My fingers are trembling as they fly over the keyboard. The keystrokes ring like a church bell clacking in the empty echoing space of the infirmary. I've done this so many times . . . my fingers should be able to do all the work. It's just that usually it's in the comfort of my own home, with a box full of those delicious chocolate covered donuts, five cups of coffee, some Mountain Dew and Copernicus curled up on my lap. The whole idea of hacking is that you're far far away from anyone who could kick your ass for it - safe for people like me who were never able to stand up to real physical danger. Its anonymity is almost as pleasing as internet sex - though in that department, I much prefer the real thing. In the cyber world you're dots on a screen, bytes, and electrical signals - you can be whoever you want to be.

The lines of code are running down the screen, soothing in their regularity, even when their content is screaming intruder - though no one hears. If only life were so streamlined and silent as this. If only John and I could just be together, without all of this emotional crap. If only I could read him as well as I read the code slipping past my eyes at this breakneck pace. Someone, somewhere, said that we are biological computers - that what we see and touch and hear and feel on some deeper level is all an input, built up in our databanks, filtered through the hardware of our genetic code. There is free will only in that it is our unique combination of experience and genetics makes it so. There is choice only in the fact that this has not happened before.

If that were true, then someone could predict the future - with an algorithm complex enough. Chaotic dynamics, sensitivity to initial conditions, means that this model would have to be near perfect and the inputs so precise that it is not in the bounds of human technological progress. A mind great enough to even comprehend these interactions does not yet exist, but it could.

So emotions are really logical, predetermined events, generated by a chaotic system so complex that even I can't fathom it. I always saw it -understanding other people- as useless, but perhaps it is the great technological achievement of all.

I break through the simple password protect on the file. I know the people who designed the encryption the government uses, so it's really not that hard. John's file pops up, and it's so easy that my heart beats even faster. Even with my most complex problems, I've never been this afraid.

Now, Carson could come waltzing back in at any moment. Of course, the fact that he stops about every five meters to groan and hold his hand to his head, the IV pole clattering to a stop behind him, makes him relatively hard to miss. As for the nurses . . . I can just tell them that I'm doing some technical upgrades, fixing a bug. I'm not going to get . . .

"Hey, Rodney, whatcha doing?"

I nearly drop the laptop at the sound of the voice, silky in that supervillan sort of way, the threat lurking just beneath the surface. Sometimes John reminds me of Denis the Menace - other times it's Al Capone.

My voice comes out a high-pitched squeak. "Hi, John." I purposely don't turn to face him. After a long moment paralyzed in fear, I kill the display on the monitor. Not that it matters. You don't lie to John. He's never said what the consequences would be, but I definitely get the 'you wouldn't like them much, I'm just going to sit here and 'stretch' my knuckles menacingly' vibe. Which is not to say that I think John would ever lay a hand on me - not awake at least. But his greatest weapon is not his strength. I feel as though his gaze along could burn a hole through me - spontaneous combustion. Which, incidentally can almost always be explained with physical evidence. For example...

"You didn't answer my question, Rodney." His voice is low and dangerous, my name suddenly sounding harsh instead of his normally playful singsong. I don't even hear his footsteps as his shadow moves across the computer screen like night creeping over hilltops and down gullies. Still, even if he knows I'm guilty of something, he couldn't possibly know of what.

"I'm just..." I gulp. "I'm just fixing something on Carson's computer."

I don't have to look at him to hear the eyeroll in his voice. "Fixing my medical records?"

I finally whirl to face him. He's leaning back against a lab bench, eyebrows raised, eyes dark and lips contorted in a smile like a frown. He's standing perfectly still, casually, but somehow I get the impression that he's circling me - predatory. "How did you . . ."

He shrugs, but keeps the glare fixed on me, unblinking. "The city told me."

Now is not the time to be thinking about The Empire Strikes Back and R2D2, but since when have I had control over my thoughts? "Wait, you talk to the city?"

"When you're not around to entertain me with that glowing presence of yours." He breaks his gaze to look around. I would have thought that I would be relieved, but the absence of the glare only makes you wonder when its coming back. I am suddenly very impressed with Steve. If John Sheppard were my interrogator (that's assuming he's not right now) I wouldn't last five minutes.

Still, the scientist in me overrides my main concerns, as per usual. How could he keep this from me? He could use this to advantage in the security . . . but then again, he probably already has. Still, we need to run tests . . . we need to find out how he talks to the city. We need to find out if he can tap into any other sort of data storage . . . I can't believe he didn't tell me. Doesn't he trust me? "Why didn't you tell me about this? I mean, do you have any idea what kind of strategic advantage..."

"Rodney," he growls, "we're talking about you and me and how you and your pudgy little fingers have been busy violating my privacy rights."

Well, it was worth a try. I hang my head in shame. This isn't my fault. He drove me to it. I really thought he cared about me. I wasn't doing this out of spite. I wanted to help him . . . I still want to help him. So I'm being a little selfish, but I'm still not sure there exists a selfless action - even giving your life for someone or something has its benefits. But, I want him to get better. He can't just keep it all inside. It'll eat him up from the inside out. He thinks I don't see the sadness in his eyes. I do, and I need to know what someone as kind and beautiful and wonderful as John has to be sad about.

It's not my fault. "If you would have just trusted me..." I whisper under my breath.

"What was that?" He barks. I've screwed up again. Of course John's not going to want to take the blame. Even if it is half his fault... okay, maybe more like 37% but I wouldn't have done this if not for him.

"Nothing." I bury my chin in my chest. I can take him screaming, but I can't take that damning stare.

In a flash he's by my side, gripping my arm so tight I think it may bruise and bending down to force me to meet his eyes. "Don't blame this on me, Rodney. And don't try to talk to me about trust when you're the one snooping around in my goddamn medical file. On Earth that's a criminal offense."

It's almost reflexive, defensive. "We're not . . ."

"I know that, damnit!" He releases my arm and looks away. I can see the quick rise and fall in his chest, his nostril practically flaring, his cheeks flushing just slightly. He's angry and coiled tight like a tiger ready to spring, but he's not going to. That's one thing about John: some might see him as boyish or impulsive, but every action is controlled, calculated, deliberate. In fact, I'm not sure I've seen John with the filters off. Even in our most passion moments of lovemaking, he has this sense of purpose about him. Each moan is an exclamation, each thrust a symphony, but even the most beautiful symphony is scripted.

He turns back to me, eyes burning, words rumbling, deep and gnarled. I'm almost surprised a voice so rough can come out of such a pretty face. "What does it say, Rodney?"

Why does he have to make this so damn hard? I feel tears of frustration threatening to spill. I sigh exasperatedly, "You know..."

"What does it say?" He steps closer. And, even though John is only a couple inches taller than me and probably at least twenty kilos lighter, he seems to loom, menacing.

I gulp and make myself look at it... look at the pictures of John's back, bloody and bandaged, of him looking so weak, buried in a forest of machinery, face so pale, eyes so distance. The depressing colorless grays of X-rays and the stark white of a piece of metal, so rigid and straight compared to the natural contours of his spine. I gulp in a breath and even the rush of oxygen to my choked-up cells doesn't make this any easier. I want to cry for him, but I know that will just hurt him more. John Sheppard will never ever ask for pity. "It... it says that your plane . . .."

"Helicopter," he corrects automatically, cold anger overwhelming the usual snark.

"... helicopter, was shot down outside of Kabul... you had an eight centimeter fragment of metal lodged in your lower back between the second and third lumbar vertebrae. You . . . you underwent multiple surgeries . . . blood transfusions..." I look away, my hands shaking. I can't do this. I can't look at this strong and proud man like that.

"Rodney..." he warns.

I force myself to ignore the pictures, the smiling faces of John and his co-pilot standing outside a looming dust-covered helicopter, both wearing those ridiculous glasses John likes so much and 100-watt grins. "You were on a mission outside Kabul. The details are classified - though I could find them if you want." I really shouldn't have said that last part. The frequency of his deep breaths - almost grunts, increases, but he doesn't respond. "Your copilot was killed in the crash."

John clenches his fists, glare seeming to slide over me, between the molecules that make up this body and through the seams of time into some distant memory. His voice is still angry, but soft - distant, like someone screaming at you through the rippling silence of the sea. "What it doesn't say, Rodney, is that my CO sent me on that mission, which had what they like to call a 'decrease probability of success,' as a punishment for disobeying orders. What it doesn't say is that Lieutenant Taylor, Jake, my copilot, didn't die on impact like I told them. He was alive and conscious right up to hour five of the seven hours it took to rescue us, and I watched him die. And it doesn't say that my friends Dax and Mitch, who were mostly assholes, but good guys when it came down to it -you can ask Teyla about them- rushed in for a MedEvac and that there was barely enough of them to put in the goddamn wooden box. And what it doesn't say, Rodney, was that in those seven hours, I couldn't feel anything, couldn't reach anything, could only smell the spilled fuel and wait for the whole thing to go up in flames. Do you know what that's like, Rodney?"

I can feel the bile rising in my stomach. God, I can't even imagine what John went through. I've never actually seen anyone die, even here on Atlantis. And those people that have died - I didn't know them very well. I can't imagine sitting trapped, not being able to do anything but wait for the inevitable, watch someone I knew -and, knowing John, cared about- die right before my eyes. I almost passed out from panic in the Jumper when it was trapped in the Gate and I thought John was going to die. But he stayed awake, probably comforted the man up to his last breath, unable to do anything. He probably bore honorable witness, and then sat for two hours thinking he was next.

I can feel my features flushing, my eyes crinkling into tiny slots in a desperate effort to keep the tears at bay. "Un-uh," I say softly, looking down at the dusted black of John's boots.


"What, Rodney? I didn't catch that." He's truly torturing me. The bastard. He knows I'm not him. What does he expect me to do? I care about him .. isn't that supposed to be enough?

"No, I don't, okay?!" I shout it back, shouting my only defense now.

He shouts right back, getting right up in my face. "And you don't want to, so leave it the fuck alone!" He looks surprised that he's yelled - lost control for the first time I've seen. He spins away from me and crosses his arms protectively over his chest, looking so skinny and frail in the black pullover, even with his jaw set like that.

I can't stand to see him like that - so utterly vulnerable and alone. He's dangerous; I can almost hear the tension in his muscles like the low hum of machinery that I usually find so comforting. But, with John, I've always been playing with fire. I've known that from that first blowjob in the lab. There's something dangerous about him. He sends out his own warning, his own defense shield. But, like the Ancient 'invulnerability broach,' it keeps some good things out along with the bad. In the end, it's better to die in a flight of shield-less heroism than of a slow starvation - trust me, I know.

So, even though all of my considerable defensive instincts are screaming at me, I step toward him, reaching out for him. He lets my arm rest on his shoulder, but his muscles are tense. The pressure is building, and he could still explode.

"I'm sorry, John." Ordinarily, I don't apologize, but I see how much pain this has caused him and I truly am sorry.

He sighs and I feel him relax, all the fight expelled in that single breath. Encouraged, I give his shoulder a squeeze, run my hand down his arm - it's limp like a rag doll. He raises his eyes to me, and there's no more anger there - just the pure unadulterated pain behind it. "I'm sorry too, Rodney." His voice is as deflated and hollow as the walking corpse that is now his body. It is as though the anger was the only thing keeping him going - animating him.

I catch the meaning in that lifeless stare. John is a thousand miles away, he's pulled back so far from the surface that no matter what I do, there's no hope of finding him. He wants to end it.

"No..." I shake my head in denial. Doesn't he know how much I need him? He's not the only one who's gotten too close. Sure, I don't have any scars or dead buddies to show for it, but he's seen me inarticulate and vulnerable in the midst of an orgasm, sleepy and cuddly in bed, bouncy and verging on romantic. I haven't trusted anybody to see that in a very long time. He can't just pull out like that. He's holding all the cards, but he doesn't have the right. "John, please. I'll do... I want you. John, please, we don't have to talk about it. I'm so sorry, I just..."

A spark of fight has returned to him, and it makes me both hopeful and utterly depressed. His voice isn't as harsh as it should be, considering the words. "As much as I hate to contradict your entire Rodney-centric worldview, this is not about you. This is about me."

He's just saying that to let me down easy. I fucked up and he's just going to find someone better. He can keep finding people until he finds one that's not going to hurt him. He's going to keep that damn shield on until he starves. And I thought I could do something for him. I am such...

"And, no, Rodney, when I say it's not you, it's me, I don't mean 'It's you but I want to be nice about it.' I mean it's my problem. It was me that fucked up, and it's me than can't get over it and it's me that's going to deal with it." He runs his fingers furtively through his hair.

"John..."


"Alone." His voice is firm, but he doesn't snap. He gives me a small smile, a petty reassurance, and walks out. He doesn't have his usual possessed gait. He almost seems lost in a place that he usually acts like he owns.

'Alone.' The word sounds so final, so hopeless. It used to be something I reveled in. I used to need time to be alone, silence to work, and think, and be myself. But now the silence is claustrophobic and haunting. Just when I was beginning to think that maybe I didn't have to be alone... I am.

I slam my fist down hard on the harsh stone of the lab bench, not caring -for once- that it hurts.