I am not a genius. Or a math-prodigy. Or a childhood chess-champion. I have never written a scientific paper so brilliant and ahead-of-our-time that I've been hoarded by my state, transported between secret laboratories and wiped off the grid or written a symphony based on the something-or-other equation. I didn't build a nuclear bomb for my 6th grade science project and I can't calculate a proper tip in my head, let alone the number of years it would take for us to travel back to Earth by puddlejumper. I didn't head Czechoslovakia's nuclear 'investigation' panel or come up with a new interpretation of the Mayan cosmology. All of the foreign languages I speak are living and represented on Earth alone, maybe on Atlantis, and when I look in a microscope I see pretty little blobs of color, not gene sequences and anatomical wonders. In fact, I just learned how to put on a hazmat suit, despite all the training in public health policy and procedures.

I've never killed anyone with my bare hands, though I have made decisions that I know would cause death. I can't hold my own against a soul-sucking monster with ten times my strength with only two sticks I picked up on the fly, and if I ever got into a knife-fight, I'd probably accidentally slit my own wrists. I can't fly a plane -I haven't even driven a car for a year now- and I've never rescued anyone, unless you count the 'lives saved' on one of those glossy-paged status reports the number crunchers present to the UN. I can't do forty push-ups with a clap in between in a lifetime, let alone in a minute and just looking at any sort of demolitions equipment makes my skin crawl. I've never pointed a gun at another living being and when someone points one at me, I freeze in panic.

Most people would say this makes me human. On Earth, not one in a hundred is any one of those things - that puts me smack at the height of the beautiful bell-curve that all policy-makers love, because it means we never have to think about those fringe percentiles that, by virtue of statistics, must slip through the cracks. But, though I guess I am still technically human, I'm a new breed - I'm Atlantian. And, while on Earth no one expects you to be brilliant or athletic or cultured or an efficient killer, here, I'm the exception to the rule. We've got that less than one percentile, the best and the brightest, and nothing less - I know, I picked every one of them myself. And I'm in charge of them all.

You think of a command structure, any hierarchy, really, and you expect that the person at the top is the best - you, know, natural selection, the ladder of success, try your hardest, be all you can be, reach for the stars and you will get there. They like to teach you that life is fair and the job always goes to the most qualified candidate. But that's not true. The truth about life, and about politics, is that the politicians choose the rules - those in power tilt the scale to favor all sorts of things, whether it be big business, or political correctness, or war or the fact that they like old white men. So you deal. You put aside that naïve hope that you can save the world, create the next great utopia, because as Orwell and Huxley and Hitler and Stalin and Pol Pot all proved, heaven on Earth -or Atlantis- is the most dangerous and seductive dream of all - the Siren's call of politics.

The truth is, you don't want a leader who's good at everything. You don't want a scientist that will shut out all the others because they think they're right. You don't want a hero who has to keep taking risks to keep up the role, like Orwell said in Shooting An Elephant, if not to simply follow their own moral character. You don't want someone whose status depends on being 'best at' something because then they're going to spend more time trying to be the best and pushing down those that pose a threat. You see it all the time in academia, though my favorite example is Stalin's purges. And when you've got competing interest groups - grunts and geniuses and cocky pilots who're far too used to getting their way (or at least convincing themselves that they really did want to be in Antarctica after all) you want to play the neutral observer. I'm not tabula rasa but I think I could try for Plato's 'Reasonable Man' - or, woman, as it were.

Not that it makes it any easier to be the dummy among the geniuses or the weak civilian woman among the military. Not that it made giving Rodney the go-ahead to scan Chaya any easier.

I could feel the jealousy rolling off him in waves. The others probably assumed that he was jealous that John got the beautiful girl and he didn't, but I know the truth. Rodney hated her from the get-go, and he hated her because she was taking John away from him. I've been watching them ever since I overhead a blatantly flirtatious conversation in the hallway. I have no idea if it's part of some political plot to undermine my authority or not, but John is definitely turning up the charm on Rodney. Maybe he just can't stand that there's someone that doesn't eat out of his palm. Maybe he's looking to humiliate Rodney, earn his submission. Maybe he's just looking for a convenient fuck buddy that will be too scared to tell. Or team cohesion or efficiency. Maybe he's bored. Or maybe he really wants to control the findings of the lead scientist. I remember the way they united so completely against caution when asking to explore that downed Wraith ship - how Rodney ignored his normal overwhelming desire to not put himself in danger, hushing the very valid claims of his fellow scientists. And now I see an opening ... a gulf developing in between them. I'd be a fool not to take this opportunity.

I want to be objective - I always have tried for it. Emotions, pride, can only make you weak in a field like mine where everyone uses everything and anything to their advantage. Of course, it's been a long time since I've been anything but the mediator. I was good at that - getting concessions from both sides, making them believe that I was 'unbiased' when all the time I was pushing them towards our interests. But what was the quote? 'Walk softly and carry an armored tank division?' I keep forgetting that we're not the world hegemon here. Here were caviar, or maybe potato pancakes. John keeps telling me that I don't have the luxury of compromise - this is a new galaxy with new rules, and the one skill I have among great men and women is now useless.

I never wanted to be a politician. I never wanted to have to compromise my own values, the Geneva convention, the Sunday school stories that stick with me still, Rousseau and Locke and Plato, Lao Tzu, Mo Tzu, Heidegger, Foucault, Marx, Tickner, Butler. But I have to. I may not be perfect, but I know that if I don't do something to stop him, John will lead us all into early graves. He was the one that told me that this is a new place, with new rules. He was the one that told me that I don't have international law or rights talk to fall back on anymore. He told me that I needed to learn to do what has to be done.

So that's why I'm making my way quietly toward the lab, wearing a clinging black top with a ridiculously low bustline, as 'classy yet seductive' as the 'little black dress.' I know he's still here, despite the fact that he hasn't slept for at least two days. I can hear his fingers slamming down relentlessly on a helpless keyboard even from the hallway.

I step inside. The lab is dark except for the blue glow off his computer screen, highlighting all the chiseled lines of his features, intensifying the already brilliant blue of his eyes. "Good evening, Rodney. What are you up to?" I come to stand behind him, curiously. He shifts uncomfortably, not looking up.

"Oh, you know ... the usual ... diagnostics ... simulations ... geek stuff." His voice is higher than usual, but oddly lifeless.

"I see." I use my voice to let him know I'm not buying it and lean over him, the way I do over Dr. Wu during tense situations in the control room. But, unlike the composed Asian gatetech I pulled in from NASA, Rodney is tense and fidgeting. Unable to stand my proximity, he turns, forcing me to straighten.

"Look, is there something I can do for you, Elizabeth?" He looks down at my shirt and his eyes bulge. This is almost too easy.

"No, Rodney, I just came to check up on you. You haven't slept and you seemed pretty upset by what happened today."

"Oh." His mouth forms this perfect little ring, though his eyes are still staring right at my chest. "Well ... I ... there's nothing ... thanks, Elizabeth, but I'm really okay. Just a little strung up ... yeah, the adrenaline," he waves his hands around, "the adrenaline ... blood sugar. I'll ... once I calm down I'll zonk out for like ten hours, not to worry. You ... you ... er ... best be going. Don't worry about little old me. I just ... "

My stare is stern so when he finally shifts his gaze to my eyes he clamps his mouth shut, looking away. "Fine, you're not buying it. I'm just. I'm just a little upset. Nothing I can't handle. Thanks for your concern. Show's over, let's move along now, hm?" I can see the pain so clearly in his eyes, even with the light off like this. I want to see more though. I want to see the whole scope of the damage. What is it that economists say about information scarcity? It leads to market failure.

"Turn on the lights."

"Oh ... yeah ... right." He blinks and the lights turn on. John must have taught him to how to use his gene to do that, because he couldn't a few weeks ago. He's squinting against the brightness, making a face.

I lean back against the counter, in a way I know enhances the long line of my neck. "So, Rodney, are you going to tell me what's bothering you?" It's not a request.

He sighs and runs his fingers furtively through his hair, turning the stool he's sitting on slightly to the side so he doesn't have to look at me. "I ... well, I hate being right."

I laugh. "That, I highly doubt."

"Fine. I guess I do get a perverse satisfaction out of it. And it's better that expecting the best in people and being disappointed afterwards, but ..." his eyes tilt up to meet mine furtively, "But, it'd be nice to be proved wrong every once and a while. About that, I mean. Not about ... well, you know how much I hate it when people like Kavanagh beat me at an argument."

I raise my eyebrows, crossing my hands over my chest in a way I know shows off my cleavage. "That's happened?"

"No. Well ... maybe. He bet me that the toilets here would be exactly the same as on Earth, water-based. But that does count." He scowls and I laugh, moving to put a hand on his shoulder.

"Please tell me what's going on, Rodney. You know you'll have my confidence."

He sighs and closes his eyes, deep in thought. "I was jealous, okay? I ... Sheppard and ... and that woman, had a special connection, and I was jealous. I mean, she's all 'Athar this ... Athar that' and it's so obvious it's bullshit but Sheppard just smiles and sends her off to talk to voices because he wants in her pants. I mean ... I knew she was full of shit, but he doesn't listen. I confronted him and he said that it was none of my business, like he hadn't ... Like we ... I thought ... I thought he trusted me. That he'd at least listen to my opinion. But, apparently, he only listens when there's not a beautiful woman involved. He thinks that just because he wants something he can do whatever the hell he wants, but what about the rest of us? What the fuck are we supposed to do when things fall apart? Someone ... someone has to make sure he ..." Rodney gulps, and doesn't finish.

"You thought you were that someone." His eyes shoot up to meet mine, shifting frantically in their sockets. There's no mistaking my meaning.

"I ... Elizabeth ... please don't tell anybody." He hangs his head in shame, his voice soft and plaintive, so different from the normal whine or haughty sarcasm or even the childlike playfulness I've grown to love when he lets it show through. "Please don't tell."

I pull him to his feet and embrace him, press my body into his heat. He reaches his arms around me tentatively, engulfing me. I've never been with someone who could so totally overwhelm me - I'm a tall woman, I just never realized that Rodney was even taller. He clings to me, compressing my body against his as he buries his face in my hair and I realize that he's much stronger than I realized as well. I search myself, wondering why I always overlooked him, even our first near-disastrous meeting when he kept hitting on me with really really bad pickup lines. Then he found out I was actually his boss and wouldn't meet my eyes for the next two months.

Why did I discount Rodney? Because he was a colleague? Because I was with Simon at the time? No, that didn't stop me from noticing John Sheppard. Was it because he was a geek? Awkward? Not the most attractive of men? Or is there just something about him? Maybe it’s the way he acts ... supply and demand. He exudes this abrasiveness, this insecurity. He acts like he doesn't believe anyone could ever like him, so nobody does. Am I really so shallow as to see him for the fact that he has a reputation of being unlikeable ... unthinkable? How could I miss the witty, intelligent, wounded, but ultimately gentle man who feels so much and feels so good holding me? I think back to how we huddled together during the storm that nearly destroyed Atlantis and his protective warmth. I think about how he stepped in front of a gun for me. After all that how could I continue to overlook him? His quiet -as much as Rodney actually is quiet- heroism dwarfed by John and the number of people he killed to save the city. Hard power ... in the end its about the number of lives and if you're willing to die for someone, that's only one.

"I ..." he sniffs. "It's not like we've actually done anything yet. He's right when he said that it was none of my goddamn business, but I ... I wanted it to be. I thought we had something. I thought he might ..."

"Maybe we should discuss this in private," I suggest, giving him a squeeze before he pulls away.

"O ... okay." He seems startled.

"My quarters."

"Your quarters?" He squeaks, stepping back into the lab bench and jumping in shock when he hits it, like it just attacked him.

"My quarters."

I can almost see the wheels turning in his head, the initial distrust, and then the full realization of the implications of my statement. Then he just nods curtly.

I turn and walk out of the lab, with him walking to my side and just behind. We don't talk. We can't continue our previous conversation for fear someone will hear and small talk would just be awkward. And I realize that Rodney and I spend so much time walking, surveying operations, going to meet people, and we're never silent. Even in those awkward first months when he wouldn't meet my eyes, Rodney'd keep talking.

I turn back to give him a reassuring smile, and he returns it, though it looks a little forced. He looks almost ... scared.

And I wonder if this seduction is charity or disservice, if I even decide to follow through with it. I admire Rodney. I respect him. And, if at all possible, regardless of the political implications, I honestly want him to be happy. And I know that he values honesty nearly above all else. He doesn't lie, that's one of the things I both love and hate about him, but I know he prides himself on it. But is it lying? I mean ... I am attracted to him in a way. I like him. So what if I wouldn't do this if I wasn't regaining some sort of control from John? We never do anything for pure reasons. Everyone has an ulterior motive, even if they don't like to admit it.

I walk up to my door and press my hand to the sensor to unlock it. The lights come on automatically as I walk in and turn to smile. Rodney stumbles down the two steps to the sunken center of the room where my bed sits. I perch myself on the edge of the bed and he settles beside me, playing with his hands in his lap.

"So ..." I say. I'm hoping he'll take this as a signal to kiss me, because I'm not sure I can make the first move myself. I think that maybe this is wrong. Aren't there some things that are sacred? Isn't using your body to get what you want supposed to be wrong? But not when you have so much to gain by it. The ends justify the means. That's the sad truth of politics ... because if doing what we felt was right all the time lead to good then we'd have no need for government.

"I ... I think I might love him." He looks at me shyly and I force myself not to wince. That wasn't what I was expecting. "I know, it's probably one of the stupidest things a genius like me has ever done ... except maybe that time I tried to make Napalm ... did you know if you mix gasoline and melted ... never mind. I mean, he flirts with pretty much everything that moves, and that includes Wraith named 'Steve,' by the way." He looks up at the intricate murals on the ceiling - geometric patterns with no meaning. "God, how could I have been so stupid as to think that he meant anything by it? How could I think that someone like him ... someone who has everything going for him -looks, charm, intelligence, heroism- would ever want someone like me?"

I shake my head. "Why not? You may not be the most ... diplomatic of people." He smirks at that. "But you're the smartest man I know, as if you need me to tell you that. And you are heroic - no matter how much you like to complain and mitigate it, your actions speak louder. As for looks ... you don't look like you were in a boyband in another life," he chuckles at that, "but you're not unattractive. It's not that he has no reason to be attracted to you; he probably is. It's more ... I'm not sure he was any more attracted to Chaya. I can't tell you his motivations, but I highly doubt it was either pure lust or love. Maybe it was for the novelty of it, but I'm more inclined to believe that he was playing her too."

"That's just how he is," he agrees. "He thinks that just because he flashes a smile people will bow down before him, and the most fucked up thing is that it's true. I am such an idiot."

I put an arm around him. "Hey, you can't help it if you love him."

"Yeah, well, I'm supposed to be immune to this kind of thing. I've been burned enough times to know not to fuck with fire - literally, actually. I can see him doing the whole Captain Kirk routine or the cocky flyboy or the macho commando. I can see how reckless he is ... that it's pure luck he escapes with his head, and I still fall at his feet when he does. It's worse than everyone else. It's worse because I know it's a stupid thing and then I do it anyway. I don't even have the petty excuse of ignorance."

"You're not the only one."

"And the way he treats you, Elizabeth, countermanding your authority. I should ... I don't know. I should stand up for you more. Today at briefing, the way he looked at you when he found out what I was doing ... he was almost threatening you. And all the other times when he acts like your approval is a mere formality. And, when we're together, he acts as though you’re his mother or teacher or something ... like an obstacle to be overcome, not someone with the same goals ... I ... I know I'm guilty of the same, but ... I mean well. I just ... I can't help but get swept up in his ... his thing." He waves his hands and smiles meekly.

"It's okay, Rodney." I move my hand to his thigh.

"It's never going to happen again, Elizabeth. I promise."

I raise an eyebrow. "Never again?"

"The ignoring facts because of Sheppard, not the reacting slightly adversarially to your authority. I honestly don't mean it though ... I really do respect you." He studies me, eyes darkening.

I feel my breath catching, realizing my hand's still on his thigh. "I respect you too, Rodney."

I don't know who leans in, but before I know it, we're kissing. He's not the best of kissers. He's precise in his actions ... knows all the different techniques, the sensitive spots, the timing, but he doesn't have that unpredictability, that passion where he's just devouring you. But, he tastes of coffee and chocolate and he's groaning and whimpering like this is the world to him ... like he needs me. I'm surrounded by geniuses and flyboys and warmongers and so many people who either resent my authority or think they could do it better; it's so nice to feel needed, wanted.

But this is Rodney kissing me. I never would have thought ... if I was going to break the unspoken engagement I had with Simon, I would have thought it would be with John Sheppard. Until today I've never given Rodney a second thought. But, it's not as unnatural as I feared, even when he pushes me back onto the bed, struggling awkwardly with his pants as I slip mine off easily. He's panting, almost hyperventilating, looking at me. I feel self-conscious as I pull off my shirt, laying back against the pillows. He looks down at me. "You're so beautiful," he smiles as his larges hands roam over my skin, trying to work my bra like it's some new ancient device he hasn't quite figured out yet, eyes sparkling with wonder.

He cups my check and kisses me as he positions himself, pausing for a second to whisper in my ear. "Do you have a condom?"

I shake my head. "Had my tubes tied."

He looks at me, confused. "You don't want ..."

"How could I bring another child into a world where so many were starving or without parents who could afford to provide for them?"

He smiles and kisses me again. "You are such a do-gooder. It's disgusting."

I laugh and pull him in for another kiss. He's not charming, but he's funny. I can almost forget why it is I'm doing this.

He thrusts into me, but gets the position a little off. I slide a hand down and guide him. He's not long but he's definitely thick and I gasp as he enters me, pushing deep and almost desperately. I can't help the sounds I'm making - it's not an act, even though part of me pretends it is. This is the first time in nearly five years I've been with anybody other than Simon and it feels like a betrayal, reacting this way - especially to someone who I'm supposed to be sleeping with for political gain. That's an excuse Simon would buy. He's always respected my career. That's why I knew he'd understand me coming here.

Rodney presses into me and I curl my legs around him, arching my back as he pants into my neck, thrusting hard and fast. My gasps turn to low moans. "Oh, god."

And he increases the pace, frantic now and biting into my shoulder. This wave of heat threatens to engulf me, building in me, tingling, pushing my mouth to moans and grunts and feelings ... things so far outside the tight control I've grown so used to since coming here. I think I'm about to really scream, about to just let it all go, all the frustration and anger and repression fly away, and then he grunts and his body stiffens and the name he says is, "John."

And the warmth and the tingling and the release that were just building fade away and I feel sticky and disgusting, trapped below a considerable panting weight in a bed of tangled sheets. "I'm sorry, Elizabeth," he says and kisses me softly, choking on a sob. "I don't know why I do this to myself."

And I rub his back as he fights the tears, rolling off me so that I can wrap myself around him. "Shh ... it's okay." I wonder if I really have become the mother, the disciplinarian, the worrier, the one that looks after her boys' every need.

His skin is clammy and he's shaking in his effort to keep from losing it completely. I kiss his forehead, stroke my hands down his chest and let my fingers tangle in his pubic hair, before giving him a few light strokes and resting my hand on his thigh. He's warm and I can hear his heartbeat beneath my ear and feel it in the vein in his thigh, as I feel his chest rising and his breath blowing warm on the top of my head. He's here, solid and real in the moment, not some political ideal, a bargaining chip, a supporter, an ally. He finally succumbs, not to his emotions, but to sleep. But I stay awake, wondering about where I am and why I'm here and what I think I'm doing.

When I was younger I used to dance. Daddy said I should have been a dancer or a model ... an actress. He was so proud of my beauty. Wouldn't he be proud of me now? And when I danced ... I know what John means when he talks about flying, diving deep into the wonder that is your body, leaving all you concerns behind, the music moving you, filling you, transforming you. It made me so happy, sometimes I wonder why I gave it up. I was good at it, I loved it, and other people loved watching me, but I had this idiotic delusion about wanting to change the world ... wanting to ease the suffering of others. But I'm so out of my league. I was born to dance ... command, I've forced myself into. And now that I'm here, I'm wondering if we all wouldn't have been better off if I'd just kept my body moving to the music.

TBC ...