was stuck on the idea of hanging over the side of Rodney's bed. Because apparently, the rush of blood amassing in one's brain was, quote, "half the fun".

"Hey." Now it was Sheppard who reached out and jogged Rodney's shoulder. "Follow my lead and everything will be fine. I promise."

"Fine like busted ribs and a concussion fine? Or fine like nobody goes to prison fine?"

Sheppard released him then, but only to spin back around and fall in beside him. Close. Very close. Something about the way his elbow jutted made Rodney suspect that John had almost offered his arm. The deal breaker had probably been Rodney's lack of breasts. "As much as I enjoy standing around squabbling with you, I prefer to have daylight when I'm landing on unfamiliar terrain. C'mon."

John's momentum overcame the inertia of Rodney's objections; he found himself lulled into motion as surely as if John had been dragging him. "Oh, so that perfunctory nod to caution is supposed to appease me when you're determined to risk-"

That sentence, had Rodney been able to complete it, might have included phrases such as: one of the most brilliant minds of our generation, and flying death trap that should have been scraped for parts twenty years ago. But that was when Steve, impatient with their slow progress, barreled out of the hangar to meet them. "Dr McKay! Mr Sheppard."

Sheppard, god help him, didn't know any better when he greeted the interruption with an unwholesome display of gratitude. "You must be Steve," he simpered. "Call me John, please."

Steve beamed, shaking the offered hand. He held the grip too long, released it with flagrant reluctance. "Okay... John."

No. Oh no, he wouldn't-

Shit, of course he would. As much as it pained Rodney's ego to admit, Steve would hit on anything with a dick and a pulse. (Not to discount Sheppard's other assets, which were considerable.) And while Steve must have outweighed the shorter Sheppard by twenty kilograms, Sheppard probably knew a dozen ways to kill a man using just his thumbs.

I should have warned Sheppard. No, I should have warned Steve. Or better still, I should have detoured over a cliff on the way to the airport it in a spectacular murder-suicide, thereby preventing this situation from developing in the first place!

Hindsight was a real bitch.

They stood in their combustible little triangle -- Steve too close to Sheppard, and Sheppard too close to Rodney -- until Rodney cleared his throat loudly.

"Oh, um. Come on inside and meet her." Steve motioned them forward, probably hoping to hang back and get a good look at Sheppard's ass.

Like Rodney was going to allow that to happen. When John nodded and moved off, he drifted back as well, and pinned Steve with his most threatening, testicle-shriveling glare.

Steve's smile faded, and he glanced around as if trying to figure out how he'd managed to intercept a death threat that was obviously intended for some other target.

You fucking moron, I'm trying to save your life! Rodney jerked his chin at Sheppard, then pinned Steve again. He was in the middle of a finger-slicing-across-the-throat gesture when Sheppard turned around to ask what kind of plane it was; he revised it into a contemplative scratch at his chin, like he'd missed a spot shaving.

No way Sheppard bought it.

Steve didn't get it. He shook his head, but at least had the sense to stop trying to convey his confusion in some sort of paleolithic sign language. "Cessna 180. Dr McKay says she's rough around the edges, but I think of it as being broken in just right." His smile resurfaced once he started talking about his baby.

Damn it, he'd better be thinking about the plane, only the plane, and not Sheppard in the plane -- Sheppard in the cockpit, slim hands caressing the instrument panel, doing obscene things to the throttle... Augh, how hadn't he realized sooner that this was like porn for Steve?

Sheppard whistled. "Nice. Very nice."

"You haven't seen the thing," Rodney growled. "The one stands for the remaining cylinder in the engine that still fires, and the eighty is for the percentage of the fuselage that has been replaced by duct tape."

"You'll have to forgive Rodney. He's got no appreciation for the classics." Trust Sheppard to obliquely drag War and Peace into it. Rodney fumed in silence.

"Flown one before?" It had to be a pilot thing; Sheppard had stroked Steve with just the right touch. He was bursting with more pride than a mother cat presiding over a new litter of kittens.

"Closest I've come is a 206."

"Out of my league," Steve said. He'd stopped trying to scope out Sheppard's ass, which should have been a relief but was somehow worse than if he'd still been at it. Steve never gave up, he just modified the criteria he used to determine success. "What else have you flown?"

That was the last part of the conversation that made sense to Rodney. Sheppard started reciting an edited list of aircraft he'd conquered, which didn't include any spaceships, and which also sounded like the index to Audubon's Birds of America. "Wow, I didn't realize the military was so hard up for imagination that they resorted to stealing the names of other flying things for their planes," he taunted, since they weren't going to hide the Air Force connection.

"Choppers," Steve defended immediately. His expression had gone soft and reverent; Rodney almost expected him to kneel and try to kiss Sheppard's hand. "Those are all cho- helicopters, Dr McKay."

They moved into the hangar's dimness, where John was forced to either admit he was wearing his shades for looks or take them off. He did the latter, clipping them in the neck of his shirt. The weight was enough to make the fabric pull a little, and Rodney was so totally, completely not staring at the tuft of dark chest hair it exposed. "Sometimes we just tape a bingo card to the wall and throw darts at it."

There was a thin glint of silver around his neck too. Was that- Oh christ, dog tags.

Rodney hated his life. Luckily the remainder of it was going to be short. If the Cessna didn't kill him, Sheppard surely would when Rodney's resolve snapped. Any minute now, he was going to peel up that snug black shirt and start licking the man from navel to nipples like a popsicle.

Steve looked like he intended to beat Rodney to the finish line. "She's loaded, prepped, and ready for you, John." He swung the pilot's door open. "If you'd like to, uh..."

"Thanks, Steve. Don't mind if I do."

Too late, Rodney saw what was happening, saw Sheppard make the fatal mistake of turning his back on Steve. He reached up, caught a handhold, and pulled himself up into the aircraft with a fluid, practiced hop.

His ass was prominently on display for mere seconds before he twisted and settled in the seat. Unfortunately, those seconds were more than ample opportunity for Steve, who'd drifted near in anticipation. His hand stretched out...

Rodney lunged. He might have shouted; in the aftermath of the collision, he couldn't even recall how he'd crossed the distance so quickly. Both men wobbled off balance, clutching each other as if drunk, Steve frowning and Rodney smirking in triumph.

"Excuse me, so sorry," Rodney lied. He had his opening, and made a wedge of his arms, worming forward until the gap between Steve and John was large enough to accommodate him. And if making himself into a fucking human shield wasn't brave enough, Rodney somehow found the courage to put his hand on John's thigh -- high, where the gesture couldn't be mistaken as even remotely friendly. "John, I just remembered, you should check the... check the maintenance logs before we head off. You know, like we talked about in the car."

John just sort of stared down at him, green eyes wide and eyebrows headed into his hairline. Rodney let his fingers squeeze once. Sheppard was already going to cripple that hand for life by breaking every bone in it, so there was no reason not to take full advantage while it still worked. Also, Sheppard seemed to need... something to jolt him out of his daze. "Yeah. Sure. Maintenance logs," he said, plastering on a grin that was belied by his neutral tone.

"They're in the pocket on the door," Steve said uncertainly. He was backing away, as was evidenced by the soft thud his head made when it connected with the wing support . He cursed under his breath.

Rodney withdrew his hand, having memorized as much of the sensation of firm muscle beneath his palm as he could with fabric -- and oh yeah, the promise of impending death -- between them. His body would never be recovered, he knew. All John had to do was climb to four thousand meters and open the door somewhere over the wilderness. Scavengers would pick his skeleton clean after the bears were finished with him.

Maybe if Rodney begged for mercy, John would make sure he was dead before throwing him out of the plane. Otherwise, taking 9.81 meters per second as the- Okay, that might need to be tweaked a tiny bit because acceleration weakened the further one was from the surface of the planet. Then supposing a terminal velocity of 200 kilometers per hour, and figuring for air resistance... yeah, he would definitely have enough time for a full blown panic attack before he hit the ground.

"Rodney...?" John was talking. Oh god, how long had he been talking? "If you aren't going to get out of my way, the least you can do is hand me those all-important log books."

"Right. The, um-" He was standing between John and the open door. Spinning, he discovered a bundle of papers in the door pocket, a bigger mess than the contents of his glove box, easily. He grabbed them all and dumped them on John's lap. "Sorry." For everything, his eyes pleaded.

"Thanks." The word was a clear dismissal, and John began to sort through the pile with no mention of forgiveness.

It was Steve who inadvertently came to his rescue. "The flight plan's in the office. I'll grab it for you."

"I'll go with you!" Rodney scurried after him, and still had to scurry even after he'd caught up just outside the hangar. The damned man had stilts for legs and a stride to match.

Their awkward silence lasted as far as the tower. Steve broke first. He punched Rodney in the shoulder, so hard Rodney yelped and rebounded off a nearby wall. But it must have been some kind of brutal compliment, because Steve was beaming again. "Dr McKay, you dog you! Sorry about that back there. I didn't know you two were-" He made a complicated gesture that might have been the shadow hand puppet representation of mutual blow jobs.

"Don't worry about it," Rodney said weakly.

"Can't fault a guy for trying."

"I suppose not. John is..." Too many adjectives to narrow down to just one. "Quite the catch," he finished with a sigh.

Sheepish, Steve ducked behind his bangs, which was preposterous given that they were always in his eyes anyway. "Say, if you two are ever interested in-"

"Absolutely not."

"But you don't even know what I'm going to-"

"I can guess. Answer's still no. Now go," he shooed Steve further into the office, "get the thing. Chop chop, daylight's wasting."

Steve hunted behind a desk, eventually turning up a list of coordinates penciled on the back of some junk mail. "Found it!" He handed the already wrinkled paper to Rodney. "The plane's got GPS, but I wrote directions too. You know, in case John wants to do it the old fashioned way."

"I'm sure he will," Rodney muttered, distracted. "He does prefer to be difficult whenever possible. Is this a nine or a four?"

"Seven," Steve pointed. "That's a nine."

Rodney made corrections above the indecipherable scrawl. "Yeah, 'cause that could only be the difference between reaching our destination and getting lost over the Pacific."

"I really appreciate you guys doing this for me. I forgot all about the delivery when I made that doctor's appointment up in the big town. It's kinda important, and it's not like I can be in two places at once."

Doctor's appointment. Big town. That meant a specialist of some kind. Riiight. Rodney was suddenly, absurdly grateful that he'd never slept with Steve. "Don't thank me, thank Sh- John. He's the one who agreed to help with this little favor. I mean, it wasn't like we had anything else planned for the day, besides, oh, lounging in bed." Fully clothed, playing video games. But Steve sure as hell didn't need to know that.

"Sorry," he winced.

Rodney squinted at the directions again. "Where in the hell are we going, anyway? It's a milk run, right?" There were hundreds of freaks who chose to live in areas so remote they were accessible only by air. Steve had regulars he made supply runs for when he wasn't toting tourists or carting mail.

"One stop, nice and easy. I'd do it later, but the truck came in today, and it's stuff that will spoil if it doesn't get delivered fast."

"You could try refrigerating it," Rodney suggested. It was almost cool enough these days to leave perishables outside. Another month and it wouldn't have been a concern. Another month after that and you'd couldn't leave anything outside overnight you didn't want to freeze solid.

"Don't have a fridge that big," Steve said. Surprisingly firm logic coming from him. "Anyway, it worked out great. John's a great pilot. Really great. He'll treat her right."

Steve had no trouble at all limiting Sheppard to one adjective. Figured. "Yes, so he says. But you've never seen him fly." For that matter, neither had Rodney. Oh, sure, he'd flown the hel- chopper up, but that might have been a fluke. Maybe the best and the brightest was military slang for the unbalanced and the suicidal. Who else would be crazy enough to pilot ancient alien technology?

Steve just gaped at Rodney like he'd blasphemed the god of aviation.

"Right. Forget I mentioned it. I suppose we'd better be getting back to the..." Hangar. Sheppard. Impending doom. Whatever. If only there was some escape from the whole rotten trip that didn't involve beating the consciousness out of Sheppard with a wrench. Rodney was pretty sure John would see that coming and fight back. Unless... "Hey, wait," he beckoned Steve back from the door.

"Huh?"

"You don't happen to know how to hotwire a car, do you?"

In the end, Rodney hadn't been discouraged so much by the lack of know-how -- he was been pretty damned sure he could figure it out -- as the prospect of a broken window and a cracked steering column. So he'd consigned himself to the inevitable and trudged back to the hangar with Steve.

Sheppard's ass greeted them. Specifically, Sheppard's ass hanging out of the plane as Sheppard bent over the cargo, inspecting the weight distribution of the load and the straps holding it all in place.

Steve made a plaintive little sound.

Rodney patted his arm. "I know, big guy. I know."

"Got the flight plan?" Sheppard swung out, hopped down, wearing that stupid, easy smile like the whole territorial groping thing hadn't happened at all.

"Yeah." Rodney patted his breast pocket. "Right here." He didn't know if he was supposed to be reassured, or if Sheppard was lulling him into a false sense of security so that it would hurt more, later, when he extracted his revenge.

John jerked his head at the other side of the plane. "Good, then get in."

Steve shuffled closer, stuck out his hand. "I already said thanks to Dr McKay-"

"Oh, for heaven's sake just give it up already and call me Rodney!"

"To, uh, Rodney, but he said to say thanks to you too. So thanks. I really appreciate this."

Please don't say anything about lounging in bed, please don't say anything about-

Steve scuffed his boot on the floor, almost bashful, but his expression was sly. "Sorry about interrupting your plans. But there's always tomorrow."

Shit. Close enough. Rodney started backing in a wide semicircle. "I'll just... be over here... getting in the plane... as instructed." He almost missed seeing Steve press something into John's hand at the last minute.

To his credit, John's smile barely faltered. He palmed whatever it was like a pro. "No problem. Any friend of Rodney's is a friend of mine. It's no trouble helping you out, and like you said," he forced a chuckle, "tomorrow is another day."

"You take good care of her for me." It was funny to see Steve, who'd been nearly leering a moment before, now look as anxious as any parent loading their child on the bus for the first day of school.

"I'll treat her as if she was my own," Sheppard said sincerely. He climbed into the cockpit beside Rodney while Rodney was still fumbling with his safety belt.

"Did you promise not to let her drink and to take her home before her curfew?" Rodney muttered.

John leaned in to whisper, "Let's just say that she wouldn't be allowed to see me at all if Daddy knew what kind of boy I am."

That was how Rodney discovered that John wasn't going to kill him. In fact, it was possible that Rodney had been forgiven.

Sheppard reached and snagged the door handle. "You want to go hop on the horn and make this official?" he called to Steve before shutting them in.

Steve cocked his head and looked blank. Sheppard clipped his headset on over his ears. He pointed at it, pointed at Steve, pointed in the direction of the office. Confusion. Point, point, point.

"Your finger's going to wear out before he figures it out."

"I've got it, Rodney." Sure enough, after the third round of charades Steve went off like a light bulb. He flashed thumbs up and loped out of the hangar. "You should have a headset too, around here somewhere. Find it, put it on, don't touch anything else." He began flipping buttons and levers, and evidently one of them controlled the engine because it grumbled to life.

Rodney located his headset by following the appropriate wire, which he eventually had to use to yank the thing out from under his seat. It was old and crappy, and the boom mic wouldn't stay where he wanted so eventually he gave up trying. There was a control stick steering wheel thing in front of him, along with a shitload of gadgetry he couldn't identify; two pedals were at his feet. Presumably it was all stuff Sheppard didn't want him to touch, so he sat on his hands.

The plane was taxiing at a snail's pace out of the hangar when Steve came over the radio. "Hey. John, this is Steve."

Sheppard's reply was a crisp, "Tower, this is Charlie Golf Lima Zulu Mike, prepping for take off." The Cessna's call numbers, Rodney was certain, and yeah they were painted on the tail, but John remembered after glancing at them... what, once? "You want to give me a rundown on the conditions out there?"

"Conditions. Uh..." The radio dissolved into static; Steve returned a few seconds later. "Sunny and twelve degrees, winds from the north east at sixteen kilometers per hour. Visibility twenty-four kilometers."

"North east, ten miles an hour. Told you," Sheppard nudged Rodney's shoulder. He barely had to move to do it; the cockpit was rather narrow, and would have been hideously claustrophobic is not for the windows.

Rodney said, "You probably looked it up online before we left the house this morning."

"You can't prove a thing." Sheppard's tone went all business when he flipped off their private channel. "Roger that, tower. Charlie Golf Lima Zulu Mike requesting permission to take off."

"Charlie Golf Lima Zulu Mike, you're cleared for take off on runway, uh, one."

Sheppard rolled his eyes with an exaggerated head wobble. "Funny, very funny, this guy. Where did you find him?"

"Typical hard luck story. Orphaned at an early age, raised in the woods by a pack of feral lumberjacks..."

The twitching of Sheppard's shoulders might have been silent laughter. Then, back on public, in his responsible pilot voice, "Anything else you want to add before I take her up?"

"She can be a little finicky in a steep climb, gotta use a firm hand," Steve advised. "Oh, and she likes it if you play with the rudder even when you don't need it. Oh, and say hi to Todd for me."

"Todd?" Rodney wailed. "Okay, let me out of this thing right now! He never said- You never said the delivery was for Todd! You had plenty of opportunity to say but you didn't! You hid it from me -- on purpose!"

Duplicity. From Steve. Wonders never ceased.

Sheppard waved Rodney to silence. "Roger that, tower. No worries if our mutual friend sounds agitated. Nothing I can't handle. Have fun in town, and we'll put a call in when we're home safe and sound." He lined the little plane up at the end of the runway and eased open the throttle.

"Uh... sure. Thanks. Have a good flight, Rodney. John."

Sheppard knocked a switch on the radio, motioned that talking was allowed again.

Rodney turned from investigating the door handle. "Seriously, if I thought I could open this without killing us both from, I don't know, explosive decompression, I'd jump. Todd's a vegan hippie naturalist -- I'm so not making it up. The guy's a few pine cones short of a tree; probably comes from living alone in a shack in the woods a million kilometers from civilization. He reads poetry. To his fish. Bad poetry, that he writes!"

"Planes this small don't have pressurized cabins, Rodney."

"Oh, well then." He studied the door again.

"We're moving awfully fast, now. I don't recommend jumping."

"Yeah, well that's because you've never met Todd. I'll take my chances with the-" Just then, the hopping, shuddery motion of the plane smoothed out. The wings shook and strained... and they were airborne. "Um, with the- Seriously, I expected that to be a lot rougher." It was possible, just possible, that John Sheppard was every bit the brilliant pilot Rodney had imagined. He suddenly felt a lot better about his odds of not expiring in a fireball somewhere between here and a little cabin a hundred kilometers distant.

"That?" Sheppard actually paused long enough to slide the aviators back on, like he was Tom fucking Cruise or something. A smirk touched his lips. "That was nothing. Just wait until you see what I can sweet talk her into doing when she's not full of cargo."

Arrogance is not a turn-on, arrogance is not a turn-on, arrogance is not- Oh god, who did he think he was fooling? Certainly not his dick.

It loved those fucking glasses too, no doubt about it.

When Rodney had asked about the Cessna's cruising speed in an attempt to calculate their ETA, Sheppard had started explaining about headwinds and tailwinds and the cumulative effects thereof. To which Rodney had argued that they were dealing with more of a sidewind.

Sheppard had just smirked again (he seemed to be doing that a lot lately) and admitted that the wind, given its direction, probably shouldn't figure in to Rodney's calculations at all.

Suspicious, Rodney had suggested that Major John Sheppard, USAF, was functioning under the delusion that baiting genius scientists was some sort of highly amusing and harmless pastime. Didn't he know that genius scientists spent years perfecting passive-aggressive methods of returning torment tenfold on their tormentors?

With great bravado, John had retaliated by making Rodney learn how to use the radio, and transponder, and read the avionics; and learn about all the different control surfaces on the plane, and how each shaped and molded the air currents to control roll, yaw, and pitch. (There'd been just enough science involved to make Rodney pay attention against his will, damn it.)

Then John had declared Rodney a successful graduate of the Sheppard School of Aviation (granting him co-pilot status) and promptly taken his hands off his yoke.

The Cessna had plunged a thousand feet while Rodney tried to decide whether or not to have a heart attack. It had continued to buck and drop for another thousand while Rodney gradually brought it under control, panic held at bay only by John's impassive voice and the steady stream of instructions it gave: Okay, now correct your pitch by easing the yoke toward your chest, that's it, easy, hold it steady, you're doing great Rodney, really great...

Rodney had had five minutes of sheer terror, followed by five minutes of unrestrained rage for the suicidal (homicidal?) impulses of one John Sheppard. And finally, five minutes of quiet awe. There had been no words to describe the sky, the freedom, the satisfaction and warmth evoked by John's praise.

In the end he'd returned the controls willingly, almost shaking with relief.

Perhaps as an apology, or perhaps not wishing to jostle Rodney out of his reverie, John treated Rodney to the smoothest landing he'd ever experienced, in any plane, on any runway.

"What, now we walk? There's a perfectly good lake right next to his cabin where you could have landed!"

Sheppard kicked the landing gear. "Yeah Rodney, 'cause tires work so well on water. Maybe if this thing had floats..."

"Why doesn't it? You can't tell me that Steve parks all the way down here and then walks all the way up to Todd's cabin." Because Rodney had a fairly good suspicion that Steve delivered more than just groceries. And walking any great distance... after a hard round of... yeah, ouch. Rodney circled the plane, pressing close to the fuselage. "Do you want to check the directions again? I mean, are you sure this is the right place? It looks like a field to me, Sheppard." A great big field with weeds and bushes and rocks and shit -- oh sure, it was flat, but not maintained like the airport runway. "Maybe that number I thought was a nine was actually a four."

John was tugging open the rear compartment. "Pretty sure. You said Todd does his research on a lake. Well, this is the only sizable lake around, the GPS says we're spot on, and the field here is perfect for a bush landing. Ever wonder why the best puddle jumpers have top-mounted wings? It's so they can land in some pretty tall vegetation. This is it all right."

"Which brings us back to walking." In truth, it wasn't the walking that bothered him so much as the prospect of doing it while lugging cargo. The groceries would be easy enough, but seriously? Those four large white containers sloshed. They were full of liquid -- industrial grade vodka? -- and probably weighed a ton, real back breakers. There was no way Rodney was dragging them all the way to Todd's cabin. And neither was Sheppard, even though his ribs had likely finished healing by now.

A clean bill of health meant John was free to leave at any time. Therefore, How are your ribs feeling? was one of the first questions Rodney had placed on his forbidden list.

"He can't live this far out and not have some form of transportation. We'll walk up and see if he's got a four wheeler or something."

Knowing Todd, it would be something ridiculous and inadequate like a little red wagon plastered with socially and ecologically conscious bumper stickers. "I don't think I wore the right shoes for this," Rodney complained.

"You could stay here and I could walk up."

"Stay with the bears? Oh fuck no!"

Satisfied that the cargo hadn't shifted and was in no danger of toppling, John closed the compartment again. "Then let's move out. You want point or six?"

Point, six? Ah yes -- thank you military strategy games. "Rear, I'll watch- take the rear." Sheppard's rear. Oh yeah, Rodney was going to watch it so hard.

Didn't it figure, then, that after hammering out an arrangement they still fell in side by side?

"Hey, John?" It was as good an opening as any. Too bad Rodney had yet to decide which question he wanted to pose.

"Mm?" Sheppard seemed to be having an easier time trampling through the tall weeds than Rodney. His boots -- that had to be it. They were wide-soled and heavy, perfect for bushwhacking.

When are you- Wait, god, not that one. The airplane's controls, why did you- No good either. Rodney huffed. "Steve. That's it, I remember now. What did Steve hand you, before we took off?"

Sheppard dug in his pocket, the one opposite where Rodney's car keys were being held hostage. He pulled out a wad of crinkled money, counted it. "Fifty bucks."

"You let him pay you for doing this? I thought it was a favor!"

"You're the one who argued against doing anything suspicious. Refusing his money would be very suspicious."

"Okay, I did argue that," Rodney allowed. "But that doesn't make it right." Steve... well, Rodney got the impression that he liked his job, but that it didn't exactly reciprocate by showering him with monetary affection.

Crunch, crunch went the weed stalks beneath Sheppard's feet. "He's very sorry that he's not going to be in town tonight to take us out for drinks, so he offered this generous alternative. I'm sure you don't want to hurt his feelings by declining."

"Wait. Beer money? He's paying you in beer money? He wanted to take us out?!" And yeah, if Rodney's voice pitched up at the end, he could be forgiven for betraying a little honest horror. There were literally thousands of variations on how that scenario could descend into disaster. Steve's hands got grabby and indiscriminate after a few beers.

"Like I said, he's real disappointed that he's gonna miss it."

"What? What alternative? What in the hell are you talking about?" They needed to turn the conversation around right now, damn it, because he really didn't like the direction they were headed.

If John's eyes slid over to goad Rodney, it wasn't obvious behind those damned aviators. "Miss escorting you to the bar. So I took pity on the poor guy, said I'd do it for him. You know, make sure Dr McKay has a real nice time..."

Was he teasing? Was he serious? Was he sane? Data inconclusive, Rodney thought, flirting with hysteria.

You know what? Screw flirting. Rodney and hysteria were well enough acquainted to jump right to consummation. He twittered, "Dr McKay doesn't need to be taken out-" On a date. With an Air Force gigolo. Arranged and financed by Steve the Pimp! "-to have a good time. Doctor McKay has had a perfectly good time staying at home for the past..."

"Two weeks," Sheppard supplied. "Fifteen fun-filled days." This time he did turn his head, but all Rodney got in the way of feedback was his own reflection in those stupid glasses. Shit, the tips of his ears were tellingly pink.

"Yes, yes, I knew that." So Sheppard was keeping track, probably on some schedule he hadn't acknowledged, for whatever reason. Rodney swallowed. "Also, I suspected that you consider this some sort of bizarre vacation. Now I have proof. 'Fifteen fun-filled days' sounds like travel agency propaganda."

"Days and nights, Rodney. A travel agency would stress the nights."

"You are not here to have fun, and play games, and drink beer! You- Damn it, John, why are you here?"

Sheppard's mouth worked, like he was silently testing excuses. He might have settled on one if Todd hadn't chosen that moment to appear on the path in front of them. Seriously, it was like something out of the old testament -- the vegetation parted, and suddenly there he was, a vision in plaid and denim, the sunlight making a halo of his wild blond hair.

Rodney wondered if Sheppard was the religious type -- wondered if he'd been praying for salvation from uncomfortable questions. Or perhaps the man was just that damned lucky.

"You are not Steve," Todd spoke first, eyes shifting between the two intruders.

Rodney shot Sheppard a glare that said this isn't over before stepping forward. "Ah no, no we're not. Surely he radioed ahead to tell you that someone else would be making the supply run today?" But no, of course Steve hadn't. Todd's hair, while still crazy, was tamer than Rodney had ever seen it. He was wearing what had to be his best shirt (sans holes), his pants were clean, he'd shaved recently... in short, he was all dolled up for a date.

Oh yeah, Steve delivered a lot more than just groceries.

Sheppard took the cue, all charm and smiles, like he hadn't been inches away from pulling a gun on Todd. (So that's where he'd hidden the Beretta. Also, holy shit but this was not a man Rodney ever wanted to startle.) "John Sheppard," he said, extending his hand.

Todd shook it gingerly, and didn't reciprocate with a name. Instead, his chest heaved with a massive sigh, and his shoulders wilted. "I suppose you'll have to do, John Sheppard."

What? No! Rodney's hands fluttered a denial. "He's not a stand-in! He's only doing this- I mean, he's only making the delivery as a favor, to Steve." And please, John would have to do? That was like saying you'd make do when you brought your Ford Taurus in to the garage for some work and were given a Lotus for a loaner car.

"Rodney..." John warned.

Todd looked them both up and down once more before leaning -- well, given his freakish height it was more like looming -- in. "I don't suppose you know anything about the ecology of glacier-fed lakes?" he asked, sounding more resigned now than disappointed.

"Well..." John began.

"Of course not!" Rodney said at the same time. Honestly, Todd was crazy, not stupid. (The man had his own doctorate; around their second meeting, he and Rodney had given up the ridiculous dance of professional titles and resorted to first names.) He knew damned well that Rodney was an engineer slash astrophysicist. Further, he knew Rodney's opinion of the soft sciences. "John's a test pilot. For the Air Force! He doesn't know anything about seaweed or plankton or whatever the hell it is you purport to study."

Todd frowned. "Algae is the more general-"

"I don't?" John asked, lifting one eyebrow to that quizzical, dangerous angle. "How do you know?"

"Well, do you?"

"That's not the point, Rodney."

"You see," Todd tried again, "I was expecting a shipment of fingerlings today, and Steve was to assist-"

"Fingerling? Oh, now you're just making shit up. What the hell is a fingerling?"

"Baby fish," Sheppard supplied. He held his thumb and forefinger apart, demonstrating, "About yea big." And oh, the man radiated smugness, for someone who'd probably read the information off a cargo manifest.

"That is correct, John Sheppard." So, suddenly the Lotus was looking far more attractive as an alternative, was it?

"Just John is fine."

"Wait a minute. What does Steve know about lake biology?"

"Ecology. Steve has been helping me for some time now with some of the more physically demanding aspects of my work. He has come to be quite knowledgeable regarding-"

Rodney snorted with every speck of derision he could muster.

"What Rodney here is trying to say," John interrupted with a preemptive arm across Rodney's chest, "is that we would be delighted to help. And, speaking for myself, I must admit I'm a pretty fast study. You should be able to teach me whatever I need to know about the ecology of glacier-fed lakes in no time at all."

"Hmm," rumbled Todd, and Rodney knew that if he didn't say something -- right now! -- he was going to be dragged into some sort of biology lesson cum hideous menial labor.

The trouble was Sheppard's hand, pressed to his chest. What had started as a subtle heat now seemed to be searing a hole in the fabric of his shirt. His skin beneath was scorched, the nerve endings alight and aching for more. The disturbance passed critical thresholds; malfunction imminent in logic center, abort, abort!

When Rodney opened his mouth, he was only able to huff, "I can learn anything Steve can."

Sheppard patted him once, twice -- there ya go, Rodney, that wasn't so hard, was it? And even that was nice, if patronizing. Then the hand fell away, and Todd was talking nonsense about algae bloom and pH levels, and Sheppard was nodding like he was absorbing it all when his attention was really on Rodney. The aviators were off, hanging limp in his fingers. He wasn't staring -- it was too oblique for that -- but the focus was mortifying all the same.

Rodney was pinned immobile, while Sheppard casually shifted through Rodney's components, his impetuses, selecting bits seemingly at random to fit together -- so, and so -- until he had a whole that made sense to him.

Until he got it, whatever it was.

"...the result of excess nutrients..." Todd droned on and on, the soundtrack for Rodney's downfall.

"We need to move all the stuff up to the cabin, right?" Sheppard cut in. "Let's get started. I'd like to be out of here with no less than an hour of daylight to spare." His eyes were still on Rodney; he couldn't have seen Todd nod in agreement and set off up the trail. "C'mon," he said, voice lower, private, "a little fresh air and exercise will do you good. It's less than a half mile, each way." And, to prove he was a complete and utter bastard, he promised, "I'll make it up to you later tonight."

"If it takes us four trips that'll be four miles. Five, if you count the time we won't be carrying stuff. I'll be dead by then," Rodney countered testily, because it was expected of him, and because Sheppard had succeeded in blasting his concentration all to hell. That was the point, wasn't it? Rodney couldn't recreate Sheppard's logic and reach Sheppard's epiphany if he was too busy worrying about their stupid dinner date. The asshole was playing bait and switch with Rodney's anxieties, and if he knew Rodney well enough to do that... god, fucked didn't begin to cover it.

"Staying with the plane is still an option. I'm sure the bears would be more than willing to keep you company."

"I hate you."

"Hey, you were the one who said you could do anything Steve could do."

"Learn, I said learn. Have you seen how long Steve's legs are? And seriously, I hate you."

Sheppard only bumped his shoulder and laughed.

Hating Sheppard had been easier than thinking about dinner dates, or epiphanies, or forbidden questions. And after Rodney had concluded that the diversion was intentional, he'd made a determined effort to hate John Sheppard even more.

All that hatred had come with benefits. For one, Sheppard hadn't expected Rodney to uphold an intelligent conversation while they'd played pack animals, making a total of three trips from Cessna to cabin and back. Therefore, Rodney hadn't needed to betray how out of breath he'd been, while Shepard and Todd, with the heaviest loads slung between them in a makeshift harness, hadn't seemed winded at all.

Stupid fit and fighting trim Air Force Majors. (How are your ribs doing now, huh Sheppard?) Stupid clean-living hippie naturalists who refused to use a perfectly good four wheeler because the "noise and vibration" would be bad for the fingerlings. Like the damned things hadn't survived a truck ride and a plane trip to get this far!

So much for industrial grade vodka. Those four white containers had turned out to be miniature fish Winnebagos, all insulated with rudimentary ventilation and everything. That had been another advantage of the hatred. Rodney had focused on his desire to drive a red hot soldering iron into Todd's ear, Sheppard's ear -- hell, maybe even his own ear -- while Todd's explanation of species balance and release strategy had mostly washed over him in a blanket of white noise.

Forget weighing and measuring and all that nonsense. Todd was probably going to name each and every one of the little buggers before dumping them into the lake. They'd left him there on the shore, cooing over the containers, and hightailed it to the plane with less than half an hour of light in which to make a forty-five minute flight.

Forty-five minutes had stretched into more than an hour, thanks to some imaginative flying on Sheppard's part. They'd landed at twilight, stowed the plane by dusk, and stumbled to Rodney's car under the buzzing of the lone industrial sodium lamp that serviced the business end of the airport.

Rodney spent a minute frantically searching his pockets before a jingling sound intruded far enough into his brain to make sense. On the opposite side of the car, Sheppard dangled his keys off a finger, and shook them lightly when Rodney glanced up. "Looking for these?"

Rodney groaned. "Yes." Bastard. "No, wait -- keep them. You drive. It would so be my luck to survive all those idiotic, highly dangerous aerial stunts, only to kill us both hitting a moose while driving home." Also, his legs were exhausted, and working the pedals seemed like too damned much... well, work.

"Aerobatics, Rodney. I already told you." Sheppard switched sides with him and unlocked the vehicle. Then he had the absolute nerve to adjust the driver's seat, even though they were of a similar height. Sheppard couldn't imagine his legs were that much longer than Rodney's. Could he? "A few barrel rolls never hurt anyone."

"You made that word up, and I'm going to tell Steve what you did to his plane," Rodney sulked, latching his safety belt. He was still torn between being grateful there hadn't been anything in his stomach to lose, and irritated that he hadn't been able to be sick just for spite. "Also, my stomach disagrees with you. It wants to press charges. For attempted murder."

Apparently having expended his desire for crazy speed, Sheppard eased the car out of the parking lot. "That's just hunger talking. The savage beast's anger will subside after I feed it."

Oh god, the date, the date. How could he have forgotten?

Scratch that. How had he failed to notice that Sheppard had done everything in his power to make the return flight as distracting as possible? There simply hadn't been space for concerns outside peeling his stomach off his spine, and trying to prevent his heart from pounding out of his chest. And that had been only the first time the horizon had inverted itself on Sheppard's command.

Incontrovertible point of reference. In a tumbling Cessna, all motion is relative to John Sheppard. Only substitute "my life" for "Cessna" and you get-

A really shitty metaphor.

"No food, no date. I'm going to go home, crawl into bed, and die."

Just over an hour later, they were entrenched in a tall-backed booth in the bar.

It hadn't been a lack of willpower so much as an ambush. Sheppard had claimed the first shower, then met Rodney outside the bathroom while Rodney was dripping wet and clad in a towel. Meanwhile, Sheppard had taken the opportunity to change into one of his slim black shirts and a pair of jeans he must have melted into, the fit was so good. The ensemble was, frankly, criminal, and Rodney's dick had started to take notice, and there he'd been, standing in the hallway with only a scrap of terrycloth for protection. Damned right he'd agreed to Sheppard's demands without even hearing them, then sprinted to the safety of his bedroom -- where he'd dressed hiding against the door, because he'd never gotten around to putting curtains or blinds or blackout paper on those big, damned windows.

"What's good?" Sheppard asked, perusing the menu. All casual, like he didn't know they had an audience. Like he hadn't been stopped half a dozen times between here and the door to introduce himself. Like the whole fucking town didn't think Dr McKay and the mysterious man in black weren't embroiled in some big, gay affair that would reduce Steve to tears when he found out.

"Everything. I don't know." Sitting at the bar, Bob the mailman caught Rodney's eye and gave him a thumbs up. Rodney shook his head, and wondered what the universally accepted gesture for "we're just friends, honest" was. "I still think this is a really bad idea. I mean, you could have used a fake name at the very least."

Sheppard made his decision, closed the menu. "Don't really see the point."

"You don't- How could-" Rodney sputtered.

John just clasped his hands in front of him on the table and tilted his head a little. Dim bar lighting was a good look on him, turning his eyes dark and smoky; snatches of neon caught in his hair. "You worry too much, McKay. Not that I don't appreciate the concern, but for tonight? Let it go."

Rodney grumbled something he hoped was lost in the music and ambient conversations.

"You can get a long way on nice." Shit, John must've heard him anyway. "Should try it sometime."

"Thank you, Major Sesame Street," Rodney spoke up, "but that isn't my style." He didn't have the body or the face or the... the idiotic hair to pull off nice. Even if he'd wanted to. And who would want to, when bitchy was so much more gratifying?

The waitress drifted by to take their order. Rodney remembered her, Donna or Danielle or something. "Rodney says you grill a mean steak," Sheppard confided, all schmoozy like he had to prove his damned point. "I'd love mine medium rare." His smile ratcheted up a notch, just for devastating effect, and it was so damned unfair when Rodney's toes curled with petty jealousy. "Oh, and send us two of whatever's on tap."

"Sure thing, honey." Big gay affair or no, Sheppard would be lucky if he walked out of here without her phone number slipped in his pocket. "How 'bout you, Dr McKay?"

"The same," Rodney gritted. He really wanted that steak (hello, hypoglycemia), even though he hated to appear to be copying someone, even over something as mundane as a meal choice.

Their drinks appeared faster than Rodney had ever gotten service in the place. He wondered briefly what it must be like to be John Sheppard, waltzing through life on a wing and a prayer and a smile. Infuriating, he decided quickly, because John had to understand people in order to use them, and if Rodney had wanted to understand people, he would have studied psychology instead of real science.

John took his drink down by a quarter, lapped foam off his lip, then scried into his glass while he rotated it in a slow circle. "Todd has a good thing going for him, huh?"

Rodney recognized it for what it was, an attempt to coax him out of his shell. He would have ignored it too, if John hadn't phrased it so cleverly; a vague reply could have been mistaken for agreement, and Rodney certainly didn't agree. "Todd is crazy. He reads poetry to fish, powers his laptop with a hand crank, and probably thinks he's making a difference," air quotes and all, "paddling his boat around taking water samples all day."

John quirked an eyebrow at him. "Like you're making a difference with your satellite dish?"

"That's a totally inconsistent analogy." Rodney's stomach rumbled, and he'd gulped down half his drink before remembering that booze wasn't good for an empty stomach. Ah well, it was just beer, not Zelenka's killer homebrew. "I'm not out to change the world. I just want-" Justification. Recognition. Revenge. For John not to leave, damn it. "Anyway," he shied away from that last thought, "I sure as hell made a difference. However... accidental. You're alive to enjoy that beer, aren't you?"

John blinked, slow and thoughtful. "Yeah Rodney, I am." And, "The lake was pretty."

"It was okay to visit, but I wouldn't want to live there," Rodney conceded.

"It was good to be up in a small plane again. Flying at its most basic, without all the insulating technology. I didn't realize how much I'd missed it."

"Missed making me almost puke."

"Hey, I asked if you got motion sick first."

"No, you asked if I got car sick. Cars don't do this." Rodney put out his hand, level, to mimic the plane. Then he flipped it upside down, then fluttered it in some rapid circles.

"The sunset was pretty," John countered, a frown marring the spot between his eyebrows.

It had been, in fact, spectacular -- fiery colors blazing against a backdrop of sky and thin, high clouds. "Sure. I guess. If you like orange."

"There's just no pleasing you today, is there?" His expression suggested that he'd tried, and couldn't understand why his attempts had all been thwarted.

Bullshit.

For once, the extraordinary good luck was Rodney's; their food arrived just in time to rescue him from having to respond. Because really, he could never explain that the day had been perfection -- even the terrifying, frustrating, exhausting parts -- and that was precisely why he was feeling so uncharitable. The crash back to reality was always rude, and he could do without the reminder that his entire life was careening in the same direction.

A really perfect day, the kind you pulled out to reminisce over like an old photograph, when you needed help getting past the days that weren't so perfect. This was their glorious sunset. The only direction from here was down, down, down.

They ate in almost companionable silence.

Finally, John asked, "There a problem?" as he stole one of the last steak fries off Rodney's plate.

"Yes. I was going to eat that."

"Too slow," he shrugged, and finished off his beer. There was a refill waiting at his elbow, thanks to Dora or Doreen or whatever the hell her name was. "If you've got something to say, say it."

No, Rodney glared. But on second thought... fuck John. Fuck his reverse psychology and his selective hearing. Most especially, fuck the way he effortlessly evaded questions he didn't like with answers that said nothing at all. "Where is this all leading?" he demanded, realizing at last that it wasn't the questions he feared.

"All what?" John returned.

John had barely needed to twitch to dodge that one. Rodney was going to have learn the difference between a feint and an opening, and hoard the limited ammunition he had left. But on the bright side, he could be as cutthroat as necessary without having to worry about losing John, because -- oh yeah -- that was going to happen anyway. "This." A wave of his arm encompassed the booth, its occupants, the bar, the town, Rodney's life, and the universe in general.

"I... don't think I follow you."

Lead, follow... get it? John's left eyebrow added, prompting a terrible discovery. They knew each other well enough to be able to hold two concurrent conversations, one of them completely wordless.

"Here, I'll draw you a map: How are your ribs doing?" Oh, I got it, and it sucked. It also didn't work.

"My ribs? All healed, I think. Didn't feel a single twinge today, though the base doc will have to vet me out before it's official." Sorry, I had to try.

"So you're free to return at any time." You are being deliberately obtuse and difficult.

"If you're trying to insinuate that I've worn out my welcome..." Maybe. But you wouldn't like me if I was easy.

"I'm not insinuating anything! I'm pointing out that you no longer have a reason -- no, an excuse! -- to be here!" I never said I liked you.

John remained quiet, fingering his glass, not looking directly at Rodney. His smile lost all trace of mockery. Not in as many words, no.

If marriage was anything like this... this perpetual stalemate, it was no wonder Rodney's parents had hated each other. "When are you leaving?" he asked again, feeling wrung out and weary. "I'm running out of ways to repeat myself."

"When you're ready, Rodney."

"When I'm ready? What in the hell does that mean?"

"You know," John insisted, sounding almost contrite. "You've known from the start."

"No, I haven't. I'm pretty sure I would remember if you'd told me-"

When John lifted his eyes at last, it wasn't the pity Rodney read there that caused him to flinch away. It was an inexplicable sense of loss, as if the effort had cost John something he hadn't been prepared to sacrifice so soon.

Oh.

Oh god.

Sheppard couldn't leave until Rodney was ready because Rodney was leaving with him.

"C'mon, Rodney," John murmured gently, "everything you did had consequences. You knew that. You never forgot it."

That hadn't meant he hadn't tried, and very nearly succeeded. Suddenly the bar was too crowded, too intimate; he imagined that the entire town had overheard, or was reading the news in his slack-mouthed, devastated expression. He hunched over and put his face in his hands. "I would prefer to finish this conversation elsewhere," he managed to eke out, and it was possible that his voice was so gaunt that Sheppard didn't hear him.

It didn't stop the wonderful, despicable man from learning what he needed to in Rodney's posture. A hand touched Rodney's shoulder, then Sheppard was gone to settle the tab. When he returned to the booth he tugged Rodney out of it, and Rodney allowed himself to be pulled, led, cajoled, and for a few steps even manhandled toward the door.

Stumbling outside, into the cool night air, under a banner of steadfast stars, was like experiencing the bottom fall out of his existence all over again.

Sheppard drove them home in merciful silence. After parking the car, he came around to Rodney's side to help him out, and Rodney wouldn't have been surprised at all to be escorted straight to the helicopter. It waited for him at the top of the driveway, patient as any behemoth.

Instead, John drew him into the house, and Rodney was grateful not to have to think. He put himself on autopilot and followed John deeper inside, into the kitchen. Left to his own devices, he knew he would have just... stalled in the front hallway, hesitant and pathetic. And afraid.

"Here, drink," John said, putting a tumbler of amber liquid in Rodney's hands. The bottle on the counter was whiskey; it must have come from the bar. Rodney was almost too numb to wonder how it had been procured, but then he remembered he was dealing with John fucking Sheppard, the man who could buy anything for the price of a smile.

Including Rodney.

He slammed back the drink, gasping in the aftermath. John drained his share straight out of the bottle like a cowboy or a rock star or... or some drunk bum in the alley behind the liquor store. Hello, hysteria. Rodney watched his throat work as John swallowed, and tried desperately not to twitter.

"Come on," John rasped, whiskey doing his voice no favors. He snagged Rodney's sleeve, and they made a convoy back down the hallway, to Rodney's bedroom. The bottle came with them.

Good idea. No, brilliant. Booze now, unconsciousness later, discussion tomorrow. Discussion or possibly suicide -- whichever held greater appeal come morning.

"Sit," John directed. Rodney did, collapsing on the edge of his bed, and watched with detachment as John knelt and pried off his shoes for him. "Bathroom," was the next order, and Rodney obeyed that too. Then it was John's turn, and Rodney just sort of seized up in the absence of new instructions. He didn't move again until John reappeared in the doorway, pointed, and said, "Bed."

Rodney didn't even mind that he was more or less fully dressed. He peeled back the blankets and crawled inside, curling in on himself like he used to when the bed was still his, back in the unthinkable time before John Sheppard.

Ante Opilio. Christ. The man was an era.

John flipped the light off, and Rodney's eyes hadn't adjusted before a weight compressed the opposite side of his mattress. Springs complained faintly, blankets rustled. The weight resolved itself into a body, which seeped warmth into the no man's land between itself and Rodney.

Sheppard had just crawled into bed with him.

"So," John tested, as if not wishing to disturb the darkness.

"Yeah," Rodney agreed. His tongue was suddenly thick and unmanageable.

John scooted back to sit against the headboard, and gave the pillow in his lap a couple halfhearted punches. "I thought this might be easier. You know, to talk."

"Talk," Rodney repeated dumbly. "Easier."

"I thought about the couch, but the equipment in your living room is noisy. Also, you're just gonna end up passed out, and I'd have to carry you to bed anyway. Starting here is... efficient."

"And you want it dark because... this way you don't have to look me in the eye while you admit you sold me out? What you mean is that it's easier for you."

The silence stretched from maybe to yes before John finally spoke. "Give the Air Force some credit. They knew a lot more than you'd anticipated. If I'd let myself be implicated right along side you, I wouldn't have been in any position to call in favors on your behalf."

"Oh, I'm supposed to feel privileged that you came all this way to deliver the bad news in person?"

"Yeah Rodney, you are. See, somewhere along the line, I got this crazy notion stuck in my head that you deserved the opportunity to come willingly."

Rodney's limbs uncurled a little. He wasn't sure how far he could stretch to the left without encountering something -- some part of John -- he shouldn't, so he hugged the very edge of the mattress. "The Air Force was prepared to blackmail me," he said dully.

"It was their first choice," John muttered. "Your official file likens you to Godzilla: able to flatten egos with a single breath. At least one officer who remembers you from your previous... engagement would love to see you return in disgrace."

And Rodney had provided them the ammunition to do it. Hell if he'd let those small-dicked idiots bask in the delicious irony! "Large favors?"

"You have no idea."

"Mm." He laced his fingers over his stomach and stared at the ceiling. "So this entire... thing. This was you trying to convince me to do it your way."

There was a scraping sound and a slosh as John retrieved the whiskey from the nightstand. Apparently the conversation was sobering enough to warrant the application of additional liquid fortitude. He recapped the bottle after Rodney declined a swig. "I'd prefer willing, but the Air Force will settle for your 'belligerent cooperation'."

The fatal question. "Why?"

Of course -- of course John couldn't field a direct response. "Why what?"

"Why me? Why bother?" Why pretend you give a shit?

"You saved my life," John said, and just like those blind, early days on the radio, Rodney didn't need sight to identify the lie.

"So they sent you to secure my participation. Did your orders suggest you might need to sleep with me, or did that fall under the 'through whatever means necessary' clause?" he inquired nastily.

If the notion startled John, he hid it well. He hesitated, "No." Then, soft and certain, "No, it would never have come to that." Because he'd already figured it out; because Rodney was pathetic and easy and words were cheap and effective.

Rodney sat up, twisted around to face him. He thought he could catch the wary glimmer of John's eyes in the dark. "Get the hell out of my bed."

John's night vision was excellent; he caught Rodney's wrist without fumbling, and held on with a grip that was a whisper away from steel. "Rodney, listen to me. I need you. Me, John Sheppard. I don't... really care what the Air Force..." He lost the rest of the sentence in a raw, frustrated sound.

"Ow," Rodney complained, bravado in the face of certain exposure. John had to feel his pulse hammering; at the very least he would notice that Rodney's every muscle had gone unnaturally still. (Except for his dick, which was perking up, too single-minded to care that he really didn't like to be intimidated.)

"It's selfish," John tried again, but his grip did ease. "They're gonna fix the jumper and they're gonna send me up in it again. Do you see? You're the only one I know I can trust to do the job right."

"You are insane if you think they'll ever let me near that thing! My job will be to check the math of the guy who checks the math of the guy who fixes the priceless alien spaceship. It's guaranteed that I'm going to be the least trusted person on the Air Force payroll." Resignation made it easier to focus on the gritty details, which in turn let Rodney ignore that he was still on the verge of freaking the fuck out. "They are going to pay me, right? They don't think I can afford to work as their slave?"

John leaped on that, apprehension rushing out of him almost tangibly. "So you'll do it."

"Do I have a choice?"

"Would I tell you if you did?"

Rodney raised his arm until the angle broke John's hold. He growled, "There's always prison. Which, by the way, is exactly where I'll go before I'll agree to 'disappear' like Captain Sheppard did." He couldn't put Jeannie through that anguish.

"Disappear?" John repeated in confusion. "God no! I never imagined that you'd think- My family- No, I have to go back even further than that." But he didn't continue, just remained there, a silent, inscrutable shape in the dark. Rodney thought that perhaps he'd closed his eyes.

Oh. This wasn't John being reticent; this was John struggling with something. Unwilling to prod him, and lacking anything better to do, Rodney said, "Booze," and groped around until he found the bottle John rolled in his direction. The stuff was fire going down, even in modest sips.

There was no preamble when John spoke at last. "I was special forces. The job description went something like... conduct day or night low-level penetration into hostile enemy territory, to accomplish clandestine infiltration and exfiltration, aerial gunnery support, and resupply of special operations forces throughout the world," he recited.

That was... god, not nearly as shocking as the simple fact that John Sheppard was divulging information about his past. "For the record, let me just say that I'm glad Canada doesn't qualify as hostile enemy territory." He plinked a finger on the bottle, equally reluctant and desperate to know, "What happened?"

John took a breath, reached some decision, and plunged ahead. "My crew was supposed to back up an op in Afghanistan. The trick was, we had to be in position several days ahead of time, before security in the area tightened down. And the brass had this whole plausible deniability thing going."

"If you were caught skulking where you weren't supposed to be, your superiors -- ahem, my future employers -- would deny any knowledge of your existence and leave your collective asses hanging out to dry," Rodney reasoned. "How responsible of them."

"Hence the word clandestine, Rodney."

Rodney got that, he really did. Well, he didn't get it -- he personally found the arrangement unsatisfactory in every way, and how dare those assholes ever consider turning their backs on John! -- but he understood. It wasn't a sensitive subject for John, simply the way things had been, out of necessity. "Okay, point," he allowed.

"It was a fairly standard cover story. Reports were circulated that our chopper had gone down. We were declared DUSTWUN -- whereabouts unknown. That was our official alibi to be in the vicinity if we were detected or detained moving into position. The op was green-lighted, then the day before the fucking drop I got this... notice saying that an irregularity had surfaced in a recent physical exam. Just like that I was yanked off the mission. They packed me up and flew me home that afternoon."

"Back to the States?"

"Colorado," John clarified. The more resentful his words became, the more freely they flowed. Both the story and the resentment had the feel of something he'd kept to himself for too long. "My squadron was stationed in Florida at the time. That should have been my first clue that the situation was seriously fucked up."

Rodney found what felt like John's knee, and brushed it lightly with his knuckles -- just a reminder that Rodney was here, and listening, and on John's side. Except... that could be misconstrued as a sexual overture, couldn't it? Shit, of course it could. When two men who didn't want to have sex found themselves in the same bed, physical contact was forbidden. Rodney had been forced to share accommodations at enough third-rate industry conventions to know that. "Sorry," he said, withdrawing. It could have been a general expression of sympathy, or an apology for the inappropriate touching. "I, er, take it there was no mysterious medical malady."

Whichever interpretation John chose, he made no comment on it, and for that Rodney was profoundly grateful. "Depends on your definition of malady. The exam'd turned up something, all right. But they wouldn't tell me what, exactly, until they'd drawn a few more gallons of my blood, raised my security clearance, and sat me down in front of a fucking powerpoint presentation to explain -- carefully, in small words -- why the Air Force was lucky that such an experienced pilot had won the genetic lottery."

"Genetic lottery?" If Rodney couldn't touch John, he could still hug his pillow and pretend. Right? "I don't-"

"It's a gene. The thing that allows me to control the Anch- the alien technology. They call it the ATA gene. I don't pretend to understand the technicalities. I just know that I have it, and that it's rare. When the Air Force realized that they were going to need uniquely... qualified pilots to fly their salvaged spaceship, they started testing likely candidates. They found three others, aside from me; and one of them is the leader of SG-1, who's got better things to do than convince the puddle jumper it wants to run another two hundred hours of simulations for those ingrates at Area 51."

"Wait. Wait, wait, stop. First thing -- too many acronyms. Second, you don't convince a spaceship to do anything. I know that people who have a close, working relationship with machines will sometimes personify them, give them names, personalities, whatever. Hell, I used to work with this guy who named his laptop after his sister. He kept a lot of porn on it. If that wasn't some creepy shit... Anyway, the fact remains-"

"Still have the bottle?" John interrupted. When Rodney tried to hand it over, he refused it. "No, it's for you. You're gonna need it."

"John, I think-"

"Just drink," he insisted. "I understand that going somewhere private to become very, very intoxicated is considered an initiation at the SGC. Sorry, Stargate Command."

Still, Rodney hesitated. There was a good chance John was overestimating his tolerance for alcohol.

"The puddle jumper has a neural interface," John blurted. "It can read my mind."

On second thought, perhaps more booze was a judicious idea. He upended the bottle and poured a generous measure straight down his throat. Then, after the sputtering subsided, he wheezed, "Tell me that wasn't a joke. Because I just... almost... drowned myself, and I'd hate to have done that for no reason."

John found Rodney's back, and thumped on it a few times with his open hand. "No joke. The life signs detector? I can think it on from across the room."

Right -- that was touching. Right there. Touching between two men in a bed. And Rodney couldn't care, because holy shit, mind-reading alien technology. It couldn't be language-based; he was pretty sure John didn't speak alien, let alone think in it. Which meant the technology was capable of translating abstract desires into literal commands. "Oh my god, you have to show me now."

"In the morning," John promised. He'd stopped thumping, and after a (reassuring, perfectly manly and platonic) shoulder squeeze, his hand fell away. "Um, where was I?"

"Mutant gene, drunken initiation rite... oh, and don't forget the spaceship that you control with your brain."

"It has physical controls too." He demonstrated, but dark was still dark. Rodney was only able to make out some vague motion.

"What else? Not about the ship, I mean." Amazing as it was, the ship came with blueprints. Whereas this might be the only opportunity he ever got to explore the inner workings of John Sheppard. For example, he hadn't noticed before how John distanced himself by referring to the Air Force as "them".

"I've been to another planet."

Screw the touching rules. Rodney slapped him, and maybe that was John's elbow, but who was aiming? "Oh you did not. You took the puddle jumper for an unauthorized joyride, didn't you? Which planet? Mars? Venus? I hate you right now; I'm that envious."

"P3X-234."

Huh. "You know, there were numbers just like that on the environmental surveys I liberated from the Air Force server." And shit, he hadn't meant to admit that he'd read those documents. Also, "Wait a minute. You're telling me those are planetary designations? There were like thirty of them!"

"Was I supposed to mention that P3X-234 is in a different solar system?" Rodney almost missed the quaver in his voice, but had no trouble identifying it once he noticed. John was putting forth a valiant effort not to laugh.

"You asshole!" Rodney squealed, and tried to hit him again. "Yes you were supposed to mention it!"

John's efforts crumbled; he ended laughing too much to have any success fending off Rodney's attack. "S-Sorry Rodney, I'm doing this badly, telling it out of order. I should have started with the Stargate."

Rodney singsonged, "Worst name ever." God, they were both more than a little drunk.

"Yeah, well you can take that up with the aliens who built the stupid thing. Things. And by stupid I mean troublesome, because they're actually quite- Okay, when someone sits you down -- small room, uncomfortable chair, powerpoint presentation -- and explains that there are these devices on a whole bunch of different planets -- including Earth -- that you dial like an old rotary telephone, and they connect to each other, forming a stable wormhole that allows the uni-directional transfer of matter, including live humans... it doesn't sink in. Oh sure, you nod and try to mimic an appropriate reaction, but it's all going... whoosh! Straight over your head. But you've got your orders, and you're officially in the program, so you creep away that night to get blind, stinking drunk. And they expect that, so they leave you alone the next day. But the day after the hangover... that's when they take you to the gateroom, and dial the gate, and you watch the event horizon form for the first time..."

Clearing his throat, Rodney cautioned, "Now, don't be offended if I use the word delusional -- and I don't know why I'm going to bother explaining a concept this difficult to a man of questionable sobriety -- but wormholes are hypothetical. Hypothetical as in, the possibility of Lorentzian wormholes doesn't directly contradict general relativity. There is no evidence to support- Hell, the entire argument for the formation of stable wormholes rests on the assumption that exotic matter exists, and that's a damned hypothetical too!"

"It's called naquadah," John supplied, "and I'm beginning to see why the Air Force was interested in you in the first place. Is wormholes something you do as a hobby? Like, when you're not chasing aliens?"

"Hello, astrophysics was my first doctorate. I may not have published recently, but I still follow promising developments. I'm not that far outside the field. Also, I am searching for evidence of extraterrestrial intelligence; I do not 'chase aliens'. And what's called naquadah?"

"Your exotic matter, Rodney. The stuff the Stargates are made out of."

There was only one possible response to that. "Oh," Rodney said faintly.

"You're taking this well."

"Yes, well..." He licked his lips. "To be honest, I think I've been in shock ever since the bar."

John assured him, "It'd be worse if you weren't buzzed."

"That too."

"Just wait for tomorrow morning. I have a confidentiality agreement for you to sign that's an addendum to the previous one you had with the Air Force -- which never lapsed, by the way -- and it's still three hundred pages long."

Rodney whimpered. He considered hitting the whiskey one last time, but his limbs were already heavy and his mind pleasantly soft; any more and he risked surrendering to the exhaustion of the day. And since lounging in bed with John Sheppard was high on the list of things Rodney McKay is likely to accomplish only once in his lifetime, it seemed a shame to squander any more of the night sleeping than was necessary.

"Want me to continue undermining reality as you know it, or have you had enough?"

"Oh, by all means, go on. But I swear, if you tell me the Kennedy assassination was perpetrated by aliens, I cannot be held accountable for my reaction."

"No," John said, lightly enough. "At least I don't think we blame aliens for that."

"Thank god."

"But they did build the pyramids. You know, in Egypt."

Rodney whimpered again; it was involuntary this time. "I can't- I don't know what bothers me more: the fact that I'm sitting here wondering how I'm going to digest all this information without suffering from a nervous breakdown, or the fact that I seem to actually believe you. By everything you've told me, I'm decades behind humanity's new comprehension of physics. I could study the puddle jumper my entire life and never come close to understanding all its systems..."

"Will you forget about the puddle jumper? It's not important, in the grand scheme of things. It's like... say you didn't know what an airplane was. If you saw a Cessna, you'd be pretty damned impressed. But it's still a Cessna; it's not an F22."

"It's important to you," Rodney insisted.

It had to be true, because John lacked a quick comeback.

"I just... don't want to disappoint you," Rodney murmured, which was the sort of confession he could only make while tired, impaired, or unbalanced. He floundered for a sarcastic qualifier to blunt it, but nothing sprang to mind.

"Rodney..." John began. His voice was low and earnest, a little rough. "You won't. I know you won't. You're smart -- no, you're ingenious. You're too impatient to get caught up in politics, too indignant to take bribes. You're an insufferable perfectionist. You're not afraid to slap people in the face with your opinions. You're critical, stubborn, paranoid-"

Heart sinking, Rodney sighed, "Thanks for the vote of confidence."

"-honest, decent, loyal, courageous... I spent the past couple weeks verifying what I was pretty sure I already knew. You're the best ally I could have found, and you came at a time when I really, really needed you."

Oh.

Rodney fidgeted. He dared not open his mouth -- there was no telling what slobbering, emotional nonsense might come gushing out, and damn it, he had enough as it was to regret in the morning.

John understood, and spared Rodney with a valiant -- if clumsy -- change of subject. "I never did finish telling you about the events that led to my funeral." He slid down until he was lying properly on his back, fingers linked behind his head.

"No, you didn't." Rodney would have liked to join him, but if he curled up again he was liable to be asleep in seconds. Instead, he pinched the inside of his thigh until his eyes watered.

"I kind of wish it was a better story, but it was just a mistake. A really stupid mistake. A fucking clerical error."

Rodney snorted.

"My status was still recorded as unknown when they yanked me back to the States. When my crew returned from the mission without me, their status was updated. Mine wasn't. Turns out, you can only stay DUSTWUN for ten days before you're officially declared missing in action. The notification went out to my family before anyone realized I was safe and snug in a bunker under Cheyenne Mountain."

"That's horrible! John, why wouldn't they fix it, let you explain? It's not like you have an unusual name. They could have just said they had the wrong John Sheppard or something."

"It wasn't that way. The Air Force was appalled. They wanted to fix it. I argued against it."

"What? Why?" Rodney dropped the whiskey carefully to the floor next to the bed, and thought about curling up again. Although watching John -- watching over him -- from this vantage was nice, too.

John said flatly, "It was easier than getting tangled back up with my family. We've never been close. My mother died when I was young; my father lost interest in me when it became apparent that I wasn't going to succeed him in the family business. He has money, connections... he's a powerful man, and if my mother's death taught me anything, it's that he isn't above wringing personal gain from family tragedy. And I was furious, about all of it, everything. So I let him keep his fake war hero son, and I took the coward's way out."

Suicide. Captain Sheppard had literally terminated himself. It must have been hell for John to realize he possessed the potential for that brand of nihilism.

"Some days, I regret lying to Dave. Maybe I'll tell him, after Dad's gone. Until then, it isn't Patrick Sheppard's fucking business if I fly spaceships for a living. He just- He'd want to know everything, and he wouldn't respect my right to keep some things secret. He'd never stop digging for answers with every shred of influence he's got."

"Hey..." Rodney began. But really, what could you say to that? And I thought my family was messed up? He tried again anyway, "Hey," until John rolled over on his side and peered in Rodney's direction.

"Hm?"

"Nothing," Rodney decided, and wiggled down to lay next to him, pulling the blankets up over them both.

John's hand reached out and found Rodney's, gave it a squeeze, didn't immediately let go. "Thanks," he whispered.

After that, it was just as Rodney had feared. Within seconds of his head hitting the pillow, he was sound asleep.

In the morning, Rodney was awake for precisely long enough to register that the warmth pressed against his back was John before the panic he'd miraculously eluded the night before reared up out of nowhere and sank its teeth in him.

He allowed small, cautious breaths, battling a nausea that had more to do with the dull throb behind his temples than his stomach.

The Air Force, the mind-reading spaceship, John, the helicopter, an advanced alien race, wormholes connecting other planets, loss of freedom, lack of options... it was all immediate, all terrifying. Which completely explained why Rodney's largest, most pressing concern was suddenly finding someone to take his cat.

Oh god, it was really happening. It was all really happening to him.

His mouth was dry and sticky, his arm was stuck at a bad angle and numb, and he had to piss like he'd drunk an entire ocean. Still, he refused to move for fear of waking John; just soaked up every nuance of his solidity and presence, converting it to calm that he hoped would sustain him through the day.

John betrayed that he wasn't asleep after all when he said, "Holland didn't make it."

"Huh?" So John had been awake before Rodney, had been lying still and careful, just like Rodney. For how long?

"The mission, the one I was removed from at the last minute. Holland was a member of my crew, and he didn't make it back, and even though it was out of my control, I can't stop wondering what would have been different if I'd been there."

A long time, then. "I'm sorry."

"The thing is, Rodney... if I agonized over every would-have-been at every junction of my life, I'd be paralyzed with fear and never able to move forward."

Rodney couldn't help smiling; the reassurance was bittersweet, yet so perfectly John. "We could still defect."

"We'd have to brush up on conversational Russian for political asylum seekers," John pointed out.

"And research borscht recipes," Rodney agreed. "You're right, that's way too much trouble."

"C'mon." John tossed back the covers, letting a shock of cool air cleanse them. "I'll make you a deal. You take the first shower, and I'll have coffee waiting for you when you get out."

Rodney thought a moment. "I doubt I'll get a better offer, so... done" he said.

And he followed John out of the bedroom.

Epilogue

Dear Radek,

Don't leave a copy of this e-mail sitting around for any idiot to find. I'm using my strongest encryption for a reason.

Since you never seem to get enough of my refreshing candor, here goes. I did something bad, got caught. No, I can't give you details. For one, you'd laugh. For another, it's Classified. Capital C. If I told you a single word, they'd have to send a black helicopter for you too.

How's this for more proof that the USAF as a collective is mentally deficient? They still want me. John's convinced them to honor the same offer I turned down a year ago, so at least the pay is decent, even if the job is just an excuse to keep an eye on me. They'll probably put me to work analyzing deep space telemetry, or something equally boring that will rob me incrementally of the will to live.

On the plus side, I'll be working in physical proximity to hardware that's so advanced I'll probably absorb a Nobel by osmosis or something.

I've given up the hunt for extraterrestrial intelligence. To be honest, it was always your thing, never more than a passing interest for me. I got much more enjoyment out of designing and assembling the telescope. I'm happiest when I'm making things or fixing things; I should have known I'd be no good at sitting around waiting for things to happen.

The telescope should be put to good use. I have to relocate to the States. (The bastards are letting me keep my Canadian citizenship, probably because they'd have to throw me out if I was American and Air Force and gay.) I'll keep this place. I can afford it, and I'd still like to retire here some day, a second time. I was going to start nosing around some of the local astronomy clubs, see if I could find someone to take care of it for me in the meantime. But then I realized I should ask you first.

Don't worry about me. I know that's what friends do, but John's a friend too, and he'll look after me the way you did back in college (lamentably without the sex). I considered telling him that you're a 190 cm former bodybuilder with connections to the Russian mafia, and that he'd have to answer to you if anything happened to me. But then I remembered he probably knows two dozen ways to kill a man with a plastic spork. I doubt he'd be suitably cowed.

Think Steve would take the cat?

I've been given some time to put my affairs in order. I've threatened to escape to Russia so often that John actually convinced the Air Force I'm a flight risk, so his orders are to stay and watch me until I'm ready to leave. So far, I've made plans to bring the telescope back online, thrown a bunch of crap in boxes to send to Jeannie, and gotten my ass trounced in an upside-down Tetris marathon. (Apparently, learning to fly fancy helicopters at night on instruments does unwholesome things to a person's spatial-temporal reasoning. Wish I'd known this before I lost fifty bucks.)

I'll contact you with my new address as soon as I have one.

All my best,

Meredith Rodney McKay, PhD (x2)

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