Archive of Our Own

"Could you pronounce that again?" John asks.

"Certainly, Colonel Sheppard. We call our world Uehlj," says Henda. Or maybe she says "Uhlch," or maybe it's more like "Ewelk"-- it rolls so quickly and instinctively from her tongue that John hesitates again, and finally commits to "Oolgh."

Not that it really matters. It's one of the few dependable constants in John's life: no matter how he notes the pronunciation of local names for his report, the linguists will inevitably submit a study five months later with a completely different romanization of every one of them, and John will have to update his files.

Henda looks at his notepad with interest. "Your glyphs are so many to record so little!" she laughs. "Or are you writing more words than merely what I say?"

"Well, these spell the name of your world, here," John shows her. "And this one is your name."

"I am honored to be committed to memory," she smiles. "Will you let me honor you in return? I would very much like to share something with you."

That kind of invitation can be ominous as much as it's promising, but it's not like John can gracefully refuse. He pockets his notebook. "My team and I would love to see whatever you'd like to show us."

"Refo, Ceterun," Henda calls to the other two guides, "follow as I take our visitors to the dome."

John waits to fall into step beside Teyla, Rodney behind them, Ronon at their six. "So far so good," he says.

Teyla hears the implied question and answers it with a slight nod and a smile. "I believe we will have much to offer the Yuulchnif--" crap, if that's how Teyla says it, John's going to have to change how he spelled the planet name-- "and they can teach us much in return. I look forward to seeing the sights." In other words, risk assessment favorable.

John nods, skirting a crowd of people, most of them carrying the docile, long-limbed pets that a lot of the locals seem to take everywhere.

It's that rarest of missions, a peaceful encounter that isn't boring. Yuulch has a relatively high level of development, more advanced than Earth in some ways.

John's long since internalized all the intel Atlantis has on Wraith hive movements, so he knows that Yuulch is lucky enough to lie in a disputed zone between the territories of two aggressive Hives, each Hive defending Yuulch from the other to prevent their enemies from feeding up and gaining an advantage.

Another lucky break for Yuulch: on the trip from the space gate to the planet's surface, the puddlejumper detected a lot of Hive-hostile radiation from the system's binary suns. Each Hive wards the other off, and neither of them can survive in the solar system long enough to fight it out to a conclusion. Yuulch hasn't been culled in centuries.

The thick atmosphere cuts the harmful radiation and gives Yuulch a perpetually orange-pinkish sky. Possibly because of the double sun, Yuulch has solar power tech that's way ahead of Earth's. Also, they count in base two. Even Rodney put aside his distaste for the soft sciences to take an interest in that. Maybe the math zeroes out the anthropology.

"The dome," says Henda, leading them through an arched doorway.

John scans the place, eyes peeled for signs of Ancient tech, trying to think non-activatey thoughts, just in case. Behind him Rodney mumbles, but he's not piping up with any warnings.

The place doesn't look Ancient at all, too baroque for that, the whole dome-- and wow, it's big, a vast open space above them-- carved with an orchard in bas relief, stone trees heavy with oblong, three-lobed fruit. Teyla compliments the artistry to Refo, who drinks it up like he chisled the place himself.

Henda says, "We have a little time before the dome blossoms. I'll show you something else in the meantime. Here..."

John follows her to a large open window. "Setul is rising," Henda says. "Stand here and lean out, you can just see it between the buildings." She plants her hands on the windowpane and shows him, tilting her head out the window.

He's just about to follow suit when he's pulled back by a sharp yank on his tac vest. "What--?" he starts, but Rodney scowls at him and jerks his chin at the window frame, fingers still hooked behind John's neck.

The windowpane isn't stone but metal, and the wall beneath it protrudes, and then John sees: it's been plastered over, but there's a hint of those characteristic Ancient notches and flowing-angular patterns, wearing through the facade.

John gives him a nod and Rodney lets go. Leaning out next to Henda, John makes sure not to touch the windowpane. The second sun is dawning, boiling up out of the clouds. The evaporating moisture creates a blue haze in the orange sky.

"Beautiful," he says.

She smiles at him as they withdraw back into the dome. "What it must be like on your world," she says, "I can only wonder. Is it so much darker, with only half a sun?"

"We're used to it," John says amiably.

"Do all the people from half-sun worlds have eyes so pale?"

Behind him, Rodney mutters quietly-- for him, anyway-- "Here we go again."

...Right. Little glances, pursed lips, special honors; someday he'll learn to see this coming. Well, let Rodney grumble, they can always use any advantage they can get.

"We come in all kinds," John answers her easily, forcing a more relaxed slouch and returning her smile.

Just then the dome transforms with the sight they must be here to see: the rising second sun lines up with a small triangular slot in the wall, and a knife of sunlight cuts through the dome, splintering on a prism incorporated into the design on the opposite side.

More triangles of light break apart and scatter and reflect onto the foliage of the carved trees, forming tiny glowing white flowers.

*

The team leaves Yuulch, or Uehlj, or possibly Oolgh, with an appointment for the second contact team to visit in a few days, a box of the three-lobed fruit, and a wafer of photodiodes. After the infirmary releases them, Rodney marches the wafer down to Science, already complaining that it's an embarrassment none of his engineers came up with this much more efficient photovoltaic design.

Ronon sticks around to shyly flirt some more with Dr. Keller; Teyla heads home to Kanaan and Torren. The team used to try to have dinners together, but these days it's better for everyone to meet for breakfast or lunch before their missions.

John goes to his quarters and checks his schedule, his email, his network inbox. If he puts in a productive two hours, he's looking at an entire evening to himself. Just the idea makes his stomach lurch with anticipation.

He damn near clears his email inbox. He addresses every flagged action item on the network. Lorne's going to pinch himself.

After one last sweep of check-ins-- Teyla's in her suite, Rodney's in the lab, Ronon's in the mess, two teams out on milk runs, three Marines escorting architectural engineers to approve new areas of the city for exploration, five golden rings-- John grabs stuff out of the bathroom and sets up on the bed.

He considers himself, hesitating. Boots and BDUs on, or off? Off is more comfortable if he dozes afterward, but on... that feeds into the fantasy better, and he wants to treat himself to the full effect this time, so they stay on. The uniform shirt's too warm, he shucks that. He's got a spare tac vest with empty pockets that he doesn't mind cleaning, so he puts that on over his tee and undoes his fly.

He spreads out the towel and settles on the bed, thin leather strap and a jar of Rodney's sunscreen in reach. John would bet good money that Rodney deliberately formulated it to double as lube. In fact, he'd bet that Rodney concocted it as lube first, and used it as a base for sunscreen later.

He got Rodney to make him a jar without the cocoa butter reek. He doesn't want to use the scented stuff for this and then get hard at the smell when Rodney wears it.

Last thing... he lifts the mattress to pull out the stirrup loops on either side of his narrow bed. Rodney's always making snide remarks about how John's never replaced his tiny bunk, but it's the perfect width for this, for John to spread his legs on either side and feel perfectly exposed, perfectly vulnerable.

That's everything. John picks up the leather strap and winds it around his wrists, folding the ends under the loops. He won't risk cuffs. It's not smart or safe when he's doing this alone, especially when he's on call 24/7. Anyway, he doesn't need the bonds to be secure, he just wants the sensation. Wrists above his head and bound, legs open, boots through the stirrups, and fresh in his mind, the feeling of Rodney yanking him back by his tac vest-- just from getting everything into place, just from anticipation, he's already nearly hard enough to come.

John doesn't want to settle for just getting off tonight, though. He's already got a hint of it building, that feeling just under his sternum, vibrant, ready to expand. He closes his eyes.

He's been captured, he's-- Rodney yanked him back from the Ancient console concealed under plaster (remembering that sensation makes his face heat, his stomach jump) but Henda noticed, and suspected, and when she flirted with him afterward (Rodney folding his arms jealously with a possessive warning glare) her people used a concealed Ancient artifact to detect the gene and they nabbed him for it.

They've taken him somewhere remote, he's in a cell, like the last time he was captured, PHX-912: he keeps the moist stone walls, but not the wracking cold, and leaves out the freezing water they doused him with during the interrogation.

Fuck them, it was nothing, their dank little cell; it's set dressing. He's in the stone-walled cell but he's warm and dry, locked up, hands tied, feet secured, completely trapped, knees apart and defenseless, yes, he's twenty stories underground and maybe not even on the original planet anymore. It's hopeless, hours pass, they'll never, they'll never find him-- god-- and that third guy, the quiet guy, Ceterun, keeps coming around to tell him the team's long gone, they scanned Yuulch for his sub-q transmitter and didn't find him and they've given up.

John twists against the strap and stirrups, not enough to get free, just enough to feel it, feel it, the doubt, the marrow-deep ache of it: they're not coming for him, they can't, they'll give up on him, his heart's pounding with it, panicking, convinced they're never going to find him, but he still holds on, still hopes-- god, he's harder than anything.

The Yuulchnif plan to use his gene for something stupid, like on PFD-289 when they tried to make him deploy an Ancient weapon that was malfunctioning and ready to blow. (And fuck them and their doomsday device, too.) So he fights-- John pulls against the strap around his wrists, arches and twists and kicks.

He gets one boot out of its stirrup, that's okay, he's struggling now, he's outnumbered with no hope of getting free but he has to try, he has to, but fuck, please, he can't, he needs-- and Rodney shows up, firing a stunner haphazardly, taking down all John's captors and complaining that he jammed his finger on the gun stock as he drags John out--

John wriggles out of the strap and yanks his other boot out of the stirrup, he's too, it's too-- he can't see this fantasy through to the part where Rodney frees him and John breaks the way he never does in real life, reaches out, fists his shirt and kisses him, opens for him-- he needs to skip ahead, now.

John's shoving his BDUs down and grabbing the jar with shaky hands, sinking three fingers in and rolling face down on the bed, reaching awkwardly down and back to wedge his fingertips into himself and shove in, a hoarse groan rattling his throat. His chest feels like the Yuulchnif dome, huge and empty and full of broken light.

He drops that fantasy and skips to the one that always gets him off, reliable and fast. TXG-831, the planet near the Lagrange Point Satellite, where they lost Gaul and Abrams. John feels guilty for using that disastrous mission as fantasy fuel, but he can't help it, it seizes his imagination the same as always: he's pinned down behind an outcropping of rocks in the hot sand, and that fucking uber-Wraith is bearing down on him and he's got nothing, it's over, there's no hope, none, and then Rodney shows up and empties his gun into the thing, and his scared, brave, crazy shout of "What now?!" just makes it even better.

In John's fantasy Rodney reloads and somehow the second round finishes off the uber-Wraith, whatever, whatever, just-- Rodney's hauling him out of cover, kissing him hard, bitching him out for going off alone and they're going down onto the packed dusty earth and Rodney's over him, pushing into him, just like that, like that, and-- please, please, come back for me-- please, come, just come--

His comm chirps, and Chuck's tinny voice says, "Colonel Sheppard, you're needed in the gateroom immediately."

John beats his forehead against his pillow a couple of times and wipes his less-messy hand on the towel, grabbing the comm and hooking it onto his ear. "Sheppard here. Report."

"Emergency with AR-5, sir. They missed a check-in and when we dialed through to contact them, we picked up their beacon. It's a distress call."

"On my way."

Fuck. He just had to try to drag it out as long as possible. Should've known he wouldn't have that much time. He can't go out like this, so he shuts his eyes and tries to get there again, but he can't bring back that live, resonant, open feeling inside him.

His body's still primed, so John tugs himself to a quick anticlimax and rushes to the bathroom, cleaning up fast and ordering his clothes, glad he kept his boots on as he checks himself in the mirror quick and heads out.

*

"Sergeant?"

Stackhouse clears his throat, coughs, clears it again. "Mr. Richard Martin Woolsey, sir, this is Sergeant Nathan Elliot Stackhouse reporting."

John feels the rest of the gateroom wincing along with him. There's a protocol so that anyone taken captive who has a chance to report back can convey as much information about the situation as possible without alerting the hostiles.

The deliberate throat-clearing means that Stackhouse is acting under duress, and might be forced to lie. Addressing Woolsey by title, following his name with "sir," saying Woolsey's first name, giving his own first name, using the fake middle names of "Martin" and "Elliot..." all of it is part of a code that the offworld teams memorize before they step through the gate.

The real message is: the hostiles are armed, organized, and aggressive. They have some advanced technology but nothing Ancient is in play. The threat level is high, though thank god, no injuries.

Stackhouse says, "This is all just a big misunderstanding, sir. The Seutradstvev are a fair people, but we were trespassing. They need proof of our peaceful intentions. They want to resolve this through negotiation."

His tone of voice is too rote and earnest, but the worlds of Pegasus don't have television, they don't live and breathe irony like so many people from Earth. Tone is cultural, as the linguists and anthropologists keep drilling into them. Members of the expedition can communicate things through tone that only other people from their own culture have a chance of interpreting. They take every advantage they can get.

Stackhouse is clearly letting them know that he's reciting what they told him to say, but the Seutradstvev-- boy, John's glad it's not up to him to get the spelling of that one right-- either can't tell Stackhouse is making their coercion obvious, or they don't care.

"Understood, Sergeant," Woolsey says. "What are the terms?"

The terms are ridiculous. They know enough about Atlantis from rumors to know who's in change, and they're demanding Woolsey and John meet them on a neutral planet to "negotiate". Of course they don't expect to get any such thing-- it's an opening gambit to get a counter-offer so they can gauge how much the Atlanteans value the hostages.

John puts a spoke in their wheel by offering to come on over to personally haggle for AR-5's release.

They buy it; they must be some overconfident motherfuckers over there. Of course they want John yesterday, unarmed, maybe giftwrapped with a little bow and a tag that says "Property of Seutradst." Woolsey drags it out, proposing and discarding suggestions for the rendezvous. Ultimately, he'll let them choose a place when they name a world a gate team's already scoped out.

John has time to squish into one of the new ballistic vests, fresh from the Daedalus and still semi-experimental, billed as thinner, lighter and more effective, and designed to be worn against the skin for better concealment. Time to do some field testing.

He's just secured the Velcro straps when Rodney marches into the ready room, slams open his own locker and thrusts a shirt at him. "Here. Even the new vests would show under those painted-on shirts you wear." His mouth stretches tight. "This is a stupid plan, and I look forward to saying I told you so about a million times. I'd rather not sit around in the infirmary to do it. So. Try to resist the temptation to throw yourself in front of every single bullet."

"I'll think about it," John says easily, but Rodney doesn't play along with an eyeroll or a quip. The look he levels at John is tough and unwavering. Something's changed between them, after their last run-in with Michael a few weeks ago; John's not sure how to get that light touch back.

And he needs the lightness, because saying something serious, something real... impossible. It's not that John doesn't want to. He really can't. The words are wrong and they get stuck somewhere besides; he can't excavate them from his throat, can't free them from behind the prison of his gritted teeth. Bullshit's all he has.

"Here's to many more, right?" he tries, but Rodney just snorts derisively and stomps out.

John puts on the shirt. It fits fine, looser than his usual, but not by all that much. Rodney looks broader and bigger than him, but a lot of that comes from the high defensive set of his shoulders and his crappy posture.

Later he'll let himself enjoy the idea of wearing Rodney's clothes. For now he just checks that the vest doesn't show and gets back to the gateroom.

The Seutradstvev have gated to PJX-8U4 in the meantime, and Woolsey sends a MALP to verify that AR-5 are all there and unharmed. It also shows at least a good thirty soldiers over there, armed and ready, but sensors detect no other life signs in the area.

Too soon, John's strolling through the gate into... well, it can't really be called an ambush when everybody involved knows it's going to happen.

As advertised, the Seutradstvev have industrial technology, weapons at a similar level of development as the Genii's guns: they're obviously mass produced and automatic, but clunky, with heavy drum magazines. On the other hand, heavy drum magazines mean they've got a hell of a lot of bullets, and a tommy gun can kill a guy just as dead as an M9.

The Seutradstvev have decent weapons, but not much imagination, or they wouldn't have let Atlantis keep the gate open between sending the MALP and sending John. Just because they didn't see anything come through doesn't mean there isn't a cloaked jumper poised right over their heads.

So when the predictable occurs-- the Seutradstvev decide they're not interested in negotiating after all and cut the wormhole before they've even secured John-- the hovering jumper drops a payload of flashbangs and smoke grenades and uncloaks under cover of the smokescreen. John drops and rolls in the same moment, expecting heavy fire since half the Seutradstvev had guns sighted on him, but only a couple of bursts ring out and the shots go wild, pitting rocks a dozen yards away from him.

Marines charge out and just keep on charging, the jumper unloading like a clown car. There's a weird shortage of fire from the Seutradstvev, nothing but short pulses when it stands to reason at least a couple of them ought to be spraying automatic fire, if only to lay down cover.

John's instincts tell him these guys are low on ammo, that they're advanced and they're organized, but supplied: maybe not. And that revises his earlier estimation too. Maybe they're not overconfident. Maybe they're desperate.

John holds his breath against the smoke and crabwalks to meet Sgt. Chaowarat at the DHD, who's dialing out, and per their hasty plan, has a second stunner ready to hand off to John.

The wormhole to Atlantis engages. Still scuttling toward the DHD, John sees Stackhouse and Dr. Gvero surrounded by a solid phalanx of Marines, and the other two members of AR-5 are running, bent low, to join them while Ronon covers them, his particle magnum strobing in one hand, P-90 rattling in the other.

Fast and hard, they'll be home in two minutes, except that's when two VTOLs strafe over.

The Marines and the VTOLs exchange fire, except no, the VTOLs aren't aiming for the smokescreen or the Marines: they're flying directly over, and aiming for, the Seutradstvev.

Stackhouse didn't use any code signals for aerial armament, so this is, what, someone else? The Seutradstvev tommy guns start firing for real, John gets shot, goes down, sees something hit the ground that throws up an enormous fountain of earth. He feels a rain of dirt pattering down on him all over before he checks out.

*

John comes to when his kneecap fucking explodes, and also he bites his tongue.

He gets his other leg under him fast and pants hard, sides heaving, gut aching. His hands are cuffed together in front of him, weird metal cuffs that look like they were screwed on rather than locked. He's still dressed, but his feet are bare.

He's in... a pipe. A cylinder, anyway. Looks metal, gives John less room than he'd have in a coffin. He tests his first guess, and sure enough, the pipe's too narrow for him to even crouch down, let alone sit.

Pretty fucking diabolical if they plan to leave him in here long. He toes the floor, which seems to be layered with dirt, or maybe something like sawdust. About three inches of it, and then more metal. He digs with his toes and kicks dust up, but there's nothing else under there.

John feels his face. He's something like twenty hours past a shave. He had the mission to Yuulch, time in his quarters, ninety minutes in the gateroom: that makes it maybe two, three, four hours he's been unconscious. It might've taken that long just to get him here, wherever here is.

John looks up and then kind of wishes he hadn't. The pipe's open at the top but the top looks far, far away.

No time to waste, though. Standing here is only going to make him weaker. Not only is it a tight fit with no way to rest, it's hot. He's already sweating. He tries slipping out of the cuffs; he folds his thumb in tight, wiping sweat from his face onto his hands to make his skin more slippery. No good. He can, just barely, twist his wrists and get his fingertips on the mechanism, grateful for the millonth time that his fingers are double jointed. The more he looks, though, the more sure he is that he can't undo the screws without tools.

Up, then. Shit. John rolls up his pantlegs; bare skin's going to give him more purchase than his BDUs. He tries to use the folded fabric to pad the busted knee a little.

He manages to get about ten feet up before he really has to put his weight on the bad knee to give his other leg a break. Hurts like fuck, but he lets himself think ahead: someday he's going to be in his quarters thinking about this mess, constructing a jerkoff fantasy using some of it, and he'll skip right over the busted knee. He might not even remember it by then.

He wriggles and inches his way up. There don't seem to be any breaks in the pipe, nowhere it could come apart or open, no hatches or seams.

About six feet from the top, he wriggles up and right away slides back down a few inches, skidding a little.

They fucking greased it. Okay, points to them for that. They're not dumb. John wedges himself as securely as he can (fucking ow, goddamn knee) and squints up. The sky's blazing through the hole and killing his vision, but from here, he can see what wasn't visible from the bottom: there's a metal mesh over the top.

It's not surprising, but it's still disappointing. It looks like it's attached in four places, so maybe it's not that secure, though if they thought to grease the pipe, they probably thought to lock down the top.

Slowly, John contorts and wrenches himself and rests his weight on his bad knee for an infinite few seconds, and eventually manages to tear the t-shirt off his back and into his hands, snagging on the handcuffs. It has a hole in the front, a fist-sized shredded area right where his gut's sore, because... okay, that's where he got shot.

The new ballistic vest has nanotech fibers, microengineered so that bullets spin themselves into fragments against the bulletproof fabric. Looks like it worked, because there's no slug John can see, just a rough patch on the otherwise smooth vest, and the giant hole in Rodney's t-shirt: it's a write-off. He's going to be hearing about that.

He can hardly wait.

John balls the shirt, wipes his face, and laboriously begins scrubbing grease off the metal above his head, and then another stripe up the opposite side for his legs. Inch up, wipe frantically while the bad knee complains and throbs. Inch up, wipe.

Once he's up top, he puts the t-shirt against the metal mesh in case it's electrified, and pushes.

There's no give at all. Now that he's up here, he can see that the four attachments are really more like four ridges that extend several feet down and end in nozzles. In a moment of weakness, he hopes to god they're for spraying water, but he shuts that thought off quick. He can't think about water.

He touches the mesh-- it's not live, so he explores with his fingers over his head, feeling everywhere the mesh meets the pipe, finding no weaknesses; he pushes more on the mesh, strikes up with the heel of his hand. He also slips down some and has to inch his way back up again twice, all just to verify that he's not getting out this way. Not that he had any bright ideas about how to climb down the outside of the pipe anyway, but if he could knock the top open he could tear off part of the shirt and hang it out, make himself more visible for potential rescue.

Going down is almost as rough as going up, because it's really, really fucking hot in here now, and he's slick with sweat all over. The ballistic vest is smooth and he got some of the grease on him despite his efforts with the shirt and his legs and feet are slippery-damp.

He descends in a series of heart-stopping plunges punctuated by the squeak of his sweaty skin as he jams his limbs against the metal until the friction bites in enough to stop him, abrading some hair off his arms and legs.

Once he's at the bottom again, it seems impossible he ever made it to the top. He's sapped. The heat is unreal. He has to piss. The metal of the pipe feels like it's burning him, but he can't avoid touching it.

Fuck them. So what. He's absolutely using this as a setting for a fantasy later. He'll make the pipe a little bigger, big enough that Rodney can wedge in here with him. That'd be amazing, confined and mashed comprehensively against Rodney with nowhere to go, and then John will kiss him and it'll just be a curve of cool metal at his back and Rodney everywhere, rutting against him and telling him off for ever thinking they wouldn't come for him.

John stops it there, because that's for later. Right now he can't anticipate help. He has to assume he's on his own until he gets out of this himself.

For now all he can do is save his strength. He tries to find a position that lets him rest. The filthy t-shirt hangs from his wrists, trapped on by the cuffs; if someone comes to get him out, maybe John can whip it up into their faces unexpectedly and get a moment's advantage. And he's got the vest, he can take a body shot, that's a point in his favor.

The vest seems less advantageous later, when the sun climbs high enough to pierce straight down the pipe and somehow it gets impossibly even hotter. The nanotech fibers don't breathe, and the thick, heavy straps that keep it on him are awkwardly positioned.

Between the narrow confines and his cuffed hands, John can't get the straps open, and he'd almost rather get shot than keep the vest on in this heat. His BDUs are soaked with sweat, with more seeping constantly out from under the vest. He's going to have some substantial criticism for those poorly placed straps in his field testing notes.

The need to piss is back, and it's painful enough that he's got to let loose, even though he can't really afford to lose the liquid. He can get his BDUs open, anyway, enough for this, and there's just enough space to move his feet out of the way. The sawdust at the bottom is obviously there for just this purpose.

More evidence for the worst case scenario. This isn't some ad hoc thing. He has no idea why their idea of a solitary prison cell is a metal pipe, but he can't think of any other reason for the grate up top and the sawdust down here.

The pipe's a new one by him, but the principles here are universal: isolation, physical discomfort, deprivation. It's systematic to break him down, likely for interrogation, maybe to force his cooperation. But if they're going to some effort to break him, they probably aren't planning to kill him. He just has to keep his head.

Easier said. It's hot and tedious, and his legs are cramping up. He's hugely tempted to yell something, end the suspense, break up the monotony. But they're doing all this to get to him and provoke him. The best resistance he can offer is silence.

He mentally practices his golf swing. Tries to retell himself the plot of what he's read so far of War and Peace. Puts himself in the cockpit for some of his favorite flights; in an F-16 soaring over the Atlantic, in his chopper looking down on the snow plains of Antarctica.

When he's really hurting, he imagines giving the ruined t-shirt back to Rodney, grinning ruefully to think that Rodney's first reaction will probably be short-sighted annoyance that John tore up his shirt, and he liked that shirt. Then he'll register the hole and insist on checking John over for damage from the gunshot.

He imagines Rodney tracing the edges of the inevitable bruise, covering it with the warmth of his hand.

This thing with Rodney... John's not stupid. It's a long shot, but it's not hopeless. Rodney puts a toe outside the closet now and then. It's subtle by Rodney standards, which means it's not, very. And he gives it away every time by glancing nervously to clock John's reaction whenever he just happens to casually mention that Christian Bale's definitely been the sexiest Batman to date-- if he had to choose-- or that the film Aragorn wasn't much like Rodney always imagined the character from the books, since he'd never pictured Aragorn being as attractive as Viggo Mortensen, objectively speaking.

When Rodney was sick with the Second Childhood parasite, he told everyone close to him that he loved them: Teyla, Ronon, Jeannie, Radek, Keller. He didn't say it to John. He called for John whenever John backed off to give other people time with him, he clung to the jacket John gave him, he grabbed John's hand and huddled next to him while John held tight, his ribcage hollowing out with grief and rage. Rodney never said it, though.

Maybe it was a fluke, no significance. Or maybe it was a kindness, the last one Rodney could offer even as he got sicker and sicker. This thing between them's always gone unvoiced. For so long, John didn't think it could go anywhere. And he saw the stiff, unnatural way Rodney behaved whenever relationships were on the table. He never wanted Rodney to act that way around him. Just another reason why it wasn't a good idea, on top of the million other reasons John already knew by heart.

These days, though, after everything they've been through... it would take more than a million and one reasons to make John believe it shouldn't happen. If Rodney ever makes a move, he'll go for it.

But John's also seen Rodney's potential future, and in it, Rodney was with Keller. And Rodney and Keller both know about it.

John can't step into the middle of that. He has to hang back until Rodney decides whether he's going to pursue that possible future. Probably he will. Probably he's just building up his courage to make a move with Keller.

Or maybe not. It's a long shot. But Rodney still hasn't given John's jacket back.

About ten million years later, the sun passes over, finally, but the heat doesn't ease up. John's been in saunas that were cooler than this-- he's sorry as soon as he thinks it, because the idea makes him want to moan aloud, steam, moisture, the cup and bucket to throw water on the hot stones. If it rained right now, John would probably sizzle just like sauna rocks. For a second, he thinks he even hears hissing.

Then he realizes he does hear hissing, and tells himself firmly that it's not water. Good thing, too, because when he looks up, it isn't. Thin grayish gas ripples down in a slow stream from one of the nozzles up there.

"Great," he rasps out loud. "Bring it," and uses sweat from his face and throat to wet down Rodney's t-shirt, and holds the damp fabric over his face, his mouth and nose.

It's hard to breathe, though, and it just keeps getting harder until it hits him, this isn't tear gas or pepper spray, doesn't seem to be a nerve agent or intoxicant. It's just inert: carbon dioxide, maybe, or nitrogen. It's crowding out the oxygen while he gasps more and more deeply, a terrifying sensation, sucking in lungfuls of air and still feeling like he's suffocating.

It's almost funny, though, he thinks, trying to scrunch down and trap himself a pocket of better air. Because it's like... dry-drowning. And that's funny for some reason. He'd laugh if he could get a breath.

The hissing stops, and starts again. He's giggling quietly when he realizes nothing's funny, but meanwhile there's oxygen again; he sucks in one deep breath after another, his head pounding.

That was... fucked up. And they could do it again any second. Probably will.

Seriously, fuck them. They think they're scaring him? In a few weeks, he'll be beating off thinking about this place. He'll put the gas in his fantasy, too; he'll smother his face against the pillow to mimic it, a little low-rent autoerotic asphyxiation.

He's going to get out of this, and he won't just get out of it: he'll get home and shove slick fingers up his own ass and get off on it. There's nothing they can do to him that he can't turn around.

That thought carries him through the next round a while later, when they really do drop down something like tear gas. It burns like a son of a bitch and John can't stop coughing til his throat is raw, but Rodney's sweat-soaked shirt against his face helps, and John's been maced worse. Small favors.

Sometime after recovering from that, John feels his face again. His stubble's thicker: it might've been eight hours, ten, twelve. His spit's like paste in his mouth, his tongue glued down, he's dizzy and his vision's whiting out intermittently.

But it takes a full day for dehydration to really do damage, and even with the heat, he's not moving, he's not exposed, there's no dry wind. He breathes slowly through his nose, in, out, in and out, and tries to relax the knots in his legs, flexing up onto the balls of his feet and down again until the cramping eases up some. His head's still throbbing painfully, but it's manageable. He's fine.

When the third round of hissing starts, John buries his face in the damp, stinking shirt again and huddles as small as he can get in the space he has. The gas sinks down around him in greenish wisps, but breathing it, John just feels tired. Maybe he can grab some sleep right here, standing up, like a horse. Maybe he does; he's out of it for a while.

The air's almost clear again when a new noise starts, mechanical, and the pipe begins to vibrate. John's slipping against the sides-- is the pipe lifting up? How the hell--? And then he realizes, no, he's going down. The floor under his feet is lowering.

He gets the shirt hanging loose again and rotates his wrists in the cuffs to turn out the bulk of the metal locking mechanism, preparing to swing his arms up and bash the lock into someone's face. Go for the nose, keep his head down, hunch over and present the vest as a target: ready.

The floor lowers til a gap appears: beyond this point, half the pipe is cut away. There's a metal mesh cage around it that would ordinarily keep him confined in the half-pipe, but the door of the cage is hanging open. He can't see his odds from here, so John lets himself tumble bonelessly out through the open door, ready to make a move when they grab for him.

"Finally!" Rodney says, exasperated and triumphant. John stays down, letting the tension rush out of him in a long harsh exhalation.

But if it were the Seutradstvev, he'd definitely spring up and attack right now. Absolutely.

"John?" Rodney's hand on his shoulder. Thank god.

"Get these cuffs off me," John says, but there's nothing to his voice at all. Even the shape of the words is mangled, his lips cracked and numb.

"You're white around the mouth," Rodney says, eyes huge. "That's-- not good, here," he fumbles his canteen and pulls the straw up and puts it in John's hands, bringing it to his lips. "Small sips," Rodney says, like that's going to happen, but somehow John's training kicks in and he doesn't gulp the water like he wants to, which would probably make him puke; he fills his mouth and swallows little by little.

Rodney's wearing the expression John looks for in a crisis: whitely terrified, but set and stubborn with a red furious flush across his cheekbones. That face means Rodney's about as scared as he can get and he's still sticking in there. When he's got that look, he's behind John all the way.

"You stink like a microwaved hot dog," Rodney says with tactless disgust, which melts almost instantly into worry: "Are you burned anywhere?" He slips his hand behind John's head, fingers threading through John's hair, and lifts him a little, peering at his face and neck, his shoulders.

John wants to say he's fine, but he has no intention of taking his mouth off the canteen. Anyway, he's earned this, Rodney's cool fingertips fluttering over his skin.

"Your skin's red in a few places, but nothing looks blistered." Rodney arranges John on his side in recovery position. "I need to know if you're injured anywhere."

He needs some deep breaths anyway, so John reluctantly disengages from the straw. "No real injuries. Just heat. Dehydrated," he rasps.

"Well. Good." Rodney shuts his mouth tight, but two seconds later he bursts out furiously, "I can't believe you once again used yourself as bait when there was such an obvious huge risk of getting captured-- which is, in fact, what happened! You really think having our military commander snatched and, and tortured was the better option here? This was a particular asinine episode of self-disregard, even for you," Rodney hisses. "What, do you get off on this?"

Whatever was in that last dose of gas, it's a doozy, because John answers in his shredded voice, "It's not what they taught us in SERE, but it works for me."

For a second he feels sick and shocked, but Rodney's expression doesn't change; he just presses the backs of his fingers against John's brow and says, "On top of everything else you probably have heat stroke."

"Rodney?"

Another surge of grateful relief hits John, because that's Teyla's voice. Rodney here is an enormous relief, but Teyla here is even more reassuring.

At Rodney's "Here! Got him!" Teyla glides over to them, P-90 readied as she swivels to cover while checking in every direction. So goddamn reassuring. Only when she's done full recon does she smile down at him.

"John," she says, "we are so glad to find you."

"Ronon?" he coughs out.

"We are posing as a diplomatic envoy, so only Rodney and I are in the building. Ronon is standing by with backup."

"He's massively dehydrated," says Rodney. "Oh, here," and he opens a pocket on his tac vest. "Canteen," he snaps his fingers at Teyla.

She gives it to him, and then bomps him on the head lightly in the customary team response to his rudeness while Rodney fiddles with the canteen saying, "Yes, yes, I know, I know."

Rodney pulls his own canteen from John's hands; John makes an automatic grab to get it back but Rodney gives him Teyla's instead.

As soon as the liquid hits his tongue, John almost shivers with pleasure. It's the best thing he's ever tasted: nasty fake grape, intensely sweet and thickly salty. It's like sweaty Kool-Aid. He wants to drink it forever.

Rodney tucks the Oral Rehydration Solution sachet back into his vest pocket, looking smug. Teyla crouches and declares, "We must get these cuffs off."

"Oh, I thought that was just rope-- oh, great, thanks a lot, Sheppard. I knew as soon as I gave it to you that you'd trash my t-shirt, but what is this stuff? Ew, do I even want to know what you used this for?" Rodney keeps sniping about it under his breath as he cuts the shirt off. It soothes John, the way it always does. He's been through a few dozen close calls like this by now, enough to form positive associations: if Rodney's got breath to complain, there's hope.

Rodney's multitool makes short work of the screws and bolts holding the cuffs on, and once they're off, Rodney cradles John's hands, fumbles the antibiotic gel Teyla hands him and smears it on John's wrists.

"Do you think we're safe enough here?" Rodney asks Teyla. "I think we should stick his head under a shower for the heat stroke."

She spares a glance for the energy detector hanging initialized and unheeded from Rodney's belt. "The scanner shows no other life signs nearby."

It finally registers to John that he's really, really fucking out of it, or else he wouldn't be okay with lying on the floor giving no input at all, asking no questions: he's completely incurious about their circumstances and willing to go along with whatever they say.

He gulps his mouthful of ORS and says, "I've been drugged."

"No, really?" Rodney says. "We thought your pupils were always the size of monster truck tires and we'd just never noticed. Can you stand?"

"Yeah," John says, and tries. "Or. No."

"Stay there." Rodney strides off somewhere; John can't tell, his vision dim beyond six feet or so. He is fucked. up.

And then Rodney's back, motioning to Teyla, "This way," and they hoist John up between them.

"Who knows if they still use this place legitimately, but the emergency showers still work," Rodney says, and then they're lowering John carefully underneath a lukewarm trickle of water.

It feels unbelievably good, his face and arms and shoulders cooled and soothed. "This thing off," he grates out, tearing at the bulletproof vest smothering him. Rodney's big hands bat his away and rip open the Velcro, a loud and satisfying snarl of sound. And then, god, there's water on his bare back, on his chest, it feels better than anything.

"These too," Rodney's saying, and John's kicking out of his sweat-soaked BDUs before he knows what's happening, and water's raining down on him everywhere.

"How the hell are we going to get him out of here?" Rodney asks. "Maybe I could smuggle him out in a crate."

"Rodney," Teyla reproaches. "You will worry Colonel Sheppard unnecessarily. John, we have contingency plans. A cloaked jumper is waiting for us just outside this facility."

"Which is where?" John asks between swallows.

"Seutradst," Rodney says. "As for your next question of how, or possibly why, that requires a little backstory. From what we can tell, there are three main factions around here. Faction one are the rag-tag rebels who captured AR-5."

"Shit list," John says.

"No kidding. Faction two is some significant percentage of the armed forces, led by an imperator who's staging a coup. They're the ones who attacked faction one during the rendezvous, and captured you. They must've had a mole in faction one to know where the exchange was going down. They came in through the orbital gate. We're in faction two territory now. This is a munitions factory they've taken over."

So it was different motherfuckers who stowed him in the torture pipe. "Is there a shittier list than the shit list?"

"We'll start one," says Rodney.

John spins his hand to prompt Rodney to keep updating him.

"Right, right. Faction three is the current government."

"A tyrannical monarchy," says Teyla with distaste.

"With an extremely creepy king," Rodney agrees. "He totally looks like John Wayne Gacy. You know, those beady eyes? Unfortunately the creepy monarchy is the only group that hasn't pissed us off, so any dealings we have around here are probably going to be with them."

"How'd you get here?" John coughs.

"We traced your sub-q here and contacted the imperator's forces asking nicely if they'd seen you. They lied through their teeth and said the faction one rebels must have you, and then they invited us to help them crush the rebellion," says Rodney. "On the grounds that the enemy of our enemy equals BFFs."

"We led them to believe we'd ally with them in exchange for help finding you among the rebels," Teyla says. "Rodney offered his expertise to get their munitions factory in working order again." She looks at the cage around the pipe. "It has not been used for its original purpose in some time. There are signs it has been used to keep prisoners for many years. Yet it is almost vacant now."

"The good news is, it was built around an Ancient outpost," Rodney glints enthusiasm. "They made the same mistake we did in Atlantis at first, they're using the transporters for storage, no idea what they're really for. As far as they know, Teyla and I are stuck in a broom closet halfway across the building. They won't be looking for us for a while. Based on my admittedly brief but extremely unpleasant conversations with their leaders, these losers don't even have the capacity to imagine that we're long gone from there."

"Though we should not linger unnecessarily," Teyla reminds Rodney.

"Turn off this water and give my clothes back," John says, mourning the last drops of ORS as they slide down his throat. Half his words still rasp out as whispers, but he can get his feet under him now and shakily crouch up.

"Here," Rodney unshoulders his pack and unzips it, "we brought clothes. We didn't know what state you'd be in or whether we'd need to disguise you or sneak you out somehow." To Teyla he says, "I think we should just have them land the jumper on the roof so we can all get out of here before the junta catches a clue."

"That would surrender all the strategic advantages of our deception," says Teyla. "If the jumper recovers Colonel Sheppard while we return and continue to feign cooperation, we could learn more about their capabilities and plans."

"Are we really likely to need strategic advantages with these people?" Rodney asks. "We've never come across them before, you've never even heard of them. We can take off, block their address and be done with them forever."

"Avoidance did not work against the Genii," Teyla points out. "The Seutradstvev have arms and aircraft, they seem adept at using the gate network, and they obviously have information about Atlantis. They represent a significant danger."

"That's exactly why I don't like the idea of you two going back into their tender loving care," John finds himself saying. "If we lose some advantages, we lose 'em, but we all leave together. I don't want to end up pulling either of you out of a torture pipe."

Rodney's eyes round in alarm. Christ, John didn't mean to say any of that, especially the last part. He's still unhinged from whatever they dosed him with.

"I will contact the jumper," Teyla concedes, hand already on her radio.

"Maybe there's something around here I can hack into," Rodney says, striding to the nearby console.

Of course he forgets to ask if John needs help getting dressed, but that suits John fine. He drags himself out of the emergency shower and digs into Rodney's pack, rooting out the spare clothes and Rodney's handkerchief, which he uses to try to dry off the most crucial areas to avoid chafing. He has a second of profound dissociation: naked on the cold concrete floor in a disused munitions factory on an alien planet, rubbing Rodney's crusty snotrag between his thighs. It can't really be happening.

While his brain's busy insisting this is all some big joke, John doggedly pokes his feet through the legs of his boxers, blue and white striped like toothpaste... he's going to brush his teeth for a year once he's out of this... he puts the hated, smelly bulletproof vest back on, track pants, t-shirt, uniform shirt, thigh holster and Beretta, oh hell yeah.

A little more hunting yields a pair of flattenable leather slip-on shoes in there, too. The Athosians make them; they're standard equipment, John established that rule himself after AR-3 got bootjacked on a mission and came back bloody-footed.

John's working on maybe trying to stand up when a sizzling noise cuts through the air. He looks around wildly; it's the cage door bolted to the torture pipe, it's electrified now, popping and sparking.

As quickly as it started, the electricity cuts off. John steers his gaze to see Rodney at the console, looking sickened and shocked at what he just shut off.

"So uh, thanks for showing up before that part," John says.

With quick choppy movements, Rodney opens up the console and just starts yanking shit out. "They've ruined half of these controls in order to rewire it to do... things like that," Rodney says, pulling out crystals. "There, it's useless now," he tucks the crystals into his belt pouch. "Are you dressed? We need to get you up."

Teyla comes close again, helping Rodney pull John to his feet. She says, "We can take the transporter to a higher floor, but we must still use stairs to reach the jumper on the roof. The stairways were guarded on the lower floors."

"We have flashbangs? Smoke grenades?" John still feels like his head might float away and explode any second, but with his holster strapped on, his command instincts are coming back like muscle memory.

Rodney and Teyla hand him a flashbang and get theirs ready, Teyla with the smoke grenade because she has the best sense of where to throw it.

"Rodney," John says as they sweep through the rooms on the way to the transporter. "Center mass, okay?"

Rodney can fire a gun with precision-- he can't draw a bead as quickly as a soldier, but he can put a bullet exactly where he wants it. John's seen him take down Wraith with head shots, but when he has to fire on human opponents, Rodney often twitches and misses. John finally took him aside and told him he could shoot for the legs if it would keep his aim true, and Rodney's been a better shot in the field since then, but sometimes going for the thigh just won't cut it.

"Don't worry," Rodney says, his face grim. "This time, it's not going to be a problem."

And oh, yeah, that green gas is still fucking John up bad, because he impossibly actually puts his hand on Rodney's arm and squeezes gratefully. It's about one-thousandth of what he really wants, what the gas is making it seem like a really good idea to do: grab Rodney by the back of the neck and kiss the hell out of him, just for a start, lick the gun oil off his hands, suck his cock-- his mouth's watering. Shit, shit, he has to make himself belatedly drop his hand off Rodney, get it around the flashbang again.

Thank fuck, again, for Rodney's adamantium obliviousness, because he doesn't even look at John, just presses his shoulder against John's briefly as they get into the transporter.

By the time they make it to the stairwell, Teyla on point, John's head feels as if it could crack like an egg at any moment. Almost the second Teyla gets the door open, there's gunfire coming up from below-- the fuckers are smart enough to stay out of the team's line of sight, and the rickety metal stairs don't block enough of the shots to make it feasible to run for it. Teyla lobs her smoke grenade, banking it off the wall and down among them.

John knows his limits and he's past them, so he just hands his flashbang to her so she can throw that too. Rodney does the same. There's yelling from below.

The problem is, even blinded and deafened and choking on smoke, those guys still aren't having too much trouble firing toward the exit; it's not like it takes a big effort to tell which way is up. John's sure if he wasn't gas-addled and exhausted, he'd have some clue what to do here, something unexpected, like maybe--

"Flares," he says, turning to Rodney and snaking his out of his tac vest. Rodney's crammed a powerbar in the narrow pocket with it, it comes halfway out and Rodney has to shove it back down, looking abashed. John wants to kiss him bad enough that for a second there it kind of hurts his throat, but: gunfire.

He lights the flare and tosses it down the stairs. Shouting below, confusion, and the shots thin. Teyla's already on board and lights her flare too, throws it beautifully if the yelp from below is any indication, and it's chaos down there-- they have no idea what the flares are, they're frantic, and the bullets stop flying and Teyla's already bolting up the stairs, her hand on John's vest towing him with her, and Rodney shoving him from behind, and fuck--

One of the fuckers is climbing the stairs, maybe coming after them, maybe running from the flare--

John can feel every motion as Rodney raises his weapon and braces against John's back and-- John cranes around to make sure-- Rodney nails the guy right in the neck.

It's awful, it's really horrible, it'll be joining John's nightmare reel for sure. The guy grabs for the wound, gouting blood so freely that there's more sounds from below, yells of disgust and terror, either because it's raining down on them or because they can see it painting the wall.

But it's only two, three, four seconds and then they're breaking into daylight, Teyla dragging John up, Rodney pushing him, and there are the two little guidelights that poke out just beyond the jumper's cloak to show where the door is, beckoning.

"Hold position!" John shouts, because he knows his guys are going to want to rush out to help with the firefight, but five more steps and they'll all be invisible to anyone dumb enough to give chase.

And then unbelievably they're in and it's over, the ramp slamming shut, the ground falling away, and oh look, there's a gurney all set up and ready. John sits on it but Rodney makes an awesome exasperated noise and grabs him by the shoulders and puts him firmly down, someone else pulling his legs up into place, and Teyla takes John's sidearm.

Rodney's still leaning over him, talking at him, keeping John focused on him, for what seems like way longer than necessary until John realizes it's to occupy his attention while below there's an IV going in, a blood sample coming out, his clothes cut off, and someone's palpating the bruises on his middle, where he got shot in the first firefight.

Then someone's flashing lights in his eyes and asking questions John can't figure out how to answer, and Rodney's hands on his shoulders feel like the only thing in the world that's not twisted out of all recognition.

John waits to slide out of consciousness, the usual result of an IV, but it keeps not happening and even though he can't parse what Rodney's saying anymore, Rodney's speaking in a strained, demanding tone that John couldn't ignore even if he wanted to.

Everything stays hard-edged, crisp and surreal as they thread through the gate and another gate and the Alpha site and then at last Atlantis, the jumper bay, and Rodney finally backs away as the gurney starts whizzing along and John watches the ceiling speed by, hallway, hallway, transporter, hallway, infirmary.

*

So it was an ordeal that seemed to last forever, with isolation and heat torture sandwiched by two gun battles, plus John was maced and drugged; but the fact is, most of that happens about once a month around here, and John's coping strategies are well-oiled and in perfect working order. Even though he knows it's a little nuts, it's just the truth: the next day, John's fine.

Usually when he gets antsy they find some excuse to sedate him, but they can't do that this time since he still has an alien drug in his system.

So John is plenty awake enough to be annoying. "Another six hours? Why? I'm all good."

"It's standard to keep patients in the infirmary for twenty-four hours after exposure to unknown substances," Keller recites.

"It's been more than twenty-four hours since I was exposed."

"I can't know for sure when you were dosed, so I have to start the clock from when you got back to Atlantis."

"Look, I know the drill-- you're just going to stick me in a bunk with a beepy thing on my hand. I might as well be in my own bed, right?" John wheedles. "Just give me a beepy thing and send me on my way."

Keller says, "The beepy thing alerts us if you have a reaction. If you're in your quarters, we'd get the alert, but we might not get to you in time. Sometimes it's a matter of minutes, Colonel."

"You said yourself this is just like drugs we have on Earth that are harmless." The test results came back hours ago. The Seutradstvev doped him up with something that suppressed critical thinking and induced a heightened emotional state. John has to admit it was more effective than the one he was shot up with during SERE. But then, that was training; for all he knows, it was a placebo.

Anyway, aside from the slowly waning mental effects, the gas isn't doing a thing to his vitals. He's fine.

"I said it bears a remarkable resemblance to some barbituates we're familiar with. That doesn't make it harmless." She folds her arms and looks at him. "But I'm going off shift in two hours, and usually when that happens, I wake up to find out you've sweet-talked someone into giving you your walking papers without even fixing you up with a monitor."

"Can you blame me?" John tries to look innocent and put-upon, but she's so not buying it.

Turns out she doesn't have to buy it, though, for John to get his way. "Give me two more hours with no arguments, and I'll sign you out when I go. But you're off duty tomorrow and the next day. I want you to come back for more tests to make sure it's all out of your system, and I want you to rest."

This is usually where John would say something like No rest for the wicked and smile as she rolls her eyes, but instead he's saying, "Okay, I will."

The doc does a double take. "Are you sure you're ready to leave? The drug's breaking down, but it seems like you're still feeling some of the effects."

"I'll be fine," says John. "I might still be a little more agreeable than usual, but that's one of the nice things about being the ranking officer. It's not like there's a lot of people around here telling me to do stuff."

"I'm tempted to take advantage and tell you to stay put," says Keller. "But I'll stick to the deal if you will. Two more hours."

"Thanks, doc."

*

John's only been back in his room for a little while when Rodney shows up.

It's always weird having Rodney in his room. It makes John hyperconscious of all the times he's laid back on his bed and fantasized about Rodney coming after him, Rodney fucking him in a few dozen different places across the Pegasus galaxy and a couple more back on Earth.

John tries not to let himself think about his fantasies, or his attraction to Rodney in general, anywhere but his bed, which is a great technique for keeping his eyes on the prize in day-to-day life but makes it even more fraught when Rodney's actually in his room.

Normally John deals with it by occupying himself with something else while Rodney's in here, fixing his eyes on a comic book or his golf clubs or his RC car while listening to Rodney rant.

Today he just sits up on his bunk. He knows he should be reaching for something to hide behind, but something gives him the sense that he should be paying attention. Possibly that's the drug too.

John straightens, rubs his palms against his knees and says, "Hey, buddy. What's up?"

"I thought we could talk," Rodney says.

"Sure."

"Are you, ah, feeling better?"

"Dandy," says John.

"Good good, wacky drugs all out of your system then-- wait," Rodney says, "Jennifer did discharge you, didn't she? You didn't just walk out?"

"Yes, Rodney, I'm all signed out, I got my lollipop and everything." John focuses on telling the truth to the actual question, even though he has the urge to confess that the gas might still be affecting him. If he can resist telling the truth about the possible aftereffects, then he's not really that affected anymore, right?

"Woolsey's struck a deal with Seutradst's creepy king," Rodney says. "He's negotiating between the three factions. They've all blown up enough of each others' installations that none of them really have much in the way of resources, so he's getting concessions out of all of them already."

"Great." He already knew Woolsey was giving it a shot, but he appreciates the update. Lorne also has teams ready to go on John's mark if the Seutradst try anything. If they do any bombing they're going to flatten that defunct munitions factory. But even though he'd love to know that place is wiped off the map, John hopes it doesn't come to that.

"Yes. Well. Can I, uh," Rodney gestures at John's task chair, grabs it and wheels it over.

"Of course."

Rodney plunks down, fidgeting. "So, I don't know if you even remember this, but when we were saving you from the results of your latest folly, you said some things."

Shit. John could swear, would have bet his life, that he remembered it all and hadn't said anything to give himself away to Rodney, but what if he only thinks he remembers? Shit. Now that he knows what the drug does, he can feel how it's giving him the urge to tell Rodney what he's thinking, but he can keep it behind his teeth and say instead, "What things?"

"I asked, rhetorically of course, if you, ah, got off on endangering yourself unnecessarily, and you... didn't answer entirely in the negative."

Okay, he does remember that, he's got an answer all ready to go on that one, scoffing, "Jeez, a guy can't make a joke? Come on, McKay."

"That might fly if you hadn't been completely strung out on something Jennifer tells me is basically the Pegasus equivalent of truth serum."

"You know there's no such thing as truth serum, right?" John says. "Mostly those 'truth' drugs just lower inhibitions, make people more talkative. Like, say, maybe a little more inclined to crack inappropriate jokes during missions."

"Listen, medicine may be so much hocus-pocus, but the biochemists gave me a very compelling rundown on how this particular compound suppresses higher cortical brain functioning and makes it very difficult to lie." Rodney folds his arms and stares John down. "I asked specifically, and they swore up and down that it doesn't have a sarcasm exemption."

"So maybe they're wrong."

"Maybe they're not." Rodney has that sick look he gets before he does something brave. "John... I really don't want to do this, but-- I, I feel it's my responsibility as your teammate and your friend to insist. You need to talk to someone about this. If it's not Teyla or Ronon or me, then Dr. Gutala."

"Yeah, that's not gonna happen," John says without conscious compunction.

Rodney lifts his chin. "Or I can report it to him and he can give you a medical order to come in for an eval."

"You wouldn't do that."

"You knowingly walked into an ambush unarmed! You were taken captive! You could have died of dehydration before we found you. Is that the kind of death wish you get off on? Not exactly a blaze of glory."

John's skin feels a size too small and his fingertips and feet are ice, but he keeps himself steady, puts on the most soothing variation of his command voice. "I did my job, Rodney. You and Teyla got me out. Everything's okay."

"What?" Rodney's gestures go choppy with outrage. "Nothing is okay!"

"You have to know I wouldn't put myself in danger if I thought there was any other way." John leans and catches Rodney's eyes, holding his gaze. "I would never. Because I know you guys are going to come for me. I wouldn't put you at risk like that if I could avoid it. You know that."

"I know you wouldn't consciously do that..."

"I'm not stupid," John says sharply. "You think I've never seen a death wish? I've seen pilots like that. That's not me, Rodney."

"Then what?" Rodney demands. "What did you mean?"

He can tell Rodney's never going to let this go if he doesn't hear something from John about it. It might as well be the truth. He's even got an alibi.

"I think about it later," John says.

"You... what?"

"After I'm out of the situation, when I'm still keyed up." John knows he could stop himself from talking, but why would he want to? The words are there for him for once. It's like his throat's been oiled and what he wants to say can just slide right out of him. "I imagine whatever fucking pit I was stuck in, only now I decide what happens there. You get it now? It doesn't affect what I do in the moment. It's later."

"You're still doped up on that stuff," Rodney realizes, eyes rounding with distress. "Son of a bitch. John, I'm sorry. If I'd known, I wouldn't have started this."

"It's okay," John says.

"No, no no no no, how could that possibly be okay with you?"

"It is. It's not like I can really lie about it right now," John points out reasonably.

"Right, it's okay with you now because you're high."

"It's okay with me because it's easy this way," says John. "Easier." He can't help watching Rodney's hands. This is always when John wants everything most, when he gets back to his room after the latest clusterfuck and he finally has a chance make it his own. It's not fair for Rodney to be here now. "It's almost easy," John says, distracted, his voice distant even to his own ears.

"John," Rodney says. There's something softly hurt and bewildered in his voice.

"Usually what I imagine is the rescue," John says. He didn't realize he'd decided to tell Rodney that too, but he must have, because here he is, saying it. "It's weird, I know. But you can't help what you're into, right. You don't get to decide."

"Who by?" Now there's nothing soft in Rodney's voice at all. It's brittle with disappointment.

"Huh?" John's responding to the tone change more than the content of the question.

"Rescued by whom?" says Rodney with exaggerated correctness. "Teyla, Ronon, some porn star fantasy, a particular Marine?"

"Quit fishing," John answers tiredly. He feels almost detached now, like he's watching himself as he uses the excuse of the drug to make his move now, before Rodney can choose one way or the other. From Rodney's tone, it's clear enough which way it's going to go, and it wears him out, knowing this door's about to close. He doesn't know what he'll hope for when he can't hope for this. "You know it's you."

Rodney leaves him hanging long enough to make John really feel the regret before saying, with almost palpable outrage, "What?"

"If you're going to freak out, I'd rather you did it somewhere else," John can't quite stop himself from saying. Maybe he doesn't try that hard.

"I'm not freaking out, I'm furious," Rodney informs him. "You can't-- that whole first year, I was crazy about you, and don't even try to tell me you didn't know. It got to the point that Elizabeth took me aside and told me to tone it down. Do you have any idea how humiliating--" he throws himself to his feet and paces, his lips smashed shut.

"I was having a hard enough time getting a bunch of Marines who didn't know me from Adam to accept my command," John says. "We were on our own out here. I couldn't take the chance it'd alienate them. We finally got back in touch with Earth, Elizabeth went to the mat to keep me posted here... I couldn't just turn around and start a relationship that went against regs."

"No, you'd just flout them every other way."

"Every other way, I could argue it was necessary to the mission to bend some rules," John says. "It would have kind of undermined that if I broke them just for myself."

"I've obviously known you too long," Rodney mutters, "when that kind of alleged logic almost makes sense."

John accepts that for the concession it is. "By the time it seemed like maybe I could risk it, you had a girlfriend."

Rodney wheels around and stabs a finger at him. "Ha! I've been single for months!"

"I saw your future!" John bites down before his raised voice becomes a shout to match Rodney's. "You were with Jennifer in that other timeline. And in this one, you went with her on that goodwill mission, you were trying to impress her," he's trying not to sound pissy about it but it's probably coming through. Why the hell not, he's already blown it.

"Well, excuse me, but if someone seems interested in me, I'm going to pursue it," says Rodney. "We don't all have hot alien babes throwing themselves at our feet. Even if you're only interested in the men, you've had no shortage of opportunities."

"You know I'm not like that."

Rodney halts, looking pained, and comes back to sit in the task chair. Not on the bed next to John. Doesn't get much clearer than that.

"Yeah," he says. "I know you're not." Rodney frowns. "Guess this explains why you've been acting even stranger than usual. I thought maybe you were still mad at Jennifer over, uh," he glances up and at the look on John's face, he doesn't mention his close call with Second Childhood, just opens and turns his hand to indicate everything he's skipping over.

"Might be a little bit of that too." Starting this while he's still doped up, that was a brilliant strategy. John shakes his head, focuses himself. "It's not her fault. She's fine. She's great."

"Did you see the video?"

"Video?"

This time Rodney doesn't gloss over it. "One of the videos I made when I was sick," and John can't help flinching, already raw when Rodney says, "I told Jennifer I loved her."

"Huh. Okay," John says. It's easy; he's calm now. It's like he's over it, just like that. Incredible.

"We talked about it later," Rodney says. "Her and me. I don't remember saying it. My memory's shaky after the third day." He smooths his palms along his thighs. "We don't even know each other all that well. Maybe I just said it because she's pretty. That's about the level I was functioning at, once the parasite dug in."

"Okay," John repeats. Maybe he's calmer, but that doesn't make it easy to hear this.

"What, nothing? No reaction? When I told you I was going with her offworld, you gave me a weird look and walked out on me."

"I'd walk out now, but you're in my room."

"Is it just sex?" Rodney asks.

"What?"

Rodney huffs impatiently and flips his hand between them. "Your whole fantasy whatever."

John's still finding it hard to lie, but he can keep his mouth shut, so he does.

"It sounded like it's not just sex," Rodney says uncertainly.

The note of vulnerability in his voice gets to John. His numb calm is already wearing off; he's feeling the outline of just how big a fucking hole this is going to punch through him.

Rodney's a colossal asshole for telling him all these things, asking him this, and he's got a lot of nerve sounding like he's the one hurting. But John knew he was a bastard when he fell for him. It's not like it comes as a surprise.

John shakes his head. "Not just." Not just anything.

"Okay." That sounds a lot more resolute, and John looks up at him: Rodney's expression is set and stubborn, a red flush across his cheekbones. He slides out of the task chair, which rolls away abandoned as Rodney shifts onto the bed next to John, rests his hand on John's chest and kisses him.

John's not dumb enough to jerk away, even if the urge is there after everything Rodney just told him. He wraps his arms around Rodney's shoulders and pulls closer, opening to Rodney's tongue and shivering as it slides across his bottom lip.

He shifts to cup his hands on Rodney's face, ducks out of the kiss to press his lips to the little mole just under the curve of his jawline, stroking it with his thumb. He's wanted to do that forever.

Rodney allows the distraction for a few moments, but then his mouth's on John's again, wide and demanding. John gives him more of a match this time, pushing into the kiss aggressively. If this is all he's getting, he'll take it with both hands.

Rodney's kisses grow distracted, but don't stop, while he struggles out of his shoes, and then he's urging John down onto the pillows, resting himself on John, the knob of his hip just enough pressure against John's dick. John can feel the heat of Rodney's hard-on through all the layers between them.

"Do you have any idea what it would have meant to me..." Rodney kisses him hard and deeply enough to make John's mouth feel a little stretched. "I would have waited," he grates out, his breath harsh in this throat, hot against John's face. "And you know I'm not good at patient. But I would have waited."

John waits for Rodney to finish the thought, to say that now it's too late.

"Tell me what you thought about," Rodney says instead. "Tell me what you want."

"I don't want this just one time," John answers, ragged, "Don't--" he clamps his jaw shut tight before he can say Don't do that to me.

"Okay, then we'll do it a lot," says Rodney. "Don't give me that look. What was that, four minutes of thinking you'd never get a chance? Try it for four years." He takes some of his weight off John.

John wraps his leg around Rodney's to keep him there. "You picked her," he says.

"Please, you have exactly zero justification to be mad that I dated her all of twice. I didn't even know I had a choice!" Rodney scowls down at him. "And in case you haven't noticed, I'm in your room, on top of you, about thirty seconds away from sucking your cock: by what possible definition can that be construed as picking her?"

"I think about you coming for me," John says in a rush. "Every shithole I've ever been shut up in, the Genii, 912, Olesia, the Aurora, the cloister. Every-- all the time."

"And doing what, fiddling with crystals and picking locks to get you out? That's hot?" Rodney asks, his fingers busy undoing John's pants.

"Just that you're there," John struggles to reach Rodney's BDUs and gets his hands slapped away.

"I'll do it. You talk."

"Like yesterday," John says, and he never anticipated this, but it's thrilling to say it, the same feeling of exposure he creates in his fantasies. "I'd imagine you there. You wouldn't get me out right away. That pipe'd be a little bigger, so you could step in there with me, keep me there, I couldn't get away."

Rodney's hands slow. "You'd want to get away?"

"No! But," John lifts to let Rodney strip his pants off him, "but I couldn't."

"Shirt," Rodney says, and hauls his own off before he tugs at John's. "Then what?"

"You'd chew me out for ever thinking I was on my own in there," John runs his hands over Rodney's chest, amazed; circles his arms around Rodney and pulls him close. Rodney's body feels so good against his, strong but yielding, rough hair over smooth skin. "You'd, your hands-- I'd forget about being in there all that time, it wouldn't be another hole I'd been locked up in, it'd be another place we'd fucked."

"I don't think I've ever heard you say fuck before," Rodney's hips buck against him, a little jolt. "I want to hear it again. A lot."

"Okay," says John, grinning, breathless, "fuck me."

"What? Not the first time," says Rodney, "like I'd even last long enough to get inside you," and John can feel Rodney's cock pulse at the idea: it's damn satisfying, almost as good as actually being fucked. Feeling Rodney wanting him.

"But we're still going to need stuff," Rodney says, "where..."

John points, and Rodney yanks open the drawer and comes up with the container of his own sunscreen.

"God," Rodney groans, dipping his fingers in, "when you asked for this, I pretended this was why you wanted it. I got off on that idea for weeks. You jackass."

It's easy to say "I'm sorry" when Rodney's big slick hand is closing around his cock, sliding easily up and down his shaft, Rodney's thumb fitting against the sensitive spot just behind the head.

"Don't," John clutches Rodney's shoulders hard, "don't, it'll be over too fast."

"Okay, okay," Rodney stills his hand and kisses him, licks into John's mouth and nips and tastes him while John twists under him and glories in how completely Rodney's got him pinned down.

Rodney picks up on it and draws back just enough to say, "You want it so you can't get away... like how?"

John links his hands over his head. That live, light feeling in his chest opens up and spreads all through him, better than it's ever been, open as the sky, his whole body echoing with it.

"God, John," Rodney holds his wrists down with his free hand and licks broad and lewd along John's neck. "How could you ever think I wouldn't want you more than anyone? You knew," he starts up again suddenly, pumping John's dick, too good, "you had to know I was always going to come for you," and John arches up into all the strength that's holding him, his back bowing, hips snapping as he comes, a hard rush sweeping through him from his toes to Rodney's grip on his wrists.

Every inch of him is tingling. "Let me," he tugs at his hands.

"I like you like this," Rodney answers, thrusting through the mess on John's stomach. He takes hold of himself and kisses John, more and more urgently while John moans muffled protests and tries, not too hard, to get free, rubbing up against Rodney til Rodney shudders and comes in a flood of heat between them.

John lies there, dazed with the afterglow. He feels completely fucked out, like he'll never be able to get it up or get off ever again, and also like he wants to start trying again anyway right now.

Or maybe five minutes from now, because once Rodney drags a couple of tissues between them and settles over him again, John's more comfortable than he's maybe ever been.

Rodney rests more on the mattress now, less of his weight bearing down on John, just enough to make him feel sheltered. He finds the small of Rodney's back is the perfect place to rest his hand and stroke with his fingers; the dip of Rodney's spine is endlessly fascinating.

"I don't know why it's me," Rodney says eventually. "Obviously, I'm glad it is. And I get why you'd imagine being the one that never gets left behind, for a change. A break from being the hero who saves everyone else."

John turns his face to press his cheek against Rodney's shoulder, the only part of him that can get closer than they already are.

"I can handle myself out there, I can do my part. And I'd always do anything to get to you. But even with all the considerable advantages of my brilliance and ingenuity, I have to concede that the hero list starts with Teyla and Ronon, and then there's the Marines, people who've been fighting and training for years... I guess I see why you wouldn't fantasize about people under your command. But you know Teyla and Ronon would come for you every time."

"I know." There's nothing in his life he values more than the loyalty of his team. What he feels for them, he never thought he'd have.

"It's not the kind of thing you decide," John says. "But when I thought about it, I thought..." he remembers Rodney's hologram, his seamed and weary face at sixty-five, a lifetime devoted to a slim chance of fixing things, getting John back where he belongs. "You'd never give up."

Rodney nods slowly, his hand finding a path up and down John's body, over and over. "That's true." His lips move against the scratch of John's sideburn, voice warm and quiet in his ear, affectionate the way John imagined but never believed he'd hear. "I never have," Rodney says, "even when I told myself I should. Had every reason."

It turns out it doesn't take any of those fantasies to light John up inside: just Rodney in his bed, right there with him, his arms and his body and his words all telling John, "I could never give up on you."