He watched lips moving, a mouth opening wide. He would force it wider. He watched hands dancing and imagined them bound. He watched pebbled nipples rise against the slick fabric of a synthetic shirt. They were pierced. He'd done it himself with a sterile needle and no painkillers. When drunk enough he thought of himself as an artist, but in truth he only liked to mark what was his. He watched blue eyes, angry, and wanted to add a mix of both lust and defeat to the exquisite hue.

A galaxy away, he would have been disgusted with himself. A galaxy away he would have rationalized that he was just reenacting some scene having to do with his father. But Kate was among the long list of dead and there were no longer any shrinks to tell him he was wrong, no figures of authority to slap his wrist.

Once Rodney had finished glorying in his moment of exultant snarkiness, John was going to have to pull him aside . . .