John Sheppard hated medicine. He hated pills. He hated doctors. He hated Scotland. He hated the British Isles because they let Scotland be part of them despite the fact that Scotts were wicked, wicked men with kilts and bagpipes and four inch needles that they stuck into unsuspecting American rear-ends. But, most of all, he hated Carson Beckett.

And he was going to puke.

Oh God, he was going to puke . . . lose his lunch . . . ralf . . . throw up . . . introduce the world at large to his embarrassingly mundane diet of turkey sandwiches and . . . er, more turkey sandwiches. Hey, it wasn't his fault Rodney ate John's share of chocolate . . . of course the fact that he was allergic might have had something to do with it. Not that he'd let Rodney know that.

Why did he have to be such a smart ass? Why couldn't he and Ford have just left sleeping doctors -and scientists- lie? But no, they thought it would be fun to try out a prank - to lighten the boredom of the mandatory downtime while Zelenka was doing some sort of secondary Gate systems diagnostic or something. Why can't you ever just . . . not? Well, it was too much damn fun, for one. Seeing that look on McKay's face had been oh-so-worth it. Even if John did feel like he was going to puke.

John stumbled into the infirmary, the room swimming as he blinked frantically, trying to keep the dizziness and disorientation at bay. He swayed and had to grab onto one of the infirmary beds to keep from collapsing into a puddle on the floor. What the hell had Beckett given him anyway?

And where was that Scottish bastard anyhow? Shouldn't he be in here? It was bad, bad medical practice to leave your infirmary unattended. John staggered toward Beckett's office. He must be in there.

But before he got there he heard voices rounding the corner. He hoped it was Beckett, returned to make the room stop spinning.

But he wasn't that lucky. ". . . I'm going to kill him!” Oh God, McKay. John dove into the closet, practically slamming himself against the wall and dragging down a pile of lab coats - some of them dirty, by the smell of it.

This was the last thing he needed right now. McKay wouldn't care he was about to puke his guts out; he'd just keep talking in that horribly annoying nasal whine of his. And it would make the pain John could already feel building at his temples even worse.

Then again, John didn't blame him. It was a pretty nasty trick he'd pulled - using that device he and Ford had discovered to slow his heart so that McKay would think he was dead, then popping up and scaring him. In fact, if someone had done it to him, John would have been furious. But it was still funny as hell. And McKay had fainted. Too bad he'd called Beckett before he'd bent down to check John's pulse.

"Calm, yourself, lad.” Thank god the doctor was a bit more rational - though John didn't care for that mischievousness in his tone as he finished with, "Why get mad when you can get even?” Beckett must have walked McKay to the commissary to get some food or something – John could hear the scientist chewing, even from in here.

"That's the whole idea of killing him!"

"Aye, too bad it'd be cutting off your nose to spite your face."

"Blah, blah, blah, you and your stupid proverbs.” McKay was still chewing as he spoke. "That was downright cruel of him. And you know it. I care about him, that stupid bastard. I should have just left him there . . . but no, I actually don't want him to die, and he uses that to give me a heart attack!"

"That's funny, I don't remember you ever undergoing a myocardia infarcation."

"Ha-ha. It's called hyperbole. Not to be confused with hyperbola which is a conic section defined as the locus of all points in the plane, the difference of whose distances from two fixed points is separated by a constant distance." Actually, Rodney had forgotten to specify those two points as the foci and that the points (P) on the hyperbola were separated from them by them by a distance of F times P. But John was sure he was just dumbing it down for Carson.

"Very funny, and actually quite useless."

It so was not! "It is not . . . if you knew how many vital equations that allow for your presence here and the technical . . ."

"People survived long before they knew any math. Medicine, however . . ."

"Did you ever hear of 'a man does not live by bread and wine alone?'"

"Yeah, if his name is Rodney McKay, he also needs chocolate and stimulants. Besides, I thought Mr. Genius was too far above 'stupid proverbs.'"

There was a slight pause. John smiled. He always loved it when someone beat Rodney at his own game. "Well, we were talking about how I'm going to kill Major Sheppard, not math, anyhow. I don't care how much of his chocolate he gives me . . ."

"That's because he's allergic to it.” Damnit! Why did Carson have to go and spoil his system? He needed something with which to bribe the scientist - especially to get him to shut up.

"Is not.” He was gratified to note that Rodney still stepped in to defend him. But only because he was mad at Carson for catching him in a logical inconsistency about five seconds ago. Nothing was more fleeting than Rodney's intellectual allegiance, except maybe his silence.

"Says so in his medical record.” His private medical record. John scowled.

"Hey, whatever happened to doctor-patient confidentiality?” Thank you, Rodney. At least Rodney was on his side sometimes. When he wasn't present.

"C'mon, it's practically common knowledge. I'm surprised a genius like yourself hasn't already figured it out. Remember when Ford made him a chocolate cake for his birthday? Maybe you were too busy shoveling it down yourself, but didn't you notice he didn't eat any?" Oh god, he'd felt so bad about that. But Ford had understood – more for him, if he could beat Rodney to it.

"I just assumed that was because he's anorexic."

John fought the urge to open the door and let McKay feel how not-anorexic the weight behind his right hook was. He was trim! He had small bones! It'd been years since anybody'd had the balls to call him skinny to his face. And he thought he looked pretty damned good that way. The ladies seemed to like it, at least. He shifted around resentfully. So maybe his ass could use a little extra padding right now. For such an advanced race, he'd have thought the Ancients wouldn't have made their floors so damn hard.

Beckett did that weird thing between a scoff and a snort. "He could stand to gain a few pounds, but by the medical definition, he's just fine, though allergic to chocolate."

"That bastard. He's been making me do all sorts of embarrassing things in trade for his precious chocolate, which he is so humanely willing to share for 'team cohesion.' We're going to get him for this, Carson."

"That we are, Rodney. What embarrassing things?” Yeah, what embarrassing things? John wasn't really a gossip, but he'd sure like to know what Rodney thought was embarrassing. It'd help team cohesion . . . you could never know too much about your teammates . . .

Sadly, Rodney complete ignored the question. "I know what we should do . . . I could rig one of the central computer's . . . no, that might possibly cause a citywide blackout . . . though if I redirect the power through the secondary . . . but Zelenka's doing checks on those today. Maybe we could . . . but Weir wouldn't like that. Then again, what she doesn't know . . ."

"Uh, Rodney? In medicine we learn that simpler is better.” One of John's personal philosophies. Well, he amended that. The first law was 'faster is better,' if you could do that simply, even better.

"Yeah, because I live my life according to medicine. Maybe while I'm at it I can go out and by myself a pocket bible. I could thump it real good.” John had to stifle a chuckle at that one. McKay could be good fun when he wasn't being a complete and total asshole.

"Hey, a little dose of Christianity never hurt anyone.” John gritted his teeth. Yeah, it sure could. He remembered marching to 'non-denominational' Church on Sundays. He'd walk at the back of the line then march backwards until he could run back to his room and read or something. He hated Church. It did hurt - his brain.

"Except the Jews.” Oh yeah, them too. "And all those people that died in the crusades, not to mention . . ."

"I knew we never should have shown you. 'Life is Beautiful.'“ They could have all been spared if they had just listened to John and gone with Halloween - Jamie Lee Curtis was hot!

"Roberto Benini sucks and talk about anachronistic! Besides, you're the religious crusader."

"I'm just saying that some people could learn a great deal from humility before the Lord."

"Hey! I can be very humble. I mean, I am a genius, but I listen to other people's opinions . . ."

Beckett actually did snort this time. "When you think you're going to die and you can't think of anything else, you do."

"I listen to you!"

"Yeah, right. You listen to me because medicine is the one thing that's completely beyond you.” John could think of a few other things that were completely beyond Rodney - like women. But Beckett was a much more generous man that John was. Naïve, but generous.

"That's because it's not worth my time."

"Your health is always worth your time. Who was it that said, ' He who has health has hope; and he who has hope has everything.'"

"Probably an American. They're always saying stupid things.” John often wondered if Rodney had forgotten that he'd spent most of his adult life working for the United States Federal Government. "Will you quit it with the proverbs? Stop trying to distract me from finding a way to wipe that stupid 'I got you, ha ha' grin off Sheppard's face."

"Not to worry, lad. I know just the ticket."

"So you've got a plan? I thought you didn't want to . . ."

"Messing with your health is serious business. I don't intend to let him get away with taking it lightly. He's already got a reckless streak a mile wide. I mean, the man flies planes, for Christ sakes!" Helicopters. Why did no one get the difference? John Sheppard was not a jetjockey.

"So what are we going to do?” John could just imagine Rodney rubbing his palms together in anticipation.

"Well, after you'd fainted . . ."

"Passed out."

"Whatever. After that, I came rushing over. He tried to deny everything, but since you had made the call saying that he was unconscious, I checked him out. Ford, who happened to be very conveniently hiding around the corner, eventually confessed to the whole thing. I sent the major off with some pretty heavy blood pressure regulating drugs. Whatever device he used really did a number on his system. It might have been the Ancient equivalent of defibrillator.” Well, John didn't know that. His last run in with a defibrillator had been enough to make him never want to see another one ever again. His chest had been sore for more than a week after that.

"Really? Do you have it? There are some tests I'd like to do. We could maybe use . . ."

"Rodney. Focus. Revenge, remember?"

"Oh yeah. You were saying?” Yeah, Rodney really did listen. John shook his head.

"Well, he's in his quarters right now, probably worse than knackered on this medicine. He wouldn't notice if we snuck in - changed things around a bit. I was thinking, if we were clever, we could even rig things to make him think that he actually did die from the thing. That would teach him.” Yeah right. They wouldn't be able to fool him . . . though the pain in his head really might be enough for him to wish he were dead.

"Yeah, I doubt he'd buy that. If there's anyone who'd refuse to admit to his own demise, Sheppard's it. The man thinks he's invincible, I swear. Besides, don't you think that's a little cruel? I mean he does have some good qualities . . . like the fact that he keeps saving my life . . .” Damn straight! "Though he tends to be the one putting it in peril to begin with. He does let me get away with a lot. And his sense of humor. Yeah, his sense of humor . . . and . . . and his . . ." My hair. John thought his hair was easily his best feature. That and . . .

"His ass.” Beckett and McKay finished in unison.

What the hell? While John knew he had a damn fine ass, even if it wasn't the best for closet-sitting, still . . . he wasn't used to guys discussing it! He wasn't homophobic (as long as he wasn't expected to participate), and he thought those bastards at the Pentagon (his father included) that thought up the ridiculous DADT policy could just go fuck themselves - or each other, if they didn't talk about it. But . . . well, he didn't do . . . that. It gave him the creeps just thinking about it! And his ass hurt more now. His ass didn't want to think about it either. And it normally loved attention.

Yes he needed some of that attention now. Asses. Scrumptious female asses. A nicer, round and curvy one - maybe a girl that liked to be spanked. That waitress outside the base - the one with the most perfect tits who always wore a pink bra beneath that skimpy little dress of hers . . . Cindy Thompson in Jake's basement, petting him like the frightened animal he was back then . . . anything but listening to two of his best friends discussing his ass.

He didn't want to think about McKay, shirtless and wild, bending him over the lab bench . . . or Carson trying to play doctor with nothing on under that lab coat. John just barely suppressed a frightened whimper. He didn't do that. Why couldn't they all just accept that?

Quick think of something else . . . that prostitute in Korea, the one who rolled him of the high platformed bed onto the floor and actually cracked one of his ribs, she rode him so hard . . . Major Pearson, her long hair finally down from that eye-straining bun she wore in front of the class . . . Teyla all sweaty and panting after one of their training sessions . . . Elizabeth and that deep rumble in her voice, humming against his hardness. . .

"Oh god, that ass,” Rodney moaned.

John squeezed his eyes closed, despite the fact he was already in the dark. Why me?

He was trapped . . . pinned down . . . at a huge strategic disadvantage. John had always been good at tactics - how'd he get himself into this one? Oh yeah, they drugged him. The bastards. He still felt like he was going to puke.

He wanted to stick his hands in his ears and hum. But then they'd hear him and it'd be even worse.

"Hey, you've got a mighty fine one yourself. If I were you, I wouldn't be complaining."

Oh fuck. He was not hearing Carson come on to his geek. No way. This is not happening. This is not happening. This is not happening. He never wanted to think of Rodney's ass. He only thought about it when it was on the line, and then only in a vague, 'must protect my teammates' sense.

"Really? I always thought it looked rather absurd in these stupid khaki pants."

"Yeah, they are a mite unflattering. But Doctors see all." Great. He could just imagine the Doc giving a sly little wink at that – the kind you used to pick up girls in bars . . . if you were pathetic like that. John rolled his eyes. But that just made the dizziness worse. What the hell had Beckett given him?

There was some nervous shuffling then, "Well . . . um . . . thanks," and quietly mumbled, "I feel the same way about you."

No! McKay coming on to Beckett was something John thought he could go his entire life without hearing and be happy, thank you very much. He didn't want to hear McKay coming on to anyone.

Why didn't the two of them just get together, anyhow? They both obviously liked men and he'd caught the way they sat thigh to thigh at last week's movie marathon, they were blocking his view. Not there was much to see - who in the hell brought Pretty Woman to torture the innocent inhabitants of yet another galaxy, anyway? Sure, Julia Roberts had a nice ass, but Richard Gere couldn't act worth shit. Now that he thought about it, John was astounded the two of them hadn't jumped each other then and there - anything to get away from that awful movie. And if they had, he wouldn't be sitting here listening to them talk about his assets.

There was a strangled silence, for which John was momentarily grateful. He was developing a pounding headache. He massaged his temples.

Beckett cleared his throat. "So, too bad the major's straight, right?"

"How do you know that?” No . . . no, no, no, that was not disappointment he heard in Rodney's voice. "Or have you discovered the 'gay gene' along with the ATA one?"

"C'mon, he and Ford were in here the other day getting their immunizations . . . I had Ford bent over the table with his bum exposed and Sheppard didn't even flinch, they just kept arguing about some ridiculous American Football trivia, like that was more important than any sort of privacy or decorum, or medical confidentiality." Ford?! He was supposed to be attracted to Ford? That was like pedophilia . . . or bestiality, if you were talking about sex with little puppies.

"Well, they are military. They just hop in the communal shower and look at me funny when I don't follow. I swear, being on this team without a constant hard-on is a bigger challenge than wormhole physics. Not that it's all the much of a challenge for someone with my IQ. And Ford? That's just . . . that's just disgusting.” Thank you! At least someone agreed with him! He and Ford, John shuddered. "Then again, he does like his dominant alpha male thing; I wouldn't put it past him."

"Actually, I fancy him a bottom, myself. It's always the commanding ones that like to take a break and relax. Besides . . . a face like that? If he was . . . which I definitely think he's not, people would probably assume."

God, would they please stop discussing his sex life? He never wanted to top or bottom. He wanted girls. Lots of girls. Girls in skimpy swimwear - or, better yet, nothing at all. They could be on-top. He liked that. He liked strong women. But women was the operative word.

"So you have a crush on Sheppard too?” Rodney had a crush on him? He took back his previous comment about never having too much intel. You definitely could know too much. Way too much.

Beckett gave a dry little laugh. "Who doesn't?” Well, that made John feel a little better. Maybe he was just that hot. He smiled: John Sheppard, the siren . . . for both sexes.

"Well, he's pretty to look at and everything, but he's also a pain in the ass. Not to mention the whole military thing. Uniforms may be a turn on, but the intelligence factor is definitely a turn off."

Hey! John had an IQ of 145; he was no Forest Gump. Not everyone in the military was an idiot fit to do nothing but follow orders, not that he really wanted to let Rodney know that - that competitive little bastard. God, he was a closeted geek! A closeted geek trapped in a closet.

"So you're saying you don't like him?"

"Well, if I suddenly found him naked in my bed I certainly would object, but I'm not a buddy-fuck kind of guy. And I don't think I could take him ogling every pair of tits that pass into his field of vision either.” John didn't think he was that bad - not really. "I want someone a little more . . . serious. Someone I can really talk to.” He and Rodney talked all the time! Rodney did nothing but talk. Wait . . . John stopped himself. He didn't want Rodney to want him. Though secretly, he kind of liked the fact that he did. It was cool - as long as he wasn't expected to reciprocate. "Someone whom I can listen to."

"Someone you can listen to, eh?” Why did Carson's voice suddenly sounded all deep and husky . . . oh no! "Have anyone in mind?"

"As a matter of fact, I do . . ."

John crossed his fingers and prayed to every God he knew of for them to not be doing what he thought they were . . . . Shit, Rodney kissed even louder than he chewed.

And was that a groan?

Suddenly, the small crack in the door where the light was streaming in was covered up . . . and the door slammed against its hinges - like a body being pressed up against it.

"Oh, god, Carson, there . . ."

He didn't want to hear this. Hadn't he suffered enough? Why did The Powers That Be hate him?

Another moan, "Rodney . . ."

Some shifting . . . cloth moving and dropping to the crack beneath the door. John thought about flying. He thought about training exercises out in the desert . . . flying the jumper, letting it feel his thoughts as he sailed through a layer of clouds of out of the atmosphere altogether.

But that wasn't enough to block out the clang of a belt buckle on the very hard floor, or Rodney begging, "Fuck me. Please, Carson, fuck me."

And it certainly was not enough to block out the rhythmic pounding or the panted breaths as two heavy bodies pushed up against the door.

And his headache was getting worse. The noise was shocking straight through him, unbalancing him. The room was spinning. This was not happening. He was hallucinating this . . . the drugs were fucking with him . . . he was going to throw up . . . he was going to black out.

And then there were too long drawn out moans. Two panted names. And so much harsh breathing as two weights settled against the door.

And then John Sheppard truly did loose his lunch all over Dr. Beckett's only clean lab coat.

And then Rodney opened the door. He was wearing boxers that said 'Smarter than thou.' John gave him a watery smile, trying not to turn red from embarrassment, and promptly passed out.