Even before he opens his eyes, he smells antiseptic and machinery and thinks *hospital*. Then he does open his eyes, cautiously, and confirms his suspicions-- ugly decor, IV in his wrist. Everything looks more than a little blurry, but with luck that won't be permanent. A bit of exploration with his other hand reveals a bandage over one temple; it hurts when he presses there.
The door to his room is cracked open, and he twists to look out just in time to catch sight of a guy in a lab coat wandering past. "Hey," he calls out, and his voice is rusty, so he clears his throat and tries again. "Hey, you, I'm awake in here."
The guy has passed out of sight, but he doubles back and sticks his head in the door. "Oh. I didn't expect you to wake up this soon. How efficient of you."
He's not quite sure what to say to that-- is it a compliment? -- and he's not sure whether this is a real doctor or an escapee from the mental ward, so he doesn't say anything. He does notice that the guy isn't bad-looking-- sandy hair, strong features, bright blue eyes-- but he figures that's just from whatever's in the IV drip.
The guy holds up a finger-- "Let me get your chart, I'll be right back"-- and vanishes from the doorway. An actual doctor, then. Hopefully.
He closes his eyes.
A minute later the door squeaks further open and footsteps come into the room. "I know you're awake," the doctor snaps, and there's the scratch of a pencil on paper. Something moves near his face, and he flinches away. "I'm not going to touch you," the doctor says, more soothing now. "I just need to know how many fingers you see."
He opens his eyes, sees something anatomically impossible, and blinks hard a couple of times until it resolves into something that makes sense. "Three, but it's hard to focus."
"Minor, temporary vision problems," the doctor says dismissively. "They'll be gone within twenty-four hours. Now can you follow this light without moving your head?" Which is easy, because even when there are two lights they move around together. "Move your fingers and toes?" Of course. "This is good," the doctor says. "Every side effect you don't have makes my job that much easier."
Again-- is this a compliment, or what? "Glad to oblige."
"And I need you to tell me your name."
Now that's a really stupid question, he almost says, and then discovers that he can't answer it. Really, come on, his name. It's on the tip of his tongue. It starts with M, he thinks. Or L, or maybe C . . . "I don't know," he admits at last.
The doctor groans audibly. "And you were doing so well. All you had was a minor concussion. I was going to release you with a painkiller prescription, we were both going to go on with our lives-- do you know where you are?"
He thinks about that one, but gets nowhere. "No idea."
"New York," the doctor tells him brusquely. There are more scribbling noises. "Roosevelt Hospital, to be precise. You had no wallet on you-- the police think you were mugged-- so you're officially John Doe until your memory returns, the police ID you, or someone comes to take you off my hands. Personally, I think that's a stupid name, so I'm just calling you John."
"John," he echoes experimentally. It's as good a name as any other. "That works, I guess."
"I'll send a nurse in an hour or two to check on your medication." The doctor heads for the door, then pauses. "Any questions?"
Yes, actually. "Do you have a name, or are you just Doctor? And can I get stuff to read in here?"
The doctor stares at him. "McKay," he says at last. "Doctor Rodney McKay. What kind of reading material would you like?"
"How should I know?" John shrugs. "Just pick some things out at random. I'll see what I like and go from there."
"Right, of course." Dr. McKay turns to go again.
"And Doctor?" John presses.
"Look, I do have other patients to attend to, many of whom are in far worse shape than you--"
"You do realize your bedside manner sucks, right?" McKay is stunned into brief silence, and in that bit of time John remembers those two or three moments when the guy actually seemed to care. He revises his question. "I mean-- your sucky bedside manner really sucks. It needs more practice." Which doesn't come out as the joke it was meant to be, and this time they're both shocked.
In the ensuing awkward silence, McKay slips out, closing the door behind him.
John wonders what the hell's going on, both here and in his life in general, and goes back to sleep for lack of anything better to do.
-----
John's woken up by a dull clatter, and opens his eyes to find an elderly nurse depositing a tray of food next to his bed-- he smells tomato. She checks his IV hookup, nods in satisfaction, and then looks down and notices that he's awake. "How are you feeling?"
Finally, a question he can answer. "Not bad. My head's a little sore."
"Good." She taps the bag. "This is a painkiller-- not a narcotic, just for headaches. Dr. McKay's prescribing you something for migraines, just in case. You'll switch to that after a couple of days."
"Cool." John gives her a thumbs-up, glancing quickly at her nametag. "Thanks, Jenny."
Jenny smiles at that. "I'll be back for the tray later on," she says, and leaves.
Sitting back up, John investigates the side table. Spaghetti with tomato sauce, a glass of milk, and Jell-O. Not bad. There's also a digital clock reading 5:23 PM and a messy and totally arbitrary heap of reading matter, looking suspiciously like it was gathered from a waiting room. He rummages through, just out of curiosity, and discovers that Dr. McKay has found him a women's fashion magazine, a sports magazine, and several paperbacks by Jeffery Deaver and Danielle Steele. At the bottom of the pile he finds two dryer-looking periodicals which turn out to be about number theory and astrophysics, respectively. Not precisely waiting-room fare, this, but as much worth a look as the rest of it. John picks out the mathematics journal, more or less at random, and begins flipping through it. The small print makes him dizzy, but only at first.
"You're not blaming me for your death if you don't eat," Dr. McKay says some time later. "And by the way, that's my magazine you're defiling."
John ignores him, at least until he can finish scribbling down this equation. "I'm improving it," he argues. "This guy's argument is sound, but it's too long. I think I can see a quicker way to prove-- did you say this is your magazine? How does this help you fix head wounds?"
"Did you say you knew a quicker way?" McKay asks almost simultaneously, moving in to peer over John's shoulder. Satisfied that he won't lose his thought, John passes the page up to him. McKay squints. "Christ, your handwriting could give me a brain tumor. Which would mean I'd have to be treated by someone who wasn't as good as I am." He shudders briefly.
"It's cause I'm writing in the margins," John reminds him, cheerfully ignoring the burst of egotism. "Could you get me some scrap paper?"
"Yes, yes, absolutely." McKay is staring at the magazine still; he puts it back down on the nightstand. "I can't read what you're doing, but it looks like it would make sense if it were legible. I was wondering myself why he didn't reference Wiles . . ."
Wiles? Who's Wiles? "You know," John says thoughtfully, "I think I might be a mathematician." Which makes it that much harder to explain why Dr. Rodney McKay, neurologist, can follow what he's doing, but John's already learning that asking McKay about himself won't get anywhere.
"You think," McKay repeats, and snorts. "If you aren't, you should be." He picks up the tray of cold spaghetti and shoves it in John's face. "Now eat. I don't need the negligence suit."
-----
Things go on pretty much like this for a few days. Mostly John sees the nurses who come in to tend to the line into his arm-- which is gone after two days-- and bring him food. They also find it necessary to wake him up three or four times a night, to make sure he does wake up. John doesn't feel like he's about to lapse into a coma anytime soon, but he figures they know what they're doing, even though it's deeply annoying. There aren't even any pretty ones he can flirt with-- most aren't much younger than Jenny. The closest to it would be Dr. McKay, who comes to check on him twice a day and is more often than not carrying a fresh mathematical journal for John to play with. Ostensibly McKay is checking up on him, but he says that John is pretty much healthy except for a dent in his head and partial amnesia. Both of these things, McKay claims, will go away eventually. No permanent brain damage.
Mostly they just talk-- McKay will come by at the end of his shift, claim to be exhausted and just looking in, and then stay for an hour at least. It's more like two friends hanging out than a doctor and a patient, so John starts calling McKay Rodney, and he doesn't object. He doesn't like to talk about himself, though, and John has no self to speak of, so mostly they talk about math.
Rodney, it turns out, could almost be a mathematician or physicist himself-- he subscribes to the journals and reads them when he has the time. If he weren't treating John for a head injury, John would figure him for an academic colleague. He's not formally educated, of course, but he has books and papers and he's taught himself pretty well. John's just the opposite; he is formally educated, presumably-- maybe even a doctor himself-- but he doesn't remember any of it. All he knows is that he reads these articles and they just kind of make sense. If they don't, sometimes he can fix them so they do, and it's enough to keep him busy.
It's even better, though, when Rodney comes to visit him at night and they can discuss and argue. It feels amazingly normal, like they've been working together like this for years.
John wonders about that a little, when he takes the time to worry about what's left of his life. He's worked out that he can remember enough about the world to survive on his own, theoretically. But he doesn't know anything about himself-- his real name, where he works, why he's in New York. Oddly, though, he doesn't care as much as he probably should. He eats, he sleeps, he wanders around the hospital hallways in scrubs and does math and reads Jeffery Deaver paperbacks, he debates number theory and forensics with Rodney. It's a pretty good life as it is.
The police haven't figured out who John is yet. Rodney's told them to send his picture to local colleges and universities in case John's a professor, but so far that hasn't done any good either. They're widening the search area, but the farther out they look the slower it'll go. It could take a while.
-----
His third day in the hospital, John's in the bathroom, staring at himself in the mirror. His face doesn't look wrong at all, but he can't decide whether it looks like his own or it's only familiar because he's been doing this so much. It's not helping him recover his memory at all, but John feels like it should, so he keeps it up.
There's a knock on the door, and he goes back into his room to find Rodney standing there. There's an older woman with him, but not a nurse this time; she's wearing a pantsuit and a severe blonde bun.
Rodney gestures at her. "John, this is Dr. Wallace. She's a psychiatrist."
John shakes her hand, then crosses the room and sits on the bed, folding his arms. "A shrink? Why?"
"I'm here in more of a medical than a therapeutic capacity," Dr. Wallace explains. "Most cases of amnesia are only partially due to physical brain injury; there are usually psychological factors as well. There are treatments that can be used to get around mental blocks."
"Like what?" John asks warily. He doesn't like the sound of this.
"Hypnosis is quite frequently effective. In extreme cases, we use sodium pentothal-- truth serum."
"I know what sodium pentothal is," he snaps. "And you are not giving me any."
"John," she says soothingly, "this isn't an interrogation. It's just to help you get your memory back."
"Yeah, yeah, of course. I just don't want it." He can't even explain why not-- he knows it's safe, that these people are only trying to help him, but he can't stand the thought of being hypnotized or drugged. "I'll remember things eventually anyway, right?"
"You will," Rodney admits. "But without some kind of prompting, it could take a while."
John shrugs. "Then I'll wait."
Dr. Wallace heaves a sigh. "It's your right to refuse treatment. But I do hope you'll change your mind."
He doesn't bother to answer, just leans back against the headboard and closes his eyes, and after a few moments he hears the door close. There's silence for a minute or two.
"Are you okay?" Rodney asks at last.
John's head jerks up; he was sure Rodney'd left with Dr. Wallace. "I'm fine."
"It was a rhetorical question." Rodney sits down next to him. "Since you're clearly not okay. You're shaking, and I wouldn't even want to guess what your pulse rate is right now. Frankly, you look terrified."
"Do not," John says automatically, but then he realizes that he is in fact trembling. "I just don't want strange women messing around with my mind."
"Who does?" Rodney asks lightly. His hand is comfortingly warm and stable between John's shoulders. "Are you still working on fixing that article?"
"Yeah." John digs out the relevant papers-- there's scrap and magazines scattered all over the bed-- and hands it over. "Guy knows nothing about n-space manifolds."
Rodney accepts the stack and glances at the original article, which is heavily marked up. "Apparently not."
John looks over at Rodney, poring over the proof. He's totally focused, eyes narrowing to blue slits every time he thinks he's spotted an error, and John thinks Hey, he's cute when he concentrates like that. And then he gets hypnotized by Rodney's long, agile finger moving down the page--
He's a little disturbed that he wants to sleep with his doctor, but he gets over it pretty quickly. After all, he's just doubled the number of things he knows about himself: he's a mathematician, and he's gay.
Besides, he's amused that he can't remember anything about himself but still knows plenty about sex. Dr. Wallace would certainly have something to say about that.
-----
On the fifth morning, Rodney comes in with clipboard in hand, looking even more annoyed with the world than usual. "Congratulations," he tells John, "you've officially been deemed a waste of food and space. I'm releasing you."
John gapes at him, forgetting his forkful of overdone pancakes. "I don't have anywhere to be released to!"
"I know," Rodney says miserably. "But we need the space for other patients--specifically, ones who are actually receiving treatment. This is a hospital, not a five-star hotel."
Rodney looking miserable is not helping matters. It kind of makes John want to kiss him, actually, which would be especially pointless since apparently they're never going to see each other again.
"Yes, but--" But I don't want to leave! John almost says, but that would be childish. "Fine, I'll manage somehow." He gets up, grabs the heap of papers and books from his table, and shoves them all into Rodney's arms. "It's been fun. Can I at least get my real clothes back?"
Rodney looks down at the mess he's holding, then back up at John, and dumps it all on the foot of the bed. "Are you always like this?"
"I wouldn't know," John snaps. "Like what?"
"You're so . . ." Rodney makes a violent gesture of confusion. In the process, his clipboard nearly gives John a very good excuse to stay hospitalized. "Well, you just are."
"Of course I am." John spreads his hands. "So? Do I get clothing, or what?"
Rodney's silent for a moment, and then his chin tilts up stubbornly. "Fine. If you're going to be that way, you're just going to have to live on my couch for now."
"What way?" John asks, but it's only for the sake of being contrary while he processes this turn of events-- live with Rodney?
Living with Rodney. He can more than deal with that. Even if it's never as more than friends.
"All right," says John, and grins. "If you insist."
-----
To John's surprise, the address Rodney gives the taxi driver isn't an apartment building, or anything remotely like one. "You live in a 7-11?"
"Don't be ridiculous," Rodney says impatiently. "Wait here," he adds to the driver, and pulls John out of the car and into an alley, crossing his arms expectantly. "Well?"
John looks around. It's an alley. Dirty brick, trash cans. It smells especially bizarre because the 7-11 has a couple of dumpsters back here, but otherwise . . . just an alley. "Rodney, what the hell is this?"
Rodney shrugs, but his shoulders slump a little. "Plenty of concussion victims can't remember the incident that caused their injury," he says dismissively. "But this is the only place we know you've been before, and I thought maybe if I brought you back here it'd help."
"Hey, you tried." John squeezes his shoulder. "It was worth a shot."
-----
One wall of Rodney's living room is filled with shelves of medical books, the other with shelves of physics and math books. "Why do you do this?" John asks again, the first time he sees this. "I mean, you're a good doctor--"
"Of course," Rodney interrupts testily.
John ignores him. "But why are you making a living at something that isn't what you're best at? I bet you would've been a great physicist."
"Because I need to actually make a living," Rodney snaps, and stalks off through a door on the other side of the room, John trailing behind him into a short hallway. "Bedroom," he says, pointing out each door in turn. "Bathroom. Kitchen. Do you know how to use a microwave?"
John nods. He can't remember ever using one, but he does know how. "I'll manage."
"That's good, I work weird hours sometimes. It'd be inconvenient if you starved to death." They're back in the living room, and Rodney gestures expansively. "You can look at any of this stuff-- it'll keep you out of trouble. Just put everything back where you found it."
John surveys the precariously stacked and crazily leaning math books, a sharp contrast to the near-military neatness of the medical shelves. "Complicated organizational system?"
"Very complicated," Rodney says firmly. "You couldn't possibly understand it." He smiles a little, in a crooked way that absolutely does not make John's heart flop over in his chest.
Well, maybe it does.
Just a bit.
-----
It's easy to settle into Rodney's apartment, since John's not used to anything else. Despite Rodney's warnings about weird hours, he's home by seven or eight the first couple of nights, and then it's pretty much the same as being in the hospital except that John isn't being harassed by nurses. They spread books and papers out on the living room floor, sit down in the middle with cold pizza, and mess around for hours at a time. Apparently Rodney's got a special thing for astrophysics, so John starts reading up especially on calculus and geometry. In between he works through the fiction shelf in Rodney's bedroom-- some Deaver, but mostly classic science fiction. All of it feels familiar, so John figures he's probably read it before, but it gives them more to talk about, which is all he really wants.
John's crush-- or whatever this is-- on Rodney is one of the many things he's trying not to overthink. He wants to blame it simply on dependence, and tries to convince himself he's suffering from a less perverted form of Stockholm Syndrome (it's only later that he's proud to have known that term). But he does like talking to Rodney, and listening to Rodney, and trying to figure out what makes Rodney tick. He likes the way their thought processes seem to mesh so well at times, and can't help wondering whether their bodies would fit together so perfectly, like two halves of a whole.
Still, fantasies aside, John doesn't want to think about it too much. It doesn't have to matter.
When he's been living with Rodney three days and feels pretty comfortable, John goes out and wanders around the city for a little while. He borrows some money from Rodney for this purpose, and Rodney makes some uncertain noises about street safety and not wanting to make a bad investment and generally does a terrible job of pretending not to be worried. John ends up not doing much-- he walks around for a while, gets a sandwich and eats it in the park, then comes back-- but he's functioning on his own, which is extremely satisfying. He gets back around midafternoon, not feeling much like working, and reads Foundation and Empire for the rest of the day.
John calls out for Chinese food-- another minor accomplishment-- expecting Rodney to get back in time for them to eat together. Rodney still isn't home an hour later, though, so he eats before the food can get cold and starts rereading Euler's Konigsberg proof. Eventually it puts him to sleep.
Around one AM, John's woken by the front door banging violently open. He sits up, squinting into the light from the hallway, and catches sight of a Rodney-shaped silhouette coming in before the door slams shut and it's dark again. John can't decide whether to be annoyed or worried. "Rodney?" he says sleepily. "What's going on?"
"John," Rodney acknowledges in dull surprise. "I'm sorry, I forgot you were in here. Go back to sleep."
"You're later than usual," John insists, more awake now. Something's clearly wrong with Rodney, and he won't be able to sleep now unless he finds it out. "What happened?"
"Something," Rodney says vaguely. "Good night." The bedroom door closes sharply.
John weighs his options for a minute, then gets up, walks into the hallway, and knocks.
There's a muffled curse from inside, and a second later Rodney opens the door wearing a t-shirt and boxers. "You again. What the hell's your problem?"
"You are," John tells him, leaning against the doorframe so Rodney can't shut the door on him. "I want to know what's going on."
Rodney turns away, walking back into the room and sinking down on the bed. "What's going on," he answers dully, "is that I've had a long and shitty day and you won't let me go to sleep."
John follows without invitation, sitting down beside him. "Tell me," he insists gently. "You'll sleep better."
"Like hell I will." Rodney still won't look up. He's silent for a long moment, and John just waits until, finally: "There was a girl." Clipped, tight sentences. "Eight years old. She fell off a second-floor fire escape. Hit on her temple, same as you, but a vessel in her brain burst. We couldn't find it to stop the bleeding."
John suddenly feels painfully inadequate. "Oh," he says uselessly.
"It was slow," Rodney continues dully. "Six fucking hours, and all she knew was that she was feeling more and more like her skull was about to explode. Little girl died in screaming agony, and she never understood why, and I couldn't fix it." His voice sounds a lot like he's in physical pain himself.
Lost for words, John wraps both arms tightly around Rodney's shoulders, and after a moment of surprise Rodney slumps into his embrace. "I'm sorry," John says at last, even though it still isn't enough. "Shit, Rodney, I'm so, so sorry . . ."
"I hate losing patients," Rodney mumbles into John's shirt. "Too much paperwork." Which isn't what he means at all, not by a long shot, and they both know it.
And in a flash, John gets it-- he knows why Rodney tries so hard to act like he doesn't care. He knows what Rodney's afraid of.
"You can't," he says gently, running his hand down Rodney's back. "You can't save everyone."
"I have to," Rodney argues tiredly. "It's my job."
"You're not perfect," John reminds him.
There's no answer, and after a minute John realizes that Rodney's breathing has deepened and evened out; he's fallen asleep, right there on John's shoulder. John eases him down against the pillows; it's a weird feeling, being the caretaker for once.
The bed is comfortable, and Rodney's body heat is soothing, and John decides he'll just lie here for a minute before going back to his couch. Maybe he'll close his eyes for a bit--
-----
John wakes to unfamiliar pressure on his chest, and struggles a little before thinking to open his eyes and see what's on top of him.
He's still on Rodney's bed. In the dim predawn light, he can see that Rodney's rolled over onto him at some point, one arm thrown across John's torso, and their legs are tangled together. It's even more pleasant than John's imagined, and he's sorely tempted to stay there and go back to sleep, but he figures Rodney's life is difficult enough without waking up wrapped around another man. Especially when that man is sporting a hard-on like the one John's getting right now. So he disengages as discreetly as he can, and Rodney mumbles and twitches but doesn't wake up.
Once in the shower, John jerks off as quietly and efficiently as possible, and when he gets into the kitchen Rodney's up, still in his t-shirt and boxers, and making coffee. "Morning," John says, and ventures into the fridge in search of the milk.
"You slept with me," Rodney accuses by way of greeting.
John snaps upright. "Don't put it that way. You make it sound like I took advantage of you, or something."
"Of course not." Rodney's suddenly very interested in watching coffee drip into the pot. "I just want to know what that was about last night. I told you not to worry about it."
"And yet I did," John points out unnecessarily. "You can't just tell me not to worry when you're freaking out like that."
Rodney opens a cabinet, produces John's prescription bottle, and hands it over. "But staying in bed with me? Didn't that strike you just a tad excessive?"
It's John's turn to look away as he washes the pills down. "All I did was hug you," he says defensively. "You fell asleep. And then so did I."
"You could still have left." The machine beeps, and Rodney pulls out the pot and pours himself a mug. "I just want to know why," he adds, more quietly, like he's not sure whether he wants John to hear or not.
"Why what?"
"I want to know why--" Rodney's not drinking his coffee yet, just staring into the cup, watching the steam rise. "I want to know," he says slowly, "what the hell I did to deserve this, that all of a sudden I meet this guy who has no life, he doesn't even have a name any more, and even though I'm supposed to be his doctor he's the one keeping me going. Because he's funny, and caring, and a brilliant mathematician, not to mention incredibly hot, and he understands me so well it's scary. He's amazing, he's everything I ever dreamed of, and I can never have him the way I really--" Rodney freezes, staring wide-eyed at John over the lip of his mug. "Oh, shit."
There's a crash, hot liquid splatters everywhere, and Rodney vanishes from the room.
John surveys the mess for all of two seconds, judges it to be either trivial or beyond hope, and goes after him.
Rodney's sitting on the floor at the far end of the hallway, beating his head repeatedly against the wall. John kneels down next to him and touches his hand. "Hey--"
"I'm sorry," Rodney says immediately. "I don't know what I was thinking, I'm totally incoherent before I have my coffee in the morning, can we just forget about the whole thing?"
"No," John tells him. "We can't." His heart's pounding so hard that he's not too coherent himself. They're close to it, so close, and there's no way in hell he's letting this go.
Rodney closes his eyes. "It doesn't have to matter, okay? It's just a silly thing. We can ignore it."
"But I don't want to," John insists, and finally Rodney turns to look at him. "What do you mean, you can't have me?"
"You're partially disabled and dependent on me," Rodney explains patiently. "It'd be like taking advantage of you. And we can't anticipate what'll happen when your memory returns-- you could have a boyfriend already. You could have a girlfriend, and I'd be risking giving you a massive sexuality crisis. Maybe you're married and the ring was stolen when you were attacked."
"Maybe," John agrees. He wraps his hands loosely around Rodney's, lacing their fingers together.
Sure, it could be true. He could have someone else, somewhere else. But here and now, he can't imagine wanting anyone else nearly as much as he wants Rodney. Really, he can't imagine wanting anyone else at all.
He can't say so, because it'd come out as hopelessly romantic drivel. It must show through on his face, though, because Rodney swallows hard, nods, and leans forward just a little. John closes the rest of the distance, and their lips meet, and yes.
Rodney tastes a bit like coffee, and a bit like mouthwash (when did that happen?), and a lot like something more unusual underneath that's just, well, how Rodney tastes. His kisses are careful, sweet and slow, at least until John gets frustrated and licks his way in through Rodney's lips, and then all of a sudden he's straddling Rodney's thighs and they're pressed back against the wall and there's some serious tongue action on both their parts. John grinds down, feeling Rodney start to harden under him, and Rodney moans into his mouth and arches into it.
This is perfect, John decides, this is exactly what he needs. He'd be happy to spend the rest of his life here on Rodney's lap, making out against the wall.
But then Rodney's hands are on his shoulders, pushing him gently away. "John, I'm sorry," Rodney says in hoarse regret. "I need to go."
"No you don't," John murmurs, leaning back in to kiss the side of Rodney's neck. "You can stay--" kiss--" right--" kiss-- "here."
It takes a second, but Rodney pulls back again, resting their foreheads together. "I have to," he insists. "Unlike you, I actually have important and productive things to do."
"Right." John nods, but can't bring himself to move quite yet. "Right. No time now. Got it."
Rodney kisses him once more, briefly, and then shifts his legs to get up-- rather unsteadily, John notes with satisfaction-- and goes into the bedroom to get dressed.
The whole morning seems totally insane all of a sudden, and John sits there and sniggers for a minute before he too stands up, still grinning like an idiot, and goes into the kitchen to see about cleaning up Rodney's coffee.
-----
He goes out of the building with Rodney, pretty much just because he can. Rodney's apartment is in a big old brownstone, one of the ones with a tall steep staircase going down to the street, and halfway down John stops dead, because he hears something. Something above him--
It's a plane, just a normal passenger jet heading towards LaGuardia, roaring low overhead. The noise of the engine, and the simple concept of airplane, brings on such a huge wave of longing and awe that John has to close his eyes for a second. When he looks again, it's out of sight.
"John?" Rodney's stopped a couple of steps further down, watching him with concern. "Are you all right?"
John reaches out and grabs Rodney's wrist, holding on for dear life as he tries to process what just happened. "Flying," he says slowly, the flood of emotion finally subsiding into something comprehensible. "I wanted to fly, when I was a kid. Really badly." It doesn't sound quite right, but it's close enough.
Rodney opens his mouth to comment, but just then a taxi comes around the corner. His fingers leave tingling contrails across John's palm as he pulls free, and then he's down the steps like a shot, running to flag it down with his coat flapping behind him.
John closes his fist, trying to hold those trails in, and watches the taxi pull away from the curb. He's still grinning, because he knows three whole things about himself and because Rodney wants him.
For someone with no past and no name, he's doing pretty damn well.
-----
Rodney gets home his usual time that night. John doesn't even notice at first; he's sprawled across Rodney's bed, reading Starship Troopers, and only looks up when the bedroom door opens. "There you are," Rodney observes unnecessarily. "I thought maybe you'd gone out."
"I'm not going anywhere." John rolls over, tipping his head back to give Rodney an upside-down grin, and drops the book on the floor.
"Good." Rodney sits down on the bed and starts taking his shoes off. "Except you are coming back to the hospital on Friday." It's Wednesday. "Dr. Wallace wants to see you again."
"Dr. Wallace?" John repeats in disbelief, rolling over again so he can glare properly. "Rodney, I told you, I have nothing against her, but I am not letting her fuck with my mind."
"She's not planning on it," Rodney says in exasperation. "Look, I told her what happened this morning-- with the airplane," he amends hastily-- "and we're pretty sure your problem is purely psychological-- that you've subconsciously blocked off all your memories of who you are. Dr. Wallace's theory is that it'd help you just to talk through it. There is absolutely nothing involved that could possibly satisfy your paranoid delusions."
"I'm not paranoid," John argues, but he's in too good a mood to be genuinely pissed off. "I just have a healthy sense of self-preservation."
"Too healthy," Rodney grumbles, letting John pull him down onto the bed anyway. "You do realize I'm trying to help you, right?"
John throws one leg over Rodney's hip and kisses him thoroughly. "Could use a different kind of help right now," he observes, in case Rodney hasn't noticed, and starts unbuttoning Rodney's shirt.
"Mmmm." Rodney's fingers slide under John's t-shirt, pushing it up and tracing warm patterns over his spine. "I can do that, too."
"I don't doubt it," John says fervently, and dives back in.
It turns out that they really do fit together perfectly-- John's feet hooked behind Rodney's knees, skin sliding against skin, cocks slotted neatly into each other's groins as they kiss frantically.
"I want to fuck you," Rodney says urgently against John's mouth. "Please-- oh God, you'd be so good--"
"Not now," John gasps out, even though the mere thought makes him move faster. They're both leaking now, making everything slick, and he wants friction. "No time."
Rodney just smiles crookedly and slides one hand down.
One touch at his entrance is all it takes, and then John's gut clenches and he's bucking wildly up against Rodney, spurting come all over both of them. A moment later Rodney whimpers, "Fuck, John . . ." and collapses weakly on top of him, more warm fluid flowing between them.
They clean up with John's shirt, the closest thing to hand, and fall asleep in as tangled a heap as they can manage. Being underneath Rodney makes it a little difficult to breathe, but John considers it well worth it.
-----
"I still don't want to go tomorrow," John decides the next night.
Rodney folds his hands on John's chest, propping his chin on them so he can look John in the face. "You're not going to get drugged or hypnotized," he says for the fifteenth time. "Or tortured. It's no big deal, I promise."
"Yeah, I know, but . . ." John tightens his arm around Rodney's waist. "You said maybe I've decided not to remember who I am. There's gotta be a reason for that. Maybe I'm better off not knowing."
"That's ridiculous," Rodney scoffs. "I'm sure you're a wonderful person."
"I hope so," John says, even though it's not making him feel any better. "But Rodney . . ."
"My God, you're like a small child," Rodney complains. "What is it now?"
"What do we do when I do remember?"
Rodney's silent for almost a minute. "I don't know," he says at last, more subdued. "We're both reasonably intelligent people. We'll figure it out."
John can't resist. "Only reasonably?"
Rodney kisses his right nipple for no apparent reason. "My point exactly."
-----
It doesn't take long for the other shoe to drop.
It's really more practical for John to just share Rodney's taxi in the morning, but his appointment with Dr. Wallace isn't until one in the afternoon, so he fiddles around some more with the article that should've used Wiles-- he's thinking of writing up his shorter version and submitting it for publication. This keeps him busy until eleven-thirty or so, at which point he eats lunch and goes downstairs, meaning to walk to the subway station down the street and take the train uptown to Roosevelt.
Once he gets down to the street, though, John is distracted by a younger man sitting on a bench out front. He looks kind of familiar, but John can't decide whether it's the guy himself or the t-shirt he's wearing, which is bizarrely and intricately patterned. He settles for just walking past, ignoring the guy but privately trying to work out a formula to describe the design on that shirt.
As John walks by, the kid looks up at him and leaps to his feet. "Sir!" he raps out, snapping to attention.
"At ease, Lieutenant," John says automatically, and then he freezes in his tracks because wow, there're things four and five about himself, and Thing Five is something he really, really doesn't want to be true.
He's still staring at the kid, who looks a little bewildered but nowhere near as much as John is, when Thing Six through Thing Googol come crashing in on his brain, and . . . holy fuck. John staggers under the weight of it all, collapsing onto the bench next to the guy he now recognizes for real.
Then Ford starts asking if he's okay, and the day goes pretty much downhill from there.
-----
When the front door opens at seven thirty-three precisely that evening, John's ready. As ready as he can be, anyway, which isn't very. He straightens a little, smoothes his face, not looking anywhere but forward.
"There's a creepy car parked outside," Rodney says conversationally as he shuts the door behind him. "Big black thing. The driver looks like he's in uniform, but I didn't think it'd be safe to--" There's an abrupt pause, during which he presumably notes John's rigid posture and the very small black duffel on the floor. "John? What's going on?"
He's been mentally rehearsing this speech for four hours. "My name is John, actually," he says flatly. "John Sheppard. I'm a pilot, not a math professor."
It only takes a second. "You remembered," Rodney says, and sits down next to John, squeezing his shoulder.
John just nods dully. He doesn't shake Rodney's hand off, but he doesn't lean into it either, and he still doesn't look over. He can't.
"A pilot . . . " Rodney muses. "For a passenger jet, right?" he adds hopefully. "Not--"
Rehearsing doesn't make this any easier. "I'm a fighter pilot. Lieutenant Colonel John Sheppard, United States Air Force."
It's the first time John's ever been ashamed of his rank.
"Air Force?" Rodney echoes incredulously. "You can't be military. You weren't found wearing tags."
""They were stolen," John explains. "I was carrying them in my wallet." He doesn't bother to explain why.
"Oh. Well, then." Rodney takes his hand away of his own accord. "So you'd be leaving now."
John remembers how, two days ago, he promised Rodney he wasn't going anywhere. "Yeah. I am."
"I knew it," Rodney bites out. "I knew you were too fucking good to be true."
John sits there. He wants to look at Rodney, hold him, find a way to fix this. But there's no way to fix it, and it's not safe to try.
"I have to go now," is all he'll let himself say, and he gets to his feet and picks up his bag. "How much do I owe you for food and extra clothes?"
"Nothing," Rodney snaps. "You're trying to be an asshole about this, aren't you?"
Yes. Yes, he is.
John counts out five twenties from the duffel anyway, leaving it on the end table with the spare key, and heads for the door. "Someone'll be in touch about the medical expenses." Unlatches it, turns the knob, pulls the door open.
"John--" Rodney begins, desperately and a little brokenly. It's the same way he says John's name when he comes, and it's almost enough to break John's nerve entirely.
It does break his heart.
But he doesn't turn around.
"Goodbye," he says instead, and closes the door behind him.
-----
John's careful facade must be slipping, because when he gets into the car Ford looks over at him and says "Sir?" in a distinctly worried tone.
"Cut it out, Ford, it's just me." John slams his door. "And yes, I'm fine, so can we leave already?"
Ford looks at him a little oddly, but doesn't answer. John doesn't look back at him; the streetlights outside throw shadows over most of the car's interior, but he's sure that if he looks closely he'll still see faint burn scars on Ford's face and hands, and that's one of the things he wishes he'd never remembered.
The driver slides them smoothly out into traffic. John glances into the side mirror, and for a few seconds he thinks he sees a man in a long brown coat come running down the front steps, heading towards them. Then they turn a corner, and another corner-- heading for the airport-- and the man is lost to sight.
"I saw Zelenka's sister," John says at last. It feels like a lifetime ago. "She's pretty pissed at us. Says she warned him never to work with the military in the first place."
"Can't say I blame her." Ford pauses for a few seconds, then takes a deep breath. "If I may ask, sir--"
"Ford, cut it out," John warns. "What is it?"
"What was it like, being a civilian for a week and a half?"
If ever there were a question that needed a careful answer, this is it. "I think," John says at last, "that I didn't appreciate it nearly enough while I had it."
-----
General Landry folds his arms on his desk and leans forward. "Colonel Sheppard, I want to know what you think. Is the Atlantis expedition worth continuing?"
John stiffens a little. He's not used to being on this side of the desk. "Sir, I believe it's necessary to maintain a presence in the city, if only in the interests of preventing a Wraith invasion of Earth. And anyone on the science team would tell you that the technology available is invaluable to us, whether for weapons development or any other purpose. But if you really want my honest opinion, sir--"
Landry nods. "Absolutely, Colonel, continue."
"The loss of life associated with this expedition has been much too high." John takes a deep breath and thinks about the numbers. Numbers don't lie. "The death rate has been higher among civilians than among military personnel. The nanovirus alone--"
"I've read your reports, Colonel, I'm aware of the effects of the virus." Landry sits back. "I agree-- the threat of the Wraith, combined with the possibility of finding important technology, justifies our continued presence in the Pegasus Galaxy. My real question is: are you willing to continue leading the expedition? Assuming, of course, that steps are taken to correct the problems you've noted."
John's jaw nearly drops despite himself. "Sir? Continue leading the expedition?"
"Is that a no, Colonel?"
"I just--" John shakes his head. "Sir, I was under the impression that my position was temporary and that new people would be assigned to replace Dr. Weir and Colonel Sumner."
"We've just agreed that the mission's priorities have shifted," Landry reminds him. "Logically, the expedition leader should then be military rather than civilian, and you're still the ranking military officer. And, in my opinion, you're more than fit to be in command. In fact, under the circumstances, I think you've done extraordinarily well."
"Thank you, sir." It's taking all of John's training not to gape openly at his commanding officer. Frankly, he can't believe anyone would want to keep a mission leader who got the position by shooting his CO and then utterly failing to rescue his boss during a foothold situation. He sure as hell wouldn't pick himself for the job. But Landry must have his reasons.
"I'm not getting the feeling you agree with me." Landry's been watching him narrowly. "I promoted you, didn't I?"
John can't argue with that.
"I'm not ordering you back there, Colonel, I'm asking you. If you prefer, I can transfer you elsewhere in the Stargate program or out of the program entirely. So the question stands: do you want to remain expedition leader, or not?"
No, John doesn't want to. He doesn't want to go back, because he knows people are going to keep dying no matter what he or Landry does, and he doesn't want to be in charge when it happens. He's seen far too much of it already.
In short: John never wants to see Atlantis ever, ever again.
But he can imagine the Wraith showing up on Earth, his planet and everyone on it getting shredded and beamed up, all the life sucked out of everyone and everything. He can imagine a Wraith bursting into Rodney's apartment, grabbing him, Rodney screaming and shriveling and dying--
"Yes, sir," John says at last. "I'd be honored to."
-----
John's leave ended three days ago, but he still has two weeks until the Daedalus takes them back to Atlantis, and those two weeks are taken up with selecting new personnel. Important work, of course, but grueling and tedious, and John wishes more than anything he was back on Rodney's living room floor with a textbook and a pencil.
Once, just once, he picks up the phone. When he dials, he has to stop his fingers from shaking.
The phone on the other end rings once, twice, and then clicks. "Hello?"
Rodney sounds unbelievably tired, and suddenly John has no words.
"Is anyone there?" Rodney asks suspiciously. "Because if this is a prank call, feel free to give up at your convenience. I don't have the time for this."
John swallows hard, but he still can't bring himself to speak.
Rodney breathes in sharply. "I know this sounds incredibly stupid, but John, is that you?"
I miss you, John doesn't say. I want to come back to you, I want to come home.
"Fine, be that way."
"Rodney--" John begins, finally forcing down the lump in his throat.
Another click cuts him off.
"I'm sorry," John says quietly, but the only answer is a dial tone.
-----
John, Dr. Simpson, and General Landry plan on doubling the military complement and restoring the civilian staff to its original size-- about triple what it is now. By unspoken agreement, John and Simpson are working entirely separately to replace their respective people; John technically has final say, but he trusts her judgment enough that he figures he'll just sign off on whatever she decides.
The people he really feels bad for are the ones who've never heard about the Stargate program until they get invited to go to Atlantis, accept enthusiastically, and get dropped into hell. This is more of a problem for Simpson, but after all it's how John himself got into this mess in the first place. If John had his way, they wouldn't recruit from the general population at all, but it's pretty much inevitable at this point unless they take all the scientists out of the SGC. Which is simply not an option.
John's opinion on this matter is strengthened considerably when he gets called back in front of General Landry's desk one morning, a week before the Daedalus is due to leave.
Dr. Simpson is already sitting in the office, looking hopeful and nervous and uncertain all at once. Landry's desk is clear except for his two phones and a single file folder. John looks at Simpson's face, and then at the file folder, and guesses that they want his input on a scientific staffing issue. Why, he can't say, unless Simpson wants a number theorist, and if there's any profession that doesn't need to be represented in Atlantis it's theoretical mathematics.
John takes a step into the room. "You wanted to talk to me, sir?"
"Yes, Colonel, please sit down." Landry nods to the empty chair next to Simpson's.
John sits down, but he can't relax. Not until he finds out whose file that is.
Landry rests one hand on the folder, but doesn't open it. "Colonel Sheppard, I'm sure you understand that as a matter of routine I've had people do a background check on Dr. McKay. A simple security precaution."
"Makes sense, sir." John keeps his eyes fixed on the file. "What did you find out?"
"No sign of any connection to the NID, or any other reason to suspect he might've compromised you in any way." The folder slides across the desk. "But Dr. McKay already had a file with the CIA."
Simpson doesn't wait for John to read for himself. "McKay designed an atomic bomb when he was twelve. His academic career since then shows a marked lack of mathematical sciences-- probably thanks to parental intervention-- but apparently he's done a pretty good job of educating himself nonetheless."
"He has," John says emphatically. "Sir, I did some mathematical work while I was staying with Dr. McKay. I have a six-year degree and he could understand everything I was doing."
"Is that so?" Landry doesn't look terribly surprised.
Simpson is grinning like all her dreams have come true at once.
And then John finally gets it, and his brief burst of enthusiasm vanishes into something very like horror. "You want him on the science team."
"Yes, I do." She nods enthusiastically. "He'd probably start on the medical staff-- I've talked to Carson about it-- but only until we get a better idea of his scientific expertise."
John crosses his arms. "Maybe we can talk to McKay before we start planning out the rest of his career. Just a thought."
"Well, of course." Simpson deflates, but only very slightly. "I'm flying out to New York tomorrow to talk to him. If you'd like to come with me, Colonel--"
"No thanks," John says quickly-- maybe a bit too quickly, but if he's going to see Rodney again it can't be like that. "I don't think you'll need me there to convince him."
Landry nods. "I'm glad to hear that, Colonel. It'd be good to have Dr. McKay on board. Do you have anything to add?"
"No, sir," John lies calmly.
"You're both dismissed, then."
John leaves as quickly as he can, frantically wondering what he's going to do. He never anticipated something like this, and it's hard to wrap his mind around the idea of working with Rodney for real. Of having Rodney under his command.
What John fears most of all is that Rodney will hear the words "science team" and "Pegasus Galaxy" (and possibly "Sheppard") and completely tune out everything else, including words such as "Wraith" and "Genii" (or possibly "Sheppard"). That Rodney'll come along cheerfully without thinking all the way through what kind of hell he's getting himself into. John knows that Rodney's smarter than that, but he worries anyway.
Yeah, John hates even thinking about leaving Rodney, even though he's already done it. But the only thing that scares him more is bringing Rodney with him.
-----
Two days later, John walks into his temporary office-- more of a closet, really, but he only has it for five more days-- and discovers that he's got mail. Except it's not his, because John doesn't subscribe to the American Journal of Mathematics.
John picks up the magazine carefully. There's nothing else underneath, but it flops open easily to a page near the middle-- the spot's been marked with a thick white envelope. He sets that aside for the moment.
The right-hand page looks familiar, and for good reason; the boldface at the top reads "Revisions of Reynold's Corollary to the Taniyama-Shimura Theorem. Lt. Col. John Sheppard, USAF, and Dr. Rodney McKay, M.D." Surprising that they'd even publish a paper with a byline like that.
There's nothing written on the envelope, and no note inside-- just five twenty-dollar bills.
-----
Before they leave, John has to meet with each of the new personnel, his and Simpson's. Which, yep, would include Rodney.
John's been military for fifteen years. Rodney's spent the same amount of time pretending dying people are okay. They've both grown far too good at holding back, John knows, and he figures maybe they can manage one damn briefing.
They get through a whole five minutes of rational, professional conversation before Rodney looks away and says, "Okay, fine, what are we going to do?"
John stares fixedly at his desk. "I don't know." And it's not for lack of wondering, either. "Look," he says at last, hating himself all over again. "We had a thing for two days. It's over now. We're two adults, we can move on. That's all there is to it."
"Yeah," Rodney says bitterly. "Because we're doing such a spectacular job of that right now. Look at us, angst-free and mature and moving on."
"Stop it," John snaps, and Rodney flinches. "Just-- stop it. You are not helping, okay?"
"Helping with what, exactly?" Rodney's on his feet now, glaring down at John. "This isn't going to just go away."
John gets up too, planting his hands on the desk and leaning forward. "It is," he says harshly, and the anger isn't entirely forced. "We are going to forget anything ever happened. In case you hadn't noticed, Dr. McKay, you're under my command now. Which means I have enough problems already just keeping you alive."
Rodney smiles grimly. "I get that, thank you very much." He pauses. "Colonel."
All of a sudden John realizes that they're up in each other's faces, and getting closer. He knows all too well how Rodney will taste, and he wants it so badly--
And that's Rodney's breath, warm against his skin--
John jerks away, stumbling back and all but falling into his chair. "Get out," he says, wanting to sound calm and not quite managing. "We'll deal with this. Just . . . not now. Please. Leave."
"Oh, okay." John doesn't have to look up to know that Rodney's crossing his arms. "For a second there I thought I was talking to John the actual human being with emotions. But apparently this is Colonel Sheppard, the big tough hero who doesn't need anyone. Sorry I wasted your time."
At that moment, John comes so damn close to letting it out. That's not true, Rodney. He actually opens his mouth to speak. I need you.
But then he remembers who he is all over again, and snaps his mouth shut.
"I'm sorry, too," John says at last, already saying too much.
Rodney stares at him for a moment-- John's still not looking up, but he can feel eyes burning through his skull-- and then stalks out.
-----
John stays out of Rodney's way as much as possible, and the feeling is apparently mutual. For the last couple of days in the SGC, and the first several on the Daedalus, they see each other only in passing in corridors. They barely make eye contact at all. This is partly intentional, and partly because Rodney always seems to be avidly reading an enormous stack of papers. John's frankly amazed Rodney can get through the hallways at all.
The worst of all is when they pass a little too closely, and John imagines he can feel the heat of Rodney's body. It's so tempting to reach out and touch, to grab Rodney's arm and just hold on. John could do it so easily.
Except he can't.
-----
Two weeks after the Daedalus leaves, alarms start going off. As in actual, physical alarms, blaring through the corridors and making John's head hurt.
Warning, the computer says coolly. The voice is entirely too reminiscent of Majel Barrett's. External hull breach. Warning.
John reaches for the intercom, but Caldwell beats him. "Colonel Sheppard, I want to see you in the infirmary right away."
"Yes, sir." John's already on his feet and heading for the door-- checking to make sure he's armed, too, because you never know around here. "What's going on, sir?"
"I'm not clear on the details, but there was a batch of malfunctions on one of the lower decks," Caldwell says into John's earpiece. "Doctors Linstrom and McKay were down there, investigating the power surge that killed Dr. Monroe. Linstrom claimed he'd detected a computer glitch of some kind, but before he could investigate an airlock near them cycled open for no apparent reason. I believe there was a coolant leak in the area, as well."
John breaks into a run. "Are Linstrom and McKay all right, sir?"
If anything's happened to Rodney--
"Dr. Linstrom was in the airlock when it opened," Caldwell reports grimly. "Dr. McKay inhaled some toxic chemicals, but Beckett says he should be fine."
"Got it, sir. I'll be right there." John gets to the lift car, and he's running so hard he nearly smacks into the back wall. He stops short, taking deep breaths, and hits the button for the infirmary level.
They haven't even gotten to Atlantis yet, and two men are already dead. Clearly things are just gonna keep getting worse.
-----
So it turns out that it's not really a computer glitch, it's a Wraith virus. Kavanaugh suggests shutting down the shipboard computer and restarting, but multiple reboots don't seem to help. Meanwhile the virus is taking over more and more systems, and the techs can't figure out a way to outmaneuver or destroy it. When it starts up the Daedalus' distress signal, John ends up having to go out on an X-302 and shoot out the emitter array. Then the virus gets into the 302's computer and he has to get beamed out, and . . . yeah. Things are, in general, not good. Just like always.
Rodney's not a tech, but he's learning scarily fast, which is why John is unconscionably proud of him when he figures it out-- every time they reboot the Daedalus, the virus is jumping into the 302s and coming back once the computer restarts.
John goes back down to the 302 bay to remove the onboard computers-- he has to be beamed down there, too, because the virus has locked all the doors. Kavanaugh's supposed to go down and tell him how to do it, but a bare second after John materializes, Novak and Hermiod are panicking into his earpiece. (Well, Novak's panicking. Hermiod's swearing, but he does that anyway.) "Sir, the ship's trying to open the bay doors. I can't stop it."
"Can't you beam me out?" John looks around frantically. Majel Barrett starts talking again: Warning. Imminent bay decompression. Vacate the area immediately. Bay will decompress in 20 seconds. "And shut up the computer already."
"The virus has infected the transporter system," Hermiod says. "We cannot beam you back out." He sounds awfully calm considering the language he was using a moment ago.
Ten sec--
Well, thanks for small mercies, anyway; his death won't be narrated by the Enterprise computer.
Five seconds, John says mentally.
There's a grinding noise, and a long black slit starts to grow in the wall at the far end of the bay. Within a few seconds, it's widened into a massive gap that stretches from floor to ceiling and could let out their entire 302 fleet at once.
John stands there and waits for a bit longer, and then observes doubtfully, "Well, I don't feel dead."
"Sir, I've raised a forcefield over the open door," Novak tells him. "But I don't know how long I can keep the virus from bringing it down."
"Understood, Lieutenant. I'll be as quick as possible."
It's surprisingly easy to pull the computers from all the ships. Kavanaugh talks John through it over the radio, and once he gets the idea it takes maybe twenty minutes to deal with the rest. He's just finishing up when Novak comes on the horn again. "Sir, the forcefield--"
"Got it." John looks around again-- and yeah, he's an idiot, he's surrounded by self-contained life-support systems.
A few seconds later, he sees something flicker in the open doorway, and all the loose equipment goes flying out into vacuum.
"Colonel?" Novak asks apprehensively. "Colonel Sheppard? Are you there?'
"I'm here. Climbed into one of the 302s." John drums his fingers. "I got all the computers out-- try rebooting again."
"Shutting down," Kavanaugh announces over the comm. There's a few minutes' tense silence, and then he adds, "System reinitializing."
"Navigational control returning," Novak reports, and John heaves out a deep breath. Then: "Wait-- no. Navigation has reverted to the virus."
"What the hell?" John blurts out, not caring that his superior officer can hear him. "I got the computers out of all the 302s. There's no place left for it to go."
"No, you didn't," Rodney says suddenly. John actually jumps at the sound of his voice-- but then again, they always did think well together. "The ship you took out to destroy the emitter array. It's still out there and infected with the virus."
"Great," Caldwell snaps. "Recommendations, Colonel?"
John's already strapped in and reaching for the controls, switching things on. "I'm already in a ship, sir. All I have to do is fly it out and destroy the infected fighter."
"But you've taken out the onboard computer," Novak objects. "You won't be able to navigate."
"Lieutenant," John says coolly, "I can fly just fine without a computer."
"Right. Of course, sir."
Things are whirring and blinking and coming to life around him now, and John loves his puddlejumper, but damn, it's nice having real controls to fly with. "Ready to go, sir."
"Good luck, Colonel."
John's making a final check that everything's ready when there's a weird click in his ear and Rodney comes back on. "I should've known you'd be the stupidly heroic type."
"This is really not the time to have this conversation," John tells him sharply, and hopes the click meant no one else can hear them.
"No conversation," Rodney says hastily. "I just wanted to say--" He hesitates. "Look, I get that you have to go. Just-- just come back this time, okay?"
John lets out a long, shuddering breath. "Yeah," he says at last. "Okay."
-----
John's temporary quarters on the Daedalus are four paces long and five wide. He's been pacing around and around the room at quickstep for about fifteen minutes, which comes out to either two-thirds of a mile or seven-sixths of a kilometer.
The ceiling's seven feet high. 875 cubic feet is 29,850 liters of air, which is about 8% oxygen, so-- John dredges up his high school chemistry-- 106 moles of oxygen. If he were locked in here without life support, and stranger things have happened, he could theoretically breathe for another 20 or 21 hours.
It's nice, multiplying numbers in his head. It keeps him from worrying about the important things, like the blank white laptop screen on his desk, the only light in the room-- the cursor a quiet blinking reminder that they're not even back to Atlantis and he's already writing two condolence letters.
And that it could easily have been three.
John hasn't talked to Rodney since right before he went out to shoot down the rogue 302. He hasn't actually seen him since yesterday morning, when John ran into the infirmary and the first thing he saw was Rodney standing there holding an oxygen mask over his face. It was a lot scarier than can possibly be healthy or safe, and for the thousandth time John shoves the memory firmly out of his mind.
When he's done precisely 102 laps past the computer, John pauses. He really needs to just buckle down and do this. Then he can finally get some rest-- he couldn't sleep at all last night.
Yeah. Get some sleep-- if he can-- and have nightmares all night. He knows the drill. And he wishes more than ever he were a math professor at Columbia or someplace.
"Fuck this." John slams a fist down, making the laptop jump an inch off the table. Feeling slightly better, he lets it crash down again, this time square into the keyboard, and the computer flies straight off the desk and smashes onto the floor. Keys fly everywhere, the battery pops out, and the screen goes black, plunging the room into total darkness.
There's a light switch somewhere above the bunk, but the door chimes before John can even reach for it. He freezes reflexively and stays quiet, hoping that whoever it is will figure he's asleep and go away, but a minute later the chime sounds again.
What is wrong with this person? "Go away!" John yells. "Whatever it is, it can wait, okay? Just leave me the hell alone!"
The door hisses open anyway, letting the corridor's fluorescent light flood into his room. John still doesn't move or look up. "What part of go away are you not getting?"
"Fantastic." There's a rustle that John just knows is Rodney crossing his arms. "I try to show some basic concern, and this is what I get. Would you rather I just left you here to bleed to death on broken-- whatever's getting smashed up in here?"
John thrusts his hands out, palms up. "Do I look like I'm bleeding to death?"
"Not really, no," Rodney admits.
"Then you don't need to be here," John snaps, yanking his arms back. "I'm fine. Get the hell out." He moves forward, trying to block Rodney's view of the broken computer.
Rodney's already seen the mess, though, and he takes a quick step sideways into the room. "Wow. What did you do?"
John considers bodily shoving Rodney out, but the way he feels right now physical contact might be a bad plan. "Nothing. The computer fell off the table. It was an accident."
"Like hell it was." Rodney takes one more step forward and grabs John's wrist before John can dodge him.
John tenses, half surprise and half something he doesn't want to think about, and tries to jerk his hand away.
Rodney holds on, looking closely. "You are so full of shit," he says at last. One of his fingers does something, and pain stabs up through John's wrist, making him flinch again. "You've got serious bruising coming up," Rodney concludes, keeping a firm grip on John's arm. "No major swelling, though. You're damn lucky you didn't break your hand."
"It's not your problem."
"Of course not." Rodney nods seriously. "Since you're clearly doing a wonderful job of dealing with it on your own."
"Look, you can't help, okay?" Although he could start by letting go of John's fucking arm. "You don't know what's going on, and you wouldn't get it if you did, so just forget about it."
Rodney looks like he's thinking something over.
John can guess what it is. "And don't even bother asking if I want to talk about it. I don't need you to shrink my head any more than I needed your friend Dr. Wallace."
"I thought you'd say that." The grip on John's wrist tightens. His bruised hand is starting to throb. "However, since I am not in fact a psychiatrist, I don't really give a damn whether you want to talk about it or not."
John doesn't even bother to answer that. "Let go of me."
"Why should I?" But Rodney tugs briskly on his arm, then (finally) drops it. "Come on, let's go."
"Go where?" John asks despite himself.
"Mess hall," Rodney says shortly, and heads out the door, glancing back to see whether John's coming along.
John does want to tell Rodney, he realizes, because no matter how much he does it he still hates giving Rodney this kind of crap. And if he were going to tell this to anyone, ever, Rodney'd be the one.
It'd be a really shitty idea, though, because talking to Rodney about this can only be the beginning of the long slippery slope down to something John Doe could afford and John Sheppard cannot.
John follows-- unwillingly, but he goes. It's only because he should be heading to the kitchen anyway to get a bag of ice for his hand. It has nothing to do-- really, it doesn't-- with any actual desire to talk to Rodney, or in fact to be around Rodney any longer than necessary.
-----
The commissary is three decks up on the other side of the ship, but it's late at night, and the corridors are pretty much deserted. They only pass one or two crewmen, who seem not to notice anything strange.
The mess is also nearly dark; this late at night, when there's no food out, it's kept at minimal lighting.
Rodney shoves John firmly down into a chair. "Sit," he says, in his best spare-me-the-lawsuit voice, then vanishes into the kitchen.
John strongly considers just getting up and leaving, but before he can decide Rodney's reappeared with a small bag of ice. "Here, use this. I don't think you fractured anything, but we might as well make sure."
Against his better judgment, John takes the ice and presses it against the side of his hand. "Thanks," he says reluctantly-- it does stop the throbbing.
Rodney drops into a seat opposite him. "All right." He points a threatening finger. "Talk."
Oh yeah, very convincing. "Or what?"
Rodney blinks at John. "Or nothing," he says at last, quieter, shoulders slumping just a bit. "What, am I not allowed to worry about you anymore? Because you're not exactly making that easy."
"Your job isn't to worry about me," John says, desperate to get out before the situation gets out of control. "Look, I appreciate the show of concern and the ice pack and everything, but what the hell is this all about?"
Rodney leans back in his chair and gazes at John for a long moment. "Here's or what," he announces at last. "Having unfortunately failed to stop worrying about you, I want you to tell me what the hell your problem is. If you don't tell me, Dr. Heightmeyer will be waking up to an email saying that you have anger management issues and need extra therapy sessions."
Oh, Christ, John thinks to himself. "Fine," he snaps. "You want to know my problem? I've got a shitload of them, actually. You want to hear what they are?"
He's half-risen from his seat, fists planted on the table, and Rodney is staring up at him, dumbfounded.
"Linstrom," John snaps out, rising fully to his feet and looming over Rodney. "Monroe. Bates." He knows the list perfectly, all 153 names-- no, the Wraith virus made it 155. "Markham. Kusanagi. Stackhouse. Zelenka. Weir. Sumner. So many people have died on this mission, under my command. And they just keep on dying. And I can't do a fucking thing about it."
Rodney nods slowly. He's looking down at the tabletop now. "Much as I sympathize, the same is true for almost every military officer who's ever lived. So what makes you, particularly, worthy of self-pity?"
"This isn't self-pity," John argues, but he sits back down. "This is me being really sick of writing two or three condolence letters a week for people I'm supposed to be keeping alive."
"Really." Rodney frowns across the table at him. "And you seriously think every one of these deaths was preventable?"
"Not all of them." Because, much as John hates to admit it, there wasn't a whole lot he could've done about the nanovirus. But still. "Most of them, though."
"I've read your reports," Rodney says quietly. "All of them. It looks to me like you did everything you could. And then some. Flying that bomb into a Wraith hive ship--"
"And leaving Radek behind in the chair room so a Wraith couldn't get him," John interrupts, because the last thing he needs from anyone-- especially Rodney-- is hero worship. "I could've waited thirty seconds for Ford to get there."
"Trust me, you couldn't have."
"How do you know?" John snaps. "You weren't there."
"No, I wasn't there." Rodney's frown deepens, if that's even possible. "But I have a pretty good idea what happened, and by all accounts you didn't have those thirty seconds to spare. And as for the others . . ." He folds his arms on the table, leaning forward. "You weren't even on this planet when Markham died. How, precisely, do you argue your responsibility for that? Or, say, Weir? Or Sumner?"
He's hitting particularly sore spots, and it's damn tiresome. "I shot Sumner myself," John reminds him.
"Granted, but to save him from a much worse and otherwise inevitable death." Rodney lets out a soft, exasperated sigh. "And no, you could not have rescued Weir from Kolya any sooner, either. Don't even try that one on me."
John stands up again, because really, this is too fucking much, and he wants out.
"Wait." Rodney's hand shoots out, grabbing John's good wrist and reeling him back in. "Just wait, okay? I'm trying to help you out here."
He looks up just as John looks down, meaning to try and tug his arm free.
Rodney's expression is a conflicting blend of annoyance and worry-- pretty much his normal look, but his eyes are hard and determined as he stands up to look John in the face. "Just hear me out," he says, quiet but firm. "Please."
"Okay." John nods, but he pulls his arm out of Rodney's grasp, and he doesn't sit back down.
"John." Rodney's jaw tightens. "John, you can't save everyone. You have to understand that."
"I have to," John returns automatically, "it's my job."
"Need I remind you?" Rodney says sadly. 'We've had this conversation before."
Right. About a little girl who died on Rodney's operating table, and John thought at the time how utterly absurd it was that Rodney would blame himself for something like that.
Rodney's lost people too, people he was supposed to care for. Probably as many as John has, maybe more, and John's totally forgotten about that.
Apparently he forgets things too damn easily, these days.
"Rodney, I'm sorry, I never thought--" John leans back against the table, sorting it out. What Rodney's been through-- it can't be the same as what John's been through.
Can it?
"As if you ever think," Rodney grumbles, but the edge is gone from his voice, replaced by a tinge of genuine fear. "You have to stop doing this to yourself. You're a wreck. If I were the SGC psychologist, I wouldn't've even let you come."
"But you're not," John points out, for lack of anything better to say. "And here I am, responsible for more people than before. How does that compute?"
"It doesn't." Rodney turns slightly, wrapping both solid arms around John's back and resting his head on John's shoulder.
It feels perfect.
Too perfect. It'd be too easy to relax into Rodney's arms, to pretend everything's okay, and John almost lets it happen. It takes everything in him to move away instead and to force out the words "Please don't."
"John, what--" But Rodney pulls back, lips pressed together in resignation.
"Now you don't get it." John's hand drifts up and brushes Rodney's cheek, unwilling to end the physical contact entirely, but he forces it back down. "What happens when I can't save you?"
Rodney's beginning to frown again. "I thought we'd finished this part of the conversation."
"No, we haven't." John folds his arms across his chest.
Rodney's mouth softens a little, but his eyes harden. "You're wrong. I am not being the dense one here." He hesitates. "Let me put it this way. I always knew I was going to lose you. I knew you had a life somewhere else, that you'd have to go back to it eventually. But I wanted you anyway, because I thought you were worth it. So this is how I figure it: either you don't think I'm worth it, or you're just being incredibly selfish."
With that, Rodney turns on his heel and leaves the mess, leaving John staring after him and clutching a bag of cold water.
-----
Published papers notwithstanding, John must be pretty dense after all, because it takes a few more days for him to figure out how exactly he's being selfish.
He finally works it out the day after they get back to Atlantis, once it's been determined that the city and its people are still in one piece and John's finally forced himself to sit down at a borrowed computer and write the letters he needs to write. He's partway through the first one when he produces the sentence: I have the highest personal respect for Dr. Linstrom's courage in joining an extremely dangerous military expedition.
Which reminds him inevitably of Rodney-- and yeah, John's being a little preferential here, but he can't stop being thankful that Rodney happened to escape into the corridor instead of the airlock. If he had lost Rodney that early on-- or ever--
Not that he has Rodney any more, precisely.
He can still hear the ache in Rodney's voice: I always knew I was going to lose you.
All these thoughts finally click, somewhere deep down where John's been trying to understand what happened three nights ago. It occurs to him that he knows what he wants, he knows that he doesn't want to want it. But he's never thought to ask what Rodney wants.
Except that Rodney's been telling him anyway. John just hasn't bothered to listen.
He's up and heading for the door before he can talk himself out of anything.
-----
A faint glow through Rodney's door tells John he's still awake-- the light from a computer screen, he's guessing-- so he goes ahead and knocks, lightly
"Who's there?" Rodney calls through the door.
"It's me."
"Oh." A pause. "Fine, come in."
John takes a deep breath, resigns himself to his fate, and goes.
He was right; Rodney's sitting on the bed with his laptop balanced on his legs. The glow from the screen casts his face into weird shadows. "Well?"
"I," says John, "um, I--" He's trying to figure out how much of the exhaustion on Rodney's face is real and how much is just the light.
Rodney looks at him intently for a moment, then turns on a bedside lamp and closes the computer, putting it down on the nearest crate. "I'd ask if you're okay, but you're never okay, so what's wrong?"
"I--" John begins, and finally finds the words he needs. "I wanted to tell you why I was in New York."
"Oh." Rodney's eyes go very wide for a few seconds. "Could you at least sit down? You're making me twitchy."
John crosses the room and lowers himself onto the edge of Rodney's bed, folding his hands in his lap and staring at the floor. He's afraid of what'll happen if he looks up at Rodney. "Zelenka's sister lives near you. I had to go visit her and tell her Radek was dead."
"And you went in civilian clothing and no dogtags?" Rodney says dubiously. "Are you even allowed to take those off?"
"I'm not, technically, but I went in civvies because she hates the military and I didn't want to make her even more uncomfortable." John watches his fingers clench on a crease in his jeans. "At least, that's what I told everyone at the SGC. I really just took my tags off because I was making myself uncomfortable."
"Okay, you've lost me."
"They reminded me of this place." His knuckles are slowly whitening. "Everything reminded me of this place. And I didn't want to deal with it anymore."
"How convenient of you to get mugged, then." Rodney's trying to be sarcastic, but it's not quite coming through.
"Yeah," John agrees. He can't believe he's actually talking out loud, actually telling all of this to someone else. "This guy just came out of nowhere, hit me over the head. And I didn't care. I remember being happy when I blacked out. I think on some level I was hoping for permanent injury so I wouldn't have to come back here." He closes his eyes.
There's dead silence for several seconds.
"Jesus, John," Rodney whispers at last, and his weight on the mattress shifts closer. John feels warmth nearby-- Rodney's sitting next to him now. "Don't say that, ever. Please."
"I hate this," John tells him dully, forcing his hands to relax. "I hate being here, being in charge of a situation that I can't actually control and that consists entirely of Earth's 'best and brightest' getting slaughtered. Landry thinks I'm some kind of magical savior who can make it all go away, but I'm not. And you wondered why I tried so hard to repress my own identity for two weeks."
"John . . ."
"Just let me finish, okay?" He hitches closer, almost but not quite pressing his shoulder against Rodney's.
"Okay." But Rodney shifts again, and his hand lands warmly between John's shoulder blades, thumb rubbing circles on John's neck.
"Forgetting all of this was the best thing that's ever happened to me," John admits. "Being with you, and working on that paper . . ." He presses back against Rodney's hand. "It was the first time in months I wasn't having nightmares every night."
Rodney stays quiet, waiting for an explanation.
"Ever since Elizabeth died," John tells him. "I keep dreaming that the Wraith come and blow the city to hell and beam everyone up, except me. I'm the only one left, I'm all alone, and it's all my fault."
The thumb on his neck goes still. "John," Rodney says roughly, "I'll ask again: why the hell are you here?"
Because he still thinks he can make up for all the ways he fucked up before. "Because I'm supposed to be responsible for this, and I'd feel even worse if I just abandoned the mission. And if the Wraith got to Earth--"
"Yes, I know," Rodney interrupts. "Chaos, destruction, the end of human society as we know it. But I still say you still should've stayed in New York with me. If the Wraith came, we could've always holed up in my basement and led a resistance movement. Or something. It would've been a complete B-movie cliche, but at least it would've been romantic."
It's really not something to joke about, but John snorts anyway, letting the corners of his mouth twitch upward.
He finally opens his eyes and looks up. Rodney's sitting extremely close, looking awfully sad for someone who's just tried to make a joke. "Hey," John says softly. "What is it?"
"Apart from you being utterly miserable and on the verge of a total breakdown?" Rodney shrugs. "I just miss you, that's all."
Which is so senseless and incongruous that John can only gape.
"You used to be happy," Rodney continues. "You used to smile all the time, joke around. And then one day you got your supposed real life back, and you turned into--" he gestures vaguely at John's chest-- "this. Pod person John. No," he corrects after a moment, "Anti-pod person John, who's so used to being miserable that he freaks out over someone trying to make him happy."
"Rodney," John starts to say, thinks better of it, and leans in to kiss him instead.
There's an awkward moment where they're both kind of surprised, but it passes. Rodney's lips move sweetly against John's, the best thing he's tasted in a long time, and finally open. John brushes Rodney's tongue with his own and then pulls away, pressing their cheeks together.
"Don't say that about yourself," Rodney says again, low and hoarse in John's ear. "I like your brain, okay? I like the way it didn't get permanently damaged. Please keep it that way."
Which makes John feel a little shitty, because that was the one thing he planned to never mention to Rodney. "I'll do my best," he promises. Anything more wouldn't be honest.
"I'm glad," Rodney says emphatically, lips trailing down John's jaw back to his mouth.
Kissing Rodney is like coming home, utterly right and perfect. Somewhere in the back of his mind, John has to wonder how the hell he managed not to do this for a whole month.
He tries to tell himself that this is a bad idea, that he doesn't want to get back into this only to lose Rodney, or for Rodney to lose him. But he doesn't think he can survive without it, either.
When they finally come up for air, Rodney's hands move to cradle John's face, thumbs smoothing along his cheekbones, and John closes his eyes and relaxes into the touch for a little while until Rodney adds, sounding painfully uncertain, "John, are you sure you want this?"
"God, yes," John blurts, momentarily shocked by his own ferocity. "Rodney, I couldn't keep away from this-- from you-- if I tried." He leans forward and rests his forehead against Rodney's. "Hell, I have been trying. And look how that turned out."
"Yeah." Rodney's head nods against his. "Happy, happy failure."
At that John smiles for real, except that he's smiling into Rodney's mouth because they've somehow gotten back to the kissing. He pushes harder this time, trying to feel and taste and relearn all of Rodney at once, and finally manages to shove Rodney down onto the bed and crawl on top of him. He's more than a little lightheaded. It's part relief, and part sheer need, but too much of it is fear of how easily this could end.
John holds on, pressing closer still to Rodney, and lets himself forget everything for a little while.
.
THE END