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Part 1
Part Two
There’s always a TV on somewhere in John’s glorified cubicle farm, and he’s learned to tune it out, just listening for anything that might be important, and even tuning most of that out these days, since anything relevant has usually got to them already by the time CNN break it.
It’s the only explanation he’s got for why he doesn’t register what the anchor-woman’s talking about until she says, “Westway Apartment Complex,” when he registers that that’s Rodney’s building, and it’s always seemed pretty secure to him.
Whatever’s happened, it must have been early, because they’re filming on the street when he looks up at the screen, and there’s an ambulance, a couple of police cars, and John’s about to dismiss it as mildly worrying but not on a Special Operations level when the camera moves and he’s looking at Rodney’s car, surrounded by crime scene personnel.
His first thought is that someone was trying to steal it, then that maybe it was something a bit more serious, since it’s being reported by CNN. Maybe a fire, or a car bomb, except there’s no smoke, no fire service personnel, just ambulance and police.
“…Unnamed CIA agent was shot twice this morning in his car outside his apartment building,” the anchor-woman is saying when John gets close enough to the TV to hear properly. “No official comment has been received yet from –“
“You think it’s just a coincidence?” Ford asks curiously, suddenly right by him. “I always figured that was a pretty good neighborhood…” He doesn’t know, John realizes, doesn’t know who the agent is, or if he does, he doesn’t know that John knows him, and John thinks, ‘shot twice this morning,’ Rodney was going to work at home and go in late, and Ford says, “Whoa, Major, you okay?”, his hand on John’s arm, steadying him.
The world grays out for a split second, and everything seems too loud when it comes back. This can’t be happening. It’s not that long since Ronon was injured. Rodney’s not even in the field any more. They’re supposed to be safe now. “I need to go to the hospital,” he says, and his voice sounds funny in his own ears.
“Major?” Ford asks, still holding John’s arm. “You want to sit down?”
“Not for me.” John nods at the screen, where they’ve moved onto – he doesn’t know, something about ships. “The agent, I know him – I’m staying with him, we’re friends. I need to –”
“Okay, sir. You hang tight here a second, I’ll find out where they’ve taken him.”
Ford disappears, leaving John alone at his desk, trying to keep breathing and not give in the temptation to just put his head down on his desk and break.
*
He’s feeling a lot more together by the time an airman drops him outside the hospital, like he can maybe deal with this without falling apart, or at least without yelling at the perfectly nice receptionist who takes his name, points him to the waiting area, and promises to send Rodney’s doctor out as soon as she’s got a minute. John knows better than to harass the guy for details of Rodney’s condition, which he won’t have and wouldn’t be able to give if he did, but he still has to fight the urge to demand to know if Rodney’s okay, if he’s badly hurt, if he’s…
His uniform gets him a few looks from the handful of people waiting with him: a man holding a bandage to a head wound that’s dripping blood anyway, a pair of young women, one with her hand wrapped in ice, an older man with two wide-eyed, worried children, but no-one tries to talk to him, or even catch his eye.
He takes out his cell phone, wondering if he should call O’Neill – he doesn’t remember seeing him before he left, but Ford will have found him and told him, after John turned down his offer of company, and maybe O’Neill will know something. The FBI will have taken over the investigation, now they know what Rodney does, and they’ll find out John’s living there. It occurs to him that anyone going into Rodney’s apartment will know they’re not platonic friends sharing a place, not with the futon folded up, obviously unused, and John’s spare uniform tossed on the bedroom floor, waiting to be cleaned, but it’s a distant worry, because it’s hard to care about being reprimanded when Rodney’s been shot, Jesus-
“Mr. Sheppard?” He looks up at a woman in a white coat, stethoscope round her neck and blond hair tied back from her face. “I’m sorry – Major, right? My name’s Dr Keller, Andrew said you’re here for Dr McKay?”
“Yes. Is he –“ He doesn’t know what he wants to ask, not when she’s giving him the neutral doctor face.
She sits down next to him, turning slightly to block out the rest of the room. “Are you his next of kin?”
“I –” John’s first instinct is to say yes, because he is, really, in every way that counts, and his second is to say no, because every way that counts doesn’t include in the eyes of the law, and anyway, he has no idea who Rodney has listed as next of kin, but he’s absolutely sure it isn’t him, not when he’s only been back in the country a few months. “We’re friends,” he says finally, aware that the silence has gone on too long to be comfortable. “I just got back to the States, I’ve been staying with him.”
Keller eyes him dubiously then nods. “I guess if you can’t trust a man in uniform…” She smiles slightly and John tries to relax. She wouldn’t be smiling if it was really bad news. “Okay, well, the bullets did some serious internal damage. He’s on his way to surgery right now, but I have to be honest with you, Major – there’s no guarantees here. Dr Beckett’s a gifted surgeon, but –”
John nods, cutting her off. He can’t bear to look at her, at anyone, not when his hands are shaking and he feels like he might throw up. It’s not fair, he wants to say, like fairness has anything to do with it, like Holland didn’t already make that 110% clear. But they’re the ones this is supposed to happen to, on the front lines and armed, not fucking *defenseless* in their cars on the way to work.
He makes himself take a deep breath, because there’s no part of this that can be improved by him having a panic attack in the middle of the ER. “Thanks,” he tells Keller, unsurprised when his voice comes out rough.
She gives him a sympathetic smile, but her hand’s already on her stethoscope, ready to move on “You’re welcome to wait if you want – Andrew can point you to the family area – but it’s a complicated procedure, there won’t be news for hours yet.”
“Thanks,” he says again, doing his best to pull up a smile that ends up feeling weirdly twisted on his face; it does the job though, because she pats his arm and leaves him to freak out in semi-private.
He’s just about done, trying to decide whether he wants to go back to the Pentagon and try for distraction or wait it out here and go crazy, when someone stops in front of him.
“Major Sheppard,” a familiar, female voice says quietly. “Colonel O’Neill suggested I might find you here.”
“And you have,” John says, looking up at Dr Weir. She looks as put together and at ease as she does at the Pentagon, but there’s something strained around her eyes, something that John thinks is probably reflected in his own face. “You want to sit down?”
“Thank you.” She tucks her feet neatly under the chair, and sits very straight. John leans forward, elbows on his knees so he won’t have to look at her. “Is there any news?”
John recounts what Keller told him, watching Weir nod from the corner of his eye. “I assume you’re intending to wait,” she says. “Would you mind some company?”
Pretty much the last thing John wants is company, unless it’s maybe in the form of Teyla, but Weir cares enough about Rodney to come down to the hospital, and he doesn’t have exclusive rights to Rodney, no matter how much he might wish for it some days.
“Sure,” he says calmly, and goes to get directions to a waiting area that’s not the ER.
*
John loses track of actual time, measuring it by cups of coffee (3), calls from Ford (2), and times Weir steps out to talk quietly on her cell (6).He’s about to offer to go get more coffee, since Weir went last time, when a man in a dark suit steps round the open door and knocks lightly on the frame.
“You folks from the Pentagon?” He’s got his ID clipped to the pocket of his suit jacket, but he’s across the room and John can’t make out the details of the logo.
“Yes,” Weir says, closing the file on her knee and sliding it casually under another. “Can we help you?”
He pushes away from the door and closes it behind himself when he comes inside, leaving the three of them alone with the flowered wallpaper and worn children’s toys. “Agent Mitchell, FBI. I’m gonna assume you’re Major Sheppard?”
He’s got an open, trustworthy face and a hint of a southern accent that reminds John of six months in Kansas as a kid, but John didn’t get into Special Forces by letting his guard down. “Sure.”
“Nice to meet you, Agent Mitchell.” Weir stands up and shakes his hand. “Dr Elizabeth Weir, Deputy General Counsel to the DoD.”
Mitchell flinches slightly but returns the handshake gamely. “Pleasure to meet you, Doctor. I wondered if I might have a word with the major here.”
“Of course,” Weir says, like John’s not sitting there and perfectly capable of answering for himself. ”I’m sure you won’t mind if I stay.”
Mitchell glances at John just long enough for John to read the amused and exasperated lawyers in his eye, then shrugs. “As long as Major Sheppard doesn’t.”
Major Sheppard doesn’t care what they do as long as they stop making him feel like he did at Christmas after his parents split up. “Fine by me.”
“Great.” Mitchell sits on the low coffee table in front of them and looks at John. “You’ve been staying with Dr McKay since you got back from Iraq?” he says, and there’s something about the way he says staying with that John recognizes, that makes him suddenly certain that Mitchell’s ex-military and aware of exactly what John’s doing. He thinks his initial urge to like him might have been right after all.
“Yeah, while I’m looking for somewhere more permanent,” he says.
Mitchell nods. “So you’d know if he’d been worried about anything lately.”
John thinks about Rodney’s constant litany of things that worry him, from the possibility of there being citrus in their take-out order to the inability of his staff to comprehend their own stupidity. None of it’s serious enough for him to be shot over, no matter how annoying he can be to work with. John shakes his head silently at Mitchell, and something in his stomach twists at the sympathy on the agent’s face.
“There’s something you might be able to help me with though,” Mitchell says idly. “Dr McKay left us a message.”
“Yeah?” John says, aware that he sounds strangled. He feels the way he did the first time he parachuted from a plane, the stomach dropping feel of free fall.
“Mm.” Mitchell looks down, flipping through his notebook. “He wrote the initials PP on his car window. Does that mean anything to you?”
John blinks, years of training the only thing that makes him sure his face isn’t showing anything but careful blankness. “Can’t think of anything,” he says calmly.
“You’re sure?” Mitchell presses, leaning in, focused completely on John, and it might work, but John’s done what Mitchell’s doing, had it done to him by people with guns, and his people’s lives in their hands. “Must have been important to Dr McKay – he wrote it in his own blood.”
Weir makes a strangled sound next to him, but John already figured that part out, so he’s had chance to move past the shock. He shakes his head again. “Can’t think of anything,” he repeats. “Maybe he’s met someone.”
*
John waits through the rest of Mitchell’s questions, waits till he hands over his card and closes the door behind himself, even though he’s jittering with a need to move, to do something.
“Major?” Weir asks, touching his arm before John can move away. “Something you want to share?”
His brain is running at warp speed, full of memories that he shoved away and locked down years ago, memories that barely feel real under the gloss of the cover story he’s been living for five years. He doesn’t really know where to start.
“Agent Mitchell’s initials,” Weir says, and John nods automatically. “Major –“
“I need to talk to Colonel O’Neill,” John says, and swallows down the urge to say I know who did this, because even this situation is no excuse for sounding like a soap opera heroine.
*
John digs his cell out again while Weir goes to call up some transport. He shouldn’t be doing this, not really, but they’ll get the call soon anyway, and he needs to *do* something.
Teyla sounds out of breath when she answers, like she’s been laughing hard at something, and John chokes on what he needs to say. “Hello?” she says again, sobering. “John, are you there?”
“Yeah,” John says. He leans against the wall and closes his eyes. “Yeah. Listen, where are you?”
“Halling and I have taken Jinto to the park,” she says. The unit’s still on stand down, between Ronon’s injury and the R&R time owed to them, and Teyla’s been making the most of it. “I assume you are not calling because you wish to join us.”
“No, I’m not. You need to get somewhere safe – you’ll be getting a call soon, but Rodney was shot this morning. I don’t know, but I think – he wrote PP on the windshield.”
“The Pegasus Project,” Teyla says quietly.
“Yeah,” John agrees. His head hurts and he feels exhausted, so, so ready to wake up from this nightmare and be back in bed with Rodney this morning. “I think we missed someone.”
*
He’d been back in the county for two weeks, just, when the call came from his CO: terrorist group down in South America planning a cross-country campaign of bombings throughout South America and the States, and they’d just gotten themselves a new leader to coordinate it.
“Cut off the head and the snake dies?” John said, staring at the picture of Kolya, new military leader of the Genii.
“Exactly,” Caldwell said. ”I want you to lead a three man team down there to get it done.”
“Three person,” John corrected absently, thinking of Teyla and Ronon, who’d been with Special Forces nearly as long as he had, the three of them working like they’d been designed to fit together as a team.
“If you must,” Caldwell said resignedly.
*
Teyla promises to call Ronon, sends her good wishes for Rodney and for John, and hangs up so John can go talk to the hospital staff again.
“It’s a complex procedure,” the nurse tells him apologetically. “It’s hard to say when the surgeon will be finished.” She takes John’s card anyway and promises to call when they know something.
John’s itching to get back to the Pentagon, to fix this thing he didn’t even know was broken, pulling up memories he’d forgotten he had, everything looking different in the new light this has given the mission, but at the same time… At the same time, Rodney is in surgery, with two bullets in him, and there’s a very real possibility that John’s already said goodbye to him without even realizing and he wants to be *here*. In case Rodney wakes up, in case he doesn’t, in case someone has to make a decision. He just doesn’t want Rodney to be alone, even if Rodney’s drugged into unconsciousness and doesn’t *know* he’s alone.
The problem is, the army’s been the most important thing in his life for years, sometimes because he’s wanted it to be and sometimes because it had to be, and this time it’s the latter, however much he wants to stay.
He pulls his cell out again and calls the Pentagon switchboard, trying to remember the name of the one guy Rodney hadn’t blasted as being completely incompetent. He’s a little surprised that no-one from Rodney’s department has shown up, but he assumes they’re busy investigating the case from their side – the CIA being, in John’s limited experience, incredibly mistrustful of the FBI and their ability to run an investigation.
“Hello?” says a voice in his ear patiently, like it’s not the first time she’s said it. “Can I direct your call?”
“Yeah. Dr Zelenka, please, in current intelligence.”
“One moment.”
There’s a brief silence as he’s put on hold, then the line rings twice before someone lifts the phone. “Current intelligence.”
“Hi,” John says, a little surprised to hear a woman’s voice. “I was trying to get hold of Dr Zelenka.”
There’s a pause, then the woman says, “He’s not here right now. Can I take a message?”
Rodney’s always mocked John’s intuition, calling it his spidey-sense until John started mocking him in return for quoting Buffy the Vampire Slayer at him, but he’s rarely wrong when he gets a bad feeling, so he pushes this one. “Do you have his cell? I really need to speak with him, I’m a friend of Rodney McKay’s.”
“Um…” she says.
“I work in the E Ring,” John adds. “My name’s Sheppard. Major John –“
“Oh,” she says brightly, her voice sharp with something that might be relief. John hates having his bad feelings confirmed. “Rodney’s room-mate. Do you – is there any news?”
“He’s still in surgery,” John says. “They won’t know anything for a while. Listen, I’m sorry, but I’m kind of in a hurry, so if you could –“
“Radek’s cell number, right.” She hesitates again, then carries on in a whispered rush. “Radek’s been suspended. Director Oberoth authorized it, he said Radek was passing intelligence to someone in the Czech Republic, but Radek’s not like that – he wouldn’t. Rodney was furious, he wanted Radek to take it further until the Director spoke to him, and then he just dropped it.”
CIA staff are notorious for being paranoid conspiracy theorists, and John should know, living with Rodney, but this is a different kind of paranoia. “Why are you telling me this?”
Her voice drops even further, till John’s straining to hear her. “This was a couple of weeks ago, and now Rodney’s been shot. Staff in this office don’t get suspended, they don’t get shot, and now all this in the last couple of weeks; it’s more than a coincidence.”
John should have just let her take a message for Zelenka and left it alone; even knowing that some of it’s probably paranoia and shock from what happened, the words almost make sense, almost fit into what’s already in his head. He just needs time to shake them into place, and time’s the one thing he doesn’t have. He never does when he needs it, only when he doesn’t want it, and he can see Weir coming towards him again.
“Okay,” he says. “I don’t know what I can do with that information, but thanks for telling me.” He hesitates, then decides he’s being an idiot and asks. “I really do need Dr Zelenka’s cell if you have it.”
“Right,” she says, back to normal volume, and rattles off a number just as Weir joins him.
*
He doesn’t have time to call Zelenka – it’s not, now, a conversation he can have in the car with Weir, and Ford’s waiting for them on the other side of security. “Any news, sir?” he asks, nodding at Weir.
“It’s still too soon to tell, Lieutenant,” Weir says smoothly. “But the hospital staff are optimistic.”
“Great,” Ford says, genuinely relieved, even though John’s pretty sure he and Rodney have never met. “Colonel O’Neill’s waiting for you, sir, ma’am.”
John forcibly shuts down the part of his brain that’s trying to figure out how Zelenka fits into all this, as he follows Ford; he’s sure he’s going to need every available brain cell for this.
*
“So, Major,” O’Neill says when he, John and Weir, who seems to have appointed herself as John’s unofficial counsel while John wasn’t looking, are settled in another of the E Ring’s endless stream of glass-walled offices. “Why don’t you tell us about the Pegasus Project?”
*
They needed a way to get close to Kolya, which wasn’t going to be easy. He wasn’t interested in women, or men, he didn’t drink or do drugs or gamble. He didn’t appear to go out, or enjoy sports, or patronize any particular restaurant. The only thing he did do was hand-to-hand combat, and even that he practiced in his private apartments, with a trainer he’d known for years. They weren’t getting in that way, even with Teyla’s and Ronon’s skills combined.
“Doesn’t the man have any interests?” John groaned a week into mission prep, tossing his pen down in frustration.
“Blowing people up,” Ronon offered from across the table. He still had the dreads he’d grown on their last mission, though how he was getting away with it with Caldwell, John didn’t choose to speculate. They worked though – people remembered the hair and forgot the face under it.
“Other than –“ John started, then thought about it. “Actually, you know, that might just work.”
*
Except that Kolya was using some kind of new weapon that even the military hadn’t gotten their hands on, something his people had developed to be a bit like a nuclear warhead while simultaneously completely unlike it. Officers who knew how to build one weren’t exactly thick on the ground, and between the ones who didn’t even know enough to sound convincing to John and his team, and the ones who’d spent so little time in the field that they fell apart when Ronon looked directly at them, they rattled through – and rejected – the available candidates in record time, leaving John to go begging to Caldwell.
Always a fun experience.
*
“We couldn’t find what we needed in the military,” John tells Weir and O’Neill, looking out at the cubicle farm. He can’t sit still, even the glass walls of the office too close, trapping him. “But Caldwell agreed to us recruiting among the other agencies.”
“Including the CIA,” O’Neill says.
John sighs and keeps his back turned. It’s rude, but he doesn’t think O’Neill’s going to object. “Yes, sir.”
*
Rodney wasn’t particularly high on their list – PhD in physics, continued interest in weaponry and how it worked, several articles on leading developments, but also mostly office based these days. He announced his arrival with a horrified, “My God, please tell me that thing isn’t the real McCoy,” that made John revise his position severely downward, then followed it up with, “Because you three clearly can’t be trusted not to set it off by accident, honestly, I did a better job building one when I was in sixth grade. Science fair,” he added, apparently off the deer-in-the-headlights expression John could feel on his face. “It’s actually how I got recruited to the CIA in the first place.”
“You built a nuclear bomb for your school science fair?” John asked blankly. If John could train him to think then speak, rather than blurting out whatever came into his head, this guy had the arrogance to pull it off. Maybe.
“Non-working model,” Rodney said dismissively. He turned to the three of them, hands on his hips, and demanded, “So? Am I in, or do you want to waste some more of my valuable time first?”
John looked at Ronon and Teyla, reading the answers on their faces. Even if Rodney hadn’t been the closest they’d got yet to a good choice, they were getting desperate, every day without a suitable inside man another day closer to Caldwell pulling the plug on their involvement in the whole thing.
“You’re in,” he told Rodney.
*
“I wasn’t aware that Rodney was field trained,” Weir comments.
John shrugs, back in his seat. “He wasn’t, really. We trained him for the mission.”
“I see,” Weir says. “And what happened when you went to South America?”
John takes a deep breath of relief that she’s letting it go, because he can’t talk about training Rodney now, about everything that happened while the four of them were holed up in isolation.
“Captain Emmagan had some experience with the Genii, some contacts that we used to get in with them, but we needed someone who could get close to Kolya. We knew he was looking for people with training to help in building his new bombs, and he wasn’t afraid of using… less than scrupulous methods to get his hands on someone.”
*
“You want me to *what*?” Rodney demanded. “You’ll get me killed. The man’s clearly a psychopath. I’ve read the files, he keeps a member of the *Wraith* on hand to persuade people to do what he wants.”
“Relax,” John said, risking a quick touch to Rodney’s shoulder when he passed close enough. Predictably, Rodney didn’t even notice. “I’m not going to let him take you, we just need to let him think we might.”
“But I still have to work for him. What if he decides I’m not working fast enough? Do you know what the Wraith do, they train their members –“
“As torturers, Rodney, I know.” John took a deep breath, not thinking about Colonel Sumner. “It’s not going to come to that. I’ll be there with you.”
Rodney blinked at him. “Oh. Oh, well, that’s different.”
*
“Things didn’t go exactly to plan,” John says. He wants to look away, but O’Neill’s holding his gaze. "Rodney was without back-up briefly and Kolya put a knife in his arm. I guess he wanted to be sure Rodney was telling the truth about wanting to join him.”
They’d almost canceled the whole thing right there; it had been Rodney, pale and still bandaged, who’d insisted he could do it. John thinks, now, that he should have stuck to his guns, said no, but the mission was important, and Rodney was bleeding at Kolya’s hands, and John was already in far too deep, with Rodney, with Kolya, to be making a clear command decision.
“But it worked, and it gave Rodney a reason to have a bodyguard with him in Kolya’s complex.”
Kolya had refused to let John into the labs where the bombs were being built, and they hadn’t been able to get a wire on Rodney. John had felt like he was going slowly crazy, hidden away for eight, twelve, fifteen hours a day. It had been a relief when they got to the objective.
“What happened?” Weir asks.
John looks away, down at his clenched hands. “We killed them.”
*
It took three weeks to set up, because Kolya monitored his lab staff pretty closely, and five minutes to activate, John pushing the button and releasing a gas that left three quarters of the Genii’s lab staff and agents dead.
Kolya didn’t even know it had happened when Ronon, Teyla and John infiltrated his apartment, shot his guards and lieutenants and followed Rodney’s earlier directions into Kolya’s inner office, where he and Rodney were peering at plans, Rodney keeping as far from Kolya as he could.
“What the –“ Kolya said, standing up, and John shot him.
Somewhere in the apartment, someone shouted. ”Got it,” Ronon said, him and Teyla peeling away, and John was moving to check on Kolya when Ronon shouted and a gun went off.
“Get his picture,” John said quickly, tossing over his camera without waiting to see if Rodney caught it.
Two minutes later, Teyla leaning on Ronon and bleeding from her thigh, John grabbed Rodney’s arm, shoving him out. “You got it?” he asked. “He’s dead?”
“Yeah,” Rodney said, staring at Teyla with wide-eyed horror and stumbling over his own feet. “Yes, yeah, of course.”
*
“You think this is revenge for what you did to Kolya?” Weir asks.
John shakes his head, but O’Neill answers. “He thinks it was Kolya.”
*
John calls Zelenka because he has nothing else to do: Weir’s gone to talk to someone she knows about getting her hands on the Pegasus Project files without days of red tape, O’Neill’s making calls to his own contacts, trying to find out if Kolya might still be alive, and John’s been informed in no uncertain terms that he’ll be focusing all his attention on this until it’s resolved. Ronon and Teyla are being summoned to contribute to a fuller debrief, and John… has nothing to do but worry. So he’s calling Zelenka.
“Hello?”
“Hi, Dr Zelenka? My name’s John Sheppard, I –“
“Are you calling from the Pentagon?” Zelenka asks quickly. “From a Pentagon phone?”
“Dr Zelenka, I’ve worked Special Ops for most of my career,” John tells him. He’s standing by a coffee cart down the street from the Pentagon, too many people for anyone to overhear, running up his own cell bill. “I’ve picked up a couple of things along the way.”
“Forgive me for wishing to use caution when I am under suspicion from my own employers,” Zelenka says sharply. “What can I do for you – Major, yes?”
“Yes,” John says. Apparently Rodney really has been talking about him, which makes even less sense than usual, given Rodney’s paranoia about them being caught. “Listen, I don’t know if you’ve heard, but –”
“Rodney has been shot,” Zelenka finishes. “I hope you are not calling to say there is worse news.”
John looks at his watch, then pulls out his government issue cell and checks for missed calls. Nothing. “No, I thought – he’s mentioned you, maybe you could, you know. Be there. At the hospital.”
There’s a long pause, then Zelenka sighs. “I see. No, Major, that is impossible.”
“Ah, come on,” John wheedles. He’s charmed suicide bombers – well, one suicide bomber – he can handle one CIA agent. “I know you’re on the out with the Agency right now, but they can’t punish you for visiting McKay.”
“It is not myself I worry about,” Zelenka says. “It is Rodney. There will be many people at the hospital and very little is secret.”
“Okay, what the hell’s going on over there?” John asks. “Because between you and the woman I spoke to, I’m starting to think that McKay wasn’t telling me jackshit.”
“He was attempting to protect you,” Zelenka says. “I am sorry Major, I must go.”
The line disconnects and John really, really wishes he had a coffee cup to throw. He’s good with mission plans, he’s not good with the intricacies of the kind of politics the CIA plays. He’s sure it all fits together – Rodney’s desperation about keeping them secret, his occasional blind dates with friends of his colleagues, Rodney going to the director when Zelenka was suspended, then dropping it and never mentioning it to John, Rodney being shot, even what happened with Kolya – but John can’t see how. If it was Kolya who shot Rodney, there’s no reason for Director Oberoth to be involved, and if it wasn’t him, there’s no reason for Rodney to have written PP on his windshield.
John rubs at his aching head and goes back inside.
*
Ford’s waiting for him at security again, and falls into step with John, silently handing over a take-out coffee that John inhales gratefully. It probably won’t do much for his headache, but at least the caffeine might jolt his brain into working again.
“The hospital called,” Ford says as they step in the elevator. ”Dr McKay’s out of surgery and in recovery. He’s not expected to wake up for a while, but the nurse said you could go visit.” He puts a hand out before John can reach for the elevator buttons and escape. It’s the first piece of good news he’s had in what feels like weeks. “The Colonel wants to see you first,” Ford says apologetically, and John braces himself for more bad news.
*
Rightly, as it turns out, because Weir hasn’t been able to find the Pegasus Project file. Or rather, she knows where it is, she just can’t access it, because Director Oberoth requested it two weeks ago, citing Rodney’s upcoming performance evaluation as the reason, which means he knows about Kolya, from the file if not before, and John has to outline the strange events at the CIA for O’Neill and Weir, so it’s been a couple of hours since they called when John finally gets to the hospital.
Where he’s politely but firmly informed that, since he’s neither a relation nor Rodney’s next of kin, he can’t see Rodney.
“I don’t understand,” he says stupidly. “You just called to say he was out of surgery and I could stop by.”
“I’m sorry, sir,” the nurse says again. “That shouldn’t have happened.”
John pulls off his ID badge and holds it out to her. “I’m Major John Sheppard, I was here all morning. I work in the Pentagon, I’m staying with Rodney. We’ve known each other for years. I don’t understand what the problem is.”
“I’m sorry,” the nurse says again, refusing to take his badge. She does seem genuinely sorry, but John’s past caring. He just wants to see Rodney in one piece, breathing. “But we’ve been given strict instructions, since Dr McKay’s involved in matters of national security.”
John wishes, just for a second, that he had Rodney’s ability to rant and rave without thought for the possible consequences, because then he could demand to see Rodney, point out that he probably has higher security clearance than Rodney does, that he’s the senior aide to the director of Special Operations and it’s not like he can’t get one of the Joint Chiefs to verify his identity if they’re going to get into that.
Unfortunately, that’s been Rodney’s role in their friendship since they met and John can’t take it on at this late stage, particularly when Rodney’s lying in a hospital bed.
“Thanks for your time,” he says, reattaching his ID, which, not that the nurse looked, states clearly that he works in the *Pentagon*. He gives her a polite smile, with just a hint of I’m-a-trained-Special-Forces-black-ops-killer, and executes the kind of about face departure (minus the salute) that would have made Caldwell weep.
*
He gets the cab to drop him a block from the Pentagon and walks the rest of the way back, trying to put it all together in his head, trying to make *something* make sense. It’s gotten dark at some point, but the numbers on his watch have lost all meaning. He feels like the day’s gone on forever, like climbing out of Rodney’s warm bed this morning was a lifetime ago, and he’s so, so ready for today to end, because, please God, tomorrow can’t possibly be any worse. Also, it’s gotten cold along with dark and he appears to have left his uniform jacket somewhere, since he’s only in his shirt sleeves now and is freezing.
He’s walking up the front steps to the Pentagon, no closer to having figured anything out – except that his jacket is probably in O’Neill’s office, since he was wearing it when he went out to talk to Zelenka – when a familiar voice says, “Sheppard.”
Teyla and Ronon are both in uniform, both wearing coats and scarves and gloves, looking ready for whatever’s about to happen to them even though they’re unarmed, and John’s never been more grateful to see anyone in his entire life.
“God, am I glad to see you guys,” he says. Teyla blinks at him, a moment of surprise showing under her constant calm, and John realizes it’s probably the most explicit expression of how much he cares for them that he’s ever made. She rallies though, because she’s Teyla, and doesn’t say anything, because she knows him, just rests her hands on his shoulders and touches her forehead to his, another little piece of her father’s home that she’s kept and gotten them used to.
Ronon gives John a quick, back-slapping hug, pulling away before John can respond, and then they’re both standing with him, filling up the space was barely aware of, and he just feels *better*.
“You guys come to meet with O’Neill?” he asks.
“We have,” Teyla says. “He was – most insistent – that we present ourselves here as soon as reasonably possible.”
“Yeah, that sounds like O’Neill,” John agrees. They’re starting to get looked at by the guard, so he heads up the steps, trusting them to follow.
“You really think Kolya’s still alive?” Ronon asks. He’s cut the dreads off, John realizes abruptly, and his hair’s still slightly curled. It’s also longer than regulation, but so is John’s, and they’ve really got more important things to worry about.
There’s a familiar face waiting on the other side of security. “You know, Lieutenant, I can find my way round the building without an escort,” John tells Ford. He’s only gotten lost once in the last week, and the Pentagon does have seventeen miles of corridors.
“Yes, sir,” Ford says. He doesn’t give the expected smile, and now John’s paying attention, he looks awkward – nervous. John's stomach drops and he feels like someone’s just dumped a bucket of ice on his head. This can’t, can’t be happening, not when he was just there –
“Major?” Teyla says, slipping into the formality like she always does around other service personnel.
John takes a deep breath and tells himself to get it over with, but it doesn’t help – he can’t hear this in the middle of the entryway, surrounded by people who can’t know.
“Did something happen to McKay?” Ronon asks abruptly. John looks over, but Ronon’s looking at Ford, not him, has John’s back, like always.
“No,” Ford says quickly. “Or, not that I’ve heard, that’s not why -. Sir, this isn’t about that.”
It’s probably too much to hope, through the light-headed fog of relief, that it’s about something related to his actual, current job, a mission that’s suddenly become top priority, but John hopes anyway.
“Dr Weir asked me to catch you on your way in, sir. She’s gone to fetch Colonel O’Neill, she’s got a room for a meeting, if you want to come with me.”
“For the debrief, now Sergeant Dex and Captain Emmagan are here?” John asks. He knows that’s not what Ford means, when they’ve already arranged that, but he’s got the same feeling of spiraling helplessly to his doom that he had when he went after Holland, and he’ll do anything to put off being proved right.
“I don’t think so, sir.” Ford offers a shadow of his usual grin to the rest of John’s team. “Dr Weir asked for you both to wait in one of the debrief rooms, I can show you the way.”
“Rather stay with Sheppard,” Ronon says, and Teyla nods, which just confirms that John’s feeling of doom is right. At least it’s not Rodney, unless it is and they just don’t know yet.
“I think Colonel O’Neill does want to debrief with you –” Ford starts uncertainly, and John remembers what it’s like to be caught between two sets of orders. Not that it stopped him from occasionally putting other people in that position, either by accident or by design, but he tries not to.
“Go on,” he says to Teyla and Ronon. “It’s probably some dull bit of paperwork anyway.” He can tell from their faces that they know he doesn’t believe himself. “I’ll see you later.”
“If you are certain,” Teyla says, like she’d really be able to do anything if O’Neill insisted.
“Go.” John reaches out to pat her shoulder awkwardly. “I’ll be fine.”
Ford gives John a grateful, worried smile. “Meeting Room 47, sir, down that corridor and turn right.” He waits for John’s nod, then turns to Ronon and Teyla. “This way, please.”
Meeting Room 47, like a lot of their meeting rooms, doesn’t have any windows beyond the small slot in the door. It’s not meant to be used as an interrogation room, but it could be easily enough: take down the Air Force recruitment poster that John sits with his back to, swap out the meeting table and reasonably comfortable chairs for something in gun metal gray, and John could be waiting for pliers to his fingernails.
*
“I need my hands,” Rodney said, reading through John’s file on the member of the Wraith that Kolya’s Genii had working with them. “I need my hands, and my brain. I can’t be permanently damaged.”
“I won’t let anyone damage you,” John promised. He put down his gun on the table he was sat on and held out a hand for Rodney to come closer so John could catch his hand and hold it till Rodney met his eye. “I won’t let anyone damage you,” he said again, and Rodney nodded.
*
“Major Sheppard,” Weir says, preceding O’Neill into the room. “Sorry to have kept you waiting.”
She looks pissed in the way John’s seen military wives look pissed, all icy politeness painted over rage. O’Neill, on the other hand, looks pissed in the way John’s used to, like he wants someone to shoot and it’s made worse by the lack of same.
Weir sits opposite John and places a manila envelope on the table. After a moment, O’Neill sits next to her. “Major, I’m sorry, and there’s no easy way to break this to you, but you’re being temporarily suspended from duty.”
“I – what?” John says stupidly. He understands the words, it’s just that no-one’s ever said them to him before, even with some of the stupid shit he’s done during his career. “Why?”
“I’m sure this will all get sorted out as soon as things calm down,” Weir says, obviously trying to be soothing, tapping one finger lightly on the envelope. John wants to rip it from her hands. “I’m sure it’s a mistake that will be rectified –“
“Someone’s made an accusation against you under Don’t Ask Don’t Tell,” O’Neill says suddenly.
Rodney knew this was coming, John thinks, feeling his face get hot. Hence the paranoia, hence the occasional date. Whoever is doing this, Rodney knew they could, that there was something that would trigger them to do it. If John wasn’t already too numb to really feel anything else, he’d be pretty angry at Rodney for knowing this was an imminent, real threat and not warning him.
“I see,” he says.
“We’ll sort this out,” O’Neill says, sliding over the envelope. “But you need to stay clear until we do.”
“Sure,” John says. He thinks, decides to risk it. “Do I get to know who made the allegation?”
Weir looks away, but O’Neill holds Johns gaze. “Funny that it’s happening now, right when you’re stirring up trouble for the Director of the CIA,” he says blandly, and John feels sick, because if any of the nebulous suspicions in the CIA are true, he’s fucking lucky that the only thing of his that’s being threatened is his career.
“Major, I’m sorry, but I’m going to need your ID, your government credit card and your passport,” Weir says carefully.
“Right,” John says, and twenty minutes later, he’s walking out of the Pentagon, suspended pending an investigation that will probably get him dishonorably discharged, with Rodney in the hospital and a terrorist they thought was dead running around the country.
The worst part is, John’s been waiting for this his entire career, even when he was married, even when he was with a woman, because he’s in an army that doesn’t believe in shades of gray, that sees bisexual as synonymous with gay, and he’s always known this could happen. He decided early on that if anyone asked him outright, before Don’t Ask Don’t Tell meant they couldn’t, he wouldn’t lie, and in that respect it worked for him, because people didn’t ask and he didn’t have to lie. The ones who knew talked to him without saying anything, and it worked.
It won’t work like that if this goes to a hearing, and when they ask, John won’t be able to lie.
Somewhere, a clock starts chiming midnight, and John heads for Rodney’s apartment, even knowing it’s a bad idea, because right now he still lives there and it’s as good a place as any to wait and hope the new day brings something better.
*
There’s evidence of the crime scene team that must have been through the apartment, when John gets there, but it’s not as messed up as he would have expected. Some of Rodney’s things are gone: files, one of his laptops, the lockbox that even John doesn’t have access to, but John could believe without difficulty that Rodney’s just gone away for a couple of days.
*
“I could go in late,” John offered, sitting on the edge of the bed, already in his uniform, dark giving way to day outside the window.
“No you couldn’t,” Rodney said. “Who’ll protect the world from O’Neill’s flights of fantasy otherwise?”
“Ford?” John suggested.
“Oh please. He probably only joined the Marines so he could have a good excuse to blow things up.”
“Thought you’d never met him,” John joked.
*
He’s got Rodney’s address book in his hands when the memory fades out – weird that the FBI didn’t take it, but maybe they figured the data would be on Rodney’s laptop – and he only needs a moment to find Jeannie’s phone number.
The line rings for a long time, long enough that he’s ready to hang up when a sleepy female voice says, ”It’s the middle of the night, what do you want?”
It’s too late for John to hang up, so he says, “Jeannie McKay?”
“Miller,” she corrects, her voice sharp with suspicion, and John does not want to do this, was hoping the FBI would have already done it for him.
“You don’t know me, my name’s John Sheppard –“
“Mer’s friend,” Jeannie says, then, “Oh God, what’s happened?”
There’s a script for this, John’s used it before, but he might as well never have seen it, because he can’t remember a single word. “It’s all right, he’s been injured, but he’s not –. He’s in the hospital, it’s bad, but he’s not –” And he has to stop, because he feels like he can’t breathe.
“What the hell’s my big brother doing in the hospital?” Jeannie demands. There’s a noise in the background – her husband waking up, maybe – and John’s grateful she’s not on her own.
“He was shot at,” John says. “I can’t tell you more than that, I’m sorry.”
“Oh God, I knew working for the CIA would lead to something like this,” Jeannie says, but she clearly recovers from panic a lot faster than her brother. “All right, tell me which hospital.”
John does, then feels compelled to add, “I won’t be there.”
There’s a moment’s pause. “I suppose you’re busy with the investigation.”
“Not exactly,” John says. He’s too tired to explain all of what’s happened, especially to this person he’s never met. “I’m not next of kin, I’m not allowed to see him.”
“Oh for…” Jeannie says, exasperated. “Why did Mer have to go work for such a backwards country, I’ll never know…”
Which is a little close for comfort in a number of ways. “Okay, just – call when you get your flight, I’ll try to pick you up.”
“Thank you,” Jeannie says, then, softly, “He will be all right, won’t he?”
John wants, really badly, to lie, but he can’t, not to Rodney’s sister, who seems nice and clearly loves him. ”I don’t know,” he says, and hangs up before she can say anything else.
*
He doesn’t remember falling asleep, but he must have, because he’s waking up on the couch with a stiff neck and too-bright daylight in his eyes and someone’s leaning on the intercom, the buzzing like a chainsaw right in his ear.
He discovers, when he stands up, that his left foot has gone numb, so he crashes into the door gracelessly, wincing at the explosion of pins and needles. “Hello?”
“Good morning, Major,” O’Neill’s voice says brightly. “I know it’s early, but perhaps you could trouble yourself to let me up before the friendly gardener across the street reports me for loitering.”
John remembers being eyed by the guy when he first came back, and buzzes the door open hastily. It won’t take O’Neill long enough to get up to the apartment for John to do anything about the crumpled uniform he’s still wearing, or his morning breath, but he rakes his hand through his hair in the vague hope that it will make a difference this time, though it never has before.
O’Neill, of course, looks perfectly presented as always, even though he’s probably had less sleep than John. “Major,” he says, sliding past John and into the apartment, where he places a briefcase on the coffee table and turns to watch John close the door. “Any news on Dr McKay?”
“Not that I’ve heard,” John says. He doesn’t have much hope for his chances of getting anything until Jeannie arrives, but he’ll ring the hospital when O’Neill leaves.
O’Neill nods. “I’ll get Dr Weir to call them up. Pretty sure they won’t say no to her.”
“Thank you, sir.” John’s still feeling half-asleep, so he leans his shoulder against the door to wait for O’Neill to explain why he’s here.
“So,” O’Neill says, looking round the apartment. ”Dr Weir’s working on your other problem, which I’d just as soon not discuss with you.” John nods – everyone’s heard the rumors about O’Neill, who divorced his wife years ago and hasn’t been seriously involved with a woman since. “But I think it would be best for you to be out of town while we hash it out.”
John opens his mouth to protest, to argue that even if he can’t see Rodney, he can’t leave while Rodney’s still – but O’Neill opens his briefcase and takes out a familiar passport. “Obviously, I can’t send you on a mission right now, but Dex and Emmagan have agreed to take a quick trip down to Mexico to pick up some intelligence from an on-going mission.” He holds out the passport, not quite far enough for John to take it without moving. “The three of you have been together for years, it would be odd for you to not see each other if they happened to be in the same place you were taking a couple of days R&R, waiting for things to calm down. Since you and Dr McKay are just friends, and there’s no point in you hanging around when you can’t see him.”
O’Neill’s trying to help him, and John has no idea why that makes his chest hurt. It’s not like he doesn’t already know that O’Neill’s different from every other CO he’s ever had, but not like this, not helping him break the rules and get the revenge he still wants after all these years.
“Did I mention that we’ve received photographs of someone who looks a lot like Kolya, crossing the border back into Mexico?” O’Neill asks idly. He’s still holding out the passport. “Only Dex and Emmagan are hoping to link up with the CIA agent south of the border who’s been investigating a group he thinks might be an off-shoot of the Genii, and I wouldn’t want you to get a nasty surprise.”
“I, er – no, sir, you didn’t,” John says stupidly.
O’Neill shrugs. “Well, busy week and all. Lots of responsibilities.”
“Yes, sir.” John reaches out for the passport, but O’Neill holds onto it.
“I'm trusting you to do the right thing,” he says seriously. “You’re finishing up an old mission, not getting revenge for what he did to your friend. Major, is this sinking in? Dr Weir’s going to get this suspension nonsense straightened out, and I want you back here when it’s lifted.”
“Yes, sir,” John says again, not sure if he means, yes, he’s listening, or, yes, he’ll do it right and come back. Judging from the pause before O’Neill lets go of the passport, he’s not sure either. He lets John take it though, and drops a manila folder on the table. “I shouldn’t have these,” he says casually. “And I certainly shouldn’t be letting you have them. So if you must get yourself killed down there, try not to do it while you’re carrying any of this ID with you.”
“I’ll try,” John promises. The passport’s due to expire at the end of the year, his face and someone else’s name, the man who hired on as security for a physics lab with a government contract, then went with their lead scientist when he defected. The man he left behind when he got back from Mexico and shipped out for Bosnia again.
“See that you do,” O’Neill says. “Place ticket’s in there. Don’t miss the flight.”
“No, sir,” John says, still looking down at his old picture. He had longer hair then, and doesn’t look exactly like himself. “Thank you,” he adds, even as O’Neill waves it off.
“I’m serious about having you back,” he says, letting himself out, and John’s glad that he doesn’t linger over saying goodbye, because that’s what finally makes his vision swim, and he’s definitely not ready to break down in front of his CO.
*
John should have pulled the mission, and the worst part was that he knew. The moment he realized the buzz of electricity between him and Rodney wasn’t just friendship and the connection of finding someone he clicked with, the way he had with Teyla and Ronon, he should have gone to Caldwell and asked them to take Rodney off the mission. Except that asking for Rodney to be removed from the mission would have put a huge dampener on Rodney’s career and John wasn’t prepared to do that because of his own feelings. He could have taken himself off the mission – Caldwell would have let him, eventually – but he didn’t know how to explain, couldn’t come up with a reasonable sounding excuse and couldn’t tell the truth.
Plus, that was after Kolya had stuck a knife in Rodney, sent him back to them bleeding and in shock, and if John was honest with himself, he didn’t want to be taken off the mission. He wanted to make Kolya pay for what he’d done, so he convinced himself it would all be fine, that he could put his feelings away and be only as concerned about Rodney as he was about Ronon and Teyla.
He couldn’t.
Teaching Rodney to fire a gun, to take a punch, to deflect questions and give answers that gave away just enough and no more, to talk, walk, act, sleep like the guy he was supposed to be and not the guy he was, all of it meant too much time with Rodney, too much time allaying Rodney’s fears, just the two of them, too much time to absorb the way Rodney looked, sounded, smelled, felt, to wonder what he’d taste like if John kissed him, licked his neck, opened his pants and put his mouth on Rodney’s cock… Too much time for Rodney to notice and make a decision and lean over the table as John was cleaning his weapon, and kiss him.
John’s always associated Rodney McKay with gun oil since then, which has led to some truly weird moments.
It didn’t go beyond a kiss – John wasn’t so far gone as that – but everyone knew, and Teyla suggested, gently, that he might ask to be replaced for this mission. She didn’t look convinced when John said he could handle it, but she didn’t push, and John convinced himself.
Which, as it turns out, might have been a mistake.
*
Part 3
Part Two
There’s always a TV on somewhere in John’s glorified cubicle farm, and he’s learned to tune it out, just listening for anything that might be important, and even tuning most of that out these days, since anything relevant has usually got to them already by the time CNN break it.
It’s the only explanation he’s got for why he doesn’t register what the anchor-woman’s talking about until she says, “Westway Apartment Complex,” when he registers that that’s Rodney’s building, and it’s always seemed pretty secure to him.
Whatever’s happened, it must have been early, because they’re filming on the street when he looks up at the screen, and there’s an ambulance, a couple of police cars, and John’s about to dismiss it as mildly worrying but not on a Special Operations level when the camera moves and he’s looking at Rodney’s car, surrounded by crime scene personnel.
His first thought is that someone was trying to steal it, then that maybe it was something a bit more serious, since it’s being reported by CNN. Maybe a fire, or a car bomb, except there’s no smoke, no fire service personnel, just ambulance and police.
“…Unnamed CIA agent was shot twice this morning in his car outside his apartment building,” the anchor-woman is saying when John gets close enough to the TV to hear properly. “No official comment has been received yet from –“
“You think it’s just a coincidence?” Ford asks curiously, suddenly right by him. “I always figured that was a pretty good neighborhood…” He doesn’t know, John realizes, doesn’t know who the agent is, or if he does, he doesn’t know that John knows him, and John thinks, ‘shot twice this morning,’ Rodney was going to work at home and go in late, and Ford says, “Whoa, Major, you okay?”, his hand on John’s arm, steadying him.
The world grays out for a split second, and everything seems too loud when it comes back. This can’t be happening. It’s not that long since Ronon was injured. Rodney’s not even in the field any more. They’re supposed to be safe now. “I need to go to the hospital,” he says, and his voice sounds funny in his own ears.
“Major?” Ford asks, still holding John’s arm. “You want to sit down?”
“Not for me.” John nods at the screen, where they’ve moved onto – he doesn’t know, something about ships. “The agent, I know him – I’m staying with him, we’re friends. I need to –”
“Okay, sir. You hang tight here a second, I’ll find out where they’ve taken him.”
Ford disappears, leaving John alone at his desk, trying to keep breathing and not give in the temptation to just put his head down on his desk and break.
*
He’s feeling a lot more together by the time an airman drops him outside the hospital, like he can maybe deal with this without falling apart, or at least without yelling at the perfectly nice receptionist who takes his name, points him to the waiting area, and promises to send Rodney’s doctor out as soon as she’s got a minute. John knows better than to harass the guy for details of Rodney’s condition, which he won’t have and wouldn’t be able to give if he did, but he still has to fight the urge to demand to know if Rodney’s okay, if he’s badly hurt, if he’s…
His uniform gets him a few looks from the handful of people waiting with him: a man holding a bandage to a head wound that’s dripping blood anyway, a pair of young women, one with her hand wrapped in ice, an older man with two wide-eyed, worried children, but no-one tries to talk to him, or even catch his eye.
He takes out his cell phone, wondering if he should call O’Neill – he doesn’t remember seeing him before he left, but Ford will have found him and told him, after John turned down his offer of company, and maybe O’Neill will know something. The FBI will have taken over the investigation, now they know what Rodney does, and they’ll find out John’s living there. It occurs to him that anyone going into Rodney’s apartment will know they’re not platonic friends sharing a place, not with the futon folded up, obviously unused, and John’s spare uniform tossed on the bedroom floor, waiting to be cleaned, but it’s a distant worry, because it’s hard to care about being reprimanded when Rodney’s been shot, Jesus-
“Mr. Sheppard?” He looks up at a woman in a white coat, stethoscope round her neck and blond hair tied back from her face. “I’m sorry – Major, right? My name’s Dr Keller, Andrew said you’re here for Dr McKay?”
“Yes. Is he –“ He doesn’t know what he wants to ask, not when she’s giving him the neutral doctor face.
She sits down next to him, turning slightly to block out the rest of the room. “Are you his next of kin?”
“I –” John’s first instinct is to say yes, because he is, really, in every way that counts, and his second is to say no, because every way that counts doesn’t include in the eyes of the law, and anyway, he has no idea who Rodney has listed as next of kin, but he’s absolutely sure it isn’t him, not when he’s only been back in the country a few months. “We’re friends,” he says finally, aware that the silence has gone on too long to be comfortable. “I just got back to the States, I’ve been staying with him.”
Keller eyes him dubiously then nods. “I guess if you can’t trust a man in uniform…” She smiles slightly and John tries to relax. She wouldn’t be smiling if it was really bad news. “Okay, well, the bullets did some serious internal damage. He’s on his way to surgery right now, but I have to be honest with you, Major – there’s no guarantees here. Dr Beckett’s a gifted surgeon, but –”
John nods, cutting her off. He can’t bear to look at her, at anyone, not when his hands are shaking and he feels like he might throw up. It’s not fair, he wants to say, like fairness has anything to do with it, like Holland didn’t already make that 110% clear. But they’re the ones this is supposed to happen to, on the front lines and armed, not fucking *defenseless* in their cars on the way to work.
He makes himself take a deep breath, because there’s no part of this that can be improved by him having a panic attack in the middle of the ER. “Thanks,” he tells Keller, unsurprised when his voice comes out rough.
She gives him a sympathetic smile, but her hand’s already on her stethoscope, ready to move on “You’re welcome to wait if you want – Andrew can point you to the family area – but it’s a complicated procedure, there won’t be news for hours yet.”
“Thanks,” he says again, doing his best to pull up a smile that ends up feeling weirdly twisted on his face; it does the job though, because she pats his arm and leaves him to freak out in semi-private.
He’s just about done, trying to decide whether he wants to go back to the Pentagon and try for distraction or wait it out here and go crazy, when someone stops in front of him.
“Major Sheppard,” a familiar, female voice says quietly. “Colonel O’Neill suggested I might find you here.”
“And you have,” John says, looking up at Dr Weir. She looks as put together and at ease as she does at the Pentagon, but there’s something strained around her eyes, something that John thinks is probably reflected in his own face. “You want to sit down?”
“Thank you.” She tucks her feet neatly under the chair, and sits very straight. John leans forward, elbows on his knees so he won’t have to look at her. “Is there any news?”
John recounts what Keller told him, watching Weir nod from the corner of his eye. “I assume you’re intending to wait,” she says. “Would you mind some company?”
Pretty much the last thing John wants is company, unless it’s maybe in the form of Teyla, but Weir cares enough about Rodney to come down to the hospital, and he doesn’t have exclusive rights to Rodney, no matter how much he might wish for it some days.
“Sure,” he says calmly, and goes to get directions to a waiting area that’s not the ER.
*
John loses track of actual time, measuring it by cups of coffee (3), calls from Ford (2), and times Weir steps out to talk quietly on her cell (6).He’s about to offer to go get more coffee, since Weir went last time, when a man in a dark suit steps round the open door and knocks lightly on the frame.
“You folks from the Pentagon?” He’s got his ID clipped to the pocket of his suit jacket, but he’s across the room and John can’t make out the details of the logo.
“Yes,” Weir says, closing the file on her knee and sliding it casually under another. “Can we help you?”
He pushes away from the door and closes it behind himself when he comes inside, leaving the three of them alone with the flowered wallpaper and worn children’s toys. “Agent Mitchell, FBI. I’m gonna assume you’re Major Sheppard?”
He’s got an open, trustworthy face and a hint of a southern accent that reminds John of six months in Kansas as a kid, but John didn’t get into Special Forces by letting his guard down. “Sure.”
“Nice to meet you, Agent Mitchell.” Weir stands up and shakes his hand. “Dr Elizabeth Weir, Deputy General Counsel to the DoD.”
Mitchell flinches slightly but returns the handshake gamely. “Pleasure to meet you, Doctor. I wondered if I might have a word with the major here.”
“Of course,” Weir says, like John’s not sitting there and perfectly capable of answering for himself. ”I’m sure you won’t mind if I stay.”
Mitchell glances at John just long enough for John to read the amused and exasperated lawyers in his eye, then shrugs. “As long as Major Sheppard doesn’t.”
Major Sheppard doesn’t care what they do as long as they stop making him feel like he did at Christmas after his parents split up. “Fine by me.”
“Great.” Mitchell sits on the low coffee table in front of them and looks at John. “You’ve been staying with Dr McKay since you got back from Iraq?” he says, and there’s something about the way he says staying with that John recognizes, that makes him suddenly certain that Mitchell’s ex-military and aware of exactly what John’s doing. He thinks his initial urge to like him might have been right after all.
“Yeah, while I’m looking for somewhere more permanent,” he says.
Mitchell nods. “So you’d know if he’d been worried about anything lately.”
John thinks about Rodney’s constant litany of things that worry him, from the possibility of there being citrus in their take-out order to the inability of his staff to comprehend their own stupidity. None of it’s serious enough for him to be shot over, no matter how annoying he can be to work with. John shakes his head silently at Mitchell, and something in his stomach twists at the sympathy on the agent’s face.
“There’s something you might be able to help me with though,” Mitchell says idly. “Dr McKay left us a message.”
“Yeah?” John says, aware that he sounds strangled. He feels the way he did the first time he parachuted from a plane, the stomach dropping feel of free fall.
“Mm.” Mitchell looks down, flipping through his notebook. “He wrote the initials PP on his car window. Does that mean anything to you?”
John blinks, years of training the only thing that makes him sure his face isn’t showing anything but careful blankness. “Can’t think of anything,” he says calmly.
“You’re sure?” Mitchell presses, leaning in, focused completely on John, and it might work, but John’s done what Mitchell’s doing, had it done to him by people with guns, and his people’s lives in their hands. “Must have been important to Dr McKay – he wrote it in his own blood.”
Weir makes a strangled sound next to him, but John already figured that part out, so he’s had chance to move past the shock. He shakes his head again. “Can’t think of anything,” he repeats. “Maybe he’s met someone.”
*
John waits through the rest of Mitchell’s questions, waits till he hands over his card and closes the door behind himself, even though he’s jittering with a need to move, to do something.
“Major?” Weir asks, touching his arm before John can move away. “Something you want to share?”
His brain is running at warp speed, full of memories that he shoved away and locked down years ago, memories that barely feel real under the gloss of the cover story he’s been living for five years. He doesn’t really know where to start.
“Agent Mitchell’s initials,” Weir says, and John nods automatically. “Major –“
“I need to talk to Colonel O’Neill,” John says, and swallows down the urge to say I know who did this, because even this situation is no excuse for sounding like a soap opera heroine.
*
John digs his cell out again while Weir goes to call up some transport. He shouldn’t be doing this, not really, but they’ll get the call soon anyway, and he needs to *do* something.
Teyla sounds out of breath when she answers, like she’s been laughing hard at something, and John chokes on what he needs to say. “Hello?” she says again, sobering. “John, are you there?”
“Yeah,” John says. He leans against the wall and closes his eyes. “Yeah. Listen, where are you?”
“Halling and I have taken Jinto to the park,” she says. The unit’s still on stand down, between Ronon’s injury and the R&R time owed to them, and Teyla’s been making the most of it. “I assume you are not calling because you wish to join us.”
“No, I’m not. You need to get somewhere safe – you’ll be getting a call soon, but Rodney was shot this morning. I don’t know, but I think – he wrote PP on the windshield.”
“The Pegasus Project,” Teyla says quietly.
“Yeah,” John agrees. His head hurts and he feels exhausted, so, so ready to wake up from this nightmare and be back in bed with Rodney this morning. “I think we missed someone.”
*
He’d been back in the county for two weeks, just, when the call came from his CO: terrorist group down in South America planning a cross-country campaign of bombings throughout South America and the States, and they’d just gotten themselves a new leader to coordinate it.
“Cut off the head and the snake dies?” John said, staring at the picture of Kolya, new military leader of the Genii.
“Exactly,” Caldwell said. ”I want you to lead a three man team down there to get it done.”
“Three person,” John corrected absently, thinking of Teyla and Ronon, who’d been with Special Forces nearly as long as he had, the three of them working like they’d been designed to fit together as a team.
“If you must,” Caldwell said resignedly.
*
Teyla promises to call Ronon, sends her good wishes for Rodney and for John, and hangs up so John can go talk to the hospital staff again.
“It’s a complex procedure,” the nurse tells him apologetically. “It’s hard to say when the surgeon will be finished.” She takes John’s card anyway and promises to call when they know something.
John’s itching to get back to the Pentagon, to fix this thing he didn’t even know was broken, pulling up memories he’d forgotten he had, everything looking different in the new light this has given the mission, but at the same time… At the same time, Rodney is in surgery, with two bullets in him, and there’s a very real possibility that John’s already said goodbye to him without even realizing and he wants to be *here*. In case Rodney wakes up, in case he doesn’t, in case someone has to make a decision. He just doesn’t want Rodney to be alone, even if Rodney’s drugged into unconsciousness and doesn’t *know* he’s alone.
The problem is, the army’s been the most important thing in his life for years, sometimes because he’s wanted it to be and sometimes because it had to be, and this time it’s the latter, however much he wants to stay.
He pulls his cell out again and calls the Pentagon switchboard, trying to remember the name of the one guy Rodney hadn’t blasted as being completely incompetent. He’s a little surprised that no-one from Rodney’s department has shown up, but he assumes they’re busy investigating the case from their side – the CIA being, in John’s limited experience, incredibly mistrustful of the FBI and their ability to run an investigation.
“Hello?” says a voice in his ear patiently, like it’s not the first time she’s said it. “Can I direct your call?”
“Yeah. Dr Zelenka, please, in current intelligence.”
“One moment.”
There’s a brief silence as he’s put on hold, then the line rings twice before someone lifts the phone. “Current intelligence.”
“Hi,” John says, a little surprised to hear a woman’s voice. “I was trying to get hold of Dr Zelenka.”
There’s a pause, then the woman says, “He’s not here right now. Can I take a message?”
Rodney’s always mocked John’s intuition, calling it his spidey-sense until John started mocking him in return for quoting Buffy the Vampire Slayer at him, but he’s rarely wrong when he gets a bad feeling, so he pushes this one. “Do you have his cell? I really need to speak with him, I’m a friend of Rodney McKay’s.”
“Um…” she says.
“I work in the E Ring,” John adds. “My name’s Sheppard. Major John –“
“Oh,” she says brightly, her voice sharp with something that might be relief. John hates having his bad feelings confirmed. “Rodney’s room-mate. Do you – is there any news?”
“He’s still in surgery,” John says. “They won’t know anything for a while. Listen, I’m sorry, but I’m kind of in a hurry, so if you could –“
“Radek’s cell number, right.” She hesitates again, then carries on in a whispered rush. “Radek’s been suspended. Director Oberoth authorized it, he said Radek was passing intelligence to someone in the Czech Republic, but Radek’s not like that – he wouldn’t. Rodney was furious, he wanted Radek to take it further until the Director spoke to him, and then he just dropped it.”
CIA staff are notorious for being paranoid conspiracy theorists, and John should know, living with Rodney, but this is a different kind of paranoia. “Why are you telling me this?”
Her voice drops even further, till John’s straining to hear her. “This was a couple of weeks ago, and now Rodney’s been shot. Staff in this office don’t get suspended, they don’t get shot, and now all this in the last couple of weeks; it’s more than a coincidence.”
John should have just let her take a message for Zelenka and left it alone; even knowing that some of it’s probably paranoia and shock from what happened, the words almost make sense, almost fit into what’s already in his head. He just needs time to shake them into place, and time’s the one thing he doesn’t have. He never does when he needs it, only when he doesn’t want it, and he can see Weir coming towards him again.
“Okay,” he says. “I don’t know what I can do with that information, but thanks for telling me.” He hesitates, then decides he’s being an idiot and asks. “I really do need Dr Zelenka’s cell if you have it.”
“Right,” she says, back to normal volume, and rattles off a number just as Weir joins him.
*
He doesn’t have time to call Zelenka – it’s not, now, a conversation he can have in the car with Weir, and Ford’s waiting for them on the other side of security. “Any news, sir?” he asks, nodding at Weir.
“It’s still too soon to tell, Lieutenant,” Weir says smoothly. “But the hospital staff are optimistic.”
“Great,” Ford says, genuinely relieved, even though John’s pretty sure he and Rodney have never met. “Colonel O’Neill’s waiting for you, sir, ma’am.”
John forcibly shuts down the part of his brain that’s trying to figure out how Zelenka fits into all this, as he follows Ford; he’s sure he’s going to need every available brain cell for this.
*
“So, Major,” O’Neill says when he, John and Weir, who seems to have appointed herself as John’s unofficial counsel while John wasn’t looking, are settled in another of the E Ring’s endless stream of glass-walled offices. “Why don’t you tell us about the Pegasus Project?”
*
They needed a way to get close to Kolya, which wasn’t going to be easy. He wasn’t interested in women, or men, he didn’t drink or do drugs or gamble. He didn’t appear to go out, or enjoy sports, or patronize any particular restaurant. The only thing he did do was hand-to-hand combat, and even that he practiced in his private apartments, with a trainer he’d known for years. They weren’t getting in that way, even with Teyla’s and Ronon’s skills combined.
“Doesn’t the man have any interests?” John groaned a week into mission prep, tossing his pen down in frustration.
“Blowing people up,” Ronon offered from across the table. He still had the dreads he’d grown on their last mission, though how he was getting away with it with Caldwell, John didn’t choose to speculate. They worked though – people remembered the hair and forgot the face under it.
“Other than –“ John started, then thought about it. “Actually, you know, that might just work.”
*
Except that Kolya was using some kind of new weapon that even the military hadn’t gotten their hands on, something his people had developed to be a bit like a nuclear warhead while simultaneously completely unlike it. Officers who knew how to build one weren’t exactly thick on the ground, and between the ones who didn’t even know enough to sound convincing to John and his team, and the ones who’d spent so little time in the field that they fell apart when Ronon looked directly at them, they rattled through – and rejected – the available candidates in record time, leaving John to go begging to Caldwell.
Always a fun experience.
*
“We couldn’t find what we needed in the military,” John tells Weir and O’Neill, looking out at the cubicle farm. He can’t sit still, even the glass walls of the office too close, trapping him. “But Caldwell agreed to us recruiting among the other agencies.”
“Including the CIA,” O’Neill says.
John sighs and keeps his back turned. It’s rude, but he doesn’t think O’Neill’s going to object. “Yes, sir.”
*
Rodney wasn’t particularly high on their list – PhD in physics, continued interest in weaponry and how it worked, several articles on leading developments, but also mostly office based these days. He announced his arrival with a horrified, “My God, please tell me that thing isn’t the real McCoy,” that made John revise his position severely downward, then followed it up with, “Because you three clearly can’t be trusted not to set it off by accident, honestly, I did a better job building one when I was in sixth grade. Science fair,” he added, apparently off the deer-in-the-headlights expression John could feel on his face. “It’s actually how I got recruited to the CIA in the first place.”
“You built a nuclear bomb for your school science fair?” John asked blankly. If John could train him to think then speak, rather than blurting out whatever came into his head, this guy had the arrogance to pull it off. Maybe.
“Non-working model,” Rodney said dismissively. He turned to the three of them, hands on his hips, and demanded, “So? Am I in, or do you want to waste some more of my valuable time first?”
John looked at Ronon and Teyla, reading the answers on their faces. Even if Rodney hadn’t been the closest they’d got yet to a good choice, they were getting desperate, every day without a suitable inside man another day closer to Caldwell pulling the plug on their involvement in the whole thing.
“You’re in,” he told Rodney.
*
“I wasn’t aware that Rodney was field trained,” Weir comments.
John shrugs, back in his seat. “He wasn’t, really. We trained him for the mission.”
“I see,” Weir says. “And what happened when you went to South America?”
John takes a deep breath of relief that she’s letting it go, because he can’t talk about training Rodney now, about everything that happened while the four of them were holed up in isolation.
“Captain Emmagan had some experience with the Genii, some contacts that we used to get in with them, but we needed someone who could get close to Kolya. We knew he was looking for people with training to help in building his new bombs, and he wasn’t afraid of using… less than scrupulous methods to get his hands on someone.”
*
“You want me to *what*?” Rodney demanded. “You’ll get me killed. The man’s clearly a psychopath. I’ve read the files, he keeps a member of the *Wraith* on hand to persuade people to do what he wants.”
“Relax,” John said, risking a quick touch to Rodney’s shoulder when he passed close enough. Predictably, Rodney didn’t even notice. “I’m not going to let him take you, we just need to let him think we might.”
“But I still have to work for him. What if he decides I’m not working fast enough? Do you know what the Wraith do, they train their members –“
“As torturers, Rodney, I know.” John took a deep breath, not thinking about Colonel Sumner. “It’s not going to come to that. I’ll be there with you.”
Rodney blinked at him. “Oh. Oh, well, that’s different.”
*
“Things didn’t go exactly to plan,” John says. He wants to look away, but O’Neill’s holding his gaze. "Rodney was without back-up briefly and Kolya put a knife in his arm. I guess he wanted to be sure Rodney was telling the truth about wanting to join him.”
They’d almost canceled the whole thing right there; it had been Rodney, pale and still bandaged, who’d insisted he could do it. John thinks, now, that he should have stuck to his guns, said no, but the mission was important, and Rodney was bleeding at Kolya’s hands, and John was already in far too deep, with Rodney, with Kolya, to be making a clear command decision.
“But it worked, and it gave Rodney a reason to have a bodyguard with him in Kolya’s complex.”
Kolya had refused to let John into the labs where the bombs were being built, and they hadn’t been able to get a wire on Rodney. John had felt like he was going slowly crazy, hidden away for eight, twelve, fifteen hours a day. It had been a relief when they got to the objective.
“What happened?” Weir asks.
John looks away, down at his clenched hands. “We killed them.”
*
It took three weeks to set up, because Kolya monitored his lab staff pretty closely, and five minutes to activate, John pushing the button and releasing a gas that left three quarters of the Genii’s lab staff and agents dead.
Kolya didn’t even know it had happened when Ronon, Teyla and John infiltrated his apartment, shot his guards and lieutenants and followed Rodney’s earlier directions into Kolya’s inner office, where he and Rodney were peering at plans, Rodney keeping as far from Kolya as he could.
“What the –“ Kolya said, standing up, and John shot him.
Somewhere in the apartment, someone shouted. ”Got it,” Ronon said, him and Teyla peeling away, and John was moving to check on Kolya when Ronon shouted and a gun went off.
“Get his picture,” John said quickly, tossing over his camera without waiting to see if Rodney caught it.
Two minutes later, Teyla leaning on Ronon and bleeding from her thigh, John grabbed Rodney’s arm, shoving him out. “You got it?” he asked. “He’s dead?”
“Yeah,” Rodney said, staring at Teyla with wide-eyed horror and stumbling over his own feet. “Yes, yeah, of course.”
*
“You think this is revenge for what you did to Kolya?” Weir asks.
John shakes his head, but O’Neill answers. “He thinks it was Kolya.”
*
John calls Zelenka because he has nothing else to do: Weir’s gone to talk to someone she knows about getting her hands on the Pegasus Project files without days of red tape, O’Neill’s making calls to his own contacts, trying to find out if Kolya might still be alive, and John’s been informed in no uncertain terms that he’ll be focusing all his attention on this until it’s resolved. Ronon and Teyla are being summoned to contribute to a fuller debrief, and John… has nothing to do but worry. So he’s calling Zelenka.
“Hello?”
“Hi, Dr Zelenka? My name’s John Sheppard, I –“
“Are you calling from the Pentagon?” Zelenka asks quickly. “From a Pentagon phone?”
“Dr Zelenka, I’ve worked Special Ops for most of my career,” John tells him. He’s standing by a coffee cart down the street from the Pentagon, too many people for anyone to overhear, running up his own cell bill. “I’ve picked up a couple of things along the way.”
“Forgive me for wishing to use caution when I am under suspicion from my own employers,” Zelenka says sharply. “What can I do for you – Major, yes?”
“Yes,” John says. Apparently Rodney really has been talking about him, which makes even less sense than usual, given Rodney’s paranoia about them being caught. “Listen, I don’t know if you’ve heard, but –”
“Rodney has been shot,” Zelenka finishes. “I hope you are not calling to say there is worse news.”
John looks at his watch, then pulls out his government issue cell and checks for missed calls. Nothing. “No, I thought – he’s mentioned you, maybe you could, you know. Be there. At the hospital.”
There’s a long pause, then Zelenka sighs. “I see. No, Major, that is impossible.”
“Ah, come on,” John wheedles. He’s charmed suicide bombers – well, one suicide bomber – he can handle one CIA agent. “I know you’re on the out with the Agency right now, but they can’t punish you for visiting McKay.”
“It is not myself I worry about,” Zelenka says. “It is Rodney. There will be many people at the hospital and very little is secret.”
“Okay, what the hell’s going on over there?” John asks. “Because between you and the woman I spoke to, I’m starting to think that McKay wasn’t telling me jackshit.”
“He was attempting to protect you,” Zelenka says. “I am sorry Major, I must go.”
The line disconnects and John really, really wishes he had a coffee cup to throw. He’s good with mission plans, he’s not good with the intricacies of the kind of politics the CIA plays. He’s sure it all fits together – Rodney’s desperation about keeping them secret, his occasional blind dates with friends of his colleagues, Rodney going to the director when Zelenka was suspended, then dropping it and never mentioning it to John, Rodney being shot, even what happened with Kolya – but John can’t see how. If it was Kolya who shot Rodney, there’s no reason for Director Oberoth to be involved, and if it wasn’t him, there’s no reason for Rodney to have written PP on his windshield.
John rubs at his aching head and goes back inside.
*
Ford’s waiting for him at security again, and falls into step with John, silently handing over a take-out coffee that John inhales gratefully. It probably won’t do much for his headache, but at least the caffeine might jolt his brain into working again.
“The hospital called,” Ford says as they step in the elevator. ”Dr McKay’s out of surgery and in recovery. He’s not expected to wake up for a while, but the nurse said you could go visit.” He puts a hand out before John can reach for the elevator buttons and escape. It’s the first piece of good news he’s had in what feels like weeks. “The Colonel wants to see you first,” Ford says apologetically, and John braces himself for more bad news.
*
Rightly, as it turns out, because Weir hasn’t been able to find the Pegasus Project file. Or rather, she knows where it is, she just can’t access it, because Director Oberoth requested it two weeks ago, citing Rodney’s upcoming performance evaluation as the reason, which means he knows about Kolya, from the file if not before, and John has to outline the strange events at the CIA for O’Neill and Weir, so it’s been a couple of hours since they called when John finally gets to the hospital.
Where he’s politely but firmly informed that, since he’s neither a relation nor Rodney’s next of kin, he can’t see Rodney.
“I don’t understand,” he says stupidly. “You just called to say he was out of surgery and I could stop by.”
“I’m sorry, sir,” the nurse says again. “That shouldn’t have happened.”
John pulls off his ID badge and holds it out to her. “I’m Major John Sheppard, I was here all morning. I work in the Pentagon, I’m staying with Rodney. We’ve known each other for years. I don’t understand what the problem is.”
“I’m sorry,” the nurse says again, refusing to take his badge. She does seem genuinely sorry, but John’s past caring. He just wants to see Rodney in one piece, breathing. “But we’ve been given strict instructions, since Dr McKay’s involved in matters of national security.”
John wishes, just for a second, that he had Rodney’s ability to rant and rave without thought for the possible consequences, because then he could demand to see Rodney, point out that he probably has higher security clearance than Rodney does, that he’s the senior aide to the director of Special Operations and it’s not like he can’t get one of the Joint Chiefs to verify his identity if they’re going to get into that.
Unfortunately, that’s been Rodney’s role in their friendship since they met and John can’t take it on at this late stage, particularly when Rodney’s lying in a hospital bed.
“Thanks for your time,” he says, reattaching his ID, which, not that the nurse looked, states clearly that he works in the *Pentagon*. He gives her a polite smile, with just a hint of I’m-a-trained-Special-Forces-black-ops-killer, and executes the kind of about face departure (minus the salute) that would have made Caldwell weep.
*
He gets the cab to drop him a block from the Pentagon and walks the rest of the way back, trying to put it all together in his head, trying to make *something* make sense. It’s gotten dark at some point, but the numbers on his watch have lost all meaning. He feels like the day’s gone on forever, like climbing out of Rodney’s warm bed this morning was a lifetime ago, and he’s so, so ready for today to end, because, please God, tomorrow can’t possibly be any worse. Also, it’s gotten cold along with dark and he appears to have left his uniform jacket somewhere, since he’s only in his shirt sleeves now and is freezing.
He’s walking up the front steps to the Pentagon, no closer to having figured anything out – except that his jacket is probably in O’Neill’s office, since he was wearing it when he went out to talk to Zelenka – when a familiar voice says, “Sheppard.”
Teyla and Ronon are both in uniform, both wearing coats and scarves and gloves, looking ready for whatever’s about to happen to them even though they’re unarmed, and John’s never been more grateful to see anyone in his entire life.
“God, am I glad to see you guys,” he says. Teyla blinks at him, a moment of surprise showing under her constant calm, and John realizes it’s probably the most explicit expression of how much he cares for them that he’s ever made. She rallies though, because she’s Teyla, and doesn’t say anything, because she knows him, just rests her hands on his shoulders and touches her forehead to his, another little piece of her father’s home that she’s kept and gotten them used to.
Ronon gives John a quick, back-slapping hug, pulling away before John can respond, and then they’re both standing with him, filling up the space was barely aware of, and he just feels *better*.
“You guys come to meet with O’Neill?” he asks.
“We have,” Teyla says. “He was – most insistent – that we present ourselves here as soon as reasonably possible.”
“Yeah, that sounds like O’Neill,” John agrees. They’re starting to get looked at by the guard, so he heads up the steps, trusting them to follow.
“You really think Kolya’s still alive?” Ronon asks. He’s cut the dreads off, John realizes abruptly, and his hair’s still slightly curled. It’s also longer than regulation, but so is John’s, and they’ve really got more important things to worry about.
There’s a familiar face waiting on the other side of security. “You know, Lieutenant, I can find my way round the building without an escort,” John tells Ford. He’s only gotten lost once in the last week, and the Pentagon does have seventeen miles of corridors.
“Yes, sir,” Ford says. He doesn’t give the expected smile, and now John’s paying attention, he looks awkward – nervous. John's stomach drops and he feels like someone’s just dumped a bucket of ice on his head. This can’t, can’t be happening, not when he was just there –
“Major?” Teyla says, slipping into the formality like she always does around other service personnel.
John takes a deep breath and tells himself to get it over with, but it doesn’t help – he can’t hear this in the middle of the entryway, surrounded by people who can’t know.
“Did something happen to McKay?” Ronon asks abruptly. John looks over, but Ronon’s looking at Ford, not him, has John’s back, like always.
“No,” Ford says quickly. “Or, not that I’ve heard, that’s not why -. Sir, this isn’t about that.”
It’s probably too much to hope, through the light-headed fog of relief, that it’s about something related to his actual, current job, a mission that’s suddenly become top priority, but John hopes anyway.
“Dr Weir asked me to catch you on your way in, sir. She’s gone to fetch Colonel O’Neill, she’s got a room for a meeting, if you want to come with me.”
“For the debrief, now Sergeant Dex and Captain Emmagan are here?” John asks. He knows that’s not what Ford means, when they’ve already arranged that, but he’s got the same feeling of spiraling helplessly to his doom that he had when he went after Holland, and he’ll do anything to put off being proved right.
“I don’t think so, sir.” Ford offers a shadow of his usual grin to the rest of John’s team. “Dr Weir asked for you both to wait in one of the debrief rooms, I can show you the way.”
“Rather stay with Sheppard,” Ronon says, and Teyla nods, which just confirms that John’s feeling of doom is right. At least it’s not Rodney, unless it is and they just don’t know yet.
“I think Colonel O’Neill does want to debrief with you –” Ford starts uncertainly, and John remembers what it’s like to be caught between two sets of orders. Not that it stopped him from occasionally putting other people in that position, either by accident or by design, but he tries not to.
“Go on,” he says to Teyla and Ronon. “It’s probably some dull bit of paperwork anyway.” He can tell from their faces that they know he doesn’t believe himself. “I’ll see you later.”
“If you are certain,” Teyla says, like she’d really be able to do anything if O’Neill insisted.
“Go.” John reaches out to pat her shoulder awkwardly. “I’ll be fine.”
Ford gives John a grateful, worried smile. “Meeting Room 47, sir, down that corridor and turn right.” He waits for John’s nod, then turns to Ronon and Teyla. “This way, please.”
Meeting Room 47, like a lot of their meeting rooms, doesn’t have any windows beyond the small slot in the door. It’s not meant to be used as an interrogation room, but it could be easily enough: take down the Air Force recruitment poster that John sits with his back to, swap out the meeting table and reasonably comfortable chairs for something in gun metal gray, and John could be waiting for pliers to his fingernails.
*
“I need my hands,” Rodney said, reading through John’s file on the member of the Wraith that Kolya’s Genii had working with them. “I need my hands, and my brain. I can’t be permanently damaged.”
“I won’t let anyone damage you,” John promised. He put down his gun on the table he was sat on and held out a hand for Rodney to come closer so John could catch his hand and hold it till Rodney met his eye. “I won’t let anyone damage you,” he said again, and Rodney nodded.
*
“Major Sheppard,” Weir says, preceding O’Neill into the room. “Sorry to have kept you waiting.”
She looks pissed in the way John’s seen military wives look pissed, all icy politeness painted over rage. O’Neill, on the other hand, looks pissed in the way John’s used to, like he wants someone to shoot and it’s made worse by the lack of same.
Weir sits opposite John and places a manila envelope on the table. After a moment, O’Neill sits next to her. “Major, I’m sorry, and there’s no easy way to break this to you, but you’re being temporarily suspended from duty.”
“I – what?” John says stupidly. He understands the words, it’s just that no-one’s ever said them to him before, even with some of the stupid shit he’s done during his career. “Why?”
“I’m sure this will all get sorted out as soon as things calm down,” Weir says, obviously trying to be soothing, tapping one finger lightly on the envelope. John wants to rip it from her hands. “I’m sure it’s a mistake that will be rectified –“
“Someone’s made an accusation against you under Don’t Ask Don’t Tell,” O’Neill says suddenly.
Rodney knew this was coming, John thinks, feeling his face get hot. Hence the paranoia, hence the occasional date. Whoever is doing this, Rodney knew they could, that there was something that would trigger them to do it. If John wasn’t already too numb to really feel anything else, he’d be pretty angry at Rodney for knowing this was an imminent, real threat and not warning him.
“I see,” he says.
“We’ll sort this out,” O’Neill says, sliding over the envelope. “But you need to stay clear until we do.”
“Sure,” John says. He thinks, decides to risk it. “Do I get to know who made the allegation?”
Weir looks away, but O’Neill holds Johns gaze. “Funny that it’s happening now, right when you’re stirring up trouble for the Director of the CIA,” he says blandly, and John feels sick, because if any of the nebulous suspicions in the CIA are true, he’s fucking lucky that the only thing of his that’s being threatened is his career.
“Major, I’m sorry, but I’m going to need your ID, your government credit card and your passport,” Weir says carefully.
“Right,” John says, and twenty minutes later, he’s walking out of the Pentagon, suspended pending an investigation that will probably get him dishonorably discharged, with Rodney in the hospital and a terrorist they thought was dead running around the country.
The worst part is, John’s been waiting for this his entire career, even when he was married, even when he was with a woman, because he’s in an army that doesn’t believe in shades of gray, that sees bisexual as synonymous with gay, and he’s always known this could happen. He decided early on that if anyone asked him outright, before Don’t Ask Don’t Tell meant they couldn’t, he wouldn’t lie, and in that respect it worked for him, because people didn’t ask and he didn’t have to lie. The ones who knew talked to him without saying anything, and it worked.
It won’t work like that if this goes to a hearing, and when they ask, John won’t be able to lie.
Somewhere, a clock starts chiming midnight, and John heads for Rodney’s apartment, even knowing it’s a bad idea, because right now he still lives there and it’s as good a place as any to wait and hope the new day brings something better.
*
There’s evidence of the crime scene team that must have been through the apartment, when John gets there, but it’s not as messed up as he would have expected. Some of Rodney’s things are gone: files, one of his laptops, the lockbox that even John doesn’t have access to, but John could believe without difficulty that Rodney’s just gone away for a couple of days.
*
“I could go in late,” John offered, sitting on the edge of the bed, already in his uniform, dark giving way to day outside the window.
“No you couldn’t,” Rodney said. “Who’ll protect the world from O’Neill’s flights of fantasy otherwise?”
“Ford?” John suggested.
“Oh please. He probably only joined the Marines so he could have a good excuse to blow things up.”
“Thought you’d never met him,” John joked.
*
He’s got Rodney’s address book in his hands when the memory fades out – weird that the FBI didn’t take it, but maybe they figured the data would be on Rodney’s laptop – and he only needs a moment to find Jeannie’s phone number.
The line rings for a long time, long enough that he’s ready to hang up when a sleepy female voice says, ”It’s the middle of the night, what do you want?”
It’s too late for John to hang up, so he says, “Jeannie McKay?”
“Miller,” she corrects, her voice sharp with suspicion, and John does not want to do this, was hoping the FBI would have already done it for him.
“You don’t know me, my name’s John Sheppard –“
“Mer’s friend,” Jeannie says, then, “Oh God, what’s happened?”
There’s a script for this, John’s used it before, but he might as well never have seen it, because he can’t remember a single word. “It’s all right, he’s been injured, but he’s not –. He’s in the hospital, it’s bad, but he’s not –” And he has to stop, because he feels like he can’t breathe.
“What the hell’s my big brother doing in the hospital?” Jeannie demands. There’s a noise in the background – her husband waking up, maybe – and John’s grateful she’s not on her own.
“He was shot at,” John says. “I can’t tell you more than that, I’m sorry.”
“Oh God, I knew working for the CIA would lead to something like this,” Jeannie says, but she clearly recovers from panic a lot faster than her brother. “All right, tell me which hospital.”
John does, then feels compelled to add, “I won’t be there.”
There’s a moment’s pause. “I suppose you’re busy with the investigation.”
“Not exactly,” John says. He’s too tired to explain all of what’s happened, especially to this person he’s never met. “I’m not next of kin, I’m not allowed to see him.”
“Oh for…” Jeannie says, exasperated. “Why did Mer have to go work for such a backwards country, I’ll never know…”
Which is a little close for comfort in a number of ways. “Okay, just – call when you get your flight, I’ll try to pick you up.”
“Thank you,” Jeannie says, then, softly, “He will be all right, won’t he?”
John wants, really badly, to lie, but he can’t, not to Rodney’s sister, who seems nice and clearly loves him. ”I don’t know,” he says, and hangs up before she can say anything else.
*
He doesn’t remember falling asleep, but he must have, because he’s waking up on the couch with a stiff neck and too-bright daylight in his eyes and someone’s leaning on the intercom, the buzzing like a chainsaw right in his ear.
He discovers, when he stands up, that his left foot has gone numb, so he crashes into the door gracelessly, wincing at the explosion of pins and needles. “Hello?”
“Good morning, Major,” O’Neill’s voice says brightly. “I know it’s early, but perhaps you could trouble yourself to let me up before the friendly gardener across the street reports me for loitering.”
John remembers being eyed by the guy when he first came back, and buzzes the door open hastily. It won’t take O’Neill long enough to get up to the apartment for John to do anything about the crumpled uniform he’s still wearing, or his morning breath, but he rakes his hand through his hair in the vague hope that it will make a difference this time, though it never has before.
O’Neill, of course, looks perfectly presented as always, even though he’s probably had less sleep than John. “Major,” he says, sliding past John and into the apartment, where he places a briefcase on the coffee table and turns to watch John close the door. “Any news on Dr McKay?”
“Not that I’ve heard,” John says. He doesn’t have much hope for his chances of getting anything until Jeannie arrives, but he’ll ring the hospital when O’Neill leaves.
O’Neill nods. “I’ll get Dr Weir to call them up. Pretty sure they won’t say no to her.”
“Thank you, sir.” John’s still feeling half-asleep, so he leans his shoulder against the door to wait for O’Neill to explain why he’s here.
“So,” O’Neill says, looking round the apartment. ”Dr Weir’s working on your other problem, which I’d just as soon not discuss with you.” John nods – everyone’s heard the rumors about O’Neill, who divorced his wife years ago and hasn’t been seriously involved with a woman since. “But I think it would be best for you to be out of town while we hash it out.”
John opens his mouth to protest, to argue that even if he can’t see Rodney, he can’t leave while Rodney’s still – but O’Neill opens his briefcase and takes out a familiar passport. “Obviously, I can’t send you on a mission right now, but Dex and Emmagan have agreed to take a quick trip down to Mexico to pick up some intelligence from an on-going mission.” He holds out the passport, not quite far enough for John to take it without moving. “The three of you have been together for years, it would be odd for you to not see each other if they happened to be in the same place you were taking a couple of days R&R, waiting for things to calm down. Since you and Dr McKay are just friends, and there’s no point in you hanging around when you can’t see him.”
O’Neill’s trying to help him, and John has no idea why that makes his chest hurt. It’s not like he doesn’t already know that O’Neill’s different from every other CO he’s ever had, but not like this, not helping him break the rules and get the revenge he still wants after all these years.
“Did I mention that we’ve received photographs of someone who looks a lot like Kolya, crossing the border back into Mexico?” O’Neill asks idly. He’s still holding out the passport. “Only Dex and Emmagan are hoping to link up with the CIA agent south of the border who’s been investigating a group he thinks might be an off-shoot of the Genii, and I wouldn’t want you to get a nasty surprise.”
“I, er – no, sir, you didn’t,” John says stupidly.
O’Neill shrugs. “Well, busy week and all. Lots of responsibilities.”
“Yes, sir.” John reaches out for the passport, but O’Neill holds onto it.
“I'm trusting you to do the right thing,” he says seriously. “You’re finishing up an old mission, not getting revenge for what he did to your friend. Major, is this sinking in? Dr Weir’s going to get this suspension nonsense straightened out, and I want you back here when it’s lifted.”
“Yes, sir,” John says again, not sure if he means, yes, he’s listening, or, yes, he’ll do it right and come back. Judging from the pause before O’Neill lets go of the passport, he’s not sure either. He lets John take it though, and drops a manila folder on the table. “I shouldn’t have these,” he says casually. “And I certainly shouldn’t be letting you have them. So if you must get yourself killed down there, try not to do it while you’re carrying any of this ID with you.”
“I’ll try,” John promises. The passport’s due to expire at the end of the year, his face and someone else’s name, the man who hired on as security for a physics lab with a government contract, then went with their lead scientist when he defected. The man he left behind when he got back from Mexico and shipped out for Bosnia again.
“See that you do,” O’Neill says. “Place ticket’s in there. Don’t miss the flight.”
“No, sir,” John says, still looking down at his old picture. He had longer hair then, and doesn’t look exactly like himself. “Thank you,” he adds, even as O’Neill waves it off.
“I’m serious about having you back,” he says, letting himself out, and John’s glad that he doesn’t linger over saying goodbye, because that’s what finally makes his vision swim, and he’s definitely not ready to break down in front of his CO.
*
John should have pulled the mission, and the worst part was that he knew. The moment he realized the buzz of electricity between him and Rodney wasn’t just friendship and the connection of finding someone he clicked with, the way he had with Teyla and Ronon, he should have gone to Caldwell and asked them to take Rodney off the mission. Except that asking for Rodney to be removed from the mission would have put a huge dampener on Rodney’s career and John wasn’t prepared to do that because of his own feelings. He could have taken himself off the mission – Caldwell would have let him, eventually – but he didn’t know how to explain, couldn’t come up with a reasonable sounding excuse and couldn’t tell the truth.
Plus, that was after Kolya had stuck a knife in Rodney, sent him back to them bleeding and in shock, and if John was honest with himself, he didn’t want to be taken off the mission. He wanted to make Kolya pay for what he’d done, so he convinced himself it would all be fine, that he could put his feelings away and be only as concerned about Rodney as he was about Ronon and Teyla.
He couldn’t.
Teaching Rodney to fire a gun, to take a punch, to deflect questions and give answers that gave away just enough and no more, to talk, walk, act, sleep like the guy he was supposed to be and not the guy he was, all of it meant too much time with Rodney, too much time allaying Rodney’s fears, just the two of them, too much time to absorb the way Rodney looked, sounded, smelled, felt, to wonder what he’d taste like if John kissed him, licked his neck, opened his pants and put his mouth on Rodney’s cock… Too much time for Rodney to notice and make a decision and lean over the table as John was cleaning his weapon, and kiss him.
John’s always associated Rodney McKay with gun oil since then, which has led to some truly weird moments.
It didn’t go beyond a kiss – John wasn’t so far gone as that – but everyone knew, and Teyla suggested, gently, that he might ask to be replaced for this mission. She didn’t look convinced when John said he could handle it, but she didn’t push, and John convinced himself.
Which, as it turns out, might have been a mistake.
*
Part 3
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> Unnamed CIA agent was short twice this morning
I've occasionally thought of Rodney as pudgy, but never short.
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