Balcony Sessions 5

Some Kind Of Truth

by Leah

URL: http://www.area52hkh.net/asl/leah/balsess05.php
Summary: 'This was the hardest thing he'd ever done.'

"I'm sorry," John said. He was standing over Rodney's bed, in the infirmary. He'd just kissed him. He could still feel the pressure of Rodney's lips against his own, a ghost of sensation. "That... I shouldn't have done that."

"John?" Rodney looked up at him. His right arm--the one with the IV line in it--twitched a little, as if Rodney were trying to reach for him. "What?" Rodney's voice was weak. He sounded lost, maybe even frightened. His eyes were as wide as a child's.

The cannula under his nose had been bumped a little askew, and John wanted to fix it, but he couldn't make his hands move. "I can't," he said. "I can't do this. I'm sorry."

And he turned around and walked away.

***

He fled, all but running once he'd left the infirmary, despite the late hour, not caring how well the sound of his boots would carry in the empty corridor. He entered the transporter; hit his destination on the screen without even really registering it. When the doors opened he was running for real.

He was going to the nearest balcony. He had to get outside. He had to get fresh air. He felt like he couldn't breathe.

John practically exploded through the doorway, going right to the barrier and leaning over it, fisting his hands around the railing so tightly it made his fingers hurt. He took in great gulping lungfuls of the wind. It smelled and tasted like salt, with something underneath it sharp and alien. It was cool outside, because of the night. The breeze wasn't strong, but enough to feather his hair back. He could feel it against his lips and tongue as he dragged the air in through his mouth. It was a little better, outside like this. Just a little.

John was close to panicking. His heart was hammering crazily; sweat beading on his temples, down the back of his neck. His muscles were practically vibrating with the need to get away, to just keep running.

He forced himself to take long, deep breaths, to completely fill up his lungs. He closed his eyes, started breathing through his nose, concentrating on nothing but the drawing in of air, the movement of his chest as his lungs filled and emptied.

His heart finally slowed, falling back into its normal rhythm. John opened his eyes, staring out at the dark water, the black-on-black where the night sea touched the night sky at the horizon. The stars were very bright, reflected in the black water. There was the first hint of blue, out on the horizon, if he looked hard enough. It would be morning soon.

John hadn't slept yet. He'd spent the night at Rodney's bedside, ignoring the medical staff when they'd first suggested--and then insisted--he go to his quarters. He'd wanted to be there when Rodney woke up, and he had been adamant that he'd stay until that happened.

He'd been waiting for nearly two days, most of them spent in the infirmary. Despite Carson's assurances, John had begun to wonder if Rodney was really going to wake up again.

Rodney had *died*, after all, back there on the planet. He wasn't breathing when Aiden and Markham had finally found him. And his heart had stopped while Markham was breathing air into Rodney's lungs.

John hadn't been there, of course. But Aiden had told him. And John had been in the infirmary when they'd wheeled Rodney in. He'd seen Aiden's face--the liquid fear in the lieutenant's eyes. And Rodney had looked like death, like he was already gone.

And that was all John could think of, when he'd kissed him: not the warmth of Rodney's skin, or the proof of his life when Rodney breathed. All John could think of was the gray slackness of Rodney's face when he'd been brought into the infirmary, and the fact that he'd died, already, out in the rain.

John held onto the railing as if he might die himself if he didn't, fall into the fathomless, alien sea. All he could think of was Rodney, and death: Rodney walking into the black entity, surrounded by the thin, flickering green of a failing shield; the way Rodney had fallen when the Wraith stunner hit him, before they had known it did no permanent damage, when John had touched the pulse point in Rodney's throat and been sure he'd find nothing; how Rodney had been screaming in pain before his head snapped back, from the impact of John's bullet; what it had been like listening to Kolya calmly talking about killing Weir and Rodney both, if John didn't comply; watching as the Wraith advanced on Rodney, not hurrying, as Rodney ineffectually emptied two magazines into it; that Rodney had drowned in a ravine, with a monster sucking his life out through his back.

"I can't do this," John whispered. The wind scattered the words away. "I can't do it. I can't."

The railing was cold, and his hands hurt. But all John could do was hold on.

***

"Major! Major! *John*!"

He hadn't expected Rodney to be out of the infirmary already. God, if he'd known he would have taken a different route...

John stopped still in the corridor, briefly closing his eyes in resignation. He forced his fists to unclench as he turned around, forced his arms to stay relaxed and at his sides. He pasted on a loose, comfortable smile. "Yeah, McKay?"

Rodney was hobbling, wincing with every step, and John felt a hammer blow of guilt that he'd made Rodney all but run to catch up to him.

But he didn't move any closer. Instead, he watched silently as Rodney made his painful way down nearly the length of the corridor. The guilt was like a fist in his guts, but John stayed still. He wanted Rodney to be angry at him.

John hated the idea of Rodney being angry at him. But he had to do this. He had to.

Rodney was panting a little by the time he finally reached John, and he looked pale and like he was in pain. Rodney was holding one of his arms across his ribcage, and John almost asked if it was all right for him to be wandering around, but he didn't. He didn't say anything. He just kept his expression blank, lifting his eyebrows in polite inquiry, as if Rodney was just anyone, some stranger John didn't particularly care about.

Less than that, even--John would never have let a stranger come all that distance if it was obvious he was hurting.

"What the hell's your problem?"

"What are you talking about?" John asked, trying to confine his expression to confused innocence. "I don't have a problem."

He had always been a very good liar.

But Rodney wasn't buying it. If anything, he just looked angrier. "You've been avoiding me for nearly three weeks, Sheppard!" he snapped. "You haven't come to the infirmary once since--" His mouth twitched. "Since they brought me back from that planet."

*Since I kissed you, you mean*, John thought. *Since I kissed you after you almost died*. John still remembered Rodney kissing him first, in the hollowed-out tree. It sent a bolt of longing through him so bright and raw he ached.

He took a step back. "I've been busy," he said.

For a second, such an intense look of hurt flashed over Rodney's face that John was reminded of the infirmary, when he'd walked away from him. The flicker of fear, behind that look, was the same.

Then Rodney's eyes narrowed, and the hurt was replaced by cold rage. That was good--rage, John could deal with. Rage would get him what he wanted.

"'You've been busy,'" Rodney snarled. "You son of a bitch. You couldn't even tell me to my face, could you? Fucking coward!"

John glanced quickly up and down the corridor, hugely relieved to see that it was empty; there was no one around to hear them. "Tell you what?" he hissed, keeping his voice quiet. "What do you want me to tell you, Rodney--that it meant anything?" Oh yeah, this was good. This would work. John didn't even have to go out of his way for the anger. He just had to let it loose a little, shape it to this new mask he had to wear. The best lies were always the ones with some kind of truth in them. The anger was true.

It was just all directed at himself.

The hurt was back on Rodney's face, and it went deeper this time, maybe slicing all the way through him. John could tell that Rodney had to fight to get his anger back, and even then his voice hitched a little. "It sure as hell seemed to mean something at the time."

John made himself smile, knowing there was nothing at all like warmth in it. "I was stoned, Rodney. I barely even remember it. You could have been anyone."

Rodney froze. His lips parted like he wanted to say something, but he didn't speak. He backed up a step. He hadn't moved his arm from across his ribs, but now it looked like it was there for protection, instead of for the pain. "Well..." he said, and this time he was speaking quietly, too, "It's good to know exactly how much... how much I matter to you, then." He scowled, dark and bitter. "I'll remember that the next time I'm saving your life."

He pushed past John, going in the direction John had been heading. John grimaced at Rodney's sharp inhale when he moved, but Rodney didn't see it. John watched Rodney walk stiffly to the T-junction, turn out of sight.

John wanted to go after him so badly that for a moment he almost started running, almost called for him. But instead he made himself walk in the opposite direction. He'd take the long way around, make sure he didn't run into Rodney again.

It was all about protection, after all. He had to protect himself.

It was better this way. Better for both of them.

He wasn't a coward. This was the hardest thing he'd ever done.

***

"So," Aiden said, "I hear the doc's going to clear you for missions in just a few days. You must be really looking forward to that, huh?" Aiden was grinning happily at him. His eyes and teeth were very bright.

"Not really," Rodney said. He shifted against the balcony railing so that no part of his chest was actually leaning against it. His ribs had almost entirely healed, but pressing too hard on them still hurt a little. He turned away from Aiden, letting the wind blow against his face. It was early evening, but it was still warm, a result of the same weather that had caused the hurricane a few weeks back. It reminded him of summer nights along the Beaches, back in Toronto-- that same kind of gentle letdown from the heat of the day. Of course, that was the lakeshore, not the middle of an ocean, but the similarity was almost enough to make him miss it, and he hadn't missed the city for a very long time.

Rodney could see Aiden's surprise out of the corner of his eye, and guessed he'd hurt the lieutenant's feelings, but couldn't find it in himself to care. He was only telling the truth, after all. He wasn't looking forward to going through the gate again.

Sheppard couldn't stand to be around him--that much was painfully obvious, so Rodney could only imagine any missions he went on as part of Sheppard's team would be awkward, to say the least. But there was no other team Rodney wanted to join. He'd gone with different teams before: led by Stackhouse or Bates, when Sheppard was still recovering from the fever that had nearly killed him. It had been fine, but mostly because Rodney had known it wasn't permanent.

He only wanted to be with *his* team. Sheppard's team. And Sheppard didn't even want him anymore. And how pathetic was that?

So, no. He wasn't looking forward to going through the gate again. Rodney couldn't really say he was looking forward to much of anything, truthfully, except maybe not having his ribs hurt.

"Why not?" Aiden looked so absolutely horrified that it was almost comical, if Rodney had actually felt like laughing. "Are you serious?"

"No," Rodney said archly, "of course I'm not serious. This is me laughing uproariously at my joke." He looked at Aiden again, keeping his expression purposely schooled, until Aiden finally turned away, scowling.

Rodney looked back out over the water. The sun was setting, how nice. He tried very hard not to let it make him think of Sheppard.

"I don't get it," Aiden said at last. His expression was a mix of confusion and anger. "What happened, then? What changed?" Rodney was fairly certain the lieutenant was thinking "what the hell's wrong with you?" but was still feeling respectful enough to not actually say it.

*Sheppard changed*, Rodney thought. But he wasn't even so sure that was true, anymore. Maybe this was just yet another case of Rodney missing something vital somewhere, something that everyone else already knew but he was just too oblivious or gullible or whatever to have seen it.

Maybe Sheppard put his feet on everybody's lap. Maybe that was just the way Sheppard was. Because that kiss had never meant anything, and Rodney had just thought it did. Because he was oblivious and gullible and stupid like that; he was a genius who always got the signals wrong, who could never quite see what was right in front of him.

Rodney's father--who had been an exceptional liar, as it turned out-- had always told Rodney that if he was going to lie, he needed to add just enough truth so that he'd believe it, and then everyone else would, too.

Rodney was terrible at bluffing, but sometimes he could lie, if the outcome mattered enough.

So, "I almost had the life sucked out of me by a Wraith-cat-thing," Rodney said. Since the statement was completely true, after all, even if it wasn't actually the answer to what Aiden had asked him.

"Oh," Aiden said. And his face fell. He looked away again, suddenly studying the water. "I'm sorry," he said.

"It's fine," Rodney said, trying to gentle his voice. He told himself he really didn't care if Aiden thought he was a wimp. "I'm sure I'll get over it." He even tried to smile, though he guessed it probably looked rather grotesque. His mouth could be so ugly, sometimes.

Aiden brightened so visibly at that, that Rodney almost felt bad about lying to him. Almost.

"That's cool," Aiden said. He gave Rodney's shoulder a friendly smack, let his hand linger there, all comradely. "You'll get back into it in no time, you'll see." His smile was full of beautiful, happy white teeth.

Rodney ghosted some kind of smile back at him, then looked over the water, at the russet color the sun made as it faded behind the horizon. It was going to get dark soon.

He wished it were John with him, watching the sunset.

Which was a stupid thing to wish for, of course, since it was never going to happen again. Aiden had dutifully hauled the couch out for Rodney after Rodney had been released from the infirmary, but Sheppard had never come by in the evenings, even though Aiden and Teyla almost always did. Eventually even Teyla had stopped trying to find excuses for why the major wasn't there.

Rodney pretended he didn't care, of course, pretended to buy the excuses, even. He was able to lie, sometimes, if the outcome mattered enough. He just had to find the truth in it. And he was certain Sheppard was a very busy man.

And he hadn't been expecting to see Sheppard again, anyway--not for anything unofficial at least. Not after their confrontation in the corridor. Sheppard had made everything absolutely pellucid: there was nothing there, between them. There had never been anything there.

It still hurt, because he'd really thought that they had been friends, at least, if nothing else, but Rodney didn't think there was much he could do about that. He'd just get over it, sooner or later. It wasn't like he hadn't had practice.

He should probably stop watching sunsets, Rodney thought. That would be a good start.

But he didn't leave the railing, not until long after Aiden had gone, and the stars had come out.

***

Two days after the quarantine crises. Two days since five members of Rodney's team had died, and John had almost gotten nuked trying to outrun an exploding Naquadah generator. Weir was still pissed as hell at him for breaking the self-regulated quarantine, and even Teyla was looking less than friendly, but he'd managed to avoid them both, and he figured that if he kept quiet and out of their way long enough, eventually they'd calm down.

Two days since Rodney had almost died. Again. In the end, only his ATA gene had saved him.

Teyla and Ford had almost died, too. Without the EM pulse from the generator explosion, they'd both be gone now. John could have lost his entire team.

John had been dreaming about that--being the only one left in an entirely dead city--and after he'd woken up wild-eyed and gasping, he'd gotten dressed and come out here.

It was still the middle of the night, but John didn't want to try sleeping again. He didn't want to close his eyes and see his friends dead, his failure as a leader, and Rodney...

He'd been listening, on the radio, to what everyone thought were Rodney's last words. Rodney had sounded so terrified, and so sad-- he'd told Zelenka to lie to his sister, for god's sake, as if everything he'd accomplished just since they'd gotten to Atlantis wasn't important enough, let alone the rest of his life. As if Rodney hadn't done anything important, ever.

John had been on his way to Carson's lab, with Teyla. And there was no way he could have gotten to Rodney, even if there had been anything he could do.

He'd just listened, standing in one of the city's dark corridors, with his fists clenched and his eyes locked on nothing, waiting for Rodney to start screaming, and then the silence that would mean he was dead.

And afterwards: lying awake thinking about it. Seeing Rodney dead in his dreams.

John had almost lost him. He'd almost lost him, again.

So many times.

John opened the door to the balcony, swallowing against the sick feeling in his chest, the wrenching in his stomach. He felt like he was coming apart, like something unraveling. Stretched out so thin and taut it would take nothing at all to break him.

He stepped through, feeling the blessed cool of the night breeze on his skin. He shivered a little, but it was better than the stagnant air inside. He took two more steps, and stopped.

Rodney was already there, standing with his arms leaning on the railing. Rodney's back was to him, but John recognized him easily, in the light flooding out through the open door. He would know Rodney anywhere.

Rodney didn't look back when the door opened. John wasn't even sure he had heard it.

"Rodney?" The name was out of his mouth before John could even think.

Rodney started, then turned his head. For a second, their eyes met; Rodney's...

Rodney's eyes were fathomless with pain.

"I'm sorry," John said. Then he turned around and went back inside.

***

Rodney couldn't sleep. He wanted it to be because he was worried about Sheppard, because he was concerned that the alien... *woman*-- if that's what she really was, which he sincerely doubted--was going to hurt him.

Well, he *was* worried about that. But that wasn't really why he was in the control room at nearly four in the morning, Atlantis time, going over the biometric sensor readings.

He was jealous. He could admit that, in the control room at four in the morning, because he was alone. His own conscience was a terrible listener, but it was better than nothing. And far, far better than that pathetic, abortive 'conversation' he'd had with Sheppard after his date with the priestess. For a moment there he'd been sure Sheppard was going to take a swing at him. Because Rodney had the impertinence to suggest that Chaya wasn't what she seemed.

Rodney knew he was right. Even if no one else believed him, he knew he was right. In the morning--well, later in the morning, since it was already morning--he'd have to talk to Elizabeth, try and finally get her to see reason. This woman had been lying to them all along, pretending to be normal when it was appallingly obvious that she was anything but. There had to be some way he could prove it, something he could do.

Rodney hated liars. He hated being lied to more than just about anything.

So here he was in the control room, at 4:10 in the morning now, seething with jealousy and worry and misery and unable to sleep, because Sheppard had been playing tonsil hockey and god knew what else with a woman who was lying to them. And because Sheppard wouldn't believe Rodney when he told him that she was a liar.

And because Sheppard had chosen her over him.

It wasn't like Rodney wasn't already perfectly aware of just what Sheppard thought of him. But *seeing* it, watching Sheppard so readily, *joyously*, go for someone else... it was a little much.

It hurt. Rodney couldn't deny it. It hurt like hell.

He and Sheppard had spent nearly the entire mission to Chaya's planet sniping at each other, and not in the good, happy way Rodney had come to appreciate, to anticipate, over the months since they'd 'gated to Atlantis. This had been real bickering, saying things meant to aggravate and wound. When Sheppard had ordered him back to the Jumper, Rodney had felt like a chastised child being sent to his room.

And he had been *right*, too, damn it! Right about Chaya's incredible selfishness, right about her ridiculous faith in yet another non- existent god. Rodney was right about Chaya herself, too, he knew it. Why didn't anyone ever listen to him?

Well, Sheppard used to listen to him. Mostly, anyway. But these days Sheppard wouldn't even talk to him. Unless they were sniping at each other, or arguing.

Rodney missed John so much he ached.

But there was nothing he could do about that. That was over. Actually, if he was really being honest, it had never even begun. What Rodney *could* do was figure out what the hell these readings meant, then convince Elizabeth in--oh, say, two hours when she showed up--to let him surreptitiously scan their guest and find out what she really was once and for all.

He'd keep John safe, even if John didn't want him to. Even if John didn't want him. He'd still keep John safe.

***

He really needed to ask Weir to assign Rodney to another team.

John sat at the briefing table, pretending to listen while Corrigan gushed on about PX-what-the-fuck-ever planet they were going to, and how exciting the MALP telemetry had been, and what kind of anthropologist-fascinating stuff awaited them, and kept sneaking glances at Rodney out of the corner of his eye, and thinking that Rodney really shouldn't be on his team anymore.

John smiled and nodded and looked interested whenever Corrigan, all thrilled and eager-puppy, glanced in his direction, and John thought about asking Weir to put Rodney with Bates, or Stackhouse, maybe. Rodney had been out with both of those guys before, and he'd said it was all right. Corrigan went with Stackhouse most of the time, and he and Rodney got along well, especially since they had that whole Canadian thing in common. Rodney would probably appreciate being with someone who really understood him.

It would make everything so much easier.

John snuck another glance at Rodney. Rodney was just sitting quietly, with his arms crossed and resting on the table.

He was watching Corrigan, but his expression was so blank that John was sure he wasn't listening. John wondering what Rodney was thinking about.

They hadn't said a damn thing to each other in days. Not since Chaya had returned to her planet. And what a fucking letdown *that* had been.

Rodney had been right. Rodney was almost always right. John really needed to start listening to him. More often, anyway.

He didn't miss Chaya, though she'd been beautiful and sexy, and sweet in that wise-yet-innocent way he'd always found an incredible turn- on. But even when he was at the point of making moves on her, he'd been talking about Rodney.

And when he'd kissed her... He was back in the forest, in the hollowed-out tree, stoned out of his mind but still knowing exactly who he was with, whose body was pressed against his, whose lips he was kissing, and wanting it--wanting *Rodney*--so much it was almost better than breathing.

But Chaya had been sweet, and pliant, and warm and willing, and healthy and perfect and safe, so John had kissed her back and remembered kissing Rodney, and because he was such a great liar he was sure she never suspected that he was only half with her; half of him literally a world away.

And then, of course, he'd run into Rodney in the hallway right afterwards, like divine fucking retribution. Rodney had been his usual belligerent, sarcastic, nasty-genius self, and John had been so angry he'd come within maybe two of Rodney's usual nasty-genius sentences of hitting him. He probably would have, if Chaya herself hadn't given him an excuse to walk away.

The worst part was that John wasn't even sure what had gotten him so angry.

Rodney had been up on the balcony over the gate room when John had flown back from Chaya's planet. John knew that because he'd seen him through the Jumper's windshield. Because he'd been looking for him. But as soon as John had reported that he was uninjured, Rodney had left.

John had barely seen him since. And the most communication they'd had was the polite nod they'd shared just now when they'd come into the briefing room; like some kind of unspoken mutual agreement to at least appear civil, so Weir wouldn't think they were about to kill each other.

Funny how they could still do that.

Though it hadn't worked, obviously. Weir had still looked puzzled, maybe even concerned. John figured she might have called them on it right then if Teyla and Ford hadn't come in, followed by a beaming Corrigan with his laptop full of MALP telemetry.

She would call him on it as soon as the briefing was over, though. John was sure of it. And it would be the perfect time to bring up some vague, non-accusing personality conflict, and how it would be better for all concerned if Rodney were put on another team. It would likely take a lot of convincing, but hell, even Ford had noticed that they weren't getting along, and Teyla, with all her leader-of-her- people instincts, would back him up on it at this point. Anything to keep the peace, right? Get the best results for everyone.

But he knew he wasn't going to do it.

Hell, John didn't even want to think about it. Even if Rodney never talked to him again, outside of strictly official mission stuff. Even if Rodney hated his guts. And god only knew that the Canuck had the right.

John hadn't had a choice when Rodney went out with Bates' or Stackhouse's teams. He'd been sick and stuck in the city. And at least those times Ford or Teyla had gone with Rodney as well, to look out for him. But John had a choice now, and he didn't want Rodney anywhere where he couldn't watch his back. Couldn't be with him.

Corrigan finally wound down and Weir gave them the go-ahead. There would be a whole little blue-cluster coming with them, too--three other scientists besides Rodney and the tiny Canadian geek--and three more Marines. They didn't need the jumper, either, which was too bad. The ruins they would be exploring were encircling the gate.

Corrigan, bless him, snagged Weir for something before she had a chance to stop John, and John took full advantage of it, slipping quickly out of the room.

Rodney didn't so much as glance at him. But John was expecting that.

***

Rodney paced the cracked stone floor in front of the back wall for about the fortieth time, walking slowly with his eyes glued to the readout of his scanning device. There was something behind that wall. Some kind of technology, that was putting out a sizable amount of power. Z-PM kind of power, or at least something close to a Z-PM. He just couldn't get to it.

He was in one of the small underground anterooms that branched off from what had probably been an enormous main room--at least twice the size of the gateroom back in Atlantis--before time and the elements had opened the roof to the unremarkable blue sky. One of the archeologists (he was from the Philippines, Rodney remembered, but couldn't think of his name) had taken a look at the placement of the stargate, and decided that whoever had lived here had probably worshipped it, since they had built such a gigantic, obviously religious structure with the gate as the focus. The Filipino had grabbed Corrigan and the other squishy-scientists and gone to do rubbings of symbols or something. The three of them had been in paroxysms of delight, just about shouting in squishy-scientist glee and forcing the poor Marines to jog around like border collies to make sure they didn't wander too far and kill themselves.

It hadn't done much for Rodney's mood. At least he'd picked up the power readings almost immediately, and had a perfect excuse to get as far away from everyone else as possible. Now if he could only figure out to get *to* the fucking power readings, this day might begin to approach bearable.

Sheppard, of course, had taken a look at the placement of the stargate and decided that whoever had lived here had probably lots of contact with other planets, since the huge, interconnected structures looked so much like an airport. Corrigan had been fascinated by that idea, but the other scientists had dragged him off before he could discuss it with the major.

Sheppard had just grinned smugly, and adjusted his damned sunglasses, and Rodney had seen the first blip on his scanner and basically fled. He vaguely remembered telling Teyla that he would be 'that way.' He wasn't sure she was able to hear him over the delirious scientists.

The scanner had led him underground, past a series of what might have been entranceways to other tunnels (though most of them had long since collapsed), to this place. Lights had come on as he walked, recessed so far into the ceiling that it seemed the stone itself was glowing. He'd finally ended up in this one, small room. It seemed to have only the one opening, the ceiling lights, and nothing in it except a power signature behind an impassable wall.

Rodney turned around at the corner and came back the other way. He hadn't exactly started the day in the best mood, and now he could add frustrated and hot. The room was uncomfortably warm, considering it was underground. Maybe whatever was giving off the power reading had been some kind of ancient heat source.

Maybe it was just all the pacing.

Rodney sighed, wishing he were wearing his jacket so he could take it off. But he was just in a t-shirt, and he didn't feel like removing it, even if it meant he might be a little more comfortable. Instead he went over to where he'd discarded his pack and pulled out his canteen. He took a long drink and capped it, looking around at the walls. There had to be something--

"You know better than to go off on your own."

Rodney didn't startle at Sheppard's voice, and he was proud of that. It figured that the major would be the one to come find him, just to give him a reprimand.

"But *flying* off on your own is perfectly acceptable, eh?" Rodney asked casually, returning his canteen to the backpack. He walked to the far wall again, pulling his scanner out of his vest pocket. He didn't look at Sheppard. "Thank you--I'll make a note of that." There it was: that tantalizing energy signature, with absolutely no way to get to it. Rodney felt like throwing the scanner against the wall. He rubbed his forehead absently with his free hand. Now he was getting a headache, too. He'd probably spent too long in the heat, though he'd be damned if he'd leave now like some whipped dog.

He ignored Sheppard completely, alternating between looking at his scanner and the wall. There had to be a panel here, a symbol, something. Ancients might be terrible at leaving instruction manuals, but they weren't particularly into puzzles or subterfuge--though they certainly weren't above lying. The Asgard were the ones who liked puzzles, though they at least had stuck around to occasionally help solve them.

"Chaya wasn't going to let anything happen to me," Sheppard said, as if that rendered the point moot. Which it probably did, in Sheppard's world, since rules only tended to apply to him at his convenience.

Rodney continued to ignore him. There were no symbols he could discover on the walls, but the scanner readings seemed to be slightly stronger over to the right. Maybe if he could find a pattern in the stone...

"McKay..."

"That does happen to be my name," Rodney murmured. He had a first name as well. Sheppard had even used it a few times. Rodney supposed that the formality of calling him by his last name was meant to show some kind of respect, but he knew that wasn't why Sheppard--*John*-- insisted on using it. It had nothing to do with respect, and everything to do with distance.

Distance. The pain of that was still like a stone lodged in his heart. They'd been friends, once. Not that long ago, even. Now... now they were barely colleagues.

Rodney closed his eyes at a sudden flare of anger. They'd been *friends*. What the hell had he done, anyway? Sheppard had never even told him what he'd done.

"Everyone else is stopping to eat. We should head back to the others."

Rodney blinked. He hadn't realized he'd been down here that long. No wonder he had a headache. He probably just hadn't noticed he was hungry. "You came all the way down here to tell me that?" Rodney snapped. "I'll grab a protein bar, thanks." *Go away*, he thought. *Go away. Just go away*. "Next time maybe the lieutenant can show you how to use a radio."

"Take a break, Rodney." Now there was an edge in Sheppard's voice.

Rodney whirled, momentarily shocked to see how close Sheppard was. The major had been practically standing right behind him. It caused a hot point of irritation to race up Rodney's spine and lodge somewhere in his brain. He could almost feel it, bright red. Did the man not *know* the concept of personal space?

"What do you care?" Rodney said. His voice was a mix of incredulity and anger.

For a second, Sheppard looked surprised. Then his eyes narrowed. "You're part of my team."

Rodney stared at him. "Oh," he said, feigning comprehension. "So you care so much about me as a *team member* that you've gone out of your way to make sure I eat."

John sighed, looking annoyed. He wiped his forehead, then for a second pressed the heel of his hand to a point just above his eye. Rodney wondered briefly if he had a headache as well. Good. He hated suffering alone.

"Just come on, McKay," he said. "Before you faint or something."

Yeah, that stung. Sheppard had *seen* him pass out from low blood sugar, and he still didn't take it seriously. The anger coiled up inside him like a waiting snake, needing an outlet, something to strike. "If I'm such a liability that you feel you need to check up on me, Major," he said, voice low and hissing, "then why the hell do you keep me on your team?"

Both he and Sheppard were sweating noticeably now; Rodney could feel it soaking into the back of his shirt, under his arms. The air was hot and close. They really needed to get out of this place.

Sheppard's smile was thin and cruel. "I've been asking myself the same question."

That was like a gut-punch, though really, Rodney had been expecting it. "Then once we get back to Atlantis, Major," Rodney grit out, "I'll be sure to put in my recommendations for my replacement." He couldn't believe he was saying the words. The *finality* of it rocked him, even through his rising anger, adding to it.

This was it, then. Not friends, not colleagues. Not anything. John didn't want him at all.

Might as well go out with a bang.

"I'll make it one of the pretty ones, shall I?" Rodney asked acidly. "Or do you only slut around with humans when you're *stoned*?"

The half-second of shock and guilt on Sheppard's face was almost worth it. Then Sheppard hit him.

Rodney saw the swing too late, missed when he tried to block. John's fist connected with his jaw, and Rodney's head twisted to the side. It didn't hurt as much as Rodney thought it would; his adrenaline was up and roaring. He let the anger lash out of him as full-blown rage.

He hit back, putting all his size and weight behind it, and his fist slammed into John's nose, knocking the other man back. John cried out, swung at Rodney's face again and missed, but his left hand landed solidly in Rodney's stomach.

That hurt. Rodney staggered a few steps away, his arms wrapped around his belly.

John advanced on him, eyes streaming and face contorted in fury. Blood had started running out of his nose, threading down his chin and throat. Drops of it scattered when he moved. John's teeth were bright red from the blood running into his mouth.

Rodney threw himself at John, tackling him to the stone floor. John had been expecting a blow, not to be hit bodily, and didn't so much as try to dodge. They fell awkwardly together, John landing hard on his back, and Rodney landing hard on John. Rodney heard John grunt as the air left his lungs. John bucked, pushing Rodney off him. He scrambled away, crab-walking. He kicked Rodney in the side.

Rodney growled against the flare of pain in his ribcage, then pushed himself onto his knees and pounced on John again. This time he wrapped his hands around John's throat, cracking the back of John's head against the floor.

John bared his red teeth, then spit a gob of blood at him. Rodney felt it hit, warm and liquid, against the side of his mouth.

John struck upwards with the heel of his hand, aiming for Rodney's nose, but Rodney turned his head in time and just felt the heavy ache of the blow on his cheekbone. John's left fist hit Rodney's jaw, but it was a glancing blow and he ignored it.

Rodney snarled, pulled his own fist back, keeping his other hand around John's throat. He could feel the muscles and tendons of John's neck working under his hand.

Someone grabbed his arm, twisted it as they hauled him back. There was an explosion of pain across his shoulder, and then he was lying face down on the floor, his arm twisted at a terrible angle away from his body.

"McKay!" Teyla's voice, the bitch. "What are you doing?"

He struggled, fought her hold until he thought his arm might dislocate, but he didn't tell her a thing.

***

Elizabeth Weir wasn't sure how it had happened, and she wasn't sure she cared. What she *was* sure of, however, was that in short order she was going to find some miserable, inhospitable planet somewhere, dump their carcasses on it, and put the shield up behind them--that was, if they didn't manage to kill each other first.

"Sheppard!" she hollered down from the control room to the platform in front of the gate. McKay and Sheppard had just been hauled through the wormhole by Ford, Teyla and two of the Marines who had gone out with them. Teyla and one Marine were hanging on to Sheppard, with Ford and the second Marine trying to control McKay. Both men were bucking and struggling against their captors, fighting so hard to get at each other that it looked like a crazy tug-of-war.

"McKay!" she shouted. "Rodney! God damn it!" she added under her breath, when it was obvious that neither he nor the major were going to listen. She glanced over her shoulder at Wing and Grodin, who were looking back and forth between her and the chaos below, their faces a mix of anxiety and embarrassment. "Come on," she ordered them, "help me!" She started down the stairs without waiting to see if they followed. She knew they'd follow.

Sheppard and McKay were still trying to get at each other, lurching and straining against the people gripping their arms. They reminded her of angry wolves; they both had their teeth bared, as if they were going to tear into each other like animals. Elizabeth was almost surprised she couldn't hear them growling.

She was shocked that it was taking so much force just to keep McKay and Sheppard apart. The two men on McKay especially were having a hard time--McKay had his head and shoulders thrust forward like a bull, physically dragging them with him towards the major. Ford looked like he was barely hanging on to him.

Teyla and the Marine with her were forced to yank Sheppard back, towards the now-deactivated gate, just to make sure McKay couldn't reach him.

"Break it up! Now!" Elizabeth shouted, but she might as well have not been in the room.

They had obviously been going at it awhile already. McKay had a badly bruised cheek and jaw, and he was holding his left arm stiffly, as if protecting ribs. Sheppard looked the worst of the two, though, with a heavily black eye and what was probably a broken nose, considering how much blood was pouring out of it. Elizabeth hadn't thought McKay would be much good in a fistfight, but then again they both looked appallingly motivated.

And McKay underscored that just as she arrived with her backup, by wrenching his arm free of Ford, and then smashing his booted sole into the Marine's knee. The Marine yelled in pain and let go as his leg gave out.

McKay used his freedom to dive at Sheppard in a full-on body tackle that ripped the major away from the two holding him and carried both men to the floor. The crash when their bodies impacted made Elizabeth wince, and Sheppard grunted in pain. He tried to swing, but McKay had him straddled, using his heavier weight to pin the major down by his wrists.

Sheppard slammed his forehead into McKay's, rocking the other man back.

"Pull him off!" Elizabeth thrust her hand at McKay, and Grodin and Wing rushed to help Ford. The three of them grabbed McKay just as he was putting his hands around Sheppard's already-bruised throat. Grodin was hit in the face by one of McKay's fists, and sat heavily on the floor, holding his face in his hands.

Sheppard leapt to his feet, trying to rush McKay. Teyla grabbed him before the other Marine could, wrenching the major's arms up behind his back. The Marine who had been with her moved to McKay instead, helping Ford and Wing.

"I'll kill him!" Sheppard howled. His voice sounded off because of his broken nose. "He's fucking dead!"

McKay didn't respond, but his face turned ugly with rage. He reared against the men holding him, trying to get to Sheppard.

Elizabeth stepped in between the two of them. She could practically feel the fury pouring off them like heat. "What the hell's going on here?" she demanded.

"He started it," McKay snarled. He gestured at Sheppard with his chin, as if the major were below contempt.

"You lying bastard!" Sheppard exploded. He tried to break free from Teyla, and she was forced to twist one of his arms until he hissed and stopped struggling.

"It started on the planet, ma'am," Ford said, automatically falling into the military courtesy. He was panting, and only warily let go of McKay's arm, so he could come over to Elizabeth; luckily the Marine and Wing seemed to have McKay more-or-less under control. The Marine McKay had kicked was on his feet again, limping painfully towards the stairs. Grodin pulled himself to his feet too, still holding his hands over his face. He ducked his head sheepishly at Elizabeth before he too moved out of the way.

Elizabeth put up her hand, stopping Ford's report. She tapped the earpiece of her radio. "Medical team to the gateroom," she instructed, as soon as one of Dr. Beckett's nurses answered. She clicked her radio off and nodded for Ford to continue.

"We were with the scientists, checking out the ruins," Ford told her, and Elizabeth realized she'd completely forgotten about the three scientists who had gone with John's team. They were still on the planet, with the remaining Marine--she would make sure Ford and Teyla went back for them as soon as this was sorted out.

"McKay told Teyla he was going to look at something," Ford continued, "--in one of the underground tunnels. He was gone about four hours. Major Sheppard went to find him, but when neither of them returned about twenty minutes later, and when they weren't responding to their radios, Teyla and I followed to make sure they were okay." He glanced at Sheppard and McKay, his eyes wide and worried. "We found them like this; it just got worse." He shrugged, obviously bewildered. "We don't know what they're so angry about--we can't talk to them."

"I see," Elizabeth said. She didn't, but at least it was a place to start. "Help get them to the holding cells," she said to Ford. "*Separate* holding cells. And contact Beckett--tell him what's happened. He'll need to examine them."

"Yes, ma'am," Ford nodded. He looked relieved to be able to do something.

Elizabeth sighed as she watched Sheppard and McKay get dragged off. They were still protesting violently, still trying to get at each other like they wanted one another dead. Elizabeth didn't want to think about how bad the fight could have gotten, right there in the gateroom. McKay looked perfectly serious about strangling Sheppard.

She walked back up the stairs to the control room, but paused when she reached the top, thinking about the briefing just yesterday afternoon. McKay and Sheppard had seemed so oddly... *formal* with one another--even estranged. She had intended to ask the major about it, but Corrigan had needed her attention, and by the time he'd left, Sheppard and McKay had already gone.

Elizabeth had thought about radioing the major, but had ultimately decided it wasn't worth bothering him about. She wished she had bothered him about it now.

But surely... surely this *brawl* couldn't be the result of some kind of work conflict. They were good friends. They had their differences-- most notably recently, when McKay had been so adamant that Sheppard needed to keep his distance from Chaya--but nothing that Elizabeth imagined would--could possibly--cause something like this. This was...

Elizabeth shook her head. She couldn't make any kind of sense of it. Weeks ago, John had even admitted he might have deeper feelings for McKay. Apparently nothing had come of that, but nothing she'd ever seen from either man would have led her to anticipate something like this. Not in a million years.

She only hopped that Beckett would be able to sort this mess out, figure out what had happened to them.

And she hoped that something *had* happened to them. Something explicable. Something Beckett could cure. She really did.

***

God, his head was killing him.

John paced the length of his cell, back and forth along the wall that held the door. He'd already tried to use his ATA gene to open it, but it hadn't worked.

It felt like just about every part of him was in pain, but the restlessness was actually worse. He didn't feel the blood-red fury anymore, but it was still as if there were a ball of lightning at the base of his skull, sending little shocks down through his nerves. It was like a constant itching, but inside his body, and he knew if someone so much as looked at him wrong he'd likely snap, try to hit them.

The headache sure as hell didn't help.

His nose, which was probably broken, was a close second to his head, though they both kind of blended together into one huge pain. At least it had stopped bleeding. Not that he could breathe through it.

His left eye, which had swollen up--because his nose was broken, he figured--hurt too, but that was more the tender, puffy kind of ache he remembered from black eyes. It would have been nice if he'd been given a cold pack for it, but Beckett's team hadn't done more than look them over from a distance and retreat until it was more certain they could give him and McKay a real exam and actually come out of it alive.

John vaguely remembered yelling something about feeding Carson his balls. He hoped he hadn't actually said that.

His throat hurt, too. From all the yelling, and from Rodney trying to strangle him. Twice. He was sure he had finger-shaped bruises over his trachea, but hadn't had a chance to see. And he had a knot on the back of his head the size of a chicken egg. At least, that's how it felt to his fingers. John was also sure his back was one dark slab of bruising from getting walloped to the floor two times in a row. His chest was probably multicolored, too.

Rodney sure as hell knew how to fight.

John turned and paced back in the other direction, feeling every single tiny protest of his skin and muscle as he moved. He was actually looking forward to being in the infirmary for once. It'd be nice to get some painkillers, have somewhere soft to lie down. He was hungry, too. Maybe they'd bring him some food if he promised he wouldn't kill them?

Rodney was in the second cell in the room, far enough away that even if John pushed his arm through the bars to his shoulder he wouldn't be able to reach him. There might have been a real jail somewhere in the city, with cells that had toilets and beds rather than bars and a floor and nothing, but if they existed, they hadn't been found yet, and Weir obviously hadn't wanted to waste time looking with two of her senior staff going at each other like rabid dogs. John wasn't sure how long they'd been in here, since he didn't really remember coming back from the planet, but by his watch it was already early evening. He just wished the electric restlessness would go away.

He did remember how much he'd wanted to hurt Rodney, of course. He remembered that very, very keenly. The thought made him guilty, now, which hopefully meant he was getting back to normal again.

John chuckled to himself at that, just a little. Normal. Whatever the hell 'normal' meant.

He reached the end of the wall and turned around to retrace his steps, barely glancing at Rodney. Rodney was pacing, too, just in the opposite direction.

When the Marines had managed to shove Rodney and John into their cells, John had rushed the bars, and screamed a lot, and tried to use his gene to get out.

Rodney had screamed and howled like a wild animal. He'd smashed his fists into the bars, kicked at them, like the rage gripping him was so bad that Rodney was trying to physically drive it out of his body. John thought it might have been unnerving, if he hadn't been too mad to care.

He wasn't sure when Rodney had stopped, though it hadn't been that long ago, but now Rodney was just pacing the way he was. Back and forth along the same wall, in the same kind of staccato, agitated rhythm. They probably looked like big cats at the zoo.

John reached the end of the wall, turned to walk back so he was facing Rodney again. Rodney wasn't pacing anymore. He was standing still, at the bars facing John's cell, with his face leaning against the metal. John wondered if it was because the metal was cold. His eyes were closed. The purple of the bruises on his cheek, forehead and jaw was livid next to the pale white of his skin.

A small prickle of worry eased its way beneath the electric sparks walking along John's spine.

"Hey, McKay," he said, then coughed because his throat was dry. It made his back ripple in a stabbing ache. Rodney had really done a number on him. "McKay."

Rodney's head moved a tiny bit, but that was all.

"McKay!" John said, more loudly, definitely worried now. "McKay! Talk to me!"

Rodney opened his eyes, lifted his head a little so he was peering at John through the bars. He blinked, and John thought he looked a little dazed. "What?"

He didn't sound too good, either, though there was still that familiar spark of Rodney-annoyance under the words. Regular Rodney- annoyance. It almost made John smile. "You okay?"

"No." Rodney closed his eyes again. He put his hand to his forehead, and John saw how badly it was shaking. Rodney dropped it back to his side, as if he'd lost the strength to hold it. "I feel like hell," he whispered.

"No kidding," John said, gritting his teeth against a swell of irritation. His body wanted to pace again, work it off. He stayed still. "You pack one hell of a punch, you know that?"

Rodney opened his eyes, looking at John. "You look terrible," he said. He sounded surprised, and his voice was rough and weak. He was sweating too, John realized, though the room they were in wasn't warm.

"I think you broke my nose," John said, very worried, now. He scooted closer to the bars, pressing his face in between them, trying to get a better look. There were sensors into this part of the city, right? Grodin had to be monitoring them... "Back in the ruins. You hit me." He half-smiled. "Pack a hell of a punch? Remember? We were just talking about that."

"Right..." Rodney said softly. "Nose." His eyes slid shut, then blinked open, like he was having trouble staying awake, even though he was standing. He looked confused. "Why are you over there?"

John's eyes widened. "Rodney," he said, "what's wrong? Is it your head?" His heart started racing, heavy and loud.

"My head is killing me," Rodney said softly. He turned his head so his left temple was leaning against the bar. His eyes fluttered closed again, and he swayed.

"Rodney!" John reached for him automatically, ignoring how much the sudden movement made everything hurt. There was a gulf of space between them, no matter how much of his upper body John tried to squeeze through the bars. "Rodney!"

Rodney's eyes opened, and John felt a little upswing of relief, but they were heavy-lidded and dull.

"Leave me alone," Rodney whispered. He turned away, moving with obvious effort and using the bars for support. "Don't need you. Go to hell."

John watched helplessly, pressed up tight to the bars as if he could will himself through them. Wasn't anyone checking in on them? Couldn't they see that Rodney wasn't all right? "Hey!" John lifted his head, shouting up to where he assumed the sensor equipment would be. "He needs help here! Come on!"

Rodney started gagging, still clinging to a bar with one violently shaking hand.

"Oh no," John breathed, the worry surging up to terror. The nausea, the confusion, sweating... They were signs of brain injury. John couldn't remember, but he must've hit Rodney--hit his head during the fight, hit it badly, but neither of them had noticed.

Maybe when John had cracked their foreheads together, down in the gateroom. John hadn't thought it'd been so bad, just another bruise, but he'd been so angry...

He'd given Rodney a concussion. A skull fracture. The kind that killed you later when the blood collected inside your brain. He'd killed Rodney. Rodney was going to die.

And as John watched, horrified, wild with fear, Rodney dropped heavily to his knees, then fell limply onto his side, unconscious.

"No!" John ran, all but threw himself at the bars that made the door to his cage. They wouldn't open, of course, but the noise when his shoulder hit them was terrifically loud. He did it again, then again, then grabbed them, kicking furiously at the metal until the reverberating echoes set the whole room ringing with sound.

"Hey!" he hollered. "Hey! Carson! Get *down* here! He's dying! Rodney's dying! He needs help!" They had to hear him. They had to. They couldn't have just *left* them both there--

The door to the room opened, and a medical team rushed in, led by Beckett. They went right to Rodney's cell.

"About goddamned time," John whispered. His ears hurt. So did his throat. So did his lungs. He was panting, and his legs felt like rubber, so he just let himself slide down the bars until he was sitting with his legs splayed out on the floor, leaning heavily against the metal. His right foot hurt, from the kicking, and his right shoulder ached, on top of everything else. He didn't think he'd hit the bars that hard.

His head was seething with pain.

His eyes were wet. He wiped them angrily with the heel of his hand.

"Major."

He turned his head a little, so that he was looking through the bars. Weir was crouched there, so their faces were level.

"We were right outside the door, Major," she said, surprisingly kind. "We had to make sure you were both calm."

John swallowed around the stone in his throat. "Don't let me out of here," he said dully. He blinked, and now there was more wetness on his face, damn it, but there wasn't anything he could do about that. "I killed him." It was almost too painful to talk, and his breath kept hitching. He squeezed his eyes shut, leaning his head against the bars. "Don't let me out."

"John," she said. He felt Weir's hand on his head, the part of him she could easily reach. He flinched with a residual flare of anger, sucking air through his teeth, and she pulled away. "John, look at me."

Her voice had just enough command in it that he did. Her eyes were very dark, and yes, even angry, but she carefully moved her hand to his shoulder, and when he didn't move this time, she left it there.

"He's not dying, John," Weir said. "It's hypoglycemia. His blood sugar dropped too low. And maybe--maybe what affected you both back in the ruins did something as well, since he was there so much longer than you were. But he'll be fine. He needs food, and rest. But Rodney will be fine."

John just looked at her. He wanted to believe that. He could hear Carson giving orders in the background, something about getting Rodney onto a gurney, giving him some kind of I.V. drip. "Hypoglycemia?"

"Yes," Weir said, nodding seriously. "You know he's affected by it."

Well, yeah, he did, but only because Rodney had mentioned it a few times, and because he'd fainted, once, and insisted that was the cause. John had thought it was really an excuse for having passed out from fear, or something. Especially when it happened again, after Rodney had gotten rid of the black entity thing. And Rodney hadn't fainted since, so John had just assumed he'd gotten over it.

He'd never figured it was *real*. "He has all the symptoms of a brain injury," he said.

"Which makes sense," Weir said, a little pointedly. "Considering that low blood sugar affects the brain."

"Oh," John said. He wiped his still-leaking eyes, then realized how badly his own hand was shaking. For a moment, he thought *hypoglycemia*--crazily, as if it were catching, as if he could be suffering from low blood sugar, too.

Weir saw it, and her face kind of shut down. "We'll talk later," she said, then stood smoothly, giving room to two more medics with another gurney.

John tried to stand, since he was leaning right against the cage door, but his legs were like wet wool and he couldn't gather them underneath him. And when one of the medics carefully opened the cell, John would have toppled if the second one hadn't been right there to catch him.

***

"What'd I tell you about wolfing your food?"

Rodney closed his eyes briefly, finished chewing--carefully--and swallowed, then took a swig of whatever electrolyte-replacing crap Carson had given him for good measure before answering. He barely glanced at Sheppard before stabbing another forkful of his extremely late lunch and continuing to eat. Both his hands were bruised and holding the fork and the bottle wasn't very comfortable. He was starving, though at least with the glucose I.V. they'd put him on he didn't feel sick anymore.

He still felt pissed-off, however, though he suspected that had a lot more to do with Sheppard than whatever had triggered the fight back in the underground room.

"What do you want?" he asked, then tried to ignore the little quake of guilt at Sheppard's expression, or the fact that Sheppard's nose was badly swollen and red, and that he could barely see out of a blackened left eye. Sheppard had a wad of gauze stuffed into his left nostril, which would have looked comical if the whole affect wasn't just pathetic. At least Sheppard had washed his face and neck at some point, though the neckline and front of his t-shirt was stiff with what was assuredly dried blood.

The bruises on Sheppard's throat were the worst, though. Rodney wanted to think he would never have actually carried through with that, that he would never have actually strangled him. But he'd been so incredibly furious. Angry beyond all reason.

And not all of it had been artificially created, either.

"Nothing." Sheppard shrugged, then winced. He pulled up a chair and sat. He leaned back gingerly, still wincing. He smiled self- consciously. "Where'd you learn how to fight like that?"

"Ninth grade," Rodney said shortly. The guilt was getting harder to ignore. He ate another forkful, though his stomach seemed to have clenched up around what he'd already swallowed, and he wasn't really hungry anymore.

Rodney sighed, pushing the tray to the side so it swung out parallel to his infirmary bed. At least that way it made a kind of barrier between him and Sheppard. "Seriously," he said, resolutely looking in front of him so he wouldn't have to see Sheppard's pitiful, red-and- black face. "What are you here for, Major? I think..." He took a breath. It made his bruised ribs hurt. He unconsciously fisted the sheets bunched up around his waist. "I think we said everything we needed to back in that room."

"Well, I don't," Sheppard said simply. He just smiled when Rodney turned sharply to look at him, though his expression was... uncertain? Rodney couldn't tell, and the fact that the swelling and bruises distorted Sheppard's features didn't help much. Sheppard gestured at the tray table with his chin. "You eat enough?"

Rodney stared at him. "What?"

Sheppard did the same chin-gesture again. "The food," Sheppard repeated, emphasizing the words as if Rodney hadn't got it the first time. "Did you eat enough?"

Rodney just kept staring. The anger was back, familiar and bright, though this time he knew it was just him. This reaction was pure, born of rejection and hurt. "Why do you care?"

That awful expression returned to Sheppard's face, and Rodney's stomach clenched just a little more, but he ignored it, resolutely glaring until Sheppard's one useful eye narrowed.

"I *care*," he said, elongating it, enunciating with exaggerated precision, "because you are a member of my *team*."

Rodney's eyes widened at that, then he glared. "As I recall, Major," he snapped, "you strongly implied you didn't *want* me on your team anymore. Shortly before you hit me."

Sheppard leaned forward, his good eye still narrow and his mouth thin and frowning. "As I *recall*, McKay, you kind of provoked that hit."

Rodney made his expression go bland. "And you kind of deserved it."

Sheppard grit his teeth, looked like he was about to say something, but he drew back, relaxing with obvious effort. He ran his fingers through his hair, and sighed. "I don't want to fight with you, McKay," he said. And he looked surprisingly sad.

Rodney turned away, swiping his drink off the table and taking a long pull of it, mostly to give himself a moment, because he didn't know what to say, or to do, and the unaccountable sadness on Sheppard's face was probably going to undo him if he wasn't careful, and he didn't want Sheppard to see that.

"I don't want to fight either," he said, when he'd recapped the bottle and put it gently on the table again. He fiddled with it, to keep from having to look at Sheppard's face. "So maybe... maybe you'd better go, because that's all we seem capable of doing."

"I actually came to apologize, Rodney," Sheppard said.

Rodney looked up, startled. "You did?"

Sheppard chuckled, though his expression was self-deprecating. "Yeah, I did. About the fight. I shouldn't have hit you." His face turned earnest. "I'm sorry I did that."

Oh. Well, that was disappointing. Rodney lifted his hand in a tiny, dismissive wave. "Don't bother," he said. "We were both... affected by something. We had to have been." He turned his head away again, watching his fingers move on the edge of the sheet. "I doubt we really want to kill each other."

"God, no!" Sheppard's vehemence was startling, and Rodney looked up at him.

"God, of course not!" Sheppard shook his head, as if he still needed to deny it, then swallowed. He rested his forearms on his thighs, then clasped his hands and dropped his gaze to them. "I nearly lost it, when I saw you fa--pass out in the cell." He gave a single, rueful smirk. "I figured I'd busted your skull somehow, and you were dying."

It was Rodney's turn to laugh, though it was just about as humorless. His cheek twinged where Sheppard had hit him, and there was another unpleasant jolt in his ribs. "That's the second time you've thought you'd killed me with a brain injury, Major. I hope you're never right."

"Yeah." Sheppard nodded seriously, still looking at his hands. "Me too."

An uncomfortable silence settled in after that. Rodney drank more electrolyte stuff. He resolutely avoided looking at Sheppard.

His I.V. catheter was making his hand itch. Rodney was idly wondering how bad it would be to pull it out when Sheppard spoke again.

"I don't want you to leave the team, Rodney," he said.

Rodney picked at the edge of the bandage on the back of his hand. "You'll forgive me if I find that hard to believe, after what you said in the room," he said quietly. "You think I'm a liability."

He still wasn't looking at Sheppard, but it was easy for Rodney to hear the confusion in his voice. "I never said you were a liability! How could you think I think that?"

Rodney pulled the bandage halfway up, smoothed it down again. He forced himself to turn and look Sheppard in the face. "You've never said as much, no. But over the last few weeks you've made it, well, more than clear that you don't want me around." He hoped that didn't sound as petulant as he thought it did--and could he be more nebulous?

Well, at least he'd said it. He just wished it didn't hurt so fucking much.

"That's not true, Rodney," Sheppard said. He rubbed his mouth before dropping his hand back into his lap. "You're not a burden. You're..." He shrugged, giving a helpless smile. "It wouldn't be my team without you."

"Ah," Rodney said, looking at him evenly. "Is that why you told me you were asking yourself why the hell I was *on* your team, then?" He started playing with the bandage again. "I really don't appreciate being lied to, especially if you're just trying to assuage your conscience."

Sheppard sucked in a breath. "You can't think either of us *meant* that shit we said!" he burst out, then lowered his voice. "You called me a slut, for god's sake!"

"Yes I did," Rodney said. And he was never taking that back.

"Rodney," Sheppard said miserably. "I want you on my team. I want... you around me. I don't know what else I can say."

"I don't understand you," Rodney said. He shook his head. "I really, really don't." He knew his incredulity was plain. "You put your feet on my lap, and you kissed me--or, or *somebody* in the tree, when you were stoned--and then suddenly it's 'I can't do this,' and you walk away. And I've been a pariah to you ever since. You just told me *this morning* that you don't know why I'm on your team, and yet now you're begging me to stay, because you want me to be 'around you.' I don't even know what that means."

Sheppard licked his lips. He glanced quickly around the infirmary, then when he was sure it was still empty, he leaned in. "I do remember the kiss, in the tree," he said simply. "I knew that was you. I..." He hesitated, just a fraction. "I wanted it to be you."

Rodney's heart jumped, but Sheppard didn't mean it. He couldn't. Rodney narrowed his eyes. "I told you I don't like being lied to."

"I'm not lying!" Sheppard said. He reached out, as if to put his hand on Rodney's shoulder, but Rodney moved and Sheppard pulled his hand back. "Please, Rodney," he said. "I'm not lying." He seemed to gather himself, then reached out again. This time cupping Rodney's face. "I'm not lying."

Rodney shut his eyes, then jerked away. "Don't," he said. His voice was hoarse. He hated that; he telegraphed things so easily.

Sheppard let his hand drop to his lap. "You keep getting hurt," he said.

Rodney's eyes widened, then narrowed again. "So do you--what's that got to do with anything?"

"You keep getting hurt!" Sheppard repeated stubbornly. "Like, with the Wraith-dogs, or the nanovirus, or getting shot in the head." His voice dropped. "You've almost died, so many times. I can't stand it."

Rodney's heart jumped again, stuttering and painful. "So... that's why you've been such a bastard lately?" he asked, amazed. "Because you can't stand me getting hurt?"

Sheppard nodded, eyes cast downward. "Yeah."

"So you were trying to push me away?"

Sheppard nodded again. He looked absolutely anguished. "I don't want to die, Rodney. I couldn't stand it."

Rodney stopped, his face screwing up in confusion. "I've been called a lot of things," he said, "but *fatal* isn't generally one of them."

Sheppard lifted his head, stared back at him. "What?"

"You said, 'I don't want to die.'"

Sheppard looked puzzled. "No, I didn't. I said I don't want *you* to die." His eyebrows lowered over his battered face. "You heard that wrong."

But Rodney knew he hadn't. And he could practically feel something go tickety-boom in his head, matching up scattered information. The same way it had when he suddenly knew that the Genii needed C4 for a nuclear bomb; or realized that they could use the hurricane's lightning to power the shield generators; or that Chaya was actually an Ancient.

"John," he said, absolutely certain of the answer, "you've never been with a man before, have you?"

Sheppard actually startled. "No!" he said, with just a little too much vehemence, "I'm not--I mean..." He tilted his head like a curious puppy. "Why?"

Oh, god. It would be funny, if it wasn't so absolutely tragic. This was a disaster. This explained everything. "John," Rodney said carefully, trying to be gentle now, trying to ignore that his heart was breaking, that he didn't even know which one of them it was breaking for. "I don't think the problem is how often I get hurt. I think... I think it's something else." He took a deep breath, getting another twinge from his ribcage. "You need to figure out what you want, here. And what you're willing to do about it." He glanced away for a second, feeling the weight of what he was about to say. "I think you know how I feel about you. I think, I think I've made that pretty clear. But you have to figure out how you feel about me." He looked Sheppard straight in his one open eye. "And how you feel *about*... how you feel about me."

Sheppard still looked anguished. "I told you what I want. I want you on my team."

"That's not good enough," Rodney said. "I can't just 'be around' you. I still don't know what that means. And I don't think you do, either. And you need to figure that out."

For a second, just a second, Rodney was sure he saw something like fear flash across Sheppard's face, but then it was gone, replaced by a kind of... blankness. Like Sheppard had just shut part of himself off.

It reminded Rodney of their fight in the corridor, when he was still recovering from the Wraith-dogs and his fall down a ravine. That was what Sheppard had looked like before he'd told Rodney that the kiss had meant nothing. Before Sheppard had lied to him.

This was self-protection. John was terrified.

"John." Rodney tried to reach for him, but John wrenched back and away, though the sudden movement obviously caused him pain.

"Sure." John was almost whispering. "Okay." He got to his feet, moving with some effort, and Rodney realized with a new pang of guilt that'd he'd never asked about John's nose, or back; never apologized.

But, "See you later," John said. And he walked away, and Rodney didn't say anything.

"I can't do this," Rodney said huskily, but only when there was no one around to hear him.

***

Sonics. That's what had caused him and McKay to get headaches and go ballistic on each other. Sonics. Inaudible noise. Even twenty minutes listening to it and your adrenaline levels skyrocketed; you went a little nuts, got dangerous.

Zelenka had been practically bouncing with excitement when he explained it. Apparently, Zelenka himself hadn't spent long enough in the underground chamber to seriously affect his mood, though he did insist he'd been 'quite irritable,' especially when it had been impossible to find out what the power source was, or if the sound was even there for a reason.

Whatever. Maybe you needed a large, annoying Canuck for the going nuts part of the noise to work properly.

Sonics. There was even a precedent for it, something the SG-1 team had gone through. John had no idea noise could affect your mood at all, let alone make you want to kill someone you actually--

--you actually--

John lay on his back on the floor of one of Atlantis's balconies, feeling the cool of the metal seep into his skin. It would probably play hell with his already sore muscles later, but the cold felt good on his bruises and right now he didn't care.

This was the balcony where the fourth grounding station was, the one that had been shot up by Kolya's men; the one Rodney had been forced to fix to save the city, to save his and Weir's lives. There were still bullet holes in the doors, still frayed connections and an open hatch where Rodney had pried the control panel open. They would probably have to fix that in the next twenty years, before the next hurricane, make sure they could power up the shield again. At least they had time.

Rodney had nearly died here; Kolya almost threw him over the railing in revenge, when John had put the gate's shield up, killing 55 of the Genii who were coming in as reinforcements. Weir had told John that. Rodney had never mentioned it.

Rodney. And John wanted--

Rodney had never been in danger of dying, Carson had told him. Not that John had doubted Weir, but he'd needed to ask, needed to be certain. Rodney had only had one of his ubiquitous protein bars for breakfast, Carson had said, and he'd gone too long without eating in that hot room, with the sonics upping his adrenaline for hours before John had joined him. The combination of the adrenaline and the fight had wiped out whatever glucose he had in his system, so Rodney had crashed and burned when he'd calmed down again.

Carson had said he'd been waiting for it, waiting for Rodney to faint. Rodney had been so enraged and out of control, Carson had figured it was the only way to ensure his team's safety. Carson hadn't wanted to use tranqs or a Wraith stunner, because he wasn't sure how they would have affected John or Rodney, what with their heads already a little out of whack.

John had thought about hitting Carson when he'd heard that, because he'd seen Rodney go shocky and stupid and collapse and had been so fucking scared. John hadn't, of course, though whatever had been on his face had made Carson back up a bit, cross his arms.

"I thought he was dying," John said. Though naturally Carson knew that. He'd been there, he'd heard John shouting, John rattling his cage until the noise was deafening.

And Carson had just shrugged apologetically and said he was sorry, but that had been the best course of action at the time, and John hadn't hit him, and he'd left, and walked all the way to this grounding station practically on the other side of the city.

Rodney had almost been thrown over this balcony, and now John was lying on his back and he kind of felt like the one falling, like the one sinking, like Atlantis, sinking down...

Falling--

John had almost died of a fever, once. It felt like a million years ago now, and in his fever dreams, "you always knew," Sumner--his hallucination of Sumner--had told him. "You just didn't admit it. You never admit it."

Because admitting it would change everything.

And John lay staring up at the blue, blue sky like Rodney's eyes and it felt like falling and it felt like dying and he realized that--

yes--

John knew what he wanted. He had wanted it all along.

***

"Jesus! John? Are you okay?"

Rodney. That was Rodney's voice, anxious and unmistakable. "No," John said, but he opened his eyes and rolled his head so he was looking up at the other man. "How'd you know I was here?"

"No? What do you mean, 'no'?" Rodney said. He crossed the space to John, crouching next to him. He looked concerned, which maybe meant that John hadn't totally fucked up everything, then. "Do you need me to get Carson?"

"I'm fine, Rodney," John said, because he didn't actually want Rodney to be worried about him. "Well," he amended, "I'm sore, but I'm okay. Really," he added, because Rodney was looking like he didn't want to accept that. "Getting up's probably going to be a bitch, though. And I asked you a question."

Rodney blinked. "What? Oh." He shrugged, before resting his forearms on his drawn-up knee. "I used the lifesigns detector in the control room. There was one dot all the way out here, and since no one's scheduled to be working on the grounding stations, I assumed it was you."

"Huh," John said. "Cool."

"Yeah, well." Rodney shrugged again, suddenly looking self- conscious. "I'm a genius."

Who had come all the way out here to find him, apparently. Yeah, maybe things hadn't gone so FUBAR after all. It made John's heart start pounding, thinking of that. "You came all the way out here to find me?"

Rodney's mouth tightened, and he ducked his head. "Yeah," he said. "I..." He looked up. "I wanted to make sure you were okay."

"Thank you," John said, meaning it.

Rodney glanced the length of John's body, then rubbed the back of his head. "It'd be, ah, easier to have this conversation if we were both upright," he said.

"Probably," John agreed. He didn't move. "My back hurts," he explained.

"Oh, right," Rodney said, looking a little embarrassed. "From when I... uh..."

"Body-tackled me twice?" John nodded solemnly. "Yep."

He'd just meant the words to be teasing, but Rodney looked away. "About that," Rodney said. "I'm really sorry. About your throat, and your nose, and everything." He turned back to John, suddenly. "Is your nose broken?"

"Yep." John nodded again, but smiled to take any accusation out of it. "Not badly, though--Carson said I don't need a cast or anything. I can even kind of breathe through it now."

"Oh." Rodney swallowed. "Well, that's good." His lips pressed together. "I'm sorry."

John lifted his hand. "Don't worry about it. We were both juiced on bad noise-mojo. And I gave as good as I got, anyway."

"Not really," Rodney said. But he was smiling a bit, so it was all right.

John chuckled. He patted the space next to him. "Pull up a floor."

Rodney looked dubious, but he did move a little closer, so he was nearer to John's head. John could feel the warmth from his body.

And it was actually easier, this way. John could turn his head away, talk upwards to the air, without having to even look at him.

Even so, he swallowed a few times, and his throat was suddenly dry and his heart started pounding. "Rodney," he said quietly.

He felt Rodney shift, but couldn't see him, which was good. John could almost pretend Rodney wasn't there, that he was saying this to himself. Rodney stayed quiet, just listening, which was even better.

John opened his mouth, closed it again. His heart felt like rotor blades, going full speed. He clenched his fists. "I've never... been with a guy," he said.

"I know," Rodney murmured.

"Let, let me talk." John said. "I mean, I've never been with a guy at *all*, Rodney. Not... like, I don't know, dating. Or anything." His face was burning, and, oh god, his heart was thrumming in his chest like he was going to have a fucking panic attack, lying on his back on the balcony.

But Rodney didn't speak, just staying calm and still near him. And John felt the warmth of Rodney's body and took another breath and let his nails dig into his palms, and started talking again.

"The thing is," he said, softly. "I want you, Rodney. Not just on my team. Not just... around me. I want you *with* me. I want to be with you." He inhaled again, and his breath hitched, and it felt like he had to force his voice past metal bands in his chest and throat. "And I don't know what to do about that. I'm not..." He swallowed, and it hurt. "I don't even know who I am anymore."

He heard Rodney move again, though John kept staring resolutely away.

"You're Major John Sheppard," Rodney said. Blunt, like always, though his voice was unexpectedly gentle. "You're the same person you've always been."

John squeezed his eyes shut, and felt the wet slide of tears. He quickly wiped them away, hoping Rodney hadn't seen and knowing he had. "It doesn't feel like it."

"Okay," Rodney said. "Then, how about this--who do you want to be?"

John blinked, but he turned, finally, to look at Rodney. Rodney was staring down at him, his expression saying nothing.

"I want to be with you," John said. Because it was true, and because it was all he could say, even if it wasn't really an answer. And because right now it was everything.

Rodney kept looking at him. He nodded, but John still didn't know what he was thinking.

"I want to believe that," Rodney said. "But I don't think I can." He sounded sad.

John levered himself upright, trying not to grimace or show how much his body hurt. He leaned back on his hands, so he could look Rodney in the face. His heart hadn't calmed down at all. "What do I do?" he asked, and his voice was rough and thick. "What do you want me to do?"

Rodney gave a tiny shrug. "I don't know what you were thinking about, out here, but what you're going through... It's *big*. Enormous." He shook his head. "You can't just make it better. It's not that easy."

John swallowed. He'd been wrong: he had fucked up everything. "I didn't say it was."

"I know," Rodney said levelly. "But it's *not* better, is it? And..." his expression darkened. "You'll just... walk away again, won't you? You'll get scared and leave."

John closed his eyes. It felt like he'd been hit in the chest, or maybe stabbed. He could hear his own breathing, too loud and too fast, just like his heart.

Rodney was completely silent again, waiting for John to speak, to say something that wouldn't prove to Rodney that he was right. If it weren't for Rodney's body heat, radiating across the small distance between them, John might have thought he'd already gone.

John licked his lips; they were very dry. He opened his eyes. "Do you remember," he said quietly, "what I told you that time, about being brave?"

Rodney nodded, looking down and away. "I've never forgotten it."

John's mouth flickered in a smile. "I want to be brave," he said.

Rodney looked up at that, and his face was almost... impressed? Amazed? But then he scowled and glanced away again. "You mean you're going to *force* yourself to have a relationship with me." He smirked humorlessly. "No, thanks."

John didn't let himself get mad. He deserved that. He deserved all of this. "No, it's not like that," he said honestly, hoping Rodney could hear it. "It's not like that at all."

He shifted position, so he could reach out and cup the back of Rodney's head. John's heart was still going so fast it was hard to breathe, and yeah, he was scared out of his mind, but he could be brave. He was going to be brave. This was everything; this was what he wanted. He wasn't going to run, or lie, or fuck it up again.

Rodney still looked angry, but he didn't pull away.

"I want you," John said. And he kissed him.

It was like the kiss had been in the hollow tree, but this time there was no terrible finality, no desperation. John closed his eyes, slipping his tongue past Rodney's lips, feeling the warmth of his skin, his stubble as a gentle scrape. Rodney tasted like coffee, slightly bitter and clean.

John tried to pour into this moment all his hope, and regret, and fear, trying to be honest; to make up for all the things he'd said, every awful thing he'd done; to show Rodney everything he couldn't say. And his tongue slid over Rodney's and John tasted him and felt him wet and warm, and it was wonderful and terrifying and enormous, and when they finally pulled apart it was because it was like John had something breaking inside him.

Rodney's expression was a little awed. "Wow," he said.

John nodded. He was still holding the back of Rodney's head. They were still so close it would take almost nothing to nudge in and be kissing again, nothing at all. "I promise," John said seriously, "that I will never walk away again."

Rodney moved his head back, and John had to slide his hand away, let him go. "I want to believe you," Rodney said.

"You can," John said. "I'll prove it."

Rodney just looked at him a long time, maybe examining. He touched John's face, brushing the pads of his fingers over John's cheek. "All right," he said at last, so softly John almost didn't hear him.

Then Rodney's fingers were gone, and the anger had come back. "But I'm telling you," he said. "If you pull any of that shit again, that's it. I'm not doing this. I couldn't... I can't take that."

"I won't," John said. "I promise."

"Okay," Rodney said. "That's good." But he still didn't sound like he believed it.

"Rodney--"

Rodney stood abruptly. "I need to go," he said. And his face--oh, god, his face reminded John of the infirmary, all over again. "You know, the lab. I'll, ah, see you later." And Rodney was already turning away.

"Wait," John said. He tried to stand as well, but he was incredibly sore and couldn't move fast enough. He ended up just on his knees.

But all the same, Rodney stopped.

"Can we have dinner later? Maybe?" John asked. He checked his watch. "I can be there in an hour." He attempted one of his winning smiles, though he figured it probably fell short. "I'll have even made it back to the city by then."

Rodney blinked, and his mouth curved in a small, surprised smile. "I'd like that," he said.

"Cool," John said. "I'll meet you in the mess." He grinned. "Grab you and me a table."

"Sure." Rodney nodded, and then he was gone.

John watched the doors slide shut behind him, then he dropped his head into his hands. He didn't touch his nose, but his bruises still hurt.

Rodney still didn't believe him, not really. Rodney was expecting it all to go to hell.

"I'll prove it to you, Rodney," John whispered. "I will. God damn it, I will."

Then John pulled himself to his feet, and followed him.

Next: Nadir