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This story is completed
- Anon., from Viet Nam, 1968
John would notice him even if he weren't the only person he's ever seen sitting in the middle of a dance club reading a physics journal. Techno music throbs in the background, the lights from beneath the dance floor flashing, too much cologne drowning out even the thick scent of the ocean breeze. This guy looks completely out of place.
He's normal enough - short hair, a ski jump nose, a short-sleeved button down shirt, conspicuously plain in the land of loud print and Ray-Ban glasses, and the most beautiful blue eyes John had ever seen, rising in a flash to take John in from across the dance floor before darting back to the journal in his hands. But the fact is that you don't see people like him in clubs like this. It's a young crowd - barely legal twinks and gym-rats on 'I'm too pretty for college' vacation. John himself almost feels old, but the surf has been kind to his six-pack and people have always said that he looked younger than his years.
John isn't intending to go over there, not really. He always comes to this particular bar on this particular beach for a single reason - to pick up a quick, meaningless screw. He comes here when even looking out at the crash of the waves on the shore sounds like screams and gunshots. He comes here to send a big fat fuck-you to the bastards that sent Jake on that mission and then damned John for caring enough to fix their mistake. John comes here to forget all the complicated things in his life, and if this guy is anything, it's complicated.
But John has also been known to put the curiosity in the dead cat, so at the second appreciative look the guy gives him, he has to smirk wantonly back. Hey, in bars like these, it's practically required. But when the guy looks flustered and goes back to reading instead of watching John cross through the sweaty bodies grinding on the dance floor, John's not put off. In fact, he's even more intrigued.
"Must be some interesting stuff," John says, looking down at '3 Competing Theories of Time-Dilation and the Search for Black Holes.' He's not good at pick up lines - he's never had to wait long before someone approaches him.
"Yes, if you like science fiction," the guy harrumphs, hitting the pages as though they've somehow offended him. "Watch out Michael Crichton, anything you can do, theoretical astrophysicists can do better, and with a side order of academic bullshit."
"Hey, I liked Jurassic Park," John says, because clearly dinosaurs are way cooler than telescopes and black holes that people can't even find with the damned things.
The guy gives a disgusted little laugh. "Don't even get me started on that movie . . ."
And though John thinks it might be kinda fun to hear this guy rant for a while, he's also aware that if he doesn't stop him now, he might spend the entire night listening to this guy without finding out his name.
"John Sheppard." He sticks out his hand, but the guy doesn't seem to really notice, focused as he is on John's shoes.
"Rod . . . Rodson. David Rodson. Doctor David Rodson."
John raises an eyebrow at that. 'Rodson.' That's a fake name if he's ever heard one. "You married?" John can sympathize with that; he strung Natalie along for years just to keep up the image. The only thing that kept him from feeling bad about it was the fact that she was so obvious about cheating on him.
"God, no." The guy says it like the terror they both know it is.
It's almost automatic to try to value that comment somehow. "That's good to know." It's not that John's seriously considering fucking this guy, or even having a relationship with him, because . . . well, John likes his guys young and pretty, and gorgeous eyes aside, this guy is neither. And yet, he's glad 'David' isn't married because he doesn't seem like the type that should ever be tied down by something like that.
John is answered with a snort. The guy . . . 'David' finally deigns to look John in the eye, that piercing blue stare so intense it seems almost damning. "I won't finance your surf ambitions and if you so much think of calling me Daddy, I'll shove this bible of bad astrophysics so far up your ass that you'll be praying they find a black hole somewhere up there."
John puts his hands up, claiming innocence. "I wasn't thinking that . . . honest. I just thought, 'hey, it's not every day you see someone in a dance club reading a physics journal.'"
"So . . . what, you thought you could just come over here to poke at it and see if it moves? I'm not here to satisfy your curiosity."
"So if you're not here to satisfy my curiosity or to pick yourself up a cabana boy, then why are you here? There are a lot of places on this island where you could read a physics journal."
"I like the view," 'David' says, eyeing John speculatively.
"You're in Hawaii. I'm sure you can find your fair share of spectacular views. Endless ocean, lava flows, fields and fields of alien-looking pineapple plants."
David snorts. "You're wet yourself if you knew half the amazing places I've seen."
"Then why come here?" Most people didn't come to Hawaii without some sort of appreciation for natural beauty.
"I missed the sound of the ocean."
That's reason enough for John. "Hard to hear through all the Madonna. Wanna go for a walk?"
David looks so shocked by that, like he's not expecting John to even be able to walk, let alone ask him to join in.
John shrugs. "Getting tired of this place. You're interesting." What he doesn't say is that he'd be out there walking that sandswept coast right now if he weren't afraid to be alone.
Tonight it's Mitch that he keeps seeing, dopey frat-boy grin and dumb Hawaiian shirt. 'I guess I always suspected you were a fag, Shep, but I never figured you for a toyboy,' he says. He's missing the left side of his face, just like the last time John saw him.
John ignores him, raising his eyebrows at David and walking out, slowing down outside to give the guy time to catch up. He does so surprisingly quickly, sort of half-bounding to John's side in an awkward little strut.
"So tell me about these places you've seen," John says. The night is cool, with a perfect sea breeze blowing in off the coast, but the moon is a hazy yellow above them, turning the sea a murky brown as they approach it. The lava-rock steps that lead down to the soft sand of the beach don't look slippery, but John offers David his hand anyway.
David ignores the help. "So when you fall you can drag me down with you? I don't think so."
When they reach the bottom, David bends to pull off his Tevas (and his socks . . . ugh). John's already barefoot.
"What, have you never heard of tetanus?" David squawks. "Hey, wait up!"
John stops out of courtesy, but in truth, he's restless. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea. On nights like these, what he really needs is a good hard fucking, painful and deep and so thorough that his only option afterwards is to pass out and wake to a brand new hopefully-ghost-free day.
"I've been to every continent except Antarctica, so I'm not sure you can surprise me," he offers, because since when do astrophysicists travel anyhow?
David snorts. "Not worth it. It's cold and unless you're a pilot or a geologist, there's not much to do there anyhow."
"Well, I do happen to be a pilot."
David gives him the once over, his eyes dark in this light, probing. "Figures. You do look a little like a living temple to Tom Cruise. Still, there's not a lot of places to fly to and from down there. Everything's white. Boring. And cold. Did I mention cold?"
John chuckles. "Yeah, you did. So the stars must be really clear there, huh?"
"I suppose. I mean during winter months when there is night, maybe. I never really checked, because if you think it's cold during the day, you really don't want to see the nights."
John frowns. Weren't astrophysicists suppose to like . . . look at the stars?
"Then what were you doing there?"
David looks away. "That's um . . . that's classified."
Huh. So, apparently you could get more interesting than 'guy reading physics journal in gay bar'. "Okaaaay. So, um, where else did you like? I mean, Hawaii's cool and all, but all the tourists are sort of starting to annoy me. Where'd you recommend?"
That's not the entire truth. Hawaii is beautiful and the surf is fantastic, but he's starting to get that itch, that restless twitch that he'd gotten before every transfer, the one that said 'this isn't home, time to move on.' When he was younger, he'd have half his stuff already in boxes by the time his father came home with the transfer orders. He's starting to think that he's going to be doomed to live that military life even after they'd given up on him.
David scratches the back of his neck nervously, looking out at the ocean. Here the stars are clear too, but David hasn't looked at them - not once. "I . . . um . . . well . . . New Zealand is kind of pretty. Lord of the Rings, pretty, but the people are, what's the word . . . well, they're like glorified sheep herders, so don't expect too much."
John smirks. "Been there, done that, and I think the word you're searching for is 'nice.' Where else?"
David seems to think . . . think way too hard for a man who's seen the world. He delays by setting himself down on the shore, leaning back on a driftwood log, still resolutely not looking at the sky even though he has to crane his neck to keep his focus on the ocean. John'd rather keep walking, but maybe David's tired. It'd be unfair to push him.
"Well, strangely, I really liked Egypt, but there's wars and stuff over there now, so I don't know."
"There's always wars over there. I know; I was in one."
David turns to him suspiciously. John can almost feel the admittedly acerbic repartee between them dissolve, like it's suddenly miles separating them, not mere inches. "Which?"
"Desert Storm. Brand spanking new out of the Academy. Great way to get rid of any illusions about who you're working for."
"So you're Air Force?" David practically spits it, sounding bitter. Usually, people are glad to know he's a pilot. The Air Force is the Harvard of the services. People will accept that he's not just a dumb grunt.
"Was. As of two years ago." John does a little bitterness of his own. Combat zone to combat zone to fucking illegal 'consulting' missions, and then they kick him out because he actually believed them when they said 'no man left behind.'
"Oh. What happened? Get tired of putting people in impossible situations and then asking them to deal? Of being all stoic military bravery and 'I'll protect you because you clearly couldn't possibly help even though it's scientists that ultimately win wars' and then getting yourself killed?!"
John takes a moment to sort that one out, but then figures that he won't actually be able make sense of it no matter how hard he tries. Clearly, the military did something to David - something personal. "No. I disobeyed a direct order. They kicked me out."
"Good for you . . . yes, good for you. Good men don't listen to that . . ." he waves his hands abstractly. John thinks that maybe, if given long enough, he might be able to interpret what that means. "They don't stay when they're ordered. They go back and help their commanders to fight off a ten-thousand-yea . . . ten-thousand rabid communists."
Well, that was a new one. "There weren't any communists involved."
"Oh, yes, right. What order did you disobey?"
It's Dex this time, chest a mess of burned flesh and melted flak-vest, eyes blank, which is even worse than accusing. "It's a beautiful night for a swim, isn't it?"
David looks at the water and snorts.
John, already unfastening his belt, replies, "Every night's a beautiful night in paradise."
David looks at him disdainfully. "Are you crazy?! There could be rip-tides or sharks or man-eating jellyfish!"
John rolls his eyes. "I'm a good swimmer, sharks don't eat people, and there's no such thing as man-eating jellyfish. Now are you coming or not?" Looking down, John realizes this might be a mistake. John's a good swimmer, but David . . . doubtful. Not like he'll . . .
But then David stands and unbuckles his pants as unselfconsciously as all those old men that come sagging to the pool in red Speedos. "If I die by hungry jellyfish, it's all your fault."
John grins. "If you get eaten by a jellyfish, I'll take full blame for the zoological breakthrough."
"Fine, mock my gruesome and painful death."
"Gladly."
John's down to his boxers by now. He could leave them on, but he's seriously down on wet chafing cotton and it's not like it's nothing David hasn't seen anyhow. He flings them off with a grin.
David stops wrestling with the buttons on his shirt to stare, taking in John's lean body from head to toe. If John were to look, he's sure he'd see a stirring arousal through David's boxers. John doesn't fault the guy. They just met at a gay bar, after all.
But then David flings his own boxers off defiantly and stomps almost angrily into the ocean, shirt unbuttoned but still on. "You coming?"
John laughs and runs in after him, diving past the surf that's coming up to kiss the edges of David's shirt and swimming out past the breakers.
"You're going to get yourself killed!" David yells out to him. He doesn't sound frightened, just sort of resigned.
John debates swimming back and dunking him, but decides against it, letting the waves float him, flayed wide open before the dusky moon.
David rants in the background, sounding curmudgeonly and a little absurd, but his voice keeps the ghosts at bay, at least for one more night.
The good thing about Hawaii is that with so many people flowing in and out, you can confess your darkest secret only to have them fly away in a week or so.
John looks back over his shoulder to where David is wondering if sea cucumbers contain citrus and thinks this land is made for you and me.
"Fuck, fuck, triple-fuck!" John beats the steering wheel as he races up the mountainside, Jeep just barely staying on two tires as he rounds curve after curve. It's early in the morning, still a harsh cold, even as the terrain begins to lighten just slightly.
He should have read the mail last night when he got home. Then he would've been able to work off the anger with whatever-his-name, the spry little 18-year-old tourist from the club. But now there's nothing to do but head up to the mountain early and hope he was normal enough by the time Rick and Kathy showed up. Fuck!
John never would've thought it'd happen, but when he got back, there was the nice military-air-mail letter, the crisp scrawl, the hidden meaning.
The letter said:
Dear John,
I know you never thought it'd happen, but apparently we both underestimated the brass, because they promoted me to Major! I don't really have time to write much - I'm shipping out for my new assignment. It's classified, but I hear it's supposed to be big. The medical screening alone - whew, I didn't even know they could take that much blood without an infirmary stay. But, hell, I'll welcome anything that gets me out of Baghdad and the fucking desert. They said they need me on this right away and that they don't know when I'm going to be able to write again - part of the classified thing, I guess. I put you on my list of emergency contacts, because this tour is minimum of 2 years and I guess I'm not sure Mama will be around that long. I wish you were here, man. We had some good times.
-Jake
What John read is: I'm on the fast track now. I'm doing something that's likely to get me killed. I'm not getting out and moving to Hawaii with you. And it'll be at least 2 years before we can see each other again.
John barely even notices when he gets to the top, screeching on the brakes and pulling up beside the nearest snowdrift. The observatory's not that much further up, two strange light domes against the stark brown of the lava rocks.
John slams the door as he exits, the early-morning chill nipping at his fingertips as he slides open the back and grabs his board.
They never made any promises. But they should've. Because John can keep on living. He can make a little place for himself in paradise, but it'll be alone. It has to be alone, because no one here can possibly understand. Jake was supposed to be that someone. John fucking torpedoed his own career to save him; he should get something back.
And then his board's digging into the snow, slick and wet with the beginning of the melt, nothing but the crunching scrape of sliding, dipping, curving. Skis weave, they blow snowdrifts into moguls like old women dividing and hoarding until they're wrinkled and frail. Snowboards cut, they slice up the mountain until its face smiles like a beauty queen a day after the silicon goes in. Today, not even the calm blue of the Pacific on the horizon can calm the jagged wounds John's cutting in deep.
So deep that his edge catches. One minute he's sailing deep into the dawn and the next he's slamming back hard into the crusty white of a snowdrift, legs twisted beneath him and . . . . Fuck! His day just kept getting worse and worse, didn't it! The pain lances up his leg through his knee, spasming at even the slightest movement. He grits his teeth and forces himself to bend down and unbuckle his bindings. His left knee has been acting up since he'd blown it out skiing in Tahoe. Though boarding is easier on it, it's apparently not easy enough.
"Goddamnit, John! Come up here alone at six in the morning and what do you expect?!"
He pushes the board beneath the injured knee, using it as sort of a splint as he starts the slow process of sliding himself down the mountain on his butt. Damn Jake, why can't he keep on being the perfect misfit he'd always been with John?
In fact he should've gotten the boot along with John. For every time John's disobeyed orders, Jake's done it five times, and yet he is still in and John's stuck flying idiotic tourists over lava flows, making bad jokes about it being toasty and how now was not the time to let go of their cameras.
John grimaces, inch by goddamned inch until he's finally, painfully, down on the cold asphalt of the road, floundering as he tries to push himself to his feet. God, he can't even put any weight on it. Even if he could drag himself back up to the top, there's no way to drive the Jeep. This is the one time in his life that he wishes he'd gotten an automatic.
John looks down at his watch. It'll be at least another hour before Rick gets here and he doubts the people who work at the observatory will be driving up at this hour. Might as well make himself comfortable. With a sigh, John lowers himself back down, the cold already causing the abused muscles of his knee to stiffen.
He's busy cursing Jake, the Air Force, this island, this country, the universe in general when a Chevy Tahoe makes its way, painfully slowly, up the mountain, skirting dangerously close to the curves anyhow.
John rockets painfully to his feet, not wanting to get run over by the horrific driving skills of the idiot that would drive an SUV in the state with the highest gas prices in the country. He plasters on a winning smile (which he's sure looks a lot more like a wince) and sticks a thumb out.
The Tahoe screeches to a stop and out steps none other than: "David?" In truth, as fun as their time together had been, John hadn't intended to see David again - why get the man's hopes up? John is never going to sleep with him.
"Hm?" The guy says, looking ridiculous in a cranberry-red fleece and one of those hats with the puff-balls on the back.
"David is your fake name."
"Oh, yes . . . hm . . . I meant, 'huh, what's a man like you doing alone on a deserted road at 6 in the morning?'"
John grimaced. "Snowboarding.'
"Alone? Of all the ridiculous, suicidal, completely illogical . . . how do you even intend to get back up?"
"I was planning to jog, but um . . . I sort of twisted my knee on the way down. Do you think you could . . ."
"Twisted your knee? Be glad that's all you did. You could have cracked your skull open, and then what? Innocent bystanders and all the king's men are supposed to put you back together again?"
John takes a limping step forward, his knee twinging painfully. "Could you just, maybe, give me a ride down the mountain?"
"Oh, for god sakes," David huffs, hurrying over to help John limp over into the passenger's seat. He's warm and solid pressed against John's snow-chilled side, and surprisingly muscular. "You're lucky that Watson is such an moron that I have to nobly drive up at early hours of the morning to sneak in and correct his calculations before he forever ruins the field of astrophysics with his idiocy. Who knows what kind of damage he'll do in the time it takes us to drop you off alone?"
"I'm sure he'll manage one morning without a complete academic turnaround, David," John says, relaxing into the front seat with a sigh.
The one good thing about gas-guzzling monstrosities like this one is that there's room to both stretch his aching leg out and fit his snowboard in. The bad thing is that they're always invariably driven by people who cannot drive in a straight line. John tries eyes closed and eyes open; they're both equally horrifying. If he sort of squints he can almost convince himself . . .
"Hey, are you in pain? Oh, god. Um, I . . . there's some Tylenol in the glove compartment. Don't worry, I have all the possible routes to the hospital already mapped out. We'll get there . . ."
John feels a sudden jolt of acceleration and grips his seat tightly, managing to choke out, "No. No, it's okay. Don't rush. I'm fine. Really, it's an old injury. An ice pack and a couple of days off it and I'll be good as new. Just . . . um . . . eyes on the road!"
"Are you sure? I mean, it can't hurt to have it x-rayed, right? Maybe the big kahunas down there can rattle some chicken bones or fry a wild boar at it or something."
"Huh?"
"Voodoo, all of it. But you know, you should at least get them to give you some of the good stuff. Mmmmm . . . morphine. I used to be a bit of an addict, believe it or not. Before I came here, obviously. Got me hooked, those pincushion waving bastards. But you shouldn't have to suffer, right? And it's not like they're going to let you get away with more than a few doses. Maybe you could share? My joints have been aching a bit recently. I think it's the weather. Do you think there's a hurricane coming? Because I really, really don't like hurricanes. There was this big storm where I was stationed, and these terrorists and they wouldn't let me fix the grounding stations and it was all rain and cold and commandos but I totally faced them. I took one down, even. You should have seen . . ."
Clearly, David's panic response was to ramble. "Eyes on the road!" John shrieks in a way he hopes is pretty manly. "Where'd you learn to drive? Mars?"
David rolls his eyes . . . which means he's not watching where he's going. "Boston, actually. But before a couple of months ago, I hadn't driven a car in years."
Driven a car? That meant that someone was crazy enough to let David drive something that wasn't a car? The image of a tank rolling lackadaisically off a cliff comes to mind, David's wild hands flailing in the driver's seat. Gah!
"Well, it shows."
David turns to him and glares. Eyes on the road, eyes on the road! "Hey, that's no way to treat the good Samaritan taking time out of his busy day to save you from your own idiocy and take you to a hospital."
"I don't need to go to a hospital! I just need a comfy sofa and an icepack. Make a left here."
David glowers, but makes the required left, taking out an innocent mailbox in one fell swoop.
"Um . . . shouldn't we leave a note?"
"I'll mail them a check."
"You do realize that you just destroying their mail box, right?"
"Oh fine." David stops and then backs up.
John's wishing for a plummeting Blackhawk right now. He'd feel more in control.
David stops, glares, gets out and stomps over to the fallen mailbox, leaning down to pick it up with what appears to be little effort, which surprises John - he doesn't look like the type to keep in good shape. Then he stomps back over to the car and opens the door with a crinkled-mouthed frown that's kind of cute in a kooky eccentric sort of way. "How much do mailboxes cost these days?"
John shrugs. "I dunno. Depends if it has to be shipped from the mainland, I guess."
"Hmmm . . ." David says, opening his wallet and looking inside. "A couple hundred should do it, right?" Then he walks back over to the mangled, half-standing box and shoves a fat wad of bills inside, making his way back to the car.
"You could have just left them your number," John points out.
"And have some family with lawn flamingos calling me and telling me what a horrible driver I am? I think not."
"Ok-aaay," John says. Clearly either lawn flamingos or his bad driving are sort of a touchy subject.
They're silent for the rest of the ride down to John's house. It's not until the pull up that John realizes that he's going to be in a world of pain. He looks up at the steep steps carved into the bluff leading up to his porch and groans.
"Please tell me you have an elevator," David says, as though people routinely build elevators into cliff-faces.
"Yes, because my real name is Lex Luthor."
David rolls his eyes, then studies the cliff face. "There's no way you're making it up that. You have anywhere else you can stay?"
Actually . . . no. He might be able to stay with Rick and Kathy, but they're up on the mountain by now. And Jenkins from work doesn't even have a house as far as John knows. And the secretary . . . he could stay with her if he was willing to trade his honor for it. But then after he inevitably breaks her heart, she'll stick him with all the shit-shifts. George, the mechanic? No, he has a family. A huge family. There's always Brian or Tommy or what's-his-name, but he'd still have to make it up the stairs to dig up his damned black book. "Um . . ."
"Oh my god, you don't actually know anyone do you? You're one of those people . . . the ones who seduce poor unsuspecting millionaires on vacation and get them to pay for you! I knew it! Only reason someone as gorgeous as you would ever approach . . ."
John snorts. "For the last time, David, I'm not trying to seduce you. Trust me. If I wanted to seduce you, I would find a lot less painful way to go about it." He winces for emphasis, but it seems to have the opposite effect.
"Are you in pain? Here, have a few more Tylenol." David grabs the bottle and dumps like half of it into John's hand. "You know if you're worried about health insurance, I can pay for you. It's not a problem. Not that I'm one of those lecherous millionaires who picks up young pretty things in tropical bars or anything. But you know . . . we Canadians believe that everyone should have the right to health care if they need it."
John rolls his eyes, dumping all but one of the Tylenol back into the bottle. "I'm fine. Really. Just, um . . . there's a coffee shop just down the road. I can wait there until my friends get back."
David looks him over calculatingly. "How long will that take?"
"Uh . . . I don't know. Depends if they decide to go to the beach when they get back or not." But then again, when did Rick and Kathy not go to the beach?
"Okay, fine, fine, you can stop being pathetic now. I'll take you home with me. Just don't expect special treatment. I'm a very busy man, you know. Lots of important projects."
"No. It's okay. I wasn't trying to . . ."
"Give me your keys."
"No, seriously. I'll be fine. You don't have to."
"Oh please. Thou dost protest too much. Just give me the keys. Need anything besides a change of clothes? Laptop? Briefcase? Brainfloss?"
John shakes his head. He's a pilot. "Oh, wait. There's a knee brace and a pair of crutches in the hall closet."
John watches on amused as David rants to himself as he inches up the tall stone steps. "The things I'll do for strangers. Hot strangers, granted. And they have the nerve to call me a Grinch. I mean, true, I don't exactly subscribe to the Judeo-Christian holiday of greed and the way it spoils children with great expectations. But I can be kind. I mean, killing my knees . . ."
John smiles to himself, closing his eyes and letting the sun seep in through the window, warming him and chilling him at the same time until the screaming pain in his knee is nothing more than a dull throb.
It must be at least 20 minutes later when David returns with a duffel bag and a pair of crutches.
John raises his eyebrows. "Are we eloping or something?"
"Well between all your haircare products and clothing for a couple of days and some books that you had that I thought might be interesting and that bag of Tostitos that would clearly go bad in your absence and your X-box . . ."
John chuckled, not sure if he should be frightened of a man who'd think nothing of entertaining a complete stranger for what appeared to be a week, judging by the bulk of the bag, or just be amused by David's presumptions.
As it turns out, David doesn't live far. He's right on the beach in one of those beautiful ocean cottages that John could never in a million years afford - modern, of steel and concrete and stained glass, a porch jutting right out over the rocks so at high tide it looks like you're just floating above the ocean, the waves crashing below, just out of reach.
"Nice," John says, using the crutches to swing himself straight out to the porch.
"Hmm," David says, like he doesn't notice that he's got one of the nicest homes on the whole damned island. "Yes, so I'll um . . . I'll get you an ice pack. Do you want something to drink? Nothing with citrus. I'm deathly allergic."
"You got a beer?"
"Sure. Real Canadian beer."
"You're Canadian?"
"Why does everyone act so surprised at that?"
"I guess I expected you to be a little more polite."
"Oh, that's nice, insult the man waiting on you hand and foot. Those stairs of yours were steep, you know." David bitches, but there's not really any seriousness to it.
"Sorry. You don't have to look after me, you know. With a pitcher of water and a good book I could sit out here all day. You could lock me out if you're afraid . . ."
"Don't be silly. It's not like I have anything better to do."
"But before . . . you said . . . don't you, you know, have to be at work?" John asks, petulant.
David waves him away. "Oh, I don't work."
"But you . . . the observatory . . . Watson . . ."
"Yes, my genius is clearly necessary to keep those idiots from delaying the whole advancement of the field by about ten years, but I don't work. I'm supposed to be 'recuperating' or 'dealing' or some psychological voodoo like that, but sitting on the beach all day is just a complete and utter waste of my genius. I mean, it's like rubbing a magic lamp and not using your three wishes. I'd rather be at Northwestern or CalTech or someplace where more of the theoretical work goes on, but you can't really say you're taking a vacation to Chicago, now can you?"
"So . . . what . . . you stalk physicists?"
David snorts. "Not exactly stalking per se. Stalking implies that you like or care about or have some sort of obsession with the people you're following. I mean, the only reason I even know their names is because that's how the usernames are set up on their network. But a little stealthy maneuvering does go a long way. They think I'm just some eccentric hermit who has a pineapple plantation and a home telescope or something, as though anyone could come up with my brilliant insights out of the blue."
"But how do you . . ." As far as John knows, David doesn't have an observatory in his backyard.
"Compared to the stuff I've done, Watson and Singh are still playing in the sandbox. If I were allowed to publish, I'd peer review their papers right down the damned volcano. But you work with what you have. Look, I'll just grab my laptop and sit out here with you for a bit."
Half an hour later, when John has already taken a good chunk out of War and Peace, David returns in a long-sleeved synthetic shirt, one of those floppy sun-hats from REI, huge black wrap-around glasses and a zinc-sunscreen white nose.
John raises his eyebrows. "How are you going to feel the sun like that?"
"Do you have any idea how easily I burn? I have a very . . . uh . . . special skin condition."
"But it feels good."
"Well, excuse me if I don't relish the thought of melanoma. I can still see the beach." Then he hits his laptop screen. "If not my laptop. Hold on. There's a remote for the deck umbrella somewhere around here . . ."
John shifts so he can lean over, wincing as it pulls at his knee. He grabs David's wrist. "Sit a little."
And they do.
After the ice pack has melted and David appears to have fallen asleep out in the sun, John levers himself up and makes his way inside. The sitting area is warm, all bland white walls where it's not stained glass or warm wooden built-ins. Bookshelves take up most of the wallspace, and a large plasma TV and state-of-the-art sound system. John pushes play. It's classical, though he can't identify it. All the surface spaces in the room are taken up by stacks and stacks of reports and physics journals, books, and papers and a mountain of still-unopened brown boxes.
The kitchen area is open and off to one side, all hand-painted tile and new-looking appliances. John is working his way over to the refrigerator when he sees the only two non-work-related personal items in the place - pictures in simple handmade frames.
The first is of a woman, wearing a midriff-baring top and a long flowing skirt. Her skin is dark and her hair a bright amber, sexy and exotic like he's never seen before, but as warm as the sun, as a mother's embrace. She's standing in a tall forest, looking unguarded, smiling a quirky half-smile.
John's so mesmerized that he barely notices David coming up to stand beside him. "So you were just going to leave me out there to roast into a giant cancerous mass, eh?"
"She's beautiful." John breathes.
"I thought you were gay." He sounds almost disappointed.
"Well, I appreciate the occasional woman. And this one, I would definitely appreciate. She's . . . there's something about her. She's exotic looking."
David chokes on his tongue. "Ahem . . . well, yes, if you like women who can crush your balls with their pinky."
John elects not to mention that that really isn't a turn off.
There's another photo. This one of David and a young man, both wearing tactical vests, though David seems to be wearing plain quick-dry pants and a synthetic top, while the other guy is in full Marine get-up. They're both smiling. David looks a lot younger when he doesn't frown, but then again this photo could be years ago - John's never seen that particular model of P-90, nor tac-vest. In fact, even the uniform is a little off.
There's a third guy in the background, same uniform, but with a rigid military stance and stern grey eyes. He's looking off at something to the side - alert, perhaps even standing guard. John recognizes his type almost immediately, just by his posture - by the book. Under his command, John'd get the 'I don't like your attitude' speech within a week.
"Who're they?"
"Oh, the guy in the foreground's Ford. Nice kid, dumb as dirt, but he saved my life more than once, so I tolerate it."
"Dirt, eh? That's a compliment for a Marine." All John really knows about Marines is their stupid drinking games and the fights he was always breaking up among the enlisted. He knows they bleed as red as anyone else, just more often, and for that he's never bothered to get to know any.
"Yeah. He's young though. I think I've finally got him to actually listen to the not-all-that-incompetent minds he has the privilege of guarding every day. Who knows, he might learn something."
"And Mr. Spit and Polish?"
"The commander of our . . . um . . . operation. He was a stubborn asshole more concerned with military protocol than the scientific discovery we were there for. But then he died."
"I'm sorry."
"He shouldn't have. It was his own fault for not listening. He shouldn't have left us behind."
John reaches out, willing to offer the comfort that no one was there to offer him. He and David might be different as night and day, but this, he understands. He thinks about Mitch and Dex - blood and smoke and ashes . . . dust, their eyes obsidian-dark and lifeless beneath the blue, blue desert sky. He thinks of his father, the day he dropped John off at the bus stop with a wad of cash and without a hug.
"Sometimes people leave us," he says, though after all this time, he still can't figure out why.
They stare down at the photo for a moment, the guy's grey eyes as blank and lifeless as a hundred faces John has seen.
"Wait, what are you doing up?" David squawks. "You're supposed to be off that leg. Here . . . here, let me help you . . ."
John gets the sense that David used to be great, before his natural wit and contemptuous sarcasm got to be mostly curmudgeonly. Well, actually, he doesn't even have to intuit that; David is more than happy to declare it to all willing to listen and probably many who are not. But he's out of his element here - an octopus in the middle of a tropical jungle. David was never meant for paradise - there's not enough for him to complain and/or panic about here. There aren't enough idiots willing to stop snapping photos of dolphins long enough for him to berate them. There aren't world-changing scientific discoveries waiting to be made.
But then again, as much as John loves the limbo-thing - no rules, no responsibility, just the sky and the surf and that big old sun - he can't unsee the things he's seen or unbe the man he was. On his own he's too complacent. He needed men and wars and duty in order to care about something passionately. He needed structure and objectives and regulations in order to force himself to interact. And he needed the image of Major Sheppard, flyboy, get you out of any tight-spot, your number one all-American rebel with a goddamned cause, Johnny Cash singing, Han Solo strutting, hundred watt grin go-to-guy, because without that, what is he?
The week has passed by in almost a blur - sitting out beneath the sun, taking the Lex Luthor style elevator of David's down to the beach, even if all he can really do is hobble a little ways to the surf, playing chess and Go and 'Grand Theft Auto,' with David, watching old sci-fi films and listening to David dismantle the scientific fallacies involved. He's almost sad when the swelling goes down and he can walk around fine with just an ace bandage and a slight limp and there's not really any excuse not to go back to his own place and his work.
"So . . ." David says, looking kind of pathetic staring at him with those wide blue eyes from the couch. "The state of disaster you intend to leave my kitchen in is a sign of some great thank you for 'letting me bum around but I have a life of surf-bumming and club-cruising to get back to,' right?"
John sighs, dumping the stir-fry out onto a plate. "Is being grateful for acts of kindness on behalf of crazy physicist-stalking strangers all that horrible a thing?"
"No. I just . . . I mean, there are other ways you could say it."
John freezes at that; not even the rice-cooker clicking off can move him. He thought David wanted to avoid the whole gold-digger thing. But then again, he does owe him. Hell, it's not like he'd exactly mind sleeping with him. It's just that, he thought they had a deeper connection than that, than all those guys John picks up for a night of passion, nothing more.
He washes his hands, wiping them off as he walks out around the counter to settle on the couch next to David, their knees brushing. "How would you like me to say it?"
David's gaze is intense, as steady and focused as the familiar battle mask of a soldier, a memory John just can't shake.
John takes a deep breath, bracing himself for it.
"You don't have to say it like it means goodbye."
He exhales. "Oh." Pause. "Oh, no, I'm not trying to say goodbye, just that I'm not going to keep staying here. We can still see each other."
"And do what?"
"I don't know . . . just what we've been doing?" John can't say how much it's meant to him, to just hang out, to be with someone who isn't constantly trying to break through his so-called mysterious exterior or take him out and show him off. He didn't even know how much he needed this quiet normalcy, even though he knows that they're not normal, that they've just gone from hiding from the world alone to hiding from it together. It's a step, though.
"Really?"
John smiles. "Really. Though I'd like to take you up in a chopper sometime, get you to see the volcano."
"As though I'd have the slightest interest in a faulty metal contraption, barely defying gravity, flying death-defyingly close to volcanoes, which we all know have this terrifying tendency to explode and spew thousand-degree molten rock."
John gives him one of his most charming smiles. "You would. You'll like it. I promise."
David doesn't say he's convinced. He just sort of grumbles, then says, "The food almost done? I'm just going to check my email and then we can watch Dr. Who."
"You have Dr. Who? Why didn't you tell me this at the beginning of the week?"
"I wanted to test your atrocious taste in movies to make sure you weren't going to commit some sort of sacrilege against the best sci-fi ever invented."
John grins. "Paul McGann was my favorite Doctor."
David roles his eyes. "Oh, the tragedy of it. You probably liked Roger Moore as Bond too, didn't you?"
"Nah, have to go with the original. You can't beat Goldfinger, though the new Bond cars are really cool."
"Good. If you had said you liked Moonraker, I might have had to tie you up and pull a Clockwork Orange until you recanted."
John laughed. "Hey, speaking of Dr. Who, did you ever see any of the missing episodes?"
David roles his eyes. "That was like the 60s and 70s. Now, are we going to eat or are you going to sit there and watch me going into a hypoglycemic coma?"
John laughs and stands, almost forgetting to be puzzled as he spoons rice and chicken and vegetables out onto glass plates that he thinks David might not have even used before.
"Oh, Gall, you misguided idiot," David rants from where he's checking his email. "You're going to tear yourself a hole in subspace if you keep trying that. Naquadria's far too unstable to even attempt that."
"What's Naquadria?"
"I'll tell you when you show me a doctorate in astrophysics."
John raises his eyebrows, pouring them both glasses of some disgustingly expensive red wine David has had shipped from the mainland.
"Yours," David specifies.
"Who's Gall?"
"Oh . . . a colleague of mine. Has my old job, actually. Well, the field-work part of it. His job qualifications are mainly that he a) runs faster than Zelenka, b) is less of an asshole than Kavanagh, c) is not a tree-hugging pacifist like Simpson, and d) upon occasion stumbles into competency, if only by accident."
"Wow, your job sounds hard."
"Well, my qualifications were my overwhelming courage, brilliance, and dashing good looks. Not sure I can run faster than Zelenka though. He has stubby legs, but he's a scurrier."
"And running is required in astrophysics because?"
"Running's always required in the military. You of all people should know that," David huffs, clicking at another file. "Oh, come on, Ford! I can't believe you let that fluffy Czech weasel con you into that! I swear, the kid even needs to be taught how to play decent pranks." And then David's busy typing away. John looks over at him and smiles. He looks so young like this, hunched over and totally engrossed in something.
"Are you sure this is safe?" David yells over the beat of the rotor blades.
They're soaring up into the sky, being the blue as they used to say. John hasn't been that since Afghanistan. Even here where the only winds are tropical and you aren't more worried about anti-aircraft on the ground than the feel of the bird in the air, he can't quite recapture that thing . . . the terrible solitary thing he fell in love with when he first had controls like these clasped in his hands.
It's a job now, but even as he's saying, "You have a headset so you don't have to shout," he sees the wonder in David's eyes, watching the lava smoke and churn beneath them.
"It's beautiful," David breathes, like he's never before seen art in destruction.
"Yes, it is," John smiles, something indefinable unwinding within him. Welcome to paradise.
There are some odd things that John has noticed about David, and not just the physicist-stalker thing or the fact that on an island of 5-star restaurants that he can easily afford, he lives on coffee and powerbars, or that he claims to miss the ocean and yet won't deign to set a toe on the beach without the sun-wear equivalent of an armored tank division. Not even the fake name and the repeated 'that's classified's are particularly odd on the grand scale of David's strangeness.
Like, first of all, his complete lack of understanding of current events. David acts surprised that they're at war with Iraq again, like he hasn't even seen a newspaper in the past ten odd years. When John asks him about it, he just says, 'oh, yeah, I was in Nevada' or 'Colorado' or 'Siberia.' Okay, so maybe the Russian version was more like 'fucking Americans fucking up the world again.' But seriously . . . Colorado, not another planet. Then, again, David's understanding of the current events in his past are pretty shitty too.
And then there's the way that he keeps walking into the porch door, like he's expecting it to open for him or something. At first John thought he was losing his vision, but then he did it with the front door too.
But by far the strangest thing is the way David went completely batshit when they accidentally stumbled upon a rave emptying out and he saw a guy in a long leather coat. Yeah, Goths are kind of creepy, but they definitely don't warrant cowering behind someone smaller than you and whimpering 'not again' for the next five minutes.
John will pardon that one incident. Everyone has a little wacky phobia (like John's irrational fear of clowns). But David seems to have a collection of utterly fucked-up phobias, apart from lemons and bees and small spaces. He's afraid of fog and farmers and rain and the stars. John once asked him about the constellations and he went practically catatonic. But he's an astrophysicist. It doesn't make any sense. Like a pilot with a fear of heights.
John's beginning to think David isn't an astrophysicist at all, despite all the journals and the visits to the observatory. He's definitely lived some sort of crazy secret-agent-style life, though he obviously wasn't really a secret agent, because he can't lie for shit. Worked for the military probably, and if he can fake knowing something about astrophysics, he must be brilliant. He seems smart. Maybe he's like an ex-evil-mad-scientist, or the secret shadow-owner of Microsoft or actually stole his millions through hacking or blackmail or going all Ocean's Eleven on something. Either that or he's suffering from the early onset of Alzheimer's, or the late onset of schizophrenia. Both seem equally possible.
But despite all that, David is fast becoming John's best friend. He doesn't ski or surf. Hell, he's not even particularly nice to people, but in a land of hula skirts and Ray-Bans and pina coladas, his skepticism is welcoming and somehow familiar.
David is sitting on the couch, typing faster than John is convinced is humanly possible (and he claims to have arthritis and carpal tunnel), when John walks in. John doesn't even bother knocking anymore, or yelling 'David!' because David only looks over his shoulder as though wondering who John's talking to. John's the only one that ever comes to see him, which is kind of sad. But then again, David isn't exactly a people person, and John is half-convinced that he prefers it this way. Hell, John doesn't have a lot of visitors - mostly just Rick and Kathy and a couple of islanders that John's picked up at the club by mistake.
John looks down at David, still buried in whatever he keeps hidden on the laptop's screen, and wonders wow, this is my life.
"Hey, buddy!" John says, putting on his brightest smile and nudging David's knee with his leg.
David looks up, closing his laptop. "Dear God, what have you done now?"
"What? A guy can't smile at his best friend?"
David looks a bit puzzled by that and then mock-frowns. "Not with that smile, he can't. What are you up to now, Sheppard?"
"I'm convinced that you're taking this whole crotchety old retired guy thing a little too seriously."
"Hey!" John's expecting 'I'm not old,' but instead he gets, "I'm not retired! I'm on a quack-doctor enforced vacation."
John grins. "Exactly. Now grab a . . ." he looks down skeptically at David's 'I'm with Genius t-shirt' and then shrugs. "Grab a dinner jacket. We're going out to eat."
"I don't want to go out to eat. Let's get pizza instead. If you absolutely insist, I might let you pick the movie." It's tempting. John has wanted to force David into watching 'Back to the Future' with him since they've known each other. But no. David needs to socialize. They need to socialize. Hell, it's not even about the socialization really. It's about not hiding. They walk out there and people aren't going to spit in their faces. They're not even going to know the things that happened to them to make them this way. They'll be too busy watching hula girls and sipping their Mai Tai's to care.
"No. We're going out. Come on. I know one of the chefs over at the Marriott. He'll let us right into the kitchen so we can watch and see that they don't put any citrus in your dinner, if you'd like. No excuses." John bends down and grabs hold of David's hand, yanking him up off the couch.
"Hey, watch it, you Neanderthal! I've got very delicate bones."
John rolls his eyes. "Yes, and arthritis and carpal tunnel. Don't make me knock you out and drag you."
"You wouldn't hurt a defenseless . . ."
"Wanna make a bet?"
"Fine," David grumbles, crossing his hands over his chest. "But you're paying."
"No problem. As long as I'm driving."
They bicker most of the way over. David thinks he's having an allergic reaction to the dust inside his dinner jacket and John has decided to declare himself a vegetarian, just to piss David off.
When they get there, John steps out of the car and gentlemanly offers David his arm. David rolls his eyes and on some ridiculous whim, John decides that he'll settle for holding David's hand as they make their way through the lobby, swarming with tourists in their gaudy vacation gear, children running around in their swimsuits and harried-looking cleaning staff watching them resentfully.
"I'd forgotten how much I hate children. You know, I once spent almost half a year trying to develop a time dilation field for the sole purpose of being able to pass on my genes without having to deal with the whole diapers/teething/teenage angst phase."
"You mean the first twenty years of their life?"
"Pretty much, yeah. Children are too unpredictable, too needy. Now cats . . . cats are reliable. You shake the bag of food and they come. They don't demand a lot from you."
"You could always donate your sperm. Make a whole new generation of geniuses."
"And risk having someone with insufficient intelligence raise them? I mean yeah, I'm sure there are a lot of needy women out there who want genius babies. But they don't know what that means. They say they want you to have a comfortable environment then they don't drive you to tutoring lessons. They act all surprised when you take apart the washing machine or build a nuclear bomb or . . ."
"You built a nuclear bomb?!"
"Not a working model. Anyhow . . ." One of David's hands is still trapped in John's, but the other is flying, dancing about, the surprisingly long fingers fluttering like birds around John's head. He smiles, contented. "What are you smiling at? Oh my god, this is part of some evil plot of yours. It's going to involve ritual humiliation and perhaps bared skin that, trust me, nobody wants to see. Or you're going to poison me and steal my millions to buy yourself a better surfboard and . . ."
John leans forward and kisses him. For a couple of seconds, David just sort of continues on with his rant. But then suddenly, like a switch has been flicked, he's kissing back. He doesn't taste like John was expecting. There's no bitter, slightly sour, taste, only coffee and chocolate and something warm and smooth and powerful in a way that John hadn't anticipated at all. And then David has John pressed back into some sort of hotel-lobby greenery, the leaves tickling at his cheeks as he grabs the lapels of David's suit jacket and just holds on.
John actually runs out of air first, which he completely was not expecting. But then again, David rants so long without ever pausing for breath that it should have been obvious.
"Mmm . . ." John purrs, adding another peck to David's lips, just before David pulls completely back, whirling around to look around. The elderly couple at the front desk looks ready to burst a collective blood vessel, the two young girls sitting on the large sofa across the way are giggling amongst themselves, the staff are abashedly averting their eyes, and the children are still running around, getting sand everywhere.
"People are staring," David whispers, though not really quietly enough to avoid more stares. Maybe he's losing his hearing.
"Let them stare," John says, gripping David's hand tighter and pulling him along. These people were all fucking tourists anyhow. They'd never have to see any of them again.
"John, I can't . . ."
John ignores him, addressing the maitre de pleasantly. "Table for two."
"Are you guests here?"
John shakes his head.
"I'm afraid all our remaining tables are reserved for patrons. If you would like to make a reservation for later in the evening . . ."
John looks around the more than half empty dining room. Fine, be discriminatory for all he cares. Maybe he'll yank David across the table to ravish him during dinner. "We'll take your next opening."
The maitre de raises an eyebrow, but looks down at his schedule. "Nine o'clock?"
"John, that's two hours from now. This place looks like an art deco version of the Love Boat anyway. We'll go somewhere else."
"We'll take it," John says, practically quaking with rage as he yanks David by the hand, yet again, out into the humid night and the transplanted tropical garden.
"John. It's okay. You don't have to get angry on my behalf. Seriously. You dragged me off my nice comfortable couch and made out with me in front of a room of complete strangers. I think your mission for tonight is complete."
"But . . ."
David looks at him, eyes wide, something fragile and longing in them. He reaches out and gave John an awkward little pat on the shoulder. "I appreciate the thought, but let's just pick something up and head back. They'll probably try to stick a lemon in my drink here. Either that, or their close-minded stupidity could be catching."
John manages a smile, but it's a sad one. It shouldn't be like this - here of all places. "Hey, there's this tiny little burger joint not far from here. We could walk along the beach; make fun of all the stupid tourists trying to be romantic. I know how much you love that."
David roles his eyes, but agrees.
Then there's a sharp crack, reverberating in the air. John's ducked behind a fake boulder at the entrance of the hotel gardens and David has himself flattened to the ground. Both are reaching for handguns they no longer carry at their sides.
John is the first to recover. "Car backfiring," he says, pushing himself up and then kneeling back down over David, which flinches when he touches a comforting hand to his back.
It's a long moment before David lets John pull him to his feet, still shaking slightly. "Sorry about that."
"Hey, no need to be sorry just because I found better cover than you."
David jerks his head up at that. Apparently he hadn't even seen John go all fire-in-the-hole on the boulder. "Yeah, well . . . you know."
"I know," John says, not daring touch David again or bring it up. "So, how about those burgers?"
It's not until they've devoured two greasy Hawaiian burgers and a Molson's each that John feels he can break the ominous silence that has developed in the past hour, each lost in his own thoughts.
"So it wasn't just a military project. You were in a war," he says softly.
"Um . . . I guess you can say that." David doesn't meet his eyes, just looks down at those smooth, oddly agile hands.
John's pretty sure it's not Iraq, considering the fact that David barely even knows they're at war there again. "Vietnam? Korea?"
David shakes his head. "Classified."
"Of course." It seemed that more and more of their wars these days were secret ones. Perhaps it was just the kind of intelligent people that John was prone to gravitate to, but it seemed like half the people he knew couldn't speak freely about their past actions. The official interbellum had been far too long for politicians to waste good soldiers just lying around.
"I was in Afghanistan." He'd been in the Balkans too, and in Colombia, but on the front lines neither time. He hadn't been under fire since Desert Storm, and back then he'd been too young and cocky to understand what that meant.
Maybe it's the beer, or the calming noises of the ocean crashing beneath them, or just time finally unraveling the tightness that he's carried with him even since his transport touched down back on friendly soil, but there's something loosening within him, opening up to David's steady gaze.
John draws in a deep breath, inhaling the fresh cool of the sea breeze and letting it settle him. "I joined up to fly, you know? Not just ferrying tourists around, but real flying."
David nods. He understands, even if he's never flown himself. He knows what it is to go to war without ever really being a soldier, that much John is sure.
"I was good at it. I was too damned good."
"You were cocky."
"Yes and no. I was cocky, but I was that good. I disobeyed orders three times. The first time, I pursued the enemy when my commander thought the maneuver couldn't be done. It was grudgingly accepted. The second time, I rescued 8 refugees and unloaded them right in front of the damned CNN news crew - wasn't anything they could do about it. They were both reasonable choices."
David nods, looking both attentive and far-off somehow. "The third time?"
"My . . . my significant other was a Ranger. His squad was pinned down. Command told us to head home. I didn't. Two guys, my friends, in the other chopper, wanted in on the heroics. They were providing cover fire while I did the pick-up." John swallows, tension thrilling through him. This was never going to be easy. "Mitch died instantly, a piece of shrapnel sheared off half his head. Dex was still breathing when we took off, but his body was a charred husk. Cutting him out of the pilot's seat would've killed him. That didn't mean that Jake didn't have to give me a hairline jaw fracture to get me to take off and leave him behind."
John takes a deep breath after that. This is the first time since the court- martial he's talked about it. If feels good, though. He can't say a weight's been lifted, but the moonlight glinting off the ocean looks brighter somehow.
"That's how you got kicked out?"
John nods.
"And your . . ."
"He's been transferred to some classified project. Two years minimum, no contact."
David straightens a little at that, nervous, but doesn't say anything. John doesn't know what he was expecting. Just because he spilled his guts and let David see probably more than anyone, ever, doesn't mean that classified is any less classified.
He does lean back, though, looking at the stars for the first time John's seen him. His eyes look clear, luminescent from this angle, and wistful.
John is still pleasantly buzzed when he wakes up on David's couch. It's still dark outside, though he can see the beginning of the dawn creeping up on the horizon. John's not a heavy sleeper, but normally there has to be something to wake him.
He sits up, pulling at the blanket David had apparently draped over him in the middle of the night. There are no birds out there, just the soft sound of the surf and . . . a sort of hushed keening coming from David's room.
John pulls the blanket around his shoulders and pads into David's bedroom. He's sprawled out in a mess of sheets in Einstein boxers and a Red Dwarf T-shirt. He looks so young in his sleep, even shifting agitatedly as he is.
"Sumner!" David whimpers. "Colonel, get back here!" He twists and turns and folds the sheets into their own twisted little origami. "Ford, don't just stand there like an idiot! You have to . . ."
"Shhh. Shhh, it's okay," John says, sitting down on the bed and running his fingers through David's short hair, glinting in the pre-dawn light. "It's just a dream."
"No!" David shouts and John decides to wake him, shaking him slightly.
David's eyes melt out of their squint, blue irises a transparent gray like the early morning sea. "John?"
"You were having a nightmare," John says quietly, hand still resting on David's warm shoulder. He strokes his thumb over the bones there, willing the tension out of David's body.
"Oh . . . oh . . . thanks."
"No problem." John offers what he hopes is a reassuring smile, before leaning down. He wants to kiss all the hurt and fear and tension from David's features, but before their lips can meet, David pulls back.
"I can't tell you about it, you know that, right?"
John nods.
"It's not that I don't want to."
John runs a finger over David's lips. They're soft if not smooth, like crepe paper, molding to his touch. "Tell me what you need to."
David laughs an almost hysterical, desperate laugh. "I can't even do that."
"Then tell me what you can."
"My name's not really David," David says, looking sheepish and apologetic for probably the only time ever.
"I know," John says, squeezing his arm.
"It's Rodney."
John reaches out a hand, surprising himself with a sudden wave of timidity. "Nice to meet you, Rodney."
"Now, this lens here is supposed to focus the light onto this mirror here, see? But some moron apparently thinks that he's trying to get bootleg porn on this thing instead of gathering data on star clusters because he hasn't even aligned the goddamn mirrors properly," Rodney bitches, looking around for some sort of tool.
"Um . . . maybe you should leave them a note?"
"What is it with you and leaving notes? Did you not receive enough Valentines as a child or something?"
"No, I just . . . we aren't even supposed to be here," John whispers. He's not sure how the hell Rodney even got a passcode as the resident crazy-person/physicist-stalker. But then again, after he hacked into the DoD personnel files and found out where Jake was stationed and managed to get a message to him, John shouldn't really be surprised.
"Yes, yes, all very clandestine, James-Bond ops, but what, are they stoned or something? I'm sure Betelgeuse looks so very psychedelic completely out of focus and upside-down, but . . . seriously, if we're waiting for these idiots to catch up, then we might as well find a planet filled with formless pink sludge and we'll probably get intelligent lifeforms quicker."
Now, John was never in 'James-Bond ops' but he's military enough to recognize the ominous stomp of boots on the metal grating of the floor even above Rodney's ranting. "Shh!"
"Oh, please, it's not like . . ."
The door behind them opens and John cringes, expecting to be summarily tossed on out on his ass, cops called for trespassing, without even knowing the reason why, of course. Instead, there's a short dark-skinned woman standing there in very tall boots that don't really help her height at all.
John pulls Rodney behind the computer terminal, ducking down.
"Who is here?" The woman asks, not sounding particularly threatened.
John holds his finger to his lips, signaling Rodney to shut up. But Rodney just rolls his eyes, standing up. "Ah, Dr. Singh, how lovely."
She crosses her hands over her chest. "Oh, Mr. Morales, what are you doing here at this hour? Remember when I told you that you are perfectly welcome so long as there is someone here to supervise you?"
"Morales?" John mouths, because Rodney has a Spanish last name when John is named General.
Rodney looks down at where John's still crouched behind the terminal, offering him a minute shrug.
"Well . . . I was just . . . uh . . . I had to . . . I was going to . . ."
John rolls his eyes. Rodney is even worse at lying than he is a coming up with fake names. He stands. "I'm sorry, ma'am, Mr. Morales was just showing me around. I told him that looking through telescopes all day must be romantic."
Dr. Sigh has that 'oh, cute little bunnies in love' look that women tended to get the second a guy says the word romantic. John offers her his best dopey grin.
"Oh, Ted, what didn't you say something? Now that I know you're here, I'll just . . . I leave you to it." She smiles, turning almost reluctantly and shutting the door behind him.
"Oh, very cute. Ruin my reputation as a hard-ass man-of-the-mountains star guru, why don't you?"
"I'm not sure you can be a guru with the name Ted, Rodney. No, actually, I'd consider you guru license revoked."
Rodney rolls his eyes. "She's probably drawing little hearts on her data readouts as we speak. She'll name her next discovery the Love-Boat hypothesis. Just what the world of astrophysics needs. It's not going to help her revise her idiotic theory of stellar drift, you know."
"Yes, whatever you say, Ted."
"Fine," Rodney grumbles, walking over to the data terminal and typing something.
"Are you sure you're allowed to . . ."
Rodney gives him a wilting glare, then turns the display around so John can see. It's another galaxy, a hazy cluster of stars, scattered instead of spiraling.
"Your grand romantic gesture?"
Rodney shakes his head. "Pegasus."
John hasn't really figured out the state of his relationship with Rodney, which kind of figures, considering that Rodney would probably go into some sort of convulsions of intellectual rage and kill small animals with his brain were anyone to ever actually figure him out. But still, John likes to think that he's a simple man of simple pleasures. He likes Ferris wheels and college football and anything that goes faster than 200mph. He likes to eat when he's hungry and fuck when he's horny and he . . . not to go all teenaged-girl or anything, but he'd really like to know whether or not he's dating someone, if that's not too much to ask.
But despite the fact that they still spend a ridiculous amount of time together, Rodney has managed to both look at John longingly about every five seconds and conveniently brush off any attempt to repeat the kiss they shared in the lobby of the Marriott more than a week ago. It's frustrating to say the least.
What is Rodney afraid of? He knows that John doesn't care what people think about them. Why should he?
John speeds down the mountain. It's raining down here, while it'd been snowing at the summit. It's an unusually cold rain for the island. The drops are still big and fat and slick like typical tropical rain, but they're cold as John steps out of the car, slamming the door behind him when he notices Rodney's gas-guzzling monster overflowing the guest parking spot.
Well, if Rodney's not here to talk about this thing between them, then John is going to talk about it, damnit! He deserves answers.
He's worked up a good rage by the time he makes it to the top of the steps, wondering why Rodney has come here. They both know Rodney's place is nicer and spend their time accordingly.
The second he slams the door open he regrets it, seeing the look on Rodney's face, where he's sitting, watching the rain pound off of the giant picture-window that overlooks the fields and the mountain in the distance.
"What happened?" John asks, cautious, hoping beyond hope that Rodney's not here to announce he's dying or something, because as far as he knows, that's probably the only thing that wouldn't have him complaining loudly.
"He didn't write."
"What? Who?"
"Ford. He didn't write. He writes every week, even if it's just to say, 'Zelenka is mean, we're still alive.'"
John sits down beside him on the couch, wrapping an arm around brittle shoulders and pulling him close. "Hey, maybe he just didn't get around to it. Maybe he's okay, just stuck somewhere, you know? If something really bad had happened, they'd notify you, right?"
John couldn't figure out if this guy Ford and Rodney had been lovers or what, but Rodney cared a lot about him. Who knew how many years they'd been serving together? Judging by the pictures it could've been a couple of decades.
"Yeah, I guess." Rodney sucks in shallow breaths, like it's painful.
"Look, don't dwell on it. There's nothing you can do."
"If I were still there . . ."
"But you're not. He wouldn't want you to worry." John pulls him in, delivering what he hopes is a tender kiss to his wrinkled forehead.
"It's just . . . after Sumner and Abrams and Markham and Dumais and . . . I just don't think I can stand to lose Ford too. I need to . . . I can call the SGC, maybe he's trapped somewhere. Maybe he activated some sort of Ancient technology. Maybe I can . . ."
He's hyperventilating now, and John doesn't understand these names, these things he's referring to, but he knows how to silence him, a brief kiss, stroking along his lips, chaste, tender, like John wished Jake had been able to give to him after the hearing, like all the love and support his father had never given him.
"You're not there anymore. You're here, with me. They can take care of themselves. You can let them take care of themselves and you can let him come home to you." Just like John hopes that Jake will someday come back, even if he's long moved on. "We can't just stop living because we fought a war that's not yet done."
"It'll never be done," Rodney almost sobs, relaxing against him.
"I know." As long as human beings exist, there will be warfare and there will be death and there will be forgotten soldiers like him and Rodney left in paradise wondering if it's worth fighting for.
And then they're kissing again, clothes lost somewhere between panted breaths and the fall of raindrops as they make their way back to John's shabby bedroom with his guitar and his collection of beercaps and shelves and shelves of novels that he'd always wanted to read when he had the time. But now he does. He has the time for everything.
He has the time to push Rodney back onto the bed, to strip slowly for him, the rain a kaleidoscope of a backdrop on the hazy landscape. He has time to run his fingers over Rodney's chest, to feel every inch of him as he lowers his mouth onto the warm bar of heat that it his hardness, to look and touch and memorize every bit of skin, every strange imperfection - the way his cock curves just a little to the right, the way the head swells almost purple, straining, the way Rodney's eyes look at him with such wonder, like John is the sole reason why everything he sacrificed is worth it.
Perhaps it is only a minute, or perhaps it is an eternity of sweet delicate motions, one fading seamlessly into the next, like a slow rumbling stillness that breaks John apart as Rodney's fingers probe him, curling just slightly inward, gathering his first orgasm like the moon gathers the tide.
Rodney's hair is soft, brilliant and silvery and perfect, even receding as it is. His kisses are delicate, but not frail. His thrusts are long and so much more powerful than John would have expected, slow and strong and like they're lifting him up, supporting him, filling him, letting him fly.
Rodney makes love like it's a surprise, like a present that he finally gets to open. It's not hard and fast and athletic like every single fuck John's had since coming here, but it's still ruthless in its own way. Rodney plunges so deep within him, fills him so much that John must be either broken or conquered, he knows not which. And the frailty comes, not in the taking, but as they lay panting afterwards, as Rodney cries with the rain. And even though some part of him knows that they are tears of joy, John can't help but be moved by the sadness in that, that Rodney doesn't expect things like this to come to him.
When Rodney has finally fallen asleep, John pulls the blanket over both of them, settling himself around Rodney, so the other man can feel the beat of John's heart against his back. He watches the rain for hours before he finally dozes.
When he wakes it is night and Rodney's eyes are starlit, studying him plaintively as Rodney strokes his hipbone.
"We shouldn't have done this," he says, as though he's perfectly incapable of not ruining a romantic moment. John should have suspected, all those second-thoughts in his eyes.
"Why the hell not?" he growls, suddenly angry.
"You don't want to be with me."
"Of course, I don't want to be with you. Why else would I be naked in bed with you?"
"No, you might think you do, because you're very clearly the kind of Jesus-Christ-wannabe that would choose the most torturous possible person to be with, but you really don't."
How superficial does Rodney think he is? "Fuck appearances, Rodney. I don't care what anyone thinks about us . . . I've been kicked around from base to base, been a surfer bum for the past two years. If anyone wants to say anything, let them. I don't need them."
"John, no. You don't understand. You think I care what people think? I have more intelligence in my pinky toe than they do in their entire family lineage. I'm going to die before you, John. It could be tomorrow and there's a slim chance that it could be 50 years from now, but nobody knows."
Of course Rodney would cite his own mortality as a fatal flaw. "Welcome to the human race, Rodney. We don't know when we're going to die."
"I'm serious. It really could be tomorrow or it could be after years of painful medical conditions nobody has even heard of yet. You've lost so many people already."
"And I'm not going to lose you, not because you're scared you might hurt me. It's worth it."
"How do you know that? There are still a lot of things you don't know about me. I could be an evil mastermind plotting to kill puppies and starve children and take over the world, for all you know."
John has to chuckle a little at that, though he's still pissed as hell. "Are you?"
"No. But that's beside the point. I've lived a whole life I can never really tell you about. That doesn't bother you?"
"Not as much as it clearly bothers you. I have a past, too, you know. I've fought in wars and I've killed people and yes, it's part of who I am, but it's not me. You know me."
"But . . ."
John pulls Rodney tighter to him, grasping his hands. "Rodney. Trust me. I want this. Now would you rather keep arguing about it, or would you rather be kissing right now?"
John doesn't give Rodney a chance to choose, he just kisses and kisses and kisses him until there's no other place to be but here, now, the brush of lips on lips, skin on skin, haunting and present and so tender.
They sit there on Rodney's porch, the ocean beneath them and the sky above them.
Rodney's gone dark and distant, his eyes black holes in this perfect night.
"There are things out there . . . things that you couldn't even imagine . . ." Rodney whispers, shuddering.
John wraps himself further around him, knowing that whatever Rodney's demons might be, he can't protect him from them. He remembers the first night they met, with the muddy sea and hazy sky, Rodney's skepticism about this fool's paradise. "You said you've seen more beautiful views . . ."
"I never said that the good didn't outweigh the bad."
Rodney presses a kiss to John's forehead, still staring absently into the night.
John just sighs, pillowing his head on a wrinkled shoulder, palm resting comfortably in the convenient handprint already scarred deep into Rodney's chest. Someday, he'll ask about it, he thinks. But today is for the moon and the surf and the harsh rustle of Rodney snoring beside him, however long that might last.
FIN