He wanted to ask John math questions . . . equations. He wanted to keep him conscious, but he was frightened of the startling embarrassment of cliché. Of all the things to be thinking about now, and all he could come up with was . . .

“It’s okay,” John said, even though it wasn’t. His voice was small and tight and utterly appropriate for the direness of the situation.

Rodney’s fingers slid through his hair like butter, effortlessly, naturally, like a thousand times before in the dark of night, in a secluded alcove, on a sun swept balcony.

“Don’t,” John whispered, just below the hollow echo of footsteps.

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t let them see.” He’d heard these words before, spoken in whispers, a cautionary tale that some called ‘Don’t Ask. Don’t Tell.’ There were shadows sneaking through the night. Curses. Heads were banged against walls. And sometimes, waking alone to the morning sun seeping in his windows, Rodney imagined they spoke these words in tears.

But Rodney too, didn’t want these people to see. Not just because he didn’t want to give them something else to use against them, but because what they had –even in darkness and secrecy and shame- was too pure for men like Kolya.

But it was too late, as Kolya’s wry grin appeared around the corner, teeth stark white against the dank grey of the corridor like the Cheshire cat, fading in from a smile.

The look in his eyes was predatory, but there was hollowness there. Rodney would like to believe that he couldn’t possibly be enjoying this, but honestly, he didn’t have even that much faith in humanity.

Kolya looked down at Rodney’s hand, frozen in the soft comfort of John’s hair. “Pretty, isn’t he? For a killer.”

“You’re the killer, Kolya,” Rodney spat, venomous and feeling ridiculously cliché. This was all like a really bad movie. It stank of Tom Clancy and Jean Claude Van Damme and B Sci-fi.

“Killers seem to be your type.” The pockmarked skin around Kolya’s mouth stretched, the sneer so consuming that the wrinkles almost hid the unevenness. Rodney hoped it was early signs of radiation poisoning. He hoped Kolya died a slow and painful death. Feeling John quake beneath him, Rodney knew that if he himself could cause that death, he wouldn’t regret it for a moment. “I think that for a tight hot fuck like Sheppard,” Kolya mused, “I might go against my own type.”

“What, no more farm animals?” John whimpered from the floor. Rodney was encouraged that he had enough strength for that. But then again, even broken and bleeding, John would always be strong.

Kolya just grinned, letting the cell door creak open. Two guards emerged from the shadows, nameless, faceless, but all the more menacing.

Rodney positioned himself between them and John, but it did them no good – Rodney was the one they wanted.

Radek swore relentlessly in Czech as he tore through Rodney’s lab, typing the password Rodney had given him for ‘worse case scenario, and I’ll know if you’ve used it, so you’d better hope worse case means I’m either dead or so grateful I’m not that I won’t care.’

If this wasn’t worse case, he didn’t know what was. It had been three days already, three days of sifting through his own notes and Rodney’s, Lieutenant Ford breathing down his neck and the poor Rejekans camping outside their own gate watching the mothballs turn in Sergeant Bates’ brain.

“Zelenka . . .” Ford growled from behind him. Radek jumped and almost dropped the device in his hands.

“Do prdele! Lieutenant Ford, you cannot go sneaking up on people with delicate Ancient devices . . .”

“I knocked,” Ford huffed. “It’s enough for Dr. McKay.” Ford didn’t even need to compare him to Rodney, because Radek knew that he couldn’t do the job Rodney could. He couldn’t just rush off and put together all the pieces on the fly, believing that it would work out before seeing that it would.

“Yes, I’m so glad that you have noticed I am not arrogant high pitched hypochondriacal Canadian! Your astuteness is astounding, Lieutenant. Now, if you want any chance that we do not blow ourselves up, then you will leave me to my work!”

Ford walked over to what Rodney had dubbed ‘the worst excuse for furniture I’ve ever seen,’ and plopped down, staring pointedly.

“Fine, fine, have it your way!” Radek threw his hands up in frustration.

Three hours later, Ford had not moved, but Radek was ready and they were gearing up.

“Shouldn’t you in the very least call Lieutenant Parker back before you leave . . .” Radek began, quietly.

“No,” Ford said, simply.

“But, there are no other officers . . .”

“Stackhouse can handle it.” Ford punched him in the arm almost playfully. “Look, Doc, we’ll get there, Gate to the address and be back before suppertime. Don’t worry about it.”

He was being led around by an idiot. Clearly, Lieutenant Ford’s view of the universe was not just foolishly optimistic and unrealistic, but also slightly psychotic.

“But . . .”

“Have a little faith, Doc.”

Maybe that was Radek’s problem. After seeing your own sister raped and then beaten to death to earn your compliance, you tended to be a little short on belief in the powers of good. Despite all his prophesies of doom and his blatant hatred of even the slightest mention of religion, Rodney still had faith, which was why it was him they needed.

Elizabeth gasped in the thick stench of burning flesh. She knew this world and yet she didn’t. She’d seen it in pictures on her grandfather’s wall. She’d read about it in history book after history book, proclaiming some wars futile and others winnable. War was a tool of power. War, while less desirable than negotiation, was a tool of politics, one that all good diplomats knew to accept, knew to use like another piece of the game.

This was war – barbed wire fences, trenches, gunfire, mud and the crimson tide all flowing together towards the sea. She knew this world. It was the world of man.

Then Teyla’s eyes, so alien, so frightened, staring down at her, asking a thousand questions, and the greatest among them: why? Teyla was a warrior but in some ways she was also a child. She never had to know how horrible people could be, because in Teyla’s world, there were few horrors that could not be blamed on the Wraith.

“Come on,” Elizabeth said, pulling Teyla’s arm down and away. “We need to get out of here.”

But before they could get to the gate, before they could dial, they heard a sound that Teyla too would recognize, the click of a gun being cocked, the voice of a soldier echoing the voices of a thousand soldiers past: “Come with me.”

Elizabeth turned, dumbstruck. The man was tall, dirty, face blacked with soot and grey uniform covered in mud.

Elizabeth raised her hands. “We just want to get back to our world. We’ll leave you alone.”

“How do I know you’re not with them?”

“Look, I don’t know who ‘them’ is, but we’re not from this world. Please, our people will be worried about us. Let us at least send a message.”

“Move now, or I will kill you both. If you truly are from somewhere else, then you have nothing to fear.”

Teyla looked ready to spring, ready to fight. But Elizabeth shook her head. This scene was familiar – it was a total war, and she and Teyla were only useful to these people if released, only useful if they could bring supplies. It was not their fight.

Rodney was gone. They had taken him. He was alone. Rodney was gone. They were going to do to him what they’d done to John. Rodney was gone. Maybe worse. Rodney was gone. He was gone. He’d left John alone. He was gone.

He curled himself into a tighter ball. It hurt. God, it hurt so much. What had Kolya done to him? Kolya’d carved him up like a fucking woodblock. The knife . . . the knife twisted and so fucking sharp. Tattoos like the illustrated man. He could tell stories with his pain, if there was someone to listen. But Rodney was gone. Gone.

Drip drop. He could feel his sanity fleeing with his blood.

Blood. He’d shed blood. He deserved this in a way. If he were Kolya, he’d do the same. Well, not the same, but he wouldn’t hesitate to punish a man who’d killed sixty of his men. John could forgive – he would forgive, but he’d always make that forgiveness cost something.

Yes, if they got out of this . . . if roles were reversed, he’d punish. Except not to Rodney. Not to an innocent. And god knew what they were doing to Rodney now.

Rodney was gone. Rodney was gone.

“Are you ready to talk now, Major Sheppard?” Koyla’s voice, digging into him. Digging like that knife blade. Pain and rage and sadness. Guilt. He was guilty. How had he forgotten that?

He curled into a tighter ball. Tighter. Koyla couldn’t get to him. Koyla couldn’t. He hurt. He was here and Koyla was there and not even rage could cross this great divide, sympathy and humanity and connection had danced away with the wind.

“I’ve killed men too,” Koyla said calmly. “And I have no problem doing it again.” And then Koyla was here, leaning above him. They were both guilty. That was the one bridge that could cross between them, span the distance of galaxies. “But you . . . you, Major Sheppard, will be the first that I will enjoy.”

And then Kolya’s gun, cold steel, like confidence sparking through him. Kolya’s gun and Kolya’s pride, both equally dangerous. Overconfidence, like this cold steel in the hands of a child. Cold. Kolya’s gun. Kolya’s gun in John’s hand. Kolya’s gun to Kolya’s neck.

It was John’s now. His gun. His demands. His desires voiced.

“Take me to Rodney or I’ll shoot. Believe me. I’ll shoot.”

“He’s not here.”

“I’ll shoot.” Soft yielding flesh. Red, the world a hazy red. Duty and pain and loneliness. He’d do it. Neither of them could doubt that.

“You can kill me, but he’s not here.”

Rodney was gone. He was alone. Kolya confirmed it.

“Take me to the Gate.”

Things were fading, red washing in and out with the tide. But he could stay here. He was grounded by the cold metal beneath his fingertips, the thick musk of fear surrounding everything. He’d make it through. He had to.

For Rodney.