Things are different now. I'm finally willing to admit that. It was stupid of me to assume that Earth would be on-hold, waiting with bated breath for our triumphant return. It was stupid of me to think that I would stay the same - that after all I'd gone through, I could just come back and pick up my life where it left off. It was stupid of me to think that even the worst of my old demons would stay waiting for me, that I could comfort myself with the familiar hatred and blame. It was stupid to think that I would change just because I changed place... stupid to think that I could ever go back. That's the thing about time, you can't control how you move through it... even if you have a time machine, you can never go back because by very virtue of traveling you change things so it's not you're past or future or present anymore. Rodney tried to explain that to me once, after I made him sit and watch Bulter's copy of Back to the Future with me.

I'm respected now. I could have any post I choose... well, not any. Not black-ops, because I'm way too out-of-the-loop to blend in, even if I pretty much no longer exist as far as a paper trail is concerned. Not existing... it's not as much of a relief as I had hoped. I mean, I still know I exist... I think, therefore I am, and all that crap. And I couldn't do any liaisonish stuff. Diplomacy is still not my strong suit, and Earth diplomacy even less so. But if I want to fly, they'll let me fly damn-near anything, anywhere. Something about having done 'a great service to your country.' Of course that doesn't mean that they don't 'highly recommend' that I acclimatize to my new life on Earth over at Area51, doing test-flights. But I'm done with that. It's too much of a reminder of everything that's happened.

It feels weird, not being the too-cool-for-school flyboy... not having even the slightest inclination to 'rebel,' because I am the authority... have been for years. I no longer have the laid-back cavalier attitude I did back then. My joints creak - though from disease more than age, and my hair is going white at the edges and sometimes I think that I really might die, after all. And it's not as scary as I would have imagined. I mean, I always knew what I did was dangerous, but now... I've survived all that: soul-sucking-beings and war and rebellion and weird slimy man-eating monsters, by some miracle. It seems like a waste to put my life at risk now. And I think back to the moments when I didn't feel this way... when I'd run back for someone I knew was already dead, or when I'd take Rodney out in the jumper and play chicken with a mountain or the burning corona of a sun or something, just to freak him out. I think back and I think... how could I be such an idiot?

But when you get older, slowly creeping up on fifty, retired from the service with a goddamn pension, you realize how precious time really is. I remember Elizabeth lecturing me about supply and demand or something like that... I never really did understand money, another reason why the Air Force wasn't as bad a fit as some would have me believe. So, I'm short on time, and I realize how much more I want it... how much I squandered being reckless or stupid or just too deep in denial to realize all the doors I was shutting. And for what? For enemies now faded into the shadows of time.

I guess I just got too tired of hating. Or maybe Pegasus did make me more mature - seeing so much death and destruction, having so much responsibility, makes you see what's really important in life. Or perhaps he just stopping being the villain - the monster lurking in every authority figure, once I got some authority of my own. Once I saw how easy it was to stop seeing the people under your command as people, when it hurt so much to watch them die... watch them die and know that it was because of something you said or did.

But that's not why he did it. He did it because he loved me. Or so he said. But I guess I've gained enough sympathy to understand that now too - loving somebody. I didn't love my parents. I won't lie. My father was too used to treating his men like objects to treat me any differently, and my mother was too interested in how I could make her look good, like I was a handbag or something, to realize that I had my own wants and needs. And I never loved any of my friends. I told a few of my first girlfriends I did, because that's what you were supposed to tell girls if you wanted them to sleep with you. But after a while I learned that I didn't want those kinds of girls anyhow, the ones so desperate for a knight in shinning armor or some poetic Romeo, that they wouldn't even seen me for what I was... girls begging to be deceived. But now I know what it means to love someone - you want what was best for them. You're willing to do anything for them, including hurt them. The only problem is... how are you supposed to know what was best? My father made mistakes... but, then again, so have I.

I hadn't expected her to care, let alone to cry. She was sitting inside, watching some new talk show - whatever replaced Oprah as the cultural standard of Middle America after her retirement. She was so engrossed that she hadn't even noticed the back door opening. Luckily, they were in one of those nice little gated-communities just outside the city, with both security guards and the new gene-based entry systems, courtesy of the 'civilianization' of Rodney's research reports. I smiled, thinking about what he'd do when he found out what kind of money some corporate assholes were making off his legwork. I felt sorry I'd left so quickly that I missed the chance to see it. I didn't even say goodbye. I just wanted everything to go away... for the world to leave me alone to sort through all the things that I'd buried deep for nearly a decade, letting them build up as people... civilizations, were lost in our war with the Wraith and later with the Mastema. I've been told by many a shrink that what I do is a bad thing - storing things up and then going off on my own for months... or years (thought I was actually ordered to Antarctica) on my own to find the self I've let get so clouded by buried doubts and fears and guilt.

And I was doing it again. I had my flight info tucked into my back pocket - JetAm from LAX to Bogotá at six forty-three a.m. the next morning. Colombia is peaceful now, finally shaking off the last evidences of UN occupation. Walking along the streets, smiling at a people who used to look at me with such hatred, trapped inside the chain-link fence of the complex, waiting for the next 'consultation' flight, checking the machine guns and the rocket launchers in the 'off-chance' we ran into terrorist resistance. It took me three months leave in New Zealand to come down from that adrenaline high... to be able to fall asleep to the quiet washing of the shore and not see the faces of the people in the villages we burned, not wonder if they really were terrorists or not, the young boys laughing as they chased each other deep into the forest to tend to fields of cocaine the villages of women and children who'd disappear into the foliage every day to distill and package the product. Now there are cases of cancer in the hospitals, and people are sayings its because of some of the chemicals we sprayed. In a far-off galaxy we saved the world again and again, but coming here, I wonder what I can ever do to end the suffering I alone caused.

My entire life has been spent chasing redemption. I woke the Wraith and I spent five years making sure it was the last time. But how many had to die? And with the Wraith gone, I opened the door for the Mastema, and that was another war for a galaxy of people that didn't deserve it. But I couldn't even escape the debt I've incurred here on Earth. So I spend long days and nights at the clinic, mixing samples and distributing medication, looking after orphans and teaching them both English and Chinese so they might make themselves useful in this strange new world order.

But I had one ghost to lay to rest first. The Mastema taught me all about hate, and indoctrination. The showed me it's power - how revenge can consume. I didn't want to be like them. I wanted to stop hating, so I came to the perfectly painted black gate protecting this perfect little retirement community with the identical Spanish-style houses and manicured green lawns and mentally hacked through the gene-based system with ease. GenoFortress probably wouldn't be very happy to know there are people like me out there - people who could potentially learn to surf through the threads of their system based in Ancient technology they'll never fully comprehend. Lucky for them, I'm the only one who's spent ten years perfecting the art.

She looked so old and frail when I came upon her - shriveled, with makeup clumping at the edges of her wrinkles, cracking the smooth surface like scales. Her lips were sagging, pulled from her perpetual flight-attendant-fake smile into a frown - lipstick too bright against the wax-paper-pallor of her skin. She was asleep and I hesitated before shaking her shoulder, afraid she might break.

Her eyes were bright green as always, and her voice croaked much deeper than the saccharine shrill I remembered when she asked me, "John?" She didn't believe it at first, touching my cheek, my chest, looking into my eyes like she was seeing a miracle play out before her.

"Yes, Mom, I'm here." And then she embraced me. It was like no other embrace I'd ever known. She was trying so hard to grip me tight - something she never did when she was young and lithe with mahogany-colored hair and designer cloths that she didn't dare wrinkle by holding me close. And now, when she finally wanted to, she couldn't pull me close enough, and I was too afraid of her delicate bones to hold her any more than just lightly.

"Oh, my boy. My Johnny." She patted my hair. "I thought... they told us you were dead. Even your father... they wouldn't tell him how. We... wanted to hold a service for you, but we didn't know when it had happened, because the Air Force said you request we not be informed. That hurt, but I guess we deserve it. And we didn't know any of your friends. We made a memorial... it's out in the garden under the rose bushes. And..." then she did something I'd never seen before - she cried. Not that I'd never seen my mother cry before at weddings and funerals and whenever she was feeling left out and wanted sympathy, but these were real tears. My mother had grown scales and wrinkles over the years, but she had ceased to be a crocodile. "Oh, John, there's so much... so much I wanted to say to you... so many regrets. You left, and I know we deserved it, but I always thought... I thought you'd come back. And when you didn't... I didn't know what to do. John, you know I love you, right? Please tell me you didn't hate me... you don't hate me."

I choked, so unused to this type of outburst, especially coming from her. Normally, if she got hysterical, I would just sit there as she screamed and wailed at me. But I found myself wiping the tears from her face, taking with me trails of caked and ineffective makeup. "Shh... Mom, I don't hate you." But I did. I hated her for not doing anything. I hated her for not standing up to him after I confessed to her... after I begged her and dreamed of the days when she used to rock me to sleep at night, swing me wide and high with her once-strong arms until I felt like I was flying, like if she let go, I'd go hurtling into the tapestry of stars that was the night sky.

Then she was kissing my hair and my neck and my cheek, making up for years of missed-affection in stains of too-red lipstick. "Oh, John... you don't know how much... I wanted to tell you that I was sorry. I'm so sorry. I should have fought for you. He's my husband, but you're my son. And mothers are supposed to fight for their sons. They're supposed to understand. And I... I let him convince me that he knew what was best for you, that if we just kept you away from it enough times, you'd eventually forget it. If it was too difficult to love men, you'd fall for a nice young woman and we wouldn't have to worry about you any more."

I pulled back, wondering... enough times? It wasn't just with Father's testimony before the Senate about the Don't Ask Don't Tell policy? "Wait... "

She reached out for me then, looking lost, like she knew that this was her last chance to touch me ever again. "I'm sorry, John. I... I saw you and Jake, in the basement, when you were seventeen. You didn't notice me. I just... I didn't want my son to be gay. I know how those people... and they suck you in to their righteous little community with theirs ridiculous parades and their fashion designing and their stupid little soap-operas, like it's a crime to want a nice house and a family and to just be normal. I didn't want that for you, John. You weren't like that. I mean, you were always good-looking, and I guess I could see how they might like you. But I didn't want that for my baby, for my only son. You wanted to fly and you played paintball and G.I. Joe and you were always so strong and gentlemanly, and I knew you would make such a great father someday . . . and... I just... I told your father. And we moved so you wouldn't be around him anymore... so he wouldn't lead you into temptation."

I stepped back in horror. I remembered moving my senior year, not knowing anybody, feeling so lost, giving up math and chess and all the things I really enjoyed so I could fit in as easily as possible. I remembered the locker-room where Phil Johnson, one of the defensive lineman, pushed me up against the cold metal until I had a lock-shaped bruise on my kidney, and how I got away just in time to prove that my scrawny 'pretty-boy ass' might just be the one that would take us to the state championship as quarterback. And I could have stayed playing chess and dabbling in football with neighborhood kids on the weekends, and experimenting with Jake in the basement instead of losing my virginity to some guy I met at a club in Hollywood, who worshipped my body one night and left me without even a phone number the next day.

"How could you?" I was surprised by the timidity of my tone - surprised that I didn't have enough anger left for her, despite the injustice. She was my mother, and even as all of my memories of her blended into one big cocktail party or helping her fasten up her dress or going to those ridiculous dancing lessons, I realized that she loved me and wanted the best for me, even if she couldn't understand that not everyone wanted the picket fence and the wife and two point three children she pictured in her mind.

"I'm so sorry, John. I can't even imagine how hard it was for you. I didn't realize... I didn't know how hurt you really were until you left, and by then it was too late. Your father kept track of you . . . used his contacts, until one day you just... you disappeared. All we knew was that you were on some classified expedition and no one, even your father, could get at the details. It wasn't until years later that when he made his yearly dig for information, they reported you missing in action. I cried. I cried so much, John. And I wish I could have told you how sorry I was. Can you forgive me?" Her gaze was warm in her sadness, pleading and maternal - which was truly the last thing I expected of her.

I didn't know what to do. I froze. I knew she didn't deserve my sympathy after what she'd done. But she was still my mother. She made it impossible for me to love her, but that didn't mean she deserved to suffer. "I forgive you, Mom."

And then she came at me, frantically embracing me, and I held her while she cried, my own eyes dry as I comforted her and rubbed her back.

After a long while we settled on the couch. She wouldn't sit far from me, keeping a cold hand stroking my cheek or my leg, almost afraid that if she let me go I would cease to exist. "Tell me about you life, John. Tell me where you've been."

"You know I can't, Mom," I said sadly. "I went far away and saw wonderful things." I wasn't ready to think about the death and the destruction and the fear. I thought about the waterfall we found on a desert planet, cascading a teal green through the red slice of the boulders, Ford and I jumping off the cliff into the pool at the base, Telya frowning and Rodney panicking. And I remembered taking his hand and making him do it with me, how he squeezed it tight as we fell. I remember a garden full of white blossoms that reacted to touch by changing to bright colors. When Rodney touched them they shone red and when I did they turned a deep blue, so we ran our fingers over a field of them, painting a masterpiece in the colors of the American Flag, and, my favorite part in rich purple where they overlapped. And I remembered the city in all its glory before the attacks and the singe-marks and the structural problems, seeing the light through those beautiful windows the first time after it rose from the sea.

"And were you happy? Are you happy?"

I thought about it for a long time. There were moments... moments just sitting on a balcony, or flying into an alien sunset or running around through the crops on the mainland listening to Rodney bitch about having to come with me and deal with a bunch of 'unkept rugrats,' when I never even asked, let alone ordered, him to. I guess in those moments when I wasn't thinking about war and strategy and what might happen the next day, I was happy. Pegasus helped drown-out all of my life on Earth. It helped to strain the memories thin enough that I couldn't spend nights brooding on them - they had a long list of worries before them in the line. But they never left me. They couldn't until I resolved them, and I could only do that on Earth, where I couldn't go.

"No. I wasn't happy, but I think I will be." I was surprised to find myself smiling. Because I knew what I wanted. I would take a long time in coming, because I wasn't ready now. It was like an infected cut that had been festering all this time, and my mother had just ripped it open, cut out all the dead flesh with her revelation, and it was stinging, the ache of 'what if' deep in my chest, but I knew that now I could stitch it back together - make it heal so that one day I would be whole again and ready.

"Are you seeing anyone? A lucky woman? Or... or man?" She seemed nervous about it, but I don't blame her. My mother was originally from Georgia, though she'd lost the accent and kept the coquettish charm and the intolerance towards liberals and god-forbid open-mindedness.

"No. I wasn't in a position where I could really make a relationship work." Truth be told, I didn't get much action at all. Towards the end I'm not sure I was even capable. I had too much on my mind. Sure, the first few years had contained dalliances with alien priestesses and tribal leaders and the like. And then, as the war with the Wraith had neared its close, there was my ill-fated friends-with-benefits affair with Teyla. But she got too attached. And I was forced to end it. But there hasn't been anyone since... since Rodney propositioned me.

It wasn't a special day. We weren't trapped somewhere, tied face to face. No one was hurt or being tortured or hunted or anything. We'd defeated the Wraith and had reached a lull in our fight against the Mastema and Rodney was sitting out on a balcony, taking in the sun, not even working tirelessly in his lab. I came and sat beside him, shoulder to shoulder, knee to knee. And we didn't talk - we'd finally gotten to the point when he didn't feel he needed to babble in order to convince himself that the silence wasn't lonely. And he just turned to me and asked me if I liked men. It was such a typical Rodney thing - blunt and almost accusatory. I just leaned back and said that I did, convinced that he already knew. I hadn't had a man since Rick nearly died in Afghanistan. I refused to let myself see anyone under my command that way, because I had finally learned my lesson when Rick broke up with me. He said it was too hard - that they would find out... and maybe they were right because I never should have gone against orders to save him. It made me weak and he hated me for it. He was military to the core, and the chain of command always came first.

But that didn't mean I never checked out a nice package, and Rodney sure had one, so I wasn't surprised that he knew. Of course, knowing I was into men seemed to be all it took for him to kiss me. It was demanding and playful and sweet, if not a bit too insistent, like the man himself. I've treasured that kiss. It's been one of the things that's kept me going, not because I ever thought I'd experience it again, but because it was one of those things that redeemed me - made me think that I might just get up to zero after all. But in the end I pushed him away. It didn't matter that we were a galaxy away - I was the ranking military officer on base, and Rick was right, I couldn't afford that kind of weakness. I remember the hurt Rodney's his eyes, and the understanding.

I remember six months later, when he asked my permission to start dating Carson, giving me a 'last chance' almost resentfully. And I remember how much it hurt to turn him down and how jealous I was when I saw them together, joking and flirting, even when he would meet my eyes across the room with so much longing. But I'd destroy him the way I did Rick and Teyla. Even more so because he would want to announce it to the world the way he did his relationship with Carson. People kept asking me if I was okay after that, if it bothered me. But there were some... there were some who never said anything, but I could tell they looked down upon it. There were other scientists who were gay, of course, but Rodney and Carson were key personnel. A couple of the guys even started refusing exams from the good doctor. And, like my father, I did nothing. There was nothing I could do. There was never a single reported case of harassment, though I wonder if Rodney would have felt comfortable enough with me to discuss something minor if it came up, and my personal life more than proved that you can't do anything to make people comfortable with difference.

And I remember when we lost Carson - how Rodney cried himself to sleep in my arms and I sat up all night watching him curl against me, memorizing the peaceful look on his face and the rhythm of his breath and the flutter of his eyelashes and everything about him. I wanted to be with him then. I wanted to make it work, even though I knew it couldn't - not when we were approaching the turning of the tide of the war, when I needed my focus and Rodney needed to be strong, without using me as a crutch. We both knew then, that more people would die - more people with the natural gene - people like me who the Metasma knew were key to the operation of all our defenses. Even now my bones ache from the horrible vaccine Carson came up with, too late to save himself. But I was more afraid of being less of a leader. I was more afraid that my tenuous control over our forces after I forced the bloody coup on the Genii homeworld would slip if anything ever happened between us.

"No. But there's someone... someone that I love." That was never in question. I would kill for him, die for him. I would move the universe for him if only I thought I could prove worthy of his love, if I could love him the way he deserved. We'd been best friends for so long, it would have been a small step for John and Rodney, but a great leap for the commander of Atlantis and the head scientist. I wanted what was best for him, so I hurt him.

"Who's the lucky lady?" His voice was deep, but his words matched hers. I wonder if them growing closer together is a good thing.

I turned around so abruptly both at the voice and the stricken look on my mother's face, that I knocked a stack of magazines off the coffee table.

"Never were a graceful one, were you, John?" I felt my entire body tense at the remark. He never did anything but criticize me. Here I was, back from the dead, and he couldn't even bother to say hello.

"Father..." I couldn't keep the bite from my words. It wasn't hatred. It was what's left when it's gone - habit. I didn't know there was any other way to deal with my father other than to bite back, before he could go for the jugular - make it really hurt.

"David, please..." my mother begged.

"No, Diane, let me speak with my son."

"David, if you going to treat him..." After all these years, she finally stood up for me.

I patted her hand and rose, ready for the confrontation that was twenty years in coming. "It's okay, Mom." She nodded blankly, staring at the empty television set as my father and I made it out to the back porch and the artificial green of the lawn in the harsh climate of the desert, squinting in the sunlight. I walked up to the railing, staring out into the glare like Elizabeth used to, when she couldn't stand to look at me when we were discussing bad news. I miss her still, even if we disagreed up until she made the mistake that killed her. I wish negotiation with the last of the Wraith had worked, that she might have offered to feed them with the old or the mentally infirm or the terminally ill, as callous as it seems. It probably would have saved us another war.

"Why did you come back?" His voice was gruff and as stern as always, even as I took silent gratification that the body he took so much pride in was now frail - thinner than me, even. And he used to pick on me for my twig-like frame.

"I came to see you." I shrugged.

"After twenty years, John? Why bother?"

"A lot has happened. I've changed."

"You still a dirty little slut?" He could say it as both an insult and a casual remark - like, how's the weather?

I gritted my teeth, bit my lip. I knew I didn't have to put up with this. But I needed to do it. I couldn't think that everything I'd ever done was out of defiance against this man. I couldn't go on without tearing down everything that had haunted me for so many years. All of that time, and I had wanted his approval so badly, even when I resented it. When I was a child he was my hero - the father who was never around because he was out there killing the bad guys and making my great country safe. And you never completely lose your childhood heroes, even when they hate everything that you are, even when they support legislation condemning their own sons to shame and confusion and suffering.

"No, as a matter of fact, not. Though there is no lucky lady. I'm in love with a man."

He sighed heavily then, taking a deep drag out of a tumbler of whisky I hadn't even noticed had been in his wrinkled old hand. "So you're a fag. Going to go join the Vermont Covenant are you? Vote in that fucking democrat, Edwards and his flaming queer running mate, Styles?"

I stood there gaping, not knowing what he was talking about, having been gone for ten years. Not that a response would have been easy even if I was up on current events.

"I can't help who I love. He's smart and funny and the best friend I've ever had." That was the truth, at least.

"Are you his bitch, John? Do you let his violate you? Fuck you like some worthless cunt? You were always too much of a pretty boy, and I'm sorry for that. Should have given you more manly genes. Or is he one of those fairies, the ones you see on all these stupid fagotvision programs, shrieking and waving their limp-dick hands all around like that?" His voice was thick, but it lacked the deep infusion of hatred of so many years ago. He sounded tired.

I was seething. I wanted to punch him. But I kept my hands curled tight around the railing, even as I turned my body to face him. "You have no right to talk to me like that. You may be my father, but as far as I'm concerned, you are a worthless piece of shit! You can verbally abuse me all you want, all the damage has already been done. I've seen things you wouldn't even find in your worst nightmares. You have no hold over me. You don't scare me. But you will not talk about Rodney that way." I fixed him with my toughest glare, letting all the darkness burn through me - let him see that I've killed and that it's marked me. Even as I felt myself crumbling, remembering all of the horrors I experienced in Pegasus, I knew it was worth it, for the flash of fear on his wizened old face.

And it wasn't what I expected either. I expected him to scream... to yell... maybe even to throw his glass at me. But he didn't. Instead he heaved a defeated sigh, head lolling as he leaned forward on the railing. "There's no dissuading you?" He sounded... hopeful.

"What the hell are you talking about? Dissuading me from what? From my sexuality!?" He nodded and I couldn't help a mirthless, horrible chuckle. "You thought you could change something genetic? I'm sorry, but not even the great David Sheppard can do that." I spent a good portion of my life as nothing but a useful gene with a body attached. My life has been determined by genetics, and I've suffered enough for it. Now I know better than to hide who it is that I am.

He sighed again, a wheezing laugh to compliment mine. Then he raised his eyes, and the sadness in their blue depths was enough to shock me, make me take a reflexive step backwards. What game was he playing at? He wasn't allowed sorrow. He wasn't allowed to cry or have cares or feelings or tragic eyes like that. He was my father, the guy I wanted to be when I grew up, the man I wanted to annoy and make notice me every time I pulled some stupid stunt, the laughing face I saw on Cowen's face when I put a knife in his gut, the specter in Elizabeth's eyes every time I defied her, convinced that I was doing it for the greater good.

"I only did it because I loved you." My mother I could believe. But not him... never him. I was never good enough for him, or he didn't care. He wasn't cold on purpose.

"Bullshit."

"What do you want me to say, John? That I made a mistake? That I just wanted to hold you and tell you things would be all right? But that's not a father's duty. A father is supposed to make his son tough - prepare him for the real world. What was I supposed to do? Lose my career over something that wasn't going to change anything? What would I have done if you'd gotten into trouble then? I wouldn't have been able to cover it, the way I did your ridiculous affair with Major Pearson. Your instructor, John. You fucked your goddamn mechanical engineering teacher! And everybody knew about it. And you and that Ranger... John, why do you think Colonel Bratt ordered a captain in the goddamn Rangers on what all the higher-ups knew was just a diversion... a suicide mission?"

"No." I sunk down to the ground, holding back sobs. He had no right to tell me these things. He had no idea what I'd been through. I didn't deserve another burden like that. I felt tears in my eyes, but the military had long taught me to transform anguish into anger. "You're lying. You're just trying to get to me... control me. I'm not the fucking all-American you want me to be, and I never will be. I'm smart. I like Math better than chugging beer and getting into brawls. And I'm bisexual." But I knew he wasn't lying. I'd always suspected.

"I know about you, John. I've known probably as long as you have. You were different. But you can't be different in the military. In a world where a commander would rather send one of his best men to his death rather than sign-off on his dishonorable discharge, you couldn't afford all your rebellious devil-may-care shit. And if you didn't have to sense to protect yourself, I was going to protect you. A father protects his son." I wanted to cry. He wasn't my protector. He had always been my executioner, my jailer. I remember the day he spoke at the hearings, the guys laughing around me, nudging me and congratulating me on how my father was actually doing something about the 'queer problem.' I remember nodding and going back to my room in a daze, downing half a bottle of scotch, taking a razor and slicing into my wrist, but not going deep enough - stopping not because of the pain, but because of the anger. I decided then and there that I wouldn't let him get to me - let his disapproval of what I was stop who I was. So I went to my mother and spilled my heart out for the first time and she did nothing. I wonder, if I had shown her the bandaged cut, would she have done something? Did I have to come back from the dead for either of them to care?

I shook, unable to see straight, but able to see straight enough to see the pain in my fathers eyes. Then something else he said came back to me. "Dishonorable discharge?" I croaked.

"They knew, John. They knew about the two of you. Colonel Bratt wanted to ignore the rumors, but there was too much evidence against you. And they you went and saved the day and confirmed it for everyone and anyone who'd had any doubt. You're just goddamn lucky you had that reporter from NBC following you around like a puppy dog otherwise they would've locked you up instead of covering it up."

I froze. I didn't know what to say. I never knew it had gotten so close. But Rick knew. He must have known. It all made sense, suddenly.

When my father next spoke, his voice was pleading. "I believed in the policy, son. Didn't you hear my testimony?"

In truth, it was all a blur. I heard, 'there is no place for homosexuals in our armed forces,' and just tuned out. Something in me snapped that day. He could have announced the aliens were coming a great spaceship to abduct all the queers and fry their brains and I wouldn't have noticed.

"Did you remember when I detailed the beating a servicemen under my command received for supposedly being gay? How I opened an investigation and gave a speech to my men about how harassment was never acceptable and that I expected that fellow servicemen be treated with respect, regardless of any suspected violations of ban on homosexuality? You don't remember, do you? Well, a month after I made my speech, one of the men under my command confessed that he was a homosexual to his platoon sergeant and requested a room change, due the fact that he had concerns about his roommate's homophobic behavior. The sergeant did not move him, but instead informed his roommate. He's now a paraplegic. I was afraid for you, John. You were so... you thought you were invulnerable. You would have waved your sexuality out there for everyone to see if we lifted the ban, just the way you did with Major Pearson. And they would have hurt you." I'd never heard my father sound this sad, except on Veterans day when he'd say a short prayer over the dinner table, eyes a million miles away.

I was shocked. I didn't know what to say. I know I should have listed. But would I even have heard back then? "Don't expect me to thank you," I snapped.

"I don't."

"Good."

"Look, son, I don't know where you've been the past ten years. I can't imagine how hard things must have been on you, But you can't do this now. Even if the policy's changed, the status quo hasn't. You can't..."

That's when I made my decision. I wasn't going to come back from leave in Colombia. I was going to retire. I'm no longer fit to fly high-speed test-flights, anyhow. I never told anyone about the side-effects of the vaccine -though I know Rodney suspects- because they needed me to be strong. But that's not real strength. It was leaving, facing myself outside the role of leader and gene-keeper that's brave and strong and worthy. It's funny, what looks strong and what is strong is often the opposite. Rodney's strong. He's strong because he has the courage to be who is and not be ashamed.

"I'm retiring."

He snorted in disbelief. "You're a Colonel at forty-six. I'm proud of you for that, by the way. There's a good chance you'll make general. Are you sure you want to throw that away?"

I smiled, secretly. My father could understand me being queer, but he didn't seem as though he could understand for the life of him, me wanting to give up my career. But what was it really? I can't fly anything faster than a prop plane, or maybe one of these more advanced idiot-proof choppers they're making nowadays. I've got too many skeletons for killing and too little knowledge for sneaking. My diplomatic skills suck, unless they include threatening, which silly little things like international law prevent here on Earth and the last thing I want to be is a smoozer/paper-pusher, so what's the point? What's the point when I could have so much more?

"Thanks, Dad." He looked surprised, shocked even. He didn't even speak as I walked off down the path to my car. "I'm going to Colombia. I'll call. Tell Mom 'bye.'"

I'll come back to visit them one day, I think. Maybe I'll bring Rodney with me, so he can give my father a piece of his mind. That's a showdown I would pay to see. And he'd love my mother's cooking - just like MREs.

I smile to myself, stretching out in the supremely uncomfortable seats at the Colombian International Airport. I've been waiting here for the past hour, but it's not like him to be on time. I tap my feet, thinking back on the past five months, the nice little house I bought close to El Centro and the American Embassy, just in case. I think about Julio, the precocious little kid at the orphanage who reminds me so much of myself as a kid and how awed he was when I dragged out my dress uniform and let him wear the hat. I know he'd like to come live with me, but there's someone I have to ask first...

Then I hear it, the familiar nasal growl. "No, I'm not carrying any goddamn fruits and vegetables, now leave that alone! That's delicate equipment! You foreign Neanderthals! I swear, where do they find you people? Ten years and they still haven't increased the IQ of the average security guard one iota. You make marines look like nuclear physicists. Hey, watch it!"

I rise, stretching languidly, drinking in the familiar sound of Rodney bitching someone out. I've missed that these past months, but they've given me enough time to sort things out - not enough time to come to terms with what I've done, but enough to sort through the memories, find the little bit of me in them and nurture it and polish it enough for him to see and want.

"You idiot! That's a twenty thousand dollar machine!" Of course, he doesn't seem to know that twenty thou isn't all that much these days, with inflation and all. I catch sight of him, in a green polo shirt that makes his eyes shine, despite how ridiculously out-of-style it is. His khaki pants are wrinkled, and he has a mark on his check from where he must have been sleeping on his watch. He's carrying two gigantic dufflebags and a leather laptop case, which he's currently fussing over.

I wait patiently behind the line, waiting for him to finish yelling at the customs agents, who seem to be contemplating a strip-search. Then he flashes his US military ID and they back off a little, their English skills dropping in an attempted defense, which only pisses him off more. "My god! I knew I should have taken the goddamn Air Force transport. It wouldn't have been comfortable, but at least the people there have a modicum of intelligence. Don't touch that!"

He's fiddles with his bags for a while until he's finally able to get them both onto a cart and rolling behind him. His cheeks are flushed and his eyes darting everywhere suspiciously, a petulant frown on his lips. I've always loved him like this.

When his eyes finally settle on me, they light up, but the frown remains. But I won't let it persist; the second he's crossed out of customs I rushed up to him and embrace him, squeezing him tight against me. "You came." I never really doubted that he would, but it still feels marvelous just to hold him like this.

"Of course I came!" he says into my neck. "You go out for pizza one afternoon and disappear for five months then send me a ticket to Colombia with absolutely no explanation. What did you expect me to do? I was worried sick about you. Dr. Jackson wouldn't say a word, other than that you needed time and some bullshit psychobabble like that and that he authorized it. And Ford... the kid is just about as helpful as a talking stick."

"You know he is thirty-six and a Major now, don't you?"

"And he's still got that ridiculous grin and the authoritative equivalence of the General's cat, don't you?"

I release him from the hug only to punch him lightly in the arm. "It's not as though you had any trouble tracking me. I bought a plane ticket under my given name."

"Well, no, I didn't... but you should have told me. I wanted to..."

I sigh, keeping my hand on his upper arm, feeling the muscle there and kneading it softly. He looks down at it and then up at me and then does this thing in-between smirking and tentatively questioning. "I really did need time. It was just too much. I didn't face it when I was there. You know that. I even remember you screaming at me about it, actually."

"Are you admitting I was right about something? Maybe I should get my video camera before the moment passes. It's in one of these bags . . ."

"Is that what all this stuff is?"

"Well, it's not like you told me what we'd be doing down here and for how long. What is it Ford always says? Semper Paratus?"

I smile. "That's the Coast Guard, you idiot. The Marines are Semper Fi."

"Well, I think I'd rather be prepared than faithful, if being faithful means you have to die. I'm a little dying-averse."

"I hear ya, though don't tell Ford I said that. C'mon, I have a lot to show you." I put my arm around his waist, guiding him and grabbing one of his bags. He looks at me sternly and I know he knows about the pain in my joints, but the warm weather has been good for me so I ignore it.

"So, why did you want me here?"

I grin in a way that I know is both devilish and seductive and am rewarded by his lips dropping open just slightly.

"Remember two years ago? Remember when you said... you said that you loved me?" I've imagined this scene in my head so many times, and now finally saying it out loud, I can barely get the words out.

"Of course I do. It's not every day a guy gets his heart broken, you know." I was expecting the bitterness, but not the transcendent look of hope shinning in those gorgeous blue eyes.

"Remember how I said that I wasn't ready?" I stop walking to meet his gaze, not moving my arm from around his waist.

His voice is soft as he leans in closer. "Vividly."

"Well, I am now, if you'll have me."

He barely lets me finish before his lips are on mine and it's better than the kiss from years ago, because I can finally allow myself to feel it fully, without fear or regret or anger at a situation so far beyond my control. He moans and drops his bag to wrap his arms around me, but the bag decides it would be better if it landed on his foot.

"Ow... ow... ow, ow, ow." He hops up and down ridiculously and I double over in laughter.

I smile and pick up both bags. "We'll try that again when we get home and you have less of a chance of hurting yourself."

"Home?" He stops jumping to enquire.

I'm suddenly shy. I had everything planned out. And now I realize that it could all fall through. He still wants me, but is he willing to give everything up? He's still a genius, and I'm betting that few million deducted for 'royalties' from GenoSec's annual report has gone straight into his pocket. Why would he want to be stuck in a still-developing nation helping orphans and cancer victims when he's not exactly known as Mr. Compassionate? "Well, I was sort of hoping . . . I wanted... would you come live with me?"

He stares at me for a long moment, calculating, doubts floating like clouds across his still intensely readable features. "I... well, I don't think the Air Force will be too happy about it. But we've done enough, haven't we? We deserve it." He says it with such finality, cementing my dream into reality. I rush forward to hug him again.

"I love you," I say. "I want you." I place a kiss on his cheek. "I'm ready."

He smiles and kisses me back. "Not that Colombia is my choice local, but I'm sure you have your reasons. You speak Spanish, by the way? Because I . . I ah... I definitely don't."

"Don't worry about it, Rodney." I grin. I don't need to speak the goddamn language as long as he's here with me. He'll probably pick it up before I do anyhow, seeing as how he's a genius. "This is Earth, everyone speaks American."

He rolls his eyes. "Of course they do."

So we walk off together into the twilight and I smile in anticipation of his rant when he finds out that there's no cars allowed within the city center so he's going to have to carry his ludicrously heavy baggage about ten blocks.

- The End -