Rodney was staring at him. But the second he met the gaze, Rodney shifted it to the wall, the line of his jaw set, a harsh angle. He might literally be biting his tongue, which was odd, because John didn't think people actually did that. But, Rodney'd done his fair share of defying his expectations today, hadn't he?

John scowled, shifting uncomfortably against raised back of the bed. He was starting to get a crick in his neck, but there was no way he was going to page Beckett or a nurse in here to get him. He wasn't going to move until they had this settled.

Why did Rodney have to go and do that?

Why did John always have to be like this? Why did he never learn?

What was it they said in hostage situations 101? Those outdated videos they made them watch in their hasty preparation for dealing with possible terrorists in the frantic week before they shipped out, as though anything they could say in a language the other guys couldn't speak would dissuade people convinced that they were the heathens God asked to be destroyed. They said you always left the terrorist with what they perceived as a way out and option for surrender - because you could never predict a man with nothing to lose.

The last thing you wanted was for them to feel claustrophobic, because when certain kinds of people were frightened, truly scared, they panicked and did stupid things - fear makes people do stupid things. And stupid things -from either side- are always bad in a war zone. John was not this kind of person - the greater the pressure, the calmer he got. They said the same thing about serial-killers - they were calm and collected during the act; they planned and strategized, but they weren't really in control, because they kept coming back for more. They were addicted to the rush, the adrenaline high, the calm power of flying above the madness below you. And, god, John Sheppard loved to fly.

It wasn't the claustrophobic panicky type that did the real damage though. Sure, they might explode and do some real damage, but you needed some sort of catalyst for those types of reactions. The situations sprang out of nowhere and disappeared just as quickly, random dots springing up across the plot - mixing, as they called it in his chaos theory classes.

It was the other kind of people, the ones that set the parameters, picked the starting points, identified points of bifurcation, divergence, bottlenecks, and jumped on them . . . that you worried about. It wasn't the data point that you worried about when the whole fucking equation was riding you into disaster.

Rodney was the claustrophobic type. But it was all John's fault.

He should have predicted that -with Rodney's disposition, and their situation- it'd only be a matter of time before he got desperate enough - until he thought he had nothing to lose.

And John should have recognized his own pattern... what did they call it? His past lives? His karmic repetition? Surfacing again. And he knew what happened when it did. He'd just underestimated the strength of Rodney's paranoid convictions. Rodney knew enough math to know that anything was possible - that no matter how dire the situation, there was always a chance they'd get out of it. Hell, in an infinite universe, there was even a chance, no matter how astronomically improbable, that their molecules might spontaneously disorganize and just happen to reorganize somewhere safe and warm. Miracles happened - only they were not just statistical improbabilities, but also statistical necessities. One in a trillion is still one, after all.

But Rodney had panicked... but John couldn't blame him. It was John that was the tease, the determinant, the liar.

You want to make them like you, John. He couldn't help it. As much as he loved the freedom of flying, the rush . . . as much as he loved the wild of just going for it, he had do it under the proper conditions . . . the meticulousness of a serial killer. He gave a dry chuckle.

Rodney looked over at him and shook his head as if to say 'there goes the crazy' and returned his gaze to the wall, only this time his hands began to pick at the corners of the blanket - clenching and unclenching.

John wanted to smile at him. He wanted to go back in time and change things. He wanted a flying Delorian and a mad scientist - one that didn't want to jump his bones. Oh, and a hoverboard. John had always wanted a hoverboard. Not that it would change anything. Because even if he told the John Sheppard of the past exactly what was going to happen, he still would go ahead and do his thing anyway, and they'd both still end up in this mess, with John brooding and Rodney sitting an arm's length away studiously ignoring him.

He couldn't help it; it was in his genes - or at the very least in his upbringing.

It was his mother's influence, really. She knew everyone, had all the other army-wives over to bake and gossip. And when Father was home, John'd find 'cute' little outfits laid out on his bed when he came back from school, perfectly pressed pants and shined shoes so he could show-off for the guests, so they could remark on how much he looked like his father. His father got to go brood in the corner, talking with his closet friends -or should he say allies?- in hushed whispers. John had to look 'adorable.'

His mother taught him how to smile, how to remember everybody's name and small personal things about them, how to file them automatically - the way he did the football stats or the specs on the latest jetplanes. But it was his father that taught him the consequences of not behaving - of having people not like him. And he learned the lesson well. One time he threw a tantrum -he wanted to go over to Jake's house to watch the space-shuttle launch- but his mom was throwing a party. He came out wearing his sweaty old little league jersey - inside out. His father had spanked him before - but after this one he couldn't walk without a limp the next day. He had to stay home from school -even when they were discussing the space shuttle in his science class- and he wasn't allowed to go to chess club for three weeks.

So he learned how to smile and to make the most perfect 'youthfully innocent' remarks about things he'd learned a long time ago from reading Dickens and Mark Twain and even a little Aldus Huxley, even though he wasn't supposed to. He learned a polite deference - how to serve and how to be a gentleman. And he learned how to compliment the gaggle of gossiping housewives, notice a new sweater or a haircut, and when he grew older, where to stare, even if he wasn't attracted their sagging bustlines or bony curveless hips, and how to tease them just enough to make them step closer, touch his cheek or his hair, rub up against him.

And sometimes they wanted more. But he didn't say 'no.' It was rude to say 'no' to mother's friends. It caused too much trouble. And John Sheppard never wanted to cause trouble. God, Weir would laugh in his face if she heard that one - that deep throaty chuckle. She wouldn't look him in the eye - she rarely did, but, like Mrs. Lewis, and all his mother's society friends, she loved the illusion of the bad boy - ate it up like candy. And he'd hate to disappoint her - though he never tried to be bad. He was a nice guy.

But his first girlfriend taught him that nice guys finish last - Cindy Thompson, the head cheerleader who cheated on him with some drunken college frat boy who knocked her up. She pointed the finger at him, and he earned himself the worse beating of his life for it. But the second he could limp out of there, he did. He couldn't have gone to Mrs. Lewis or Major Pearson, or any of the other women to whom he played the role of young and tender side dish - they didn't care about him more than the pretty face and the aura of danger, not enough to through their reputation in with his. So he turned down the free ride to MIT and sold his refitted '69 mustang convertible for quick-cash and hopped on the first military transport to the far side of the planet. Being able to forge your father's signature came in handy when he was in charge of troop deployment on base.

The money bought him a car, a surfboard and a place on the coast for a couple of months, but he knew it wasn't going to last forever. Of course it had been naïve and idiotic to assume that he could make a living fishing in Guam when there were people who'd spent their entire lives perfecting the art when he'd only been on a few fishing and camping trips with his father. In the end, the job he was best at was charm and flirtation. It came even more naturally than his ability to use Ancient technology - the only thing more natural was flying. In the end, one of the hotels hired him. They paid him under the table to hang out at the tennis courts or on the beach, smile at wealthy patrons, let them take him out, seduce him. And he'd convince them to stay a few extra days to extend the affair with the charming college kid taking a year off from school - the one that quoted them Hemingway and tried to teach them how to surf. John knew he was basically a whore, though no one ever told him he had to sleep with anyone. It was his job and he was good at it, that wasn't anything to be ashamed of.

And after he got to know them, the husbands they snuck out on at night, their parents if they were his age, all the interesting details of their work, if they were one of the businessmen there to do contracts, they'd leave, sometimes with artful words, but always assuming that this was as profound experience for him as it was for them. Then he'd have to start all over again. Now, a galaxy away, he could remember faces but few names, flashing through his mind like slides projected onto the same old situation, offering to help them improve at tennis, accidentally spraying sand or water on a blanket as he dragged his surfboard from the sea, sitting by the pooldeck reading War and Peace or Catcher in the Rye and sending obvious but shy glances in their direction.

Rodney was sliding his jaw back and forth. The rhythmic pops were pounding through his aching skull like bullets. He scratched at the IV pumping into his arm then cleared his throat, giving Rodney fair warning. "Rodney?"

Rodney looked down at his hands, and everything came spilling out. "I'm so sorry, John. You were never supposed to find out. I . . . I . . . you know how I react to certain doom. And . . . I thought we were going to die, so I told myself, 'hey, what the hell? You've been wanting to kiss him for a long time now. And kissing John Sheppard is something you should do before this insane plant neurotoxin kills you.' I mean, it was right up there on my list, before climb Mount Everest and paint a self-portrait but after invent the next Velcro. You know, Velcro really was a revolutionary concept . . . so elegant, so simple . . . . Anyway, I was . . . I mean . . . I thought we were going to die."

"Already said that," John laugh wincing at the spasms that started in his chest. He knew he should page Beckett, but this was more important.

Rodney's jaw was set, and he'd tortured the poor sheets to the point where they looked ready to declare surrender. "Well, I'm saying it again." At least he could count on the continued presence of witty but pissy Rodney.

"You don't have to apologize. I'm the one that fucked up."

Only now did Rodney turn to face him, anger burning in those piercing blue eyes. "You? How did you fuck up? I seem to remember that it was me with my tongue down your throat."

"I led you on. I shouldn't have . . . you're under my command. You're a man. And I can't . . ." John watched Rodney's face fall. There had been hope there, just as there had been hope in that kiss, as John kissed back for a split-second, desperate to serve, as usual. But this time, he'd stopped him. He took a deep breath. A part of him wanted to make that wounded-puppy look go away, wanted to get down on his knees and give Rodney the best blow job of his life, just so he'd stop looking at him like that. He didn't want Rodney to be hurt, but he knew enough to know that relieving the pain now would only make it worse when Rodney eventually came to see the truth about him. John sighed. "I mean, there's nothing wrong with you. I like you. I like you a lot, actually." He gave Rodney a desperate smile. "But I can't . . . not you, Rodney. Please . . . not you."

Rodney dropped the sheets entirely in frustration, the cold anger in his voice was palpable, the hate so intense that John though he might have quailed had it been focused on him not inwards on Rodney himself. "I get it. I'm too fat . . . too ugly . . . too smart for you. You'll let everyone else, but not me because, hey, I'm a geek who you don't care about. You just want me around because I bail your ass out of trouble . . . because I'm the Answer Man. Well, fuck you, John. I thought we were at least friends."

John couldn't believe he'd screwed up this badly. Rodney had to know how much he cared. How could he be so insecure as to think that John didn't like him? Want him? Maybe even . . . Because you're a liar, a voice in his head replied. What reason did Rodney have to trust him? He'd been flirtatious. He led him on and then dropped him at the critical moment.

Rodney looked away, but even from the side John could see the tears that would never be shed forming at the corners of his eyes. "I'm not asking you to love me. I know I can sometimes be a little difficult . . ."

"Sometimes?" John couldn't resist - the barb was automatic. He cursed himself the moment he'd said it, but Rodney seemed to just take it in stride - insults were expected.

"A lot of the times . . . but I'm not asking for a house and screaming little children and valentines . . . though you can keep giving me your chocolate, if you'd like."

John shook his head. Why couldn't Rodney understand? "I'll fuck it up Rodney. You don't' understand. Everything I do ends up badly. People . . . they want me to do these things . . . they want me to be this hero . . . this perfect charming knight in shining armor. . . and I try really goddamn hard, Rod. I try, but I always disappoint. Jack O'Neill sent me to this galaxy to light things up and I single-handedly cost the lives of god knows how many innocent lives . . ."

"And people say that I take myself too seriously. We all contributed to the reawakening of the Wraith somehow. We all chose to come."

"But that's not all of it, Rodney. Everyone I love . . ." His voice broke. Had he ever even loved anybody? "Everyone I try to love, I mean. I can't tell if I'm just responding . . . trying to please them. And I disappoint them. Every person I've ever fucked, I've let down. I've failed them - cheated, left, hurt them just by being who I really am beneath whatever it is they see. But, not you, Rod, please, not you."

Rodney gulped, shoulders shaking. John didn't know if it was a side-effect of the toxin or the current of emotions so thick that he could barely breath. "Why not me?"

"I don't want to hurt you." Now it was John's turn to look away, voice soft in entreaty. "I care about you."

"I'm sorry, John, but even in the Sheppard's World, I don't see how you caring about me translates to you not fucking me. I'm a big boy. I can hold my own. If really care about me, you'll be honest. It's because I'm a geek, isn't it? You like to flirt, but the thought of actually doing me turns you off. Be honest . . . its not like I haven't heard it before."

How many times have you heard it, Rodney? How many people have hurt you? John wanted to find all of them . . . everyone who'd ever laughed, everyone who'd ever left Rodney alone the morning after, everyone that'd teased him with a slap on the ass or a lewd jeer. He wanted to tear out their hearts, hurt them, make them feel all the pain he saw etched into the worry-lines of Rodney's features, the self hate. But then he'd have to do that to himself as well. He was guilty. He was the one causing the pain he saw there now.

And he wanted to reach out. It would be so easy just to submit. But he couldn't. Not with Rodney. "Do you know what I used to do?"

"You flew." He spit the answer out like poison.

"I was a whore." It sounded so grotesque when he said it now. At the time he wasn't ashamed, but if he knew what he knew now . . . how it would stop him from feeling what he wanted so badly, he'd see that the shame wasn't what he should be worried about.

"You were not." This was the 'it's improbable and I don't want to believe it, so there' voice, the one Rodney used in intellectual debates or little academic cockfights with the other scientists. John was convinced that half of Rodney's genius was pure intimidation.

But Rodney hadn't been there. This only proved why they could never work. Rodney didn't want to believe what John was . . . didn't want to see the disgusting creature beneath the pretty-boy exterior. "I was. I worked for a hotel in Guam for a year before I joined up. They paid me to get seduced . . . show their patrons a good time, you know the whole 'affair abroad' thing."

"That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard! They don't do that!" Yep, definitely the superior, 'if I say it loud enough then I'll be right' Rodney. A girlfriend of his used to call that 'white man's privilege' style of argumentation.

He gave a frustrated huff. "I'm telling the truth, Rodney. You know if I was lying I'd think up something better than that."

Rodney sighed, defeated. "It's not like I haven't had prostitutes before or fuck buddies I used just to get off. I just want you, John. You know you're attractive. If that's what you want . . . you don't have to feel anything for me. I could be another one of your . . ."

"God, no. I'd want to love you . . . be in love with you. I've said it so many times - convinced myself it was true enough to play the role, but I never know when its all a lie. Being with me is dangerous."

Rodney gulped. "You're not . . ."

John saw the fear on his face, like so many others. All of them that'd been reckless and out-of-control in the eighties. "No, I passed all the testing. I guess I'm just lucky, because if there was any justice in this life I should have AIDS . . . I always used protection with the women, but not with the men. You know what they say, though? A whore is a whore is a whore. Everyone I've tried to be with . . . I couldn't change. Sex has always been about service. I can't make it anything else."

"You don't know that."

John sighed and closed his eyes. He was suddenly so tired. It was so hard to fight. But he had to fight . . . he would keep fighting, more fiercely even than he would the Wraith. He'd found in Rodney someone who he could joke with, someone who got him. Someone who'd know all those geeky little things that so fascinated him about himself, yet scared him. When Rodney was around, he felt like a kid again, free from the world that had taken his innocence and his free-will. Elizabeth told them they were a bad influence on each other, but John couldn't think of a more noble aspiration than the mind of a child. That was a time when he knew what genuine happiness was. "Rodney . . . I . . . I think I might love you." There, he'd said it. That was the reason.

"If you really mean that, then be with me! You're so goddamn irrational, John. Stop lying. You don't have to say that."

"The point of being in love is that it's irrational. Besides, I mean it. I. Love. You." He was gaining more confidence now in his anger. Anything that could make him both angry and elated at the same time had to be love. "Why is that so hard to believe?"


"Um . . . let's see . . . that's a hard one . . . oh, yeah . . . because you won't fuck me. Because you won't even fucking kiss me. I think that just might be a clue."

"Didn't anyone ever tell you that sex isn't everything?"

"Yeah, but I never listened."

"Well, at least you're admitting it." John shrugged. Then he levered himself up, forcing all the muscles that felt like spaghetti just sent through the washing machine into action. A little discipline, a few well placed stumbles and the force of gravity had him collapsed on top of Rodney's bed, the IV pole clattering behind him.

"You're lucky my legs still haven't regained full feeling yet." Rodney quipped, rubbing a hand down John's back as John panted through the pain that had sprung up from so much motion. "That was really stupid, you know. You're not going to be able to make it back and Beckett's going to yell at you and everything. And then he's going to blame me for making you do it, and we're both going to be in trouble."

John pulled his hands out from beneath him and half slumped and half crawled up the bed so he and Rodney were nose to nose. He leaned down and just brushed his lips to Rodney's. "I. Don't. Care." His head felt heavy, so he let it drop onto Rodney's shoulder, muscles contracting almost involuntarily as he wrapped himself around him. He felt a hand dragging lightly through his hair, massaging his aching temples. "Mmmmm."

"You like that?" Rodney paused in his ministrations to look down at him.

"Yeah. Don't stop." They sat there like that for a moment.

"This is nice," Rodney said, to fill the silence.

"I'm still not sleeping with you . . ." John let his voice trail off as he felt this incredible warmth spread through him - tenderness, comfort, a touch that wasn't screaming for his reaction, something that was a gift, not a trade. He smiled as he drifted off, the pain melting into the comfortable, almost-still silence

As John started to lightly snore, Rodney shook his head but remarked smugly to the empty room, "I think you already are," then drifted off to sleep himself.