Fiction Main Written for the Harlequin challenge at sga_flashfic. Plot idea stolen from this harlequin novel. This is crack. You have been warned. Also, thanks to my wonderful beta, tinnny! The Hostage Major by Frostfire "So that's it, then? You and Mom are broke--hell, Dad, you could go to jail. What were you thinking?" John had started the conversation at polite attention, but the--okay, not really surprise--at learning that his father had been a total and complete moron had driven him into a frustrated pace. Northeast corner, detour around the couch, northwest corner. Northwest corner, pass the window, southwest corner. Southwest corner-- "I wasn't thinking, all right? We needed money. After awhile, I was starting to think that we might actually get rich--" "Dad," John said, speaking in slow, precise tones. "You were embezzling money. That is against the law. It is dangerous. And--oh yeah. Wrong." His dad spread his hands. "Johnny, I wish I could say I hadn't done it. But this is the situation. I don't think McKay's going to press charges--he's never really been much for entirely legal proceedings, himself--but he's a ruthless bastard. We're going to be absolutely ruined." Northwest corner, pass the window--"Dad, I don't know what I can do. I mean, you know I'll do what I can for you, but my salary isn't--" "No, Johnny, I know. That isn't what I'm asking." John stopped pacing, looked his dad in the face. That was the look that came right before Mr. Sheppard Senior did something that he knew was totally low. It was pasted on over a frighteningly defeated air--none of his dad's scams had ever backfired quite this badly. He was so going to hate this. "What do you want, Dad?" His dad sighed. "Trixie Venables has been sniffing around you again." "Dad." He really shouldn't have been horrified. He really shouldn't--"Dad, I can't--" "She's a billionaire, John. At least. And she wants you, you know that. I'm not just suggesting this for me. You'd be set for life. You'd never have to worry about money again." "I don't really worry about money now. Dad, Jesus Christ, this is medieval." His dad shrugged. "I can't force you to do it, John. I can only ask you. And--you know the consequences, if you don't." "Dad, I'm sorry. I can't do this." John turned and started out of the room. Left-right-left-right, and he didn't think about what it might do to his family that he'd said no. He didn't. His mom was the one who managed it, finally. "Okay, okay! I'll--Jesus. I'll take her out on one date, all right? We'll go to dinner or something. But I'm still not going to marry her this weekend." His mother smiled, tears slipping down her cheeks. "Thank you, John. Thank you." Jesus. So he called Trixie, suffered through fifteen minutes of her waffling about which restaurant to choose and not-so-tactfully offering to pay for dinner. A gentleman would maybe have said no way, but John was being forced into gold-digging, here, so he just said sure a lot, and agreed to pick her up at eight on Friday. He was praying for a miracle cancellation of his leave on Thursday, but no such luck, so he pulled up outside her house at seven fifty-five, parking right in front of a blue Saturn that wasn't nearly expensive enough for the neighborhood. There ensued fifteen minutes of waiting for her to actually be ready, although honestly, he really couldn't tell the difference between the way she looked when she opened the door and the way she looked when she finally closed it behind them. He did have to admit that both of those looks were pretty good, though. She had this great curly dark hair, thick and long and perfectly styled, and the dress she was wearing showed off a really excellent body. No way was he marrying her. But looking at her for an evening wasn't going to be too much of a hardship. The date itself wasn't totally excruciating, if only because he discovered that Trixie either liked football, or had learned to pretend to in order to keep her dates amused. That killed most of the main course, although the appetizers and dessert were taken over by Trixie talking about...something. John knew he was being kind of an asshole about this. The woman genuinely liked him, apparently--but, Jesus Christ. He could still barely believe he was actually doing this. But...well. He didn't want to let his parents be thrown out into the street to starve. But he couldn't just marry her, for Christ's sake. He couldn't. No way. On the way back to Trixie's, John looked out his rearview mirror and thought, hey, didn't I see that blue Saturn behind us on the way to the restaurant? but then they reached her house and he was too busy thinking what if she invites me in? to concentrate on that anymore. Fortunately, she didn't. She smiled at him, lipstick still perfect, and said, "I had a great time tonight, John," and leaned in and kissed him. He kissed her back, because it seemed like the nice thing to do, and he had to admit that she felt good, and when she opened her mouth, tasted even better. She pulled away, smiled at him, and said, "I'll call you," then went inside. Yeah, he was a total asshole. He hadn't given his parents the hotel room number, thank God, so they couldn't call him up and ask how the date had gone. Trixie did have it, though, and Saturday, she called him up and said she had tickets to the game on Sunday. Football was football. And she really could say some intelligent things about it. Two dates later--in the space of four days, although he did have to admit that, considering his leave only lasted another week, she had to move fast--he couldn't take it anymore. "Trixie, I'm sorry," he said. "I really need to tell you. I'm not just dating you because I like you." But she just smiled and said, "I know about your family's money problems, John. Don't worry. I'm just seeing this as an opportunity for us to get to know each other better, now that we have a reason to be together." Oh. That day, they were at her house, curled up on the couch watching TV. John had found, now that avoiding his parents had become something of a mission, he really didn't have all that much to do, so when Trixie called, he was getting more inclined to say yes. This was getting--weird. Or serious. Or something. He rested his chin on her hair and stared out the window. After a second of, hey, haven't I seen that blue Saturn before? he was about to say something, but then Trixie lifted her head and kissed him. "Hey," she said. "Don't feel bad. You do like me, don't you?" "Sure," he said--but he still wasn't really sure. Okay, she was hot and she knew what a first down was, but did he really know her well enough to like her? They'd only been dating for what, less than a week? And he knew what about her, exactly? "See? No problem." And she kissed him again, and maybe he wasn't sure if he liked her or not, but she still tasted really good. He noticed the blue Saturn again on his way home, and finally pulled his head out of his ass and thought, these people are following me. What the hell is going on here? But then it turned out to be too late, because the second he stepped out of his car at the hotel, the blue Saturn pulled up next to him and two big guys stepped out, and he felt a little sting on the side of his neck, and then it was all dark. When he woke up, he felt like total shit, but he forced his eyes open anyway and blinked at the large--no, huge--bedroom around him. He'd never had a reason to use the word sumptuous before--even Trixie was really tasteful about being rich--but this, this was it, right here. Velvet curtains and statuary and famous paintings on the walls--where the fuck was he? A European castle? The total-shit feeling didn't really fade, but he pushed the covers back and started working on getting up. He figured out that the sheets were silk about halfway there, followed by a sudden sliding sensation, after which he was not so much up as down. At least he was out of the bed. He levered himself to his feet using the nightstand, breathed deeply for a second, and looked down. Boxers. First order of business: get dressed. Second order of business included finding a gun and pointing it at whoever had brought him here, but John believed in taking one thing at a time. Clothes first, then violence. He took some unsteady steps toward the carved some-kind-of-expensive-wood closet, and opened it. Clothes. Score. But then he tried some on, and it became less score and more what the fuck? because they were all exactly his size. And they were all expensive. That was...creepy. On the plus side, the aftereffects of whatever drug he'd been given were fading, slowly. By the time he'd pulled on the most understated outfit he could find (black pants, dark blue shirt, and he didn't even want to know what they were made of) he could move around without feeling like he was going to throw up or pass out if he took a step too fast. Great. Ready for step two. He tried the door. It was locked. Damn, but not that big of a surprise. He looked around the rest of the room--one other door, leading to a bathroom, no way out from there; one window, also locked, and four stories up, not helpful until he got desperate and was willing to try and climb around the side of a building. He went back to the door. Very sturdy. The lock was--electronic? Yep. The handle was this old-fashioned-looking curly wooden thing, but the lock itself was a plate of metal. Not helpful. Looked like it was going to be the window after all. But the window was also electronically locked--goddammit, why didn't he know how to bypass these things?--and absolutely refused to break, even when John picked up the spindly chair at the dressing table (Jesus Christ, a dressing table? Where the hell was he?) and attacked it. The chair didn't break, either. This was just weird. After way too long--there weren't any clocks in the room, which, in John's opinion, was better than Chinese water torture for driving a prisoner insane--the door opened. "Huh," said the guy standing there. "You know, I thought you'd be bigger?" John sat up on the bed and took a second to process. "I suppose I'm stereotyping, but to me, an Air Force major just suggests more...mass," the guy continued, stepping in and shutting the door behind him. "Maybe you should be working out more. How are you feeling?" John blinked his way back to reality. Unfortunately, reality was about the same as where he'd been a second ago. "Like crap," he said, because it was true. "Who the hell are you?" "Oh, didn't I mention? Dr. Rodney McKay. Nice to meet you." Oh. This suddenly--made even less sense. "You kidnapped me." "Yeah, sorry about that. No other options, really." McKay picked up a little figurine from a shelf, frowned at it for a second, and put it back. "Don't worry, I'm not going to kill you or anything." For just a second, John wished that his dreams were more vivid, so he could pretend this was one. Instead, he took a deep breath. Calm. "Why am I here?" McKay blinked at him. "Because of the thing, of course." "The..." "Thing, thing. The wedding. To what's-her-name. Trina, Trillian--" "Trixie," said John. "You kidnapped me because you think I'm going to marry Trixie." He really wanted to wake up now. "Because I know that you were going to marry Trixie, yeah. Don't worry, it's only till your leave's over. Then I can probably talk to some people and get you stationed elsewhere, but this was the only easy way to do it now. She was working her way up to a quick justice-of-the-peace deal before you left, I hope you realize." John didn't say that's ridiculous, because it always sounded pathetic in the movies. "I think you might be overreacting just a little," he tried instead. "I think you might be too busy saluting and looking in the mirror to recognize a vulture when you see one, but whatever. I don't really care what you think. Your father stole something that belonged to me--something very important--and even though I've got it back, it would really be a bad example to set if his son married a billionaire and he was set for life. Nothing against you personally, see? Just--hang out here for a week, and I'll send you back to the Air Force, and no problem. You want some magazines?" "Do I want--no, I don't want some magazines! I want you to let me go! Jesus fucking Christ, you're crazy! You can't just--kidnap people if they're about to do something you don't want them to do!" And that was another thing that always sounded pathetic in the movies, but by this point John was too angry to care. McKay blinked. "Fine, be that way. If you change your mind about the magazines, the camera's in that corner." He pointed, then paused. "Well, one of the cameras. Enjoy." And he turned and left. John stared at the door and fought down the urge to run over and pound on it. Useless, and always, always looked stupid in the movies. He rubbed his forehead. He'd been kidnapped by an evil billionaire, in order to keep him from marrying another (maybe evil?) billionaire, because his father had embezzled money and (apparently) stolen something from Billionaire 1, and all Billionaire 1 could say about this was You want some magazines? Jesus fucking Christ. He tried breaking the lock. He tried breaking the window lock. He tried breaking the window, again. He tried breaking the door. After a couple hours of this (or more, or less, but who knew with no clock in the room) he took a rest, then tried breaking the wall. Nothing, nothing, nothing. He was lying on the bed and considering taking a shower--were there cameras in the bathroom?--when the door opened and a guy who was definitely large enough to be an Air Force major, by McKay's standards, stepped in with a little wheely food tray. "Dinner," said the guy, and left again. Next time the door opened, he was going to be quick enough to jump whoever it was and get the fuck out. He wondered if the food was drugged. It was a good way to keep him from trying to break out, although obviously he wasn't having much success on that front so far--and if tonight's waiter was a typical staff member at the McKay residence, getting out of the room would probably not be enough. Also, McKay could see everything he did... Eventually, he gave up thinking and pulled off one of the metal covers. And...Jesus. He didn't recognize half this stuff. Rich people food, no question, food for people who could afford to spend John's yearly pay at a restaurant, and then complain about the quality. McKay was--he'd been able to deal with Trixie because he could barely tell she was rich. McKay was so obvious about it, it was sort of halfway between intimidating and laughable. He ate the food. It was good, except for the weird things in the brown sauce. It took a day for him to break down. Assaulting the guard/waiter didn't work, because he was huge, combat-trained, and after thirty seconds he had three of his friends to help him. Interestingly enough, they barely hurt him at all. That, at least, fit with what McKay had told him--maybe he really did just want John out of the way for a week, nothing more. That was comforting. Still weird, but comforting. But after a day of nothing happening at all, and nothing to do but go what the fuck? over and over again, and maybe push-ups when he was really desperate, John was going out of his mind. So he sighed, turned to the camera--which he'd been trying to ignore, without any success at all--and said, "Fine. Maybe a book?" He'd thought that one of the Happy Helpers would bring him something, but McKay himself showed up again instead. John thought about jumping him and holding him hostage, but he didn't have a weapon--there was nothing breakable in the room--and threatening to break someone's neck before other people shot you was more comedy than anything else. Maybe he'd make a garrote out of the sheets before the next visit. Violence out, he started trying to figure out how long he could get McKay to stay. The guy was nuts, but at least he was interesting nuts. "Here, I brought you this," said McKay, and John reached out and took the copy of--War and Peace. "Real funny, McKay." Shrug. "You've got six more days with nothing else to do, I figured I'd better pick something long." Pause. "How are you doing?" "I'm going insane, how do you think I'm doing?" John resisted the urge to throw the book at McKay, because then he might take it away. "Other than that, nothing's changed since last time. I still think you're crazy, I still want you to let me go, I'm still going to try every escape opportunity I see, and I'm still going to at least try to get you arrested for this." That got him a disdainfully amused look. "Uh-huh, and you're going to meet with loads of success. I'm a genius with billions of dollars. The military regularly begs me to consult for them. The U.S. President asks my advice." "And I'm modest, too," John muttered. "Modesty is for morons and people with low self-esteem. Look, why do you want to escape?" John blinked at that. "Because you're holding me prisoner!" "Circular reasoning. Why is me holding you prisoner bad?" He was certifiably crazy. "Why is you restricting my basic freedom bad?" McKay leaned back against the door. "The military does that every day. You can't leave your post, you can't go AWOL, you have to do what your senior officers tell you to. I'm only telling you to do one simple thing, and it's not even hard. Why does that make me worse?" John glared. "I didn't consent to this." "You didn't consent to anything the military tells you to do, either. All right, you consented to follow orders when you joined, but if they ship you off to Iraq next week and you end up with an idiot CO who orders you to your death, you can't do anything about it, and I doubt you'd consent to that." John blinked. "You have something against the military, huh?" McKay straightened abruptly. "No." "Also you suck at lying." "I...had a bad experience," said McKay stiffly. After a pause, he added, "And they're all violent fascist moronic children who care more about how straight they stand than--than anything remotely important." He stopped, opened and closed his mouth, and then deliberately leaned back against the door. "Plus, I only ever met one who could do anything remotely resembling physics." His tone was a really bad forced-casual. "You mean," said John, "we're all violent fascist moronic et cetera." A second's pause. "Fine," said McKay slowly. "You're all violent fascist moronic et cetera. But that's beside the point." "Which is what, again?" McKay's mouth worked for a second, which was actually fun to watch, but then he came up with a triumphant, "Your confinement is the point. Specifically, how I'm not doing anything bad to you. I'm doing you a favor." "Uh-huh. By holding me in a movie set for historical porn." "For historical porn?" "Silk sheets much?" John waved his hand toward the bed. "Slippery. Hard to sleep on. Can I get some real ones, maybe?" "Look, I hired someone to do the decorating, okay? I think it looks fine, but whatever. My point," and McKay paused for emphasis, "is this: Do you, in fact, want to marry Trixie Venables?" "No," said John. "But I think I'm pretty capable of not marrying her all by myself. All I have to do is not stand with her in front of an altar and say 'I do'. Not seeing the problem here." "John," said McKay slowly and clearly--the first time he'd said John's name, actually--"you are underestimating the woman. She has resources. She's in the enviable position--in the fabulously rich world, anyway--of being able to marry whoever the hell she wants. She is used to getting what she wants, she's very good at getting what she wants, and what she wants is you. She might not have been able to marry you before the end of the week, but she would have gotten the ball rolling." "Look," said John. "This is not the Middle Ages. All I have to do is say no. Thanks for your concern, but the kidnapping services really aren't needed." "Your parents have been pressuring you to do this, haven't they?" McKay pressed. This was ammunition. And suddenly John was angry. "My parents have been pressuring me to do this because you are going to destroy their lives! Look, McKay, I don't see why you think I should be so happy to have you around at all, let alone as my jailor, because you are about to force my family into bankruptcy! So shut the fuck up about for my own good, shut the fuck up about Trixie, shut the fuck up about my parents pressuring me, and get the hell out of my historical porn set cell, okay?" McKay's mouth snapped shut. After a second, he said, "Fine. But you have no idea what's going on, you have no idea what these people are like, and you really have no idea what was at stake when your father decided it was a good idea to steal from me. Have fun basking in your ignorance," and he left. God. Were people even allowed to be this infuriating all by themselves? McKay had visited right after breakfast. By dinner, John was a hundred pages into War and Peace, and was actually kind of almost liking it. At the very least, it was distracting him from totally flipping out and killing himself trying to break down the door. He was still furious as hell with McKay--and really, why the hell hadn't he brought that up before? He'd been mad because he was a prisoner, and because McKay was an asshole--a rich asshole, which was worse--but he hadn't been thinking about his dad at all. Of course, he'd spent the last week pissed off at his dad for trying to sell him into marriage like some feudal overlord, but it was still his dad, and if McKay wasn't pulling his kamikaze banking thing, his dad wouldn't have had to push John into marrying Trixie--and everyone would have lived happily ever after. Right. Yeah, he knew his dad wasn't that great a person. But he didn't want him to suddenly become, like, homeless or anything. And that triggered a mental image of his parents as street people, with stringy hair and shopping carts full of garbage, asking strangers for money. He took a couple of deep breaths and concentrated very hard on page 117 of War and Peace, and so didn't actually have to run to the bathroom and throw up. But it was a close thing. After dinner, McKay came back. His arms were full of books. "Hi," he said. John glared at him for precisely three seconds and went back to War and Peace. "Look," said McKay. "It's--been pointed out to me that I'm being kind of an asshole." "No shit," came out before he could stop it, but the second thought was, by whom, exactly? McKay had--what, a friend? a girlfriend? a wife? someone who'd actually voluntarily spend time with him, who was a decent enough person to point out that he was being an asshole? "My--coworker," McKay continued, and okay, that made sense, someone who worked with him and was forced to spend time with him. John felt sorry for the poor bastard, whoever he was, "was very vehement about it, and in retrospect, I realize that maybe I shouldn't have said some of the stuff that I did." John could almost see the five-year-old superimposed over McKay's image, apologizing because the teacher made him. Uh-huh. He wanted to meet McKay's coworker. Which led to--what, exactly, did McKay do? Big business, obviously, but his dad had never really said what the business was, and John didn't read Fortune 500 in his spare time. McKay had said something about physics, earlier--was he a physicist? And he'd introduced himself as Dr. Rodney McKay. Huh. Not your typical corporate CEO, then. McKay was still talking, looking sour-faced. "I shouldn't have said that about your parents. I have forced them into this situation, and I have no right to comment on whatever actions they're taking because of it." Silence. John waited. "...even though forcing you to marry someone is totally inhumane and--never mind. I brought you books." "What?" John looked up. "Books. I thought maybe you'd want something other than a huge depressing Russian classic. Here." McKay walked over and dumped the books on the bed. From where he was sitting, John could see Asimov, Heinlein, and at least four Trek novelizations. Huh. McKay was a sci-fi geek. Go figure. But, John reminded himself, he's a sci-fi geek who's destroying your family and holding you prisoner. And wow, that sounds like a bad movie. "Thanks. I'll get right on those. Right after I finish this." "It's like fourteen hundred pages." "Then I'm one-fourteenth of the way through. And as you so kindly pointed out earlier, I have six more days with nothing to do but read. Unless you want to get me a TV or stay and entertain me sixteen hours a day." McKay was quiet for a little while. John read. Watched the words. Whatever. Eventually, he heard the door clicking shut. McKay came back the next day. By then, John had cooled down a little--although he was still managing to be kind of mad at himself for doing so--and in the process, had found out that he didn't like War and Peace nearly so much when he wasn't trying to keep himself from punching the wall. So after breakfast, he'd dug through the sci-fi novels and settled down with one of the X-Wing series. He got halfway through it in an hour, and was startled away from Corran Horn and Wedge Antilles by McKay coming in. He wasn't carrying anything this time. "What are you doing here?" "Hello to you, too, yes I'm fine, and you?" said McKay, sounding irritated. "You wanted entertainment. Here I stand." John blinked. "You're actually coming in here to entertain me?" "No, I'm actually hiding from a dangerously incompetent moron who wants to co-author a paper with me and won't take no, hell no, or I will kill you with this bomb I built for an answer. He's surprisingly persistent, even in the face of danger to life and limb. Unfortunately, he got out of the hospital this morning." Well, that sounded in-character. "He won't look for you here?" McKay smirked. "No one looks for me here. No one goes in here. No one even comes into this wing of the house. It's absolute law punishable by dematerialization." "You've dematerialized people." "They believe I could dematerialize them. That's all that matters." McKay grinned. "So no one comes in here. Although you should hear some of the rumors about what I keep over here. Everything from superweapons to sex slaves." "Yeah, and what do you keep in here, besides me?" McKay smirked. "Secret. Although," thoughtful look, "I may leak something about you, because it would just make the sex slave theories so much more interesting." And--just no, okay. Just--no. Some of--whatever he was feeling--must have shown on his face, because McKay cleared his throat and said, "So. How shall I entertain you?" A pause, and he continued, frowning, "Considering what I just finished talking about, that came out much dirtier than I meant it to be. What do you want to do?" Please go away, John thought, but honestly, even McKay was better than nobody at all. He was getting so sick at staring at the eighteenth-century-boudoir furniture. Although what do you want to do was kind of a hard question. He vetoed small talk, heart-to-hearts, and life stories instantly, but after that, there wasn't much left to do. "We could...play a game?" he volunteered lamely. McKay's eyebrows came down, and he said, "I don't really know any that don't require graphics and a mouse--oh, wait, I do know one. But you probably can't play." "What do you mean, I can't play?" "I mean--well, look, we'll try it out. I'll start you off really easy, and we'll see. Uh...157. Prime or not prime?" "Prime," said John. "Wait, this is the game?" "Yeah," said McKay. "And that's right," sounding surprised. "Of course it's right. Hate to break it to you, Dr. McKay, but I do actually know some math. So, your turn now?" "Yep. Give it all you got." "Uh...1043." "Not prime. 843." "Stop with the easy ones. Not prime." McKay gave him a suspicious look. "3677." "Prime." John grinned. Okay, maybe this was kind of fun. Fifteen turns later, McKay was looking at him with a kind of grudging respect. Thirty turns after that, and he said, "What are you, some kind of idiot savant? You instinctively know prime numbers?" "Is it so hard to believe that I might be smart, McKay?" John grinned and pounced. "23,687." "Prime, thank you. 19,533." "Not prime." This was really, actually a lot of fun. He didn't get to talk math with many people. "I can see you cracking, McKay. It's only a matter of time." "I will not let you beat me at this, Sheppard." They played for another half hour or so, after which McKay checked his watch and did a double take. "I have to be somewhere five minutes ago. Nice seeing you again, Major Sheppard. Enjoy War and Peace," and he was gone. John laid back on the bed and thought about prime numbers for awhile, and then got mad at himself for having fun with his captor--although thinking of McKay as a captor was somehow totally ridiculous--and then decided getting mad was a waste of energy, especially if he was getting out in four days. Getting mad was a waste. But getting even...no way, McKay had said, but John didn't believe that. He was going to keep his family safe, and he was going to find a way to make McKay pay for screwing with him. Even if the guy played an excellent game of prime/not prime. Day Four started out in the dark, with Rodney storming into his room and handing John a cell phone. "Here. Talk." He stared at the phone, which told him it was four AM. "What--I don't--" John said, and then the phone interrupted him. "John? Johnny? Is that you?" His mom's voice. He brought it up to his ear. "Yeah, Mom, it's me--what do you--" and then he woke up and his brain started to work and he said, "McKay has me hostage because he doesn't want me to marry--" and McKay snatched the phone back. "There, see? He's fine. I'm not starving him or hurting him or getting ready to kill him, and I'll let him out on Wednesday. Seriously, it's all your husband's fault, anyway. And if you call the newspaper, it'll be useless and I'll get mad and it'll just be totally counterproductive. And--oh, for God's sake." McKay thrust the phone back at John. "Tell her you're okay." John seriously thought about telling her that he was undergoing horrible tortures, just so she would call the newspaper, and the police, but McKay was probably right, it wouldn't work, and besides, that was a cruel thing to do to your mother. So he said, "Mom, I really am fine. Plenty of food, indoor plumbing, everything. If I could get out of this room, then okay, it'd be better, but I'm not hurt or anything." McKay took the phone again. "See? Please don't call me again. Goodbye." And he switched off the phone. "This is a really low thing you're doing, McKay," John said after a second, just to see if it would do anything. To his surprise, McKay slumped against the wall and rubbed his eyes, looking exhausted. "I know it is, Major. Believe me. But I--you don't get it. There are people out there, people who are dangerous and powerful, and if they learn that some petty little embezzler can steal things from me just like that and get away with it, they'll never get off my back, and eventually they'll succeed. And that will be--bad. And I know you think I'm the scum of the earth and you won't believe me if I tell you and tell you until I die of asphyxiation, but all I can give you here is my word. This is really, honestly for the best. And not just because Trixie Venables is a vulture who will suck your life out through your dick." John blinked at that last, but other things were more important at the moment. He said quietly, "You're going to hurt my family." McKay was silent for a minute. "Yes," he said. "I am." "I won't let that happen." "You can't do anything to stop it." "Then I think we've reached the end of all possible discussion." Another silence, and then McKay nodded and left. John didn't go back to sleep. He did rediscover the fact that the ceiling of his room did not hold the answers to the mysteries of the universe, no real surprise. The problem was, he couldn't think of anything, anything at all, that he could do to get back at Rodney McKay. If he made this his personal vendetta and devoted his entire life to the cause, he might be able to think of a way that John Sheppard could totally destroy a (maybe) genius multibillionaire, he might be able to do it, but it'd take years of careful planning. Maybe he was just looking at the problem from the wrong angle. He spent another hour or so trying to think of a right angle, and then, when the sky outside the window was almost blue, he thought of something. He couldn't destroy genius multibillionaire Dr. McKay. But--Rodney, maybe, he could destroy. Or--here was a radical thought, let's be constructive for once--if he could play up the weird little thing they had going with prime/not prime and guilt and imprisonment, he could maybe get himself close enough to McKay that he could figure out a way to convince him to not totally ruin John's parents. That thought kept him awake and staring up until breakfast came. McKay's arrival soon after breakfast was a total nonsurprise. "Hey," said John. "Get any more phone calls from frightened mothers last night?" "Look, I--" McKay started, and stopped. "I'm sorry," he said after a second. "I'm sorry. I haven't done anything yet, but I'm going to have to by the time I let you go. If you're still missing, they'll just believe I've done something nefarious to you as punishment, but once you show up again--" "Can we not talk about this anymore?" said John. He wasn't going to get close to McKay if all the guy could talk about was his evil plans. "Okay," said McKay--Rodney, thought John, think of him as Rodney--"we can play another game. I brought cards." He held up a deck. So they played cards on the totally anachronistic dressing table until the guard-waiter brought lunch. John expected Rodney to look up and bolt again, but instead, he started uncovering what looked like lunch for two. Fish, huh. It was excellent, of course, and John said so when Rodney asked him how it was--they'd been kind of starved for conversation all morning, although the cards had helped--and he added, "It could use a little lemon, though." "We don't have any," said Rodney. "Sorry." John frowned. "You have caviar but no lemon?" Rodney toyed with his fork. "I'm violently allergic to citrus. I go into anaphylactic shock. It isn't pretty." There wasn't much he could say to that. Although John tucked the fact away for possible use later. Not that he really wanted to kill McKay--Rodney--but a weakness was a weakness. Rodney started in on a quick lecture of what to do if John was ever present when he ingested citrus, which John listened to, with interest, and also filed away. After lunch, John wandered over and sprawled on the bed, over the covers, although he'd almost gotten the hang of not slipping on the silk sheets. Rodney sat back in his chair and lifted an eyebrow. "Do you do that on purpose?" "Do what on purpose?" He stretched, which felt great after a morning of bending over a dressing table. "The," Rodney waved a hand, "centerfold thing." John blinked. "Centerfold thing?" "You look like you're posing for a magazine spread. The blankets, the open collar, the bedhead--and all that plus the," another wave, "sprawling thing." "Sprawling thing." "You are so not that clueless." "I think I actually am." Rodney rubbed his forehead. "That's like believing the physics groupies when they don't wear underwear under their skirts and then sit right in the front row at lecture, and then ask what the hell you're talking about when you call them on it. No way." "Physics groupies?" That took a second for John to get his brain around, and then--"Wait, you're a professor?" "I was, for awhile. At CalTech." Jesus. Maybe he really was--okay, half as smart as he said he was. "Why'd you quit?" "I moved on to bigger and better things." Rodney looked lofty for a second, then added, "Plus, undergrads." He shivered. "Undergrads. Right." John shook his head. "What bigger and better things?" Pause. "I can't tell you," said Rodney after a second. Right. There was an uncomfortable silence. "So, what about you, Major? What exactly do you do, in the military?" "Fly helicopters, mostly," said John. "Oh? Where to? Or from?" John smiled tightly. "I can't tell you that." Pause. "Of course," said Rodney. And he sounded--hurt, or angry, or something. And John just had to ask, "What is this problem you have with the military? Did they feed you citrus without knowing or something?" "It's classified beyond belief," said Rodney, "but the gist of it is: there was this new program that they needed my help with. And we went somewhere, and met some people. And something went wrong, and I could have fixed it, but procedure dictated that we leave, so they dragged me out and people got hurt. And--dead. And I decided that the military really didn't deserve to have me, so I went and made billions of dollars instead, and now I do my own research, and screw them." Most of the--well, almost-a-story--had been in a sort of a forced-level voice, but it rose on the end, almost cracked. Rodney had clenched one fist. John wondered how much of the story was true. If he'd known Rodney better--it seemed like he was telling the truth. "Procedure exists for a good reason," he said finally, carefully. "For a--you weren't there, Sheppard. John. You didn't see what happened to these people--okay, we're not talking about this any more. I asked you about you. How did we end up talking about me? Tell me--stuff. What's your favorite food?" "Turkey sandwiches," said John. "What's yours?" Rodney got kind of a dreamy look on his face. "Hard to say," he said. "I have kind of a weird diet. I can go for days on Powerbars and like it, but then I remember that I have this chef, who can make me anything I want in the world, which is nice." He kept talking about food, and John let his head drop back on the pillow and thought. Rodney was a really strange rich guy. He didn't act rich, he hadn't come from rich people, and if the Powerbar thing was true, he didn't really take full advantage of his--richness. And then there was the way he'd said it--so casual, And I decided that the military really didn't deserve to have me, so I went and made billions of dollars instead. Like there was no doubt at all that he could make that much money, like it was just a matter of deciding whether he wanted to or not. And then compare that to the room, the food, the clothes...he didn't quite add up. Yet. "Okay, and now we're talking about me again. I'm the horrible captor here, I'm supposed to be beating the information out of you. Treasured childhood memory, go." The lack of sleep was catching up to him, a little, combining with the situation that was still, no matter how he looked at it, weird beyond belief, and John closed his eyes and remembered. "When I was ten, I got to go up in a plane with a friend of my dad's who was a pilot. He let me hold the controls. We were up for about half an hour, just--hanging in the sky, blue all around, and all these hills beneath us, stretching out for forever. It was like gravity had forgotten all about us, like we were in this special place where the laws of the universe didn't work anymore. It was the best feeling I'd ever had, flying." Silence again, and John smiled at the insides of his eyelids, remembering, and said, "Your turn. Go." "I--" and Rodney sounded a little taken aback. "I don't really have--" "Go, Rodney." "Mozart," said Rodney. "I--learning Mozart. It always--it was just so perfect, divisions and subdivisions and--well. That's the best memory I have of childhood. Probably I was ten or eleven." So Rodney was musical. Ph.D., former professor, physics and math genius, billionaire, and a musician. At least he wasn't stunningly gorgeous, too, although--John had to admit he was interesting to watch. All the little gestures, that weird lopsided mouth, the abrupt conversation switches, the quick blue eyes-- No, he said to himself, firm and kind of appalled. You are only allowed to do this when there's no way it could go wrong. Stop and think for a second about all the ways this could go wrong. No, no, no. Also, Stockholm Syndrome much? He forced himself to think about numbers, equations, primes and not-primes, until he was vaguely aware of Rodney saying something. "Hm?" "I said, while you take your little afternoon nap, I actually have work that I have to be doing, so I'm going to leave." "Okay," he sighed. "I hope you're aware that when I came into your room last night, I had not in fact gone to sleep yet, and I was up at seven this morning. Think about that while you doze off." I'm being held captive by a crazy physicist, thought John, I think I win on who's-the-most-miserable, but he didn't think he actually said it out loud. He woke up sometime later that afternoon--note to self, tell Rodney to bring a clock--and thought about progress. They were--becoming friends, maybe. Rodney had trusted him enough to tell him a possibly-fatal weakness, although he wasn't sure exactly where that registered in Rodney's own mind; he hadn't seemed to think it was a big deal. Probably having to deal with the possibility of death by orange every day of his life blunted the danger a bit, his brain provided, sarcastic. Uh-huh. John had to wonder what it'd be like to live with an allergy like that, knowing that if you were just a little bit careless and didn't check the ingredients on the package or ask the waiter at the restaurant, you could die. Well, Rodney had survived--what, thirty-something years?--with this thing, so maybe John was overreacting. But it still seemed kind of...harsh. He spent the rest of the afternoon and evening reading, and finished Rogue Squadron and two of the Trek novels before sighing and picking up War and Peace again. There was only so much bad science fiction he could take at once, and really, War and Peace was pretty good. "What, are you stupid or something?" Rodney was saying into the cell phone, which was a little glow bobbing along at the door to John's room. "That wouldn't work even if the design was perfect, and I've seen your specs, so I know the design is flawed in about ten places, so not only will it not work, it'll probably blow up the building in the process. What was the basis of this theory again? Are you trying to claim the moon is made of green cheese, or what?" John blinked blearily at Rodney, barely illuminated by the cell phone's little light, and tried to figure out what was going on. He had a weird sense of déjà vu, but Rodney obviously wasn't talking to his mother this time, unless his mother had become a scientist when John wasn't looking, which was unlikely. "Yes, yes, I know that Zelenka signed off on the project, but what he signed off on and what you showed me are two ridiculously different things. I'm thinking bait-and-switch, here. No, we're done talking now. Bye." Rodney hit the button on the phone, and John tried to get his brain to work. "What the hell are you doing here?" he managed after a few seconds. "Checking up on you," said Rodney, sounding mildly surprised. "I figured I'd look in and see if you were bored." "It's the middle of the night!" "Yeah, figuring that out." Rodney's voice had moved closer to the bed. "Sorry about that. Although really, one AM, not that late." "What, are you an insomniac or something? Yesterday it was four, today it's one. Do you ever sleep?" "Well. Yes, I sleep. But it's been argued that I should probably do it more. Although I don't see what the problem is, really. I think the only people who ever seriously lecture me on the sleep thing have never been grad students. Everyone else understands how much worse it could be." "Right." John rubbed his eyes. "Great. Can you go away now?" "What? Oh, yes. Sorry about that. Sleep well." Rodney flicked the phone open again and dialed, heading for the door. "Radek? Have you seen what Jolinsky was trying to pass off as the ZPM project you approved? Do you understand how dead we all would have been if he'd actually gone through with it without checking in with me first?" John let his head fall back onto the pillow and started laughing helplessly. Something to be said about being kidnapped by a crazy physicist; at least there was more amusement value than kidnapping by, say, enemy forces. When Rodney showed up the next day, he had a laptop and a briefcase full of papers with him. John watched, bemused, as he set everything up on the dressing table. "What are you doing?" "Working. I can't get anything done in the lab, it's full of people being idiots and distracting me. I usually work with Zelenka, who's actually almost as smart as I am, but he left for Russia yesterday, which leaves no buffer between me and the idiots. So I figured I'd come in here, because you at least aren't too much of an idiot. Aside from the whole marriage thing, which we aren't talking about because I'm in a good mood and want to stay that way." "I don't know, Rodney, aren't you afraid I'll distract you, too?" John asked. He was way too amused for his own good, but it was just--so Rodney. Well. What he was thinking was more like so weird, but in his head, the two terms were just about synonymous, anyway. And it wasn't bad weird. "Nope, because you're going to be working on these." Rodney thrust a stack of papers and a calculator at him. "Equations. Go." John blinked. "Now you're using me for slave labor?" "You wanted amusement, and you claimed to be able to do math. If they're too hard, let me know and I'll give you easier ones. And if you're worried about slave labor, I'll pay you. How's a thousand per equation, and a bonus if you finish them before I need them?" "American or Canadian?" John asked, because he'd caught the "Zed" in ZPM last night, and he vaguely remembered his dad calling McKay a Canadian sonofabitch, back when he first started working for him. "You'd take Canadian?" "Well--no." "That's what I figured. Hard ugly green American money. Now start working." John grinned and bent down over the math. It actually was kind of fun, working through the numbers, although he couldn't figure out what they were going to be used for to save his life. Something complicated, okay, but usually if he was working through physics, he could at least figure out what sort of movement, force, mass, whatever he was dealing with. This, no way. But the numbers were fun. He handed the first set to Rodney when he was done, who scanned them with surprised approval. "Huh. I really didn't expect you to be able to do these." John shrugged. "It's just math." "Yes, well, knowing prime numbers really doesn't prepare you for this sort of thing. Good job. And, bonus, I won't need them for another ten minutes or so." Rodney smiled, a quick lopsided thing, and turned back to his laptop. Huh, thought John, and bent over the next set. It occurred to him at one point that he probably shouldn't be aiding and abetting the enemy like this. But Rodney probably knew hundreds of people who he could order to do this, and--well. Rodney just didn't seem the type for a superweapon. He hoped. That thought kept him uncomfortable and mildly worried for half an hour, thinking about scientists at Los Alamos and who really knew what these equations were for, anyway? But then Rodney snapped his fingers and said, "What, aren't you done yet? Better be in the next five minutes, come on," and the irritation at his--McKay-ish-ness--got him through to the end. And he really didn't believe that Rodney was developing a superweapon. He just--he didn't believe it. What would he do with it, first of all? He was already a billionaire, already had tons of people who maybe he called idiots, but yeah right, working for him, and okay, maybe Rodney might like the idea of the Rodney McKay Empire, but he'd never seriously want that much responsibility, John figured. He was good at judging his people. And he judged Rodney to be an arrogant asshole, but not a power-hungry megalomaniac. "Come on," said Rodney, "aren't you finished yet? You started out so well," and John made a couple more calculations and handed him another stack of papers. "Huh," said Rodney just after lunch. "That was amazing. Not as fast as the computer does it, but you're less likely to crash when I've forgotten to save. I don't suppose you want to quit the Air Force and work for me?" "That'd be a no," said John. "Right, right, I figured. But this is working, it's really working." "What is it, exactly?" John asked, waiting for the can't tell you. "It's a theoretical wormhole physics model." John blinked. "Oh." Wormhole physics? McKay was maybe more interested in science fiction than he'd thought. "Oh," said Rodney as an afterthought, "don't mention those words to any of your superiors, because if any of them are actually cleared to know about stuff like this, you might end up under interrogation or something. But, yeah, wormhole physics. If I could tell you more about it, I would." "Okay," said John, but Rodney had jumped up and wasn't listening anymore. "And, wow, it's finished. Okay, I have to go test this. I'll come back tonight. Read for awhile or something. I wish you could see what this is going to do!" So, not a superweapon, then. Probably. When Rodney showed up again, after dinner, John really kind of wanted to relax and banter and maybe play a round of prime/not prime, but this was the end of Day Five, here, and if he wanted to convince McKay, he was going to have to start lobbying now. So after a couple minutes of small talk, John said, "So. My parents." Rodney winced and said, "John, I've told you. No. I--I'm sorry if this means that you hate me forever. I'm--probably more sorry than you realize. But I can't." "Okay, I get that," said John, even though he totally didn't, "but couldn't you--like--do something else? Something that just looks like you're getting back at them?" "What, like kidnap you forever, for real?" Rodney kind of perked up at that idea, and John jumped forward to stomp on it, because as much as it sounded kind of nice, he was already climbing the walls after five days. Plus, duty to the USAF and everything. "No, sorry, I have this job thing--but maybe something else. They could move and you could pretend you'd disappeared them. Or you could make like it was a plan against your enemies" which, okay, sounded hokey beyond belief, but also very Rodney, so whatever "and Dad was on your side the whole time, or--or something, Rodney." Because if you don't, I'm going to have to do something horrible to you just so I can live with myself, and I don't want to. I really, really don't. Rodney looked thoughtful. "Huh. I wonder why I didn't think of that before. All your ideas are stupid and pedantic, of course--" Of course. John wasn't even offended. "--but maybe I can work something out. I--let me think about it. But maybe--maybe it could work." Rodney was frowning slightly, but also looking suddenly really, really happy. "So, uh," said John, "3317." "What? Oh--not prime." And he was seeing that lopsided smile again, and, huh, John thought, Rodney hardly ever smiles. This time, it was two AM. John wasn't even surprised, really. He didn't bother sitting up. Rodney wasn't actively talking on the cell phone, but he was carrying it and it was on, the same little blue glow. "Rodney--" "Shut up," said Rodney, and his voice was high, tight, tense. John snapped fully awake and tried to study Rodney's face in the cell phone light, but it wasn't nearly enough. And then Rodney sat down on the bed, which he'd never done before, not in five days of captivity, and Jesus Christ, what was wrong? Rodney spent about thirty seconds sitting there, not saying anything, and then he grabbed John's hand with one of his, and dialed the phone with the other one. John stared down at their joined hands and couldn't make any sense out of anything. "Yes, it's McKay again," snapped Rodney when whoever it was picked up. "Have they made any progress? Look, I don't care about clearance, I think that as a person who lives on this world I have a right to know--yes, please put him on." Pause. "How is it? Have they figured it--no, of course they haven't. Look, General, you need me on this one, I can help you--I have sources of intelligence, if you must know--oh." Quieter, suddenly. "Oh. That isn't long enough, no. But--they're trying something. All right. Tell Carter--no." Fierce, suddenly, and looking right at John. "Don't tell her anything. Thank you, General. Goodbye." "Rodney, what--" John started. "Don't. Just--don't." After that, going by the cell phone, there were five minutes of silence. Rodney's grip on his hand got tighter every time the numbers clicked over. Eventually John gave up watching the clock and studied Rodney's face. It was too dark to see much, but Rodney looked--hurt. Bruised. Three minutes later, Rodney squeezed his eyes shut. John was still clueless, but he tightened his own grip and waited. Eventually, Rodney said, "John?" "Yeah?" "Can you tell me what time it is?" John looked at the cell phone. "Three twenty-seven." "Really?" "Yeah." Rodney opened his eyes and stared at the phone. Then at John. And then his whole body seemed to relax, all at once. "Oh thank God." Okay. Rodney picked up the phone, and--his hand was shaking. What the hell was going on here? "Hello, it's McKay--they did? It is? Good, good. Just--checking. Yes, thank you, me too. Yes. Yes. Goodbye." The phone landed on the bedspread, and Rodney just seemed to collapse. He landed sort of on top of John, and didn't move. "Rodney?" John asked after a second. "Yeah?" "Are you okay?" "No." Okay. "Do you--" want to move, but he didn't finish the sentence, because Rodney was shifting a little, just moving so his head was on John's chest and his thumb was stroking softly along the strip of skin between the loose shirt and pants John had been wearing to bed, and wow, that was new. His other hand was still holding onto John's. Who knew he had so many nerves right there? "Rodney," John tried again. He didn't have any idea what he was going to say, but--this. This was against the rules. He'd never tried to apply the rules in a four-poster with silk sheets, before, though. And he'd never tried with someone like Rodney. "Shh," said Rodney. "In a second I'm going to think about what I'm doing. But the last twenty minutes were up there with the worst in my life, and I think I deserve a few minutes doing whatever the hell I want to." "Okay," said John, because...okay. And Rodney just kept stroking, right there, and it was starting to feel like every single nerve in his body was right there in that two-inch space. It went on for what felt like hours. But eventually Rodney sat up, looked down, and went, "Um." And he let go of John's hand, which had pins-and-needles by now, and picked up the cell phone, and said, "Um. Thanks. And I--have to go. Now. So I'll...see you tomorrow." "Wait--Rodney, what was that?" Rodney sighed. "It's classified," he said, and he turned and left. And John stared up at the ceiling and thought, I didn't mean that. At nine AM on Day Six, Rodney turned up determinedly cheerful, and apparently pretending that the night before had never happened. John hadn't decided whether he was going to let him get away with it or not, but he played along for the moment. This time, Rodney had a bunch of papers and a laptop and a little metal thing, which he set on the dressing table. "Don't touch that," he said. "I was going to do some more work, do you want to do some more work?" "I--" said John. "Good, because I have plenty of work. What do you say to more equations? And did you have a good breakfast? I had them go out and buy orange juice especially for you, which I hope you appreciate, because normally I don't even let the stuff inside my house--" "Rodney, I need to ask you something," said John, because after last night he was really paranoid. Rodney stopped, and his mouth did that thing where he wasn't sure what to say and it was a bad thing. "Okay," he said finally, nervously. "Are we building a weapon?" And Rodney looked so surprised that John breathed out in relief before he even answered, because no way was Rodney that good of a liar. "What--no! No, we are not building a weapon, and even if we were, it wouldn't be used on--" and he stopped really fast. "No," he said. "I don't build weapons for the military. This is something else, I swear." "Okay," said John, feeling some of the tension in his shoulders start unraveling. "Good." Rodney brightened. "So--equations?" So John worked equations for awhile, while Rodney typed away, and occasionally opened up the little metal thing and did things to its insides, and typed some more, and pounced on John's math whenever he handed a new set over. And really, it was kind of fun. Math, which John hadn't done in forever, and also he got to watch Rodney work, which was a treat. All focused and intent and totally manic, and his eyes were bright and excited whenever he looked at John, and-- --and maybe it was kind of a turn-on. But--whatever. When lunch arrived, Rodney snapped the laptop shut and jumped up, sending Waiter, No Really out the door and making happy noises over the food. John grinned at him, although he felt mildly thwarted that he couldn't lean over and figure out what Rodney was working on, because the laptop was kept pointedly turned away from him whenever they were working. Instead, he reached out and picked up the little metal thing. It lit up in his hand, and he said, "Whoa!" because it hadn't done anything like that with Rodney, and almost dropped it. "What are you--I said not to touch that! Except--wait--" Rodney practically teleported over and stared at the thing, which was now glowing bluish and humming happily. "Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God." "What?" said John. "Why is it doing that?" "Because you have been sent by God into my hands, that's why," said Rodney. "I cannot believe I have had you locked up in a room for a week and I never realized--this is amazing. You have to come with me right now." "I--what?" John asked, but Rodney was already dragging him out of the room--and hey, hallways! Guard Slash Waiter guy gave them kind of a bug-eyed look, but since John was going about Mach 2 by then, he only saw it for a second. Rodney pulled him through several miles of hallways, up some stairs, down some other stairs, and finally into an elevator, where he spent the three-second ride bouncing on his toes, impatient. When the doors pinged open, he grabbed John's hand again--and what was it with the hand-holding, lately?--and dragged him down more hallways, until he finally deposited John in a gleaming silver lab populated by a bunch of people wearing lab coats and surprised expressions. "Salvation," said Rodney, "has arrived. In the form of Major Sheppard, here. Pick that up, John." He pointed to a weirdly-shaped metal thingy sitting on a table. John picked it up. It started vibrating in his hand, but he'd expected something like this, so he managed not to drop it. It also felt kind of weird--like there was someone inside it, almost. Like it was a sentient thing, itself. "What is this?" "That," said Rodney, "is an Ancient artifact. It was found in Antarctica, and I acquired it through semilegal means. I have no idea what it does. But now I'm going to learn. You are my new favorite person ever. Now touch that." John put his hand on the other thing. It felt--empty, kind of. "I think this one's out of power." "Oh my God, you can tell that? What else can you tell? Do you know what it does? Do you know what the other thing does?" John looked around the room. The people were in various states of shock. "Forget them, Rodney," said one, an Asian man. "He needs to touch this one." "And this one," said a redheaded woman. "Oh, God. He needs to try the chair." "The chair is under military control, thank you, and I'm keeping Major Sheppard--oh, wait. Huh. You probably could get to the chair, couldn't you." Rodney was staring at him with a contemplative expression that kind of made John worried. "Okay," said John. "I'm happy that I can make the stuff light up for you. That's great. But you need to tell me what the hell is going on." "Ah." Rodney fidgeted a little. "That's--kind of a long story." "First touch this," said the Asian guy. "Just--touch it. It'll probably help with your question, anyway." John really wasn't sure about that, but he picked the thing up and--whoa. There was a galaxy in his head--no, two galaxies--and a city, a city in the sea. He was spiraling between two stars--there was a star map, and there were eight weird symbols, looked like an ancient language--or--no, an alien language--or no, wait, both--and then there was a big metal circle thingy and what the hell was that, water or something? Rodney caught the thing when John dropped it. "Jesus fucking Christ," said John. "Aliens. Or--what?" "That's pretty much it," said Rodney. "Aliens. Or what." So apparently the world had almost ended the night before. Which, okay, John understood the freaking out and the hand-holding and the telephone call a lot better, but--the world had almost ended. And nobody even knew about it. Jesus fucking Christ. Maybe he understood a little better why Rodney would have been willing to bankrupt mostly-innocent (or, well, guilty) people, if it was going to keep the world from ending. Although, still no, and he thought he was going to stay mad at Rodney about that for a long, long time. They kept giving him stuff to touch, and also they kept talking about the Antarctican chair, which was one of the things he wasn't too clear on yet. Also he couldn't pronounce the name of the evil aliens to save his life, but judging from the four different ways he heard it among the scientist people, that was sort of a universal thing. He also got to hold the Ancient star-map thing again, which was cool. The second time he put it down, Rodney was looking at him speculatively. "What?" "You just look really--interesting when you do that." "Interesting." "Um--yes. Here--hold this now," and something else was being thrust at him. Eventually they ran out of artifacts, and Rodney snapped from you are the light of my life to John who? and waved him out of the lab. "Go get some food or something, I'm done with you for now," except John didn't know where the hell anything was, and when he tried to point that out, Rodney just snapped, "Busy now! Thank you, you're very helpful, but I need to look at this stuff now! I'll pay you a million dollars for this, but go away now." John actually felt kind of hurt at that, although he supposed that up till now, his sole contact with Rodney had been when Rodney wanted to see him, and sometimes even when he wanted to give a groveling apology. If he was going to be hanging around Rodney for any foreseeable future, he'd have to get used to taking second place to the glowy Ancient artifacts. Which...huh. Was he going to be hanging around Rodney in the foreseeable future? There was the whole matter of having to be back at base in two days. The idea of that actually stopping Rodney if he decided he wanted John around anyway was laughable, but the question was, how would he go about it, exactly? And did John get to be a living thinking being in this decision, or was he another obstacle between The Great and Powerful McKay and his glowy Ancient artifacts? And/or Nobel Prize. Because okay, sure, watching Rodney get all lit-up (metaphorically) and happy about the Ancient objects being lit up (literally) and happy was...nice. But he maybe didn't want to spend the next few years touching things at Rodney's command. He was happy with the Air Force gig, despite certain...misunderstandings. And he could see how being at Rodney's permanent beck and call would be both boring and irritating, oh yeah. But--Rodney. Right. And that was another problem. He explored the mansion for awhile. It was huge, and full of rooms that were really, obviously, tastelessly rich, and also rooms that were full of science paraphernalia, and also rooms that looked like they belonged to a penniless slob of a grad student. So John figured that, in reverse order, they were the rooms in which Rodney lived, worked, and laughed smugly at all the people who had less money than he did. Eventually, he ran out of rooms, and for lack of anything better to do (and because he was pretty sure that he wouldn't be allowed to leave the house) he went back to his own room, and sprawled out on the bed and stared at the ceiling. After a really long time, during which he was served dinner, and the room slowly darkened, and he eventually picked up War and Peace again, Rodney came in. Right behind him was a blond woman. No, a blond lieutenant colonel. In dress blues. John pushed himself up. "Colonel." "Major." She nodded. "At ease." John relaxed and looked at Rodney, who looked--twitchy. "Ah. John, this is Lieutenant Colonel Samantha Carter. Sam, Major John Sheppard. Sam's been involved in the Stargate program since its inception, and I thought she'd be a better choice to fill you in on the military side of things." Rodney paused. "Since you'll obviously be working with them in the future. And you've been given full clearance by General O'Neill--" "Because you'd already told him everything," Carter put in, but she was smiling. "Right, right, well, you'd have gotten it anyway, this just pushed things along faster. So, uh, you two talk. Have fun. I have to--go." He almost bolted out the door. What the hell is with him? John thought. And--Sam? But Colonel Carter was smiling and saying, "So, Major Sheppard. May I sit down?" "Sure," said John, and she took the chair at the dressing table. He sat back down on the bed. Having a colonel in his bedroom felt--weird. Especially a gorgeous colonel, because how often did you see one of those? "So I'm guessing this is all a little overwhelming right now," Carter said, crossing her legs and leaning forward. "Yes, ma'am. I mean--aliens." "Exactly," she said. "So...let me fill you in a little better than Rodney probably did." She talked for awhile, and John just sat back and absorbed it all. Aliens and wormholes and ancient civilizations and lost cities and glowy white ascended beings. She'd brought a laptop in a carrying case, and she set it up and showed him a clip of the wormhole engaging. "Wait," said John, sitting up. "I saw that." She frowned. "You actually saw this? When? Where?" "No, I mean--the thing showed it to me. The ancient device," John clarified. "There were stars and weird symbols and I saw the--wormhole. And--actually, I saw the floating city, too. Rodney was really excited about it," he added reflectively. Carter leaned forward. "I bet he was. Can you draw the symbols for me?" She handed him a notepad, and he drew them out. She frowned at the paper. "There's eight symbols here." "Those are the ones I saw." "But a gate address is only seven--except--" Her eyes widened. "Eight. Eight symbols. Of course. I have to tell General O'Neill about this--I have to tell Daniel about this--Dr. Weir is going to be thrilled." This thing where he didn't know what was going on was starting to get really, really irritating. "Why, exactly? What is it?" She grinned at him. "This is the address of the lost city of the Ancients. Atlantis. We've been trying to put together an expedition to go there for a long time, but we could never find out where it was." She took a breath, staring down at the paper. "This is amazing. Did you show these to Rodney?" "No, I didn't get a chance to mention the symbols, he was too busy shoving things into my hands. But he wants to go, doesn't he." It wasn't really a question. Judging from Rodney's reaction to the ten or twelve pieces of Ancient technology in his lab, going to a whole city full of it would probably be orgasmic. "He's been telling us forever that we aren't going to find it, which we've taken to mean that he wants to find it first," Carter said, her mouth twitching. There was some sort of history between these two, definitely, even forgetting that they were on a first-name basis. "But now that we have you, I'm sure he'll want to come back to the program. I can't believe that he's been satisfied with the black market for seven years." But--you didn't have to have me, John thought. Rodney could have kept me all to himself, or he could have traded me for something. But he hadn't, had he? He'd called up Lieutenant Colonel Sam Carter here, and just given John to them. He'd even said--Since you'll obviously be working with them in the future. "Where does Rodney fit in to all this, exactly?" John asked abruptly. "I mean, I know he was with the program at the beginning, and he left for--well, he said moral reasons--" because he'd figured out where that new place was right away; it hadn't been hard to fill in the blanks on the why-I-hate-the-military story at all--"but that's about all I know." "Don't tell him I said this, but Rodney's one of the most brilliant scientists on the planet at the moment," Carter started. "I think he knows that already." She laughed. "Point taken. What you said is true--he was an integral part of the program, at its start. But--well, the U.S. military isn't perfect," and, well, first, no shit, and second there was some weight behind those words. She'd seen some of that up close. "Sometimes, when coming into contact with new civilizations, there are problems. Honestly, I'm not sure I entirely disagree with Rodney's decision to leave. That was a bad situation, and it was handled badly, and given policy, it's possible that it could happen again." She paused, breathed deep. "Anyway, Rodney left. He's spent the last seven years working independently. Every so often we'll get him in to consult on something, and he's published a few papers that have been helpful." She smiled. "He's very good at working Gate-related material into what looks like normal advances in astrophysics. He also usually manages to get his hands on anything published within the Stargate community, which we haven't tried too hard to stop, because when he chooses to be, he is helpful, and despite being an arrogant jerk most of the time," John started at that, but she was still smiling, and, well, it was true, "several people in the SGC vouch for his basic goodwill. He doesn't quite have security clearance, because he did leave the program, and got some of the powers that be mad at him in the process, but he's...around." "Huh." John contemplated this. "So...he'll be going on this expedition, then?" "The Atlantis expedition will be a civilian-run operation, so I'm certain that he'll at least be invited, considering his level of expertise in wormhole physics and Ancient technology. Whether he accepts is his decision. The same goes for you." "Oh--wait, what?" That sounded like-- "You're being considered for the mission, Major. I understand your record is being reviewed by Dr. Weir, who will be heading the expedition, and General O'Neill." Well, there went that opportunity. "Major." He looked up. "General O'Neill is a--well, he's somewhat unorthodox. And Dr. Weir is a civilian." She paused. "What I'm trying to say is, I don't think there will be as many problems as you might expect. Also, you'll have a personal meeting with each of them. Dr. Weir will probably want to give you a tour of the facility in Antarctica. And, of course, if they decide to invite you, the final decision is yours." God. "I'm going to have to think about this." "Of course." She stood, and when he followed, handed him a blank card with a phone number written on it in pen. "If you have any other questions, please feel free to call me at this number." "Thank you, Colonel." "Major." She nodded and left. John sprawled out on the bed again. Another planet. Another galaxy. Atlantis. Aliens. Wormholes. Rodney. Jesus fucking Christ. It was too much to take in all at once. He couldn't get his head around it. At least, he thought hysterically, his parents probably wouldn't have to worry. Rodney was going to be thinking about other things. Jesus. All this, because he said yes to a date with Trixie Venables. Rodney came back after awhile. It was late-night by then, but John wasn't asleep and he hadn't bothered to turn out the lights. He watched as Rodney fidgeted around the room for a minute, then turned the dressing table chair around backwards and sat in it. "So," said Rodney. "So?" "So what did you think? Did Sam sell it? Are you joining the SG program? What are you going to do?" John sighed. "Good question." Rodney's mouth quirked. "Yeah, I see that." A pause. "So, Sam said you had something to tell me?" John blinked. "I do?" "Yeah, something about the little--star-map thing." "She didn't tell you? I saw the Gate symbols for Atlantis. They're going to send an expedition. Or that was what Carter implied." Rodney had frozen at Atlantis and was just staring at him. "Rodney?" "They're sending the expedition." "Probably, yeah." "The expedition to Atlantis." "Rodney, are you okay?" Rodney jumped up from the chair. "I don't believe it. I don't believe it. You saw the symbols. Why didn't you tell me, for God's sake? Do you realize--I might not have--but this means--do they want you?" "What?" said John, who'd been trying to follow the sentence fragments. "On the mission," said Rodney, impatient. "Do they want you on the mission." "I don't know yet. But Carter seemed to think it was pretty likely." "I knew it. I knew it! They want you, and they'll ask me, and oh my God" and Rodney spun to a stop right in front of him and there were big hands on his face and Rodney was kissing him, hard. That lasted for about half a second, until Rodney stumbled back, looking absolutely horrified. "I--I'm sorry. John. I--I--the body does strange things under stress, do you know how much adrenaline is coursing through my system right now--" This wasn't allowed. He couldn't--dammit. "Rodney. Rodney. Shut up." Because he couldn't think with the light, panicky ramble going on all around him, couldn't look at Rodney's nervous, twitchy expression, because-- Sex. Sex with Rodney. Jesus, he was almost hard already. Screw it. Getting invited to go to another galaxy had to be some kind of special occasion, and he deserved something for being held captive for a week, and Rodney had shut up and was staring at him, wide-eyed. He stared back for a second--are you really going to do this--and yes he was, dammit. "Do that again," and it came out low and sexy, and he got to watch Rodney's pupils dilate. "I--okay--" and then Rodney was kissing him again, and thank God, he didn't have to think about it anymore. Rodney kissed hard and fast, like he was starving for it, and John opened his mouth and took it, because, God. And before he really knew what was going on, he'd been pushed back against the pillows, Rodney breaking off from his mouth to lick along his collarbone, whispering, "God, I wanted you the first day I saw you, do you have any idea, can't believe I gave you these clothes--" and John arched his back and gasped for air. Soon they were back to making out, John's legs falling apart to let Rodney in between them, which felt amazing. Rodney was really solid, heavy over him, so much mass moving against his body. John licked his way down Rodney's neck, stopping at the space right between neck and shoulder, even though it kind of hurt his neck to bend that way, and bit down. Rodney shuddered. God. "Clothes," John gasped. "Clothes off, now." "Yes, yes, good," said Rodney, and rolled off, and they got naked, sex-clumsy with buttons and zippers but getting there eventually, and then they were kissing again, hot and hungry and so much skin. And he wanted--"Fuck me," he said, low and hoarse. And seeing Rodney's eyes glaze over might have been almost enough of a reward, but then Rodney was reaching for the spindly bedside table. John had found the condoms and lube there the first day, when he was searching the room, and had figured that if you had a room like this, you kept it stocked, and forgotten about it until just now, and Rodney was slicking his fingers-- Rodney really had very big hands, John thought abstractedly a second later, which he'd known, but hadn't really had driven home before. Rodney added a second finger, and John started to feel the burn, just a little. It hadn't been too long since he'd last done this--remembering his last trip out, the guy who'd fucked him into the mattress, still feeling it on base the next day, which was almost the best part--and Rodney's fingers were more than long enough to find his prostate oh Jesus God. He was making noise, seeing bright sparks in the air every time Rodney hit the spot, and he was going to come just like this if Rodney didn't get on with it. But then the fingers were gone, and Rodney was tearing open a condom package with shaking, slippery hands, and John closed his eyes and waited. And--yes, there it was, Rodney's dick pressing into him, burning. Rodney paused once, just all the way in, and breathed for a second, until John squirmed a little and said, "Hurry up already, fuck me," and Rodney made a sharp noise in the back of his throat and pulled out and started thrusting. God. God. He always forgot just how good this was. Rodney bit his collarbone on the downstroke, and John groaned. "God," said Rodney, "oh God, you're so--you're--" and thrust once, hard, and that was it, he was coming. After that was a boneless minute or so where every thrust just tossed him higher, till he thought he'd be speaking in tongues by the time Rodney came. When Rodney froze over him, mouth open, and let out his breath in a long sigh, he was almost fainting. After a long, sweaty, sticky moment, Rodney pulled out and disposed of the condom, came back with a wet washcloth and cleaned them off, and then flopped down next to John. "God. That was fabulous. That was maybe the best sex I've ever had." "Mmm," said John, thinking, of course he's wired after sex. Of course. But Rodney seemed content to just lie there, thrumming, and eventually rubbing circles into the palm of John's hand, while John slowly drifted off to sleep. When he woke up, it was bright outside and Rodney was sitting bolt upright, looking around frantically. John stretched, which felt really good. Just a little sore in all the right places, yeah. "What is it, Rodney?" "What time is it?" "Dunno." He yawned. "No clock in here." "There's no clock in here? Why haven't you killed me yet?" "Well, I thought about it a couple times." "I can imagine. God. I really didn't put a clock in here? Why would I do that?" Rodney was up and pulling his clothes on. "Well, I know approximately what time it is, which is late, so I'll be going now, see you later, last night was really great. Oh, except--" and Rodney paused with only his pants and socks on and leaned in to kiss him, closemouthed but long. John closed his eyes and enjoyed it. "I--I want to tell you you're amazing, but I think I'd just sound like every cheesy movie ever, so--something else that means the same thing but is witty and original, okay?" "Okay," said John. He watched Rodney finish getting dressed and leave, and sank back down into the pillows for more sleep. Breakfast woke him up again, and amid waffles and out-of-season fruit--although come to think of it, he had no idea where he was, it could be in season here--he started wondering what was going to happen next. It was the morning of Day Seven of Rodney's hospitality. He assumed that Colonel Carter or General O'Neill or someone had contacted Colonel Harrisburg, and he was being transferred to the SGC at least temporarily, but he didn't have any orders to that effect in his hands yet. He also assumed that that would happen today, since his leave was officially over tomorrow morning, but really, whatever. Assuming the transfer did happen, the SGC knew where to find him. After breakfast, though, In Conclusion: Waiter told him to follow him, so John walked behind him as he wheeled the little breakfast cart thing through the halls, paused briefly while he dropped the thing off in the kitchen, and ended up in a sitting room that he remembered vaguely from his self-guided tour the day before. There was a slender, dark-haired woman waiting, and she stood up when John came in. "Major Sheppard," she said, holding out her hand. "I'm Elizabeth Weir. It's nice to meet you." "You've been officially transferred to the SGC, and General O'Neill has agreed to allow you on the mission. I'm the last link in the chain before your decision, and I have to say, I like what I've read, and I like what I see. And what I've heard that you can do with Ancient technology is amazing." Weir was perched on the edge of a couch, sipping a cup of tea. John hadn't decided if he liked her yet or not. "Thank you," he said after a second. She nodded. "Let me see if I can fill you in a little bit as to what the mission would actually entail. You'd be serving under Colonel Marshall Sumner, who is an excellent officer, alongside some of the best men and women in the service. It's a small mission, seventy or so people, and civilian-run. There'll be a lot of scientists--physicists, chemists, biologists--under your protection." "And where we're going?" Weir sat back. "Atlantis. Well--no one really knows. We're talking about huge amounts of time here, Major. Anything could have happened to the city. It could be totally gone--or it could be exactly as it was millennia ago. One thing I'm absolutely certain of, though," leaning forward again, "is that the Ancients must have left their mark on that galaxy, just as they left their mark on ours. We'll find something, Major. I know it." Huh. Obviously a dedicated person, sure. He wondered how many other people knew that. "There is something else," she continued, looking less starry-eyed. "Rodney and the people at the SGC have been looking this over" and when had Rodney done that? this morning? He worked fast, "and, given the huge amounts of previous research done by Rodney especially," okay, not this morning, good, "there's a good chance that this may be a one-way trip. We have no way of knowing if we'll find a power source at the other end strong enough to send us back home." There was always a catch. Weir spent a few more minutes talking about the wonders of Atlantis and all the great people he'd be working with, then stood up. He stood with her, and as she shook his hand, she said, "Major Sheppard, I hope you'll choose to come with us. But whether you do or you don't, I thank you from the bottom of my heart for giving us this opportunity." Which left him with nothing to say, really, but she gave him a firm nod and walked out right away, so he didn't have to. Come to Atlantis. Where the technology will love you, unless there isn't any anymore. Where wonders will be discovered, unless they're all gone. Where you'll get amazing stories to tell all your friends, unless it turns out you can never come home. Where you and Dr. Rodney McKay can have as much sex as you want, unless you run into something that kills you all. Come to Atlantis. Come to Atlantis. Come to Atlantis. John decided what he really needed was perspective. He was officially transferred to the SGC, who approved another week's leave--he'd built up a lot, lately, and if he was going to another galaxy, he might as well use it all--which he spent appreciating Earth. Hamburgers, bad science fiction movies, road trips, sushi, bars. He thought about going to see the pyramids, and then he remembered a couple things that someone had told him about the Goa'uld and didn't. He did visit his parents, which could have been really unpleasant, but he came in on the attack, stationing himself attention-straight in the living room, and said "I solved your problem for you." His dad had always been semi-awed by John as Competent Military Guy, which meant that he spent more time at attention at his parents' house than he did when on base, most visits. He'd waited while his dad stared, mouth working silently, until he'd absorbed the information and could say, kind of choking, "Thanks, Johnny. That means a lot." Which felt pretty good, even though he then had to calm his mother down about the kidnapping thing. They made him stay for dinner, which reminded him again that while he loved his parents just fine, prolonged exposure drove him insane. After he left, he went to an amusement park, and thought about all the stuff he might never see again. And then he went back to his hotel and tried to sleep, and the next morning he got up and flew to New York, where he went up in the Empire State Building and ate a turkey sandwich sitting in Central Park. Pros, cons. Pros, cons. Rodney had said goodbye without looking him in the eye, and had then launched into a crazy monologue about considering things carefully and he knew it was a big step, but really, John, understand the opportunity here--and John had cut him off with a kiss, and after that Rodney had only said, very quietly, "Please come." And then he'd turned around and left John standing in the hallway with nothing to say. Come to Atlantis. Come to Atlantis. Come to Atlantis. Even the machines wanted him to come. He'd picked up a few more for Rodney and for the SGC, and they--hummed at him, and he could almost hear them whispering in his ear, Come to Atlantis. You belong in Atlantis. Or maybe he was just going nuts. But he thought about it. He thought about it and thought about it and thought about it, until he was driving himself up the wall, Atlantis or not? Atlantis or not? Atlantis or not? He even flipped a coin once, which didn't help, because it came up pro, which just felt like the universe was conspiring against him. He thought about Rodney a lot. He kept starting awake at three in the morning and expecting to see the cell phone bobbing in through the door. On the seventh day, he went to Canada (where, it turned out, Rodney's mansion was) and was let in through the security gate and the other security gate and searched for weapons and oranges and finally let through the door and showed to the sitting room in which he'd met Dr. Weir. Rodney showed up in less than five minutes, looking anxious and twitchy. "John. Hello. Welcome back. I--have you decided?" John breathed in. Come to Atlantis. "Okay," he said. "Okay."

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