"Rodney, you're cheatin'!" Carson exclaims. I can barely make out the words through the booze and the accent.

"I am not . . ." It's not my fault that I'm actually calculating the percentage likelihood that a certain card will come up and the rest of these cretins are not. I suppose drinking games are the only kind you play with the discards left face-up...this would not stand in Vegas. "Besides, you're too drunk to tell."

"Drunk? My people do not get drunk, lad! We are know for our . . ." He pauses to burp. ". . . intolerance...er...tolerance. And I'm a doctor...I could cut you open and do a triple bypass like this!" I can't help but shudder. I don't think Carson could even find the scalpel without cutting himself in the state he's in now, let alone cut anybody else open. "And I know every single muscle used for swallowing, and you are definitely not using yours." Well, I guess I am cheating in that sense...but my drink is pure...whatever John and Teyla's homemade still managed to produce is called. It's not my fault I'm allergic to citrus products, either. No alien 'screwdrivers' for me...though it's not with vodka, so it's technically not a screwdriver...Ford wanted to name it a 'sloshing stargate,' but, thankfully, John stopped him.

"I'm hypoglycemic, I have to watch my sugar intake," I huff indignantly.

"Doctor." He points to himself, as though that will explain it. I'm a Doctor too, damn it!

"Well...I am. It's in my medical file."

"If they spell that H-Y-P-O-C-O-N-D-R...R...D...where was I?...however they spell bloody hypochondriac."

"I take umbrage at that." Okay, so when I'm inebriated I like to use big words...and chatter...with a good deal of loquacity, might I add. . . that's why I make a point not to drink...inordinate amounts, that is. It's a liability. Who knows what deep dark secrets I'll let slip out?

But I'm drinking anyway...because John asked me too, with that small mischievous smile I normally see pass between him and Ford...the one I used to dream he would turn on me. So we're sitting around a card table drinking some of John and Teyla's high quality moonshine. I feel like I'm in college again, boozing to look cool...and maybe a little to watch all the other idiots careening around like excited particles...chaos theory in action.

"Take all the umbrage you want, it's true." He makes it sound almost like a threat...I'll label Carson a belligerent drunk. It's strange. I would have expected the same out of John, but he's actually extraordinarily quiet, for him. He keeps letting his gaze float off into the right corner or the room, despite the fact that there doesn't appear to be anything there. Ordinarily, I would find the brooding pout very attractive...like most of John's expressions. In fact, John is absolutely adorable if he just keeps his mouth shut...then stuff comes out of it, and it's a shock. Like one of my white Rastafarian friends used to say, 'why is that teddy bear talking smack?' only he wasn't speaking metaphorically...I probably never should have told him I knew how to manufacture LSD . . .

Luckily, I'm still sober enough to know not to further provoke the beat-red Scotsman, so I sigh and say, "Fine." I don't think Carson catches the eye roll.

"That's better...now, as 'unishment, I think you should drink the rest of that in one shot." I look down at my still half-full tumbler skeptically. "Agree, Major?"

"I do not believe that is fair," Teyla says evenly. She's had just about as much as John (never having played any type of card game before can be disadvantageous in situations like these) but she doesn't seem affected at all. Damn Althosian alcohol tolerance. I wish I had that. At least she's siding with me. Even drunk, Beckett must know that she can kick his ass to next Tuesday...though I suppose we don't even have Tuesdays here...though the week system, unlike the idea of months (being based in the moon cycle...moon-th, get it?) aren't really necessary at all, besides the stupid Christian idea that you shouldn't have to work on the seventh day. I liked Napoleon's ten-day calendar much better (greater work to off-days ratio). If the situation is dire enough...you should have to work every waking moment.

I've got an entire Atlantean calendar figured out by the time Carson realizes that it was Teyla who spoke and turns to face her, blinking as though wondering what she's doing here. "S'not asking you."

"I think my opinion is as valid as the major's, if not more. I am the only one who is not already...incapacitated." Thank you, Teyla. I really don't want to drink this...I can feel my blood sugar bouncing all over the place as we speak. Bouncing...now there's an interesting word...

John's head snaps back to attention at that. "I'm not incapacitated!" Yes, the man can detect an attack on his honor a mile away...flying at night.


Teyla raises an eyebrow skeptically. "Yes, Major Sheppard." I know Teyla has never met a Catholic Schoolgirl - probably a blessing for her, considering the chief function of Catholic Schoolgirls seems to be to turn men -I mean pedophiles- on. I don't do the underaged thing...really...not even in fantasies...well, maybe, sometimes...where was I? Oh, yes, Catholic Schoolgirls...and Teyla's sugar-coated, 'I know this is bullshit but I'm saying it because I have a high-sucrose image of obedience to maintain in order to cover my naughty interior' look. God, she's hot.


"Good," John snaps slowly...I don't quite know how you snap slowly, but he does. I look back at him. He's still wearing the worried pout, and that banishes all lingering images of Teyla in a short pleated skirt and an almost bursting button-down top from my mind. Is it just me, or is it getting hot in here?


"I think he should drink all of it and then some," John says evilly, "and Aidan agrees with me." Of course, this is completely unfair, considering we lost Aidan to the sweet comforts of the floor several rounds ago. "Snore if you agree, buddy." Aidan snorts loudly. "Outnumbered...democracy, and all that."


"Tyranny of the majority," I mutter.


Teyla looks downright angry. Her cheeks are flushed...and she has straightened to her full height, staring John down. "If you had paused to listen to me," she growls, "You would have no need to beserb," never heard that one before, "the name of democracy, because you would know that I believe the punishment should be more severe."


"What?!" It comes out a squeak, which causes John to giggle slightly, and Teyla to shoot me a long-suffering, exasperated look out of the corner of her eye. Even Aidan shifts a little, covering his head with his hands.


A few seconds later, Carson's frame of reference arrives at the present. "What?"


If Teyla was a Terran woman, we would already be elbows deep in the black hole of a feminist rant, but she settles for giving Carson the evil eye - and hers is incredibly scary. The only one worse is my mother...though I think that's some sort of instinctual response...like that thing with goslings (I'm ashamed I even know that word) and their mothers...imprinting.


She speaks slowly, which is probably good in the Carson-verse, but its kind of tedious for the rest of the class. "My people believe cheating to be a high crime. We value honesty very highly, and liars and cheaters are treated with the respect we would treat thieves."


"You cut off their hands?!" Carson splutters, backing away from the table in alarm and nearly toppling himself over.


Teyla looks like she's about to blow a gasket. She folds her hands in her lap menacingly. "We are not barbarians, Dr. Beckett. We do not waste the lives of productive members of our society with bodily punishment. We have their crime written on their forearm in permanent color. It can be painful, but it ensures that others do not allow the criminal to repeat the offense." Public ignominy, lovely.


"Sounds like the Air Force," John grumbles petulantly, frowning in a completely pathetic way...like a puppy that's just been kicked. Normally I would have some of those disgusting dead baby jokes my friends used to tell floating through my head, but instead I reach over to put a comforting hand on his shoulder, suddenly wishing that we were the only ones there. He looks down at my hand, as though wondering what it's doing there and then looks up to meet my eyes with his unique brand of John Sheppard intensity. His gaze is magnetic, pupils drawing me in like the center of a black hole as they obscure the green corona of his irises in their lust. I can feel my cheeks flushing, glad that everyone else is flushed from the booze, so it won't be noticed.


His voice is husky when it finally comes after what seems like an eternity spent trapped in his gravitational field. I think John has just managed to slow us down to Carson-time. The side of his lip quirks up in that smug alpha-male smile of his when he speaks. "Rodney's been a very bad boy and he needs to be punished."


My cock twitches, and I resist the urge to look down and tell it to stop. What? It has a mind of it's own, why shouldn't I treat it like any other sentient being? I talk to my cat too - not about the same things, of course.


"Yes he bloody well does!" Carson bellows a moment later, punctuating his remark by collapsing face first in his pile of cards. Teyla rolls her eyes. John steals Caron's pile, trying to look stealthy and failing miserably...as though we're not paying attention.


"Now it is you who are cheating, Major Sheppard," Teyla states.


John does the cutest little-boy frown. "Am not!" Teyla looks pointedly down at his hands. He follows her gaze then looks back up challengingly. "So what if I am?


"Perhaps it would be best if we concluded for tonight." Like a good barmaid, Teyla knows when to quit and just leave the intoxicated to their intoxicatedness...is that even a word? Well, I'm not really working a full capacity, am I?

John turns away from her in a prickly huff, crossing his arms over his chest. He gaze drifts lazily over to meet mine, and a wicked grin forms on otherwise distracted features. I'm so captivated by him...the way my hazy mind blurs together his features...like the soft lines of one of those stupid paintings on church walls or something they make you study to fulfill core curriculum requirements. David, that's who John is...the idealized man...renaissance man - strong and kind and intelligent, the holy trinity as far my personal standards are concerned (And I thought I made the osmotic resistance of the barrier strong enough, so that no one could pass through). David...the one man balanced enough to beat the unbeatable giant (except Westley, but we're not counting The Princess Bride). I memorized that back when I first realized that academics were supposed to be cultured...thank god the Air Force got me out of that. Of course, I always wondered how David could be perfect with his pubic hairs all twisted in a knot like that.

I jump so high I'm not sure if I've defied the laws of gravity when someone (obviously John) gives my thigh a possessive squeeze. This time my squeak actually provokes Ford to roll over facing away from the noise. "I agree, I think it's best we get going." I stand, knocking my chair over in the process.

Teyla is quick to right it and I give Carson a harsh poke. "Mother...I don wanna feed the sheep. They're jumping over the fence," he mumbles and manages to fall on the ground when he runs out of table. "Wha?"

"We are returning you to your quarters, Dr. Beckett."

"Okay, pretty lady." He smiles wolfishly, letting Teyla drag him to his feet, grabbing her ample buttocks in the process. I jump again as John gives my arm a strong yank, almost causing me to topple over. "I thought you were going to see me home, Doctor," he nearly growls. I catch a disappointed look in Teyla's eye, but John's vice-like grip on my arm keeps me from letting the jealousy fester.

"I think I should take the major home," I choke, glad that Teyla is preoccupied with trying to keep Carson's hands from various parts of her anatomy.

"See to Lieutenant Ford as well." She instructs, dragging Beckett out the door, keeping his hands firmly restrained.

"Bye-bye Rodney, John." He grins, as Teyla pulls him along.

I look over at Ford. He's not that big of a guy...he's lean, but it's all muscle. John could probably carry him on his own under normal circumstances, but judging from the way he's swaying on his feet, I'm not sure if he can even carry himself. I think I need some leverage...or to translate it to rotational motion...a wheelbarrow? An Ancient wheelbarrow? Where would I find one of those..."I don't know how we're going to . . ."

Before I can finish my sentence, I feel rough stubble grating against my check and some foreign lungs pumping slightly deoxygenated air into my own. "Mmmmrph," I manage.

John has wrapped his arms around me, joining us at the waist. "Forget about Ford." His lips speed toward mine again, but I turn away at the last minute so our noses bump uncomfortably.

"But..."

His voice is harsh and aggressive now. "I said: 'Forget about Ford.'"

I know better than to argue. "Yes...John...I...but...we shouldn't...I mean...my back...and Teyla could...let's get you back to your room." I know John's going to pass out soon...and I don't think I can carry him. Yes, I know he's skinny, but I'm weak, okay? And I have asthma.

He goes for pouty/sexy. "Gonna put me to bed, Rodney?" He squeezes my butt possessively.

"Er...um...sure."

I sling his arm over my shoulder and lead him out into the deserted corridor. I'm hoping he'll be quiet...it would save John the embarrassment of having one of his troops see their fearless leader being lead around completely smashed by the geeky scientist he supposedly hates. And it will save me the embarrassment of him inadvertently revealing that he's in a relationship with me. I don't want them to be all sympathetic when he dumps me...I don't want anyone to know that we've been compromising the command structure for a...for a whatever-this-is. That will just confirm what they all think of me...a weak sniveling geek who will do anything to validate his sorry existence. I don't want to be that. Of course, John doesn't have anywhere near the stealth I've come to expect of him in the field.

"One pill makes you larger and the other makes you small...and the pill that mother gives you doesn't do anything at all...ask Alice, when she's ten feet tall." He doesn't seem to be able to decide whether or not he's singing or speaking it...I would be surprised if I ever heard John sing (well, 'sing' in the dictionary definition, without the sexual innuendo, that is). Depressingly, I find the throaty in-between very sexy...though I think whoever wrote the ditty must be rolling in their grave (unless it's Bob Dylan).

As though reading my thought, John responds to my blank look with a huff and an eye roll. "Jefferson Airplane, you idiot. Haven't you ever seen Platoon? Pot smoking...fraternization...Wilem Dafoe?" I don't see what a movie has to do with it... though, I admit, war movies never really seemed to sit well with my stomach.

"I am not an idiot... I am a very smart man." That was a little on the defensive side... but I am intoxicated.

"Yes, you are." I hate it when he does the sarcastic talk-down. Sometimes when we bicker, it's sexy. Other times...other times it feels too much like all those jocks that used to pick on me in school...and they were not above sexual harassment either...maybe they knew I was gay even before I did - the horrors of the public education system.

We stumble into his room. I don't know how he manages to make it to the bed without falling flat on his face, but I've always thought John was strangely coordinated. God is he hammered. His eyes aren't really focusing, and they're a bit bloodshot. I've known people to get bloodshot eyes from pot or amphetamines (I used to manufacture them too...back when I was trying to pay for my schooling... the lovely American Private Education system... just for the Harvard stamp of approval)... but alcohol?

John's kind of leaning to one side, but that doesn't stop him from leering. "You are so sexy. Come here!" He orders, actually slumping to the right. Despite how pathetic the command, I'm inclined to follow. "You are such a pretty boy, Rodney. I am going to fuck you..." He stops mid-sentence to cover my lips with his in a slobbering sloppy kiss. I don't like the taste of alcohol... and it definitely doesn't become John. I resist the urge to say 'eww' when he pulls away. Despite whatever he might think, this is not sexy.

Even when he can't seem to get his eyes to focus, John is on top of things. It's all a challenge to him. He grinds his hips against mine, using friction to stimulate what his presence alone can normally accomplish. When in doubt, always rely on physics...I thought that was my motto. He even manages to get his pants off - to my amazement. John must have done this many many a time - moves like that when you're as inebriated as he is, take practice.

"John, you're drunk. And you know what they say about alcohol and sexual performance..."

He doesn't even bother to respond, which is a sure sign that he's operating below optimum standards of snarkiness; he just snorts and attacks the sensitive place on my neck. His breath stinks of alcohol. I roll my eyes resignedly. It's not as though I'm going to tell him to stop. I've never really told him to stop...I'm too scared he might actually listen. He tugs ineffectively at my shirt, hindered by the fact that he's on top of it, finally settling for unbuckling my belt and nestling a heavy hand down in my pants. He grins and gives me another careless kiss.

Just when I'm starting to get interested -despite all my best efforts- his hand goes limp and his head lolls against my shoulder, leaving a trail of drool in its wake. His face looks scrunched up and angry, and it's only moments before he snores through his wide-open mouth. I heave a great sigh, as though he'd notice. I want to get up and brush the stench of alcohol out of my teeth...and maybe relieve my bladder before I nod off, but he's not going to budge. He's a dead weight on top of me and has gotten the deathgrip around my waist in record time. I sigh again, even more exasperated and louder this time. Usually this gets him real annoyed real fast, but he's too passed-out to care.

Resignedly, I try to retrieve my hand from beneath him. Is it just me, or is everything heavier today? Maybe a shift in the convection currents of the planet's magnetic core have somehow disturbed the mass distribution, thus making this section heavier...or maybe I'm just a bit drunk.

I slam my head back against the pillow - it's not nearly as satisfying as slamming it against the wall. "Thanks for a wonderful evening, John." He buries his head deeper in my chest in response. "You know, I don't even like drinking. Actually, you probably do know that. And I don't particularly enjoy having sex with my butt pressed up against cold pieces of alien technology that could go off at any minute and kill us all. And I hate it when you make all these snarky remarks about me and my abilities in front of the rest of the team. Most of the time I laugh it off, but would it kill you to show me the respect I deserve in front of other people just once? And you're not always right, you know. That cocky little smirk of yours is not cute." Most of the time. "And what is your problem with taking your shirt off? You've seen me completely naked, fat rolls and pubic-looking chest hair included, but the great John Sheppard's bare chest is too far above me? I don't have to take this shit from you, you know." Okay, so maybe I don't have to, but I will...because it's what I have to do to keep someone as beautiful and strong and kind with me. I run my fingers through his hair, relishing in the short flutter of it against my fingers. He doesn't even move...

He doesn't notice... he's too drunk to notice. I can't help it - my hand slides down his back over the soft fabric of the teal T-shirt that brings out the blue in his baleful green eyes. I try to deny I'm going to do what I know I'm going to do until the last minute. I know it's not right. I know that John is deeply private and mistrusting. I know that I'm breaking the little trust he has put in me of his own volition, but I can't help it. Like I said before, I'm a scientist. We make our living out of our curiosity. Curiosity is the cornerstone of progress, and without it, societies would never develop. It's the only reason we're even out here risking our lives...or, at least, the only reason I am. Who knows about John?

But what I do know is that curiosity is just a hollow justification as well. I learned long ago that people are not objects... subjects of experiments, things to be examined. But... I want to know what he's hiding, so I carefully lift up the hem of his shirt, my muscles as tense as if I were diffusing a bomb... which, incidentally, I have done, but it was too high stress a job for my health/sanity... and the CIA agreed.

The skin of his back is smooth and soft and lightly fuzzed like the tantalizing expanse of his inner thigh. But, unlike that uninterrupted plain of sun-starved white, there are valleys and craters... great lines long lines surrounded by thin rays, like centipedes crawling up his spine, their brilliant white even paler than the rest of the perpetually-covered flesh.

I always thought of sympathy as weakness. Why should I care about other people if all people really care about is themselves? What happens when you try to help people...give them welfare or whatever? You make them lazy... you know, why give a man a fish to feed himself for a day, etc. I can't afford to feel sympathy... because then I would have to acknowledge that all those trillions of people out there in the universe mean something...and all their suffering may be contingent upon my actions in the here and now - that's an infinity even a theoretical physicist can't comprehend.

But... I can't help it... maybe it's just the liquor talking, but I want nothing more than to reach out and touch him - kiss all those creepy crawly monsters away, even though I know -from personal experience- that there are some scars that nothing can ever heal, not even love, though I know better than to call this that.

"John..." My voice cracks. I can't even begin to know what to say to him - even when I know he can't hear me. No matter how much I may want to, I don't think I can relearn sympathy. I'm not a strong person. No matter how much I want to, I don't think I can heal this. I barely get by with my own problems. We're content the way things are - maybe contentedness is all we could ever ask for.

But a part of me must not want that, because my fingers reach out, almost of their own free will -first my dick now my digits, before I know it I won't be in control at all: goddamn you, John Sheppard.

His skin is unnaturally smooth, slicked with a thin film of sweat from drunken dreams. The scars rise from his back...ceremonial patterns, like those paintings on the desert floors that you can only truly see from the air. For the first time, I understand the archaeologist's search for meaning. What? When? How? For once I am concerned with a past I have not observed...when I always disregarded the past as something I could not change - just like I can't change who I am. I trace the lines, fascinated, as though I could divine a significance like a blind man questing for meaning with his fingertips.

Then this entranced serenity is interrupted by a flurry of motion. The calm surface of skin twitches beneath my fingers, then he's spinning around and I see a flash of clenched fist and feel a crushing pain in my left eye. I fall off the bed, clutching the damaged organ. "Owwww!" Okay, that wasn't the most dignified of squeals, but he hit me! "You fucking bastard...you know these aren't just eyes...I had this surgery when I was younger...I was blind for like a summer...do you know how bad that is for self esteem? And I need to be able to see to do useful things...like, oh say, bail your sorry ass out of trouble... and defend myself... and I thought ..." he's never shown any form of violence before. I have never seen myself as someone who could be abused... "You bastard."

I feel like someone's trying to pop my eye out from the inside with the swelling that's already started. "Jesus Christ, I'm ..." I know I should say that I won't be in this kind of relationship... I might be willing to be the weak one, but this is too much. But I can't bring myself to say it.

And I'm glad I don't, because when the tears of pain have finally cleared from my good eye and look up to find the proud John Sheppard huddled in the corner with his arms wrapped defensively around himself, clasping his shirt down around his waist.

"John?" His eyes have that far-away look again, and he's shaking almost imperceptibly, like a 1.2 on the Richter scale. I crawl over to him, too strung-out to stand. I know he's like a cornered animal...that if I reach out to touch him now it'll likely be just as violent, but I need to touch him. He's in another world...and despite the fact that I know it to be impossible, I can almost believe that if I reach out, my fingers will grasp thin air.

When my hand connects with the tight muscle of his shoulder I let out a sigh of relief, but he flinches. Luckily -considering how easily he could do serious damage to one or both of us- he turns his gaze back to me, the lost, empty look fading to bewildered recognition. "Rodney?" Then, a second later, a hand gently caresses my already-tender cheek. "What...are you alright? Can I get you some ice?" He tries to stand shakily, but I pull him back down, my concern for him trumping the ache in my eye.

"It's okay. Are you alright?" I try not to sound too worried. I don't want him to think I'm becoming a mother hen.

He looks further confused for a minute, taking in his surroundings, our positioning, the fingers he had clasped incriminatingly around his shirt. When his gaze returns, it's cold again, but very much present. "I think I'd better go."

He struggles to his feet and makes for the door. I fight the urge to try and help him. "John..."


"I just want to go to bed, Rodney." We both know that's a lie. He's running, from what, I'm not sure, but I know it's all because I'm such a goddamn idiot. I crossed the line... I broke the rules he set down in the initial 'contract' for whatever this relationship was... and now he's going to end it, even if that means walking out of his own room.

"Actually, John, I think it's best I got out of here, considering this is your room." He actually has the dignity to look embarrassed, but his gaze is still cold. He wants me gone.

He looks at me in a brief moment of concern as I fumble with my belt - won't do good to let anyone see me leaving his quarters half-dressed, especially not now. "Are you sure you're all right?"

"I'm fine," I stutter, even though I'm far from fine... I want to go blow something up...an atomic explosion, that would be nice - instant vaporization. I run sheepishly from the room, knowing his eyes are following me down the hall. I should probably stay to defend myself...but what excuses are there? I screwed up and now it's over.

Carson is simultaneously rubbing his head and examining my eye, and he's got himself attached to some 'Doctors Only' hangover drip. Normally I'd yell at him for not giving me all due attention, but I'm too busy worrying about John. He still cares about me to some extent, obviously. He doesn't want me screwing up on a mission and getting us all killed because of him. I wonder if he will try to transfer me to another team...though that will mean coming clean with Weir, and I doubt John would ever want to admit to anyone that he was involved with someone as disgusting as me...someone he can't even trust with his secrets.


"It looks like I missed all the action, eh, Rodney?" Carson mumbles thickly, obviously peeved that I've woken him from his post-drinking-binge morning in... but I already delayed past dawn brooding, and I might have a detached retina or something. "So, what happened?" He tries to sound casual.


I want nothing more to tell him... to ask him what's wrong with John... where he got those scars... what I can do to help...but, that would mean admitting to so many things...things neither John nor I am ready to let the world know. The secret is all we have left now, if we can't make this better, and I'll keep that, if it's all that I can have of him.

"Oh, I overestimated my walking abilities... edge of a table... you know how it is."

Carson laughs heartily, but I can see doubts flashing through his eyes. He may be a damn good doctor, but he doesn't have the poker face for psychology...or for poker, for that matter. He walks over to check something on his computer, dragging the I.V. bag along with him. "You want one of these, Rodney?" He seems surprised I haven't already asked. I nod, absently, as Carson scurries off. "We'll have you fixed up in no time."

This dull headache is nothing in the storm of worries racing through my mind. I let my gaze drift over to his laptop, left open and unattended. He must have been making an entry in my medical file... wait, medical file?

I try to restrain my compulsive fingers in my lap, but the pull is too strong...you don't get to become a world-class hacker by the age of fourteen without a lack of adherence to the laws of privacy. But this wouldn't be like all those other times to prove myself. It wouldn't be for the challenge, but for him. You can't fix something without first understanding the problem...right?

I advance on the innocent-looking keyboard - the answer to all our problems... thinking about the pain in his eyes.