There exist forms in the stillness and there is motion in the silence and there is sound in the darkness and the more you wonder the less you find.

There exists a man who wonders what it means to be in love.

There exists a man who wants to know what it is to know that someone loves you back.

There exists a man who knows he would die for someone. He would die for an idea, but he wonders what it is to know that someone would die for him.

There exists a voice in the stillness, and it knows the answer to his questions, but it does not speak.

So he wonders if he will die before he stops wondering.

He speaks in riddles sometimes, but no one ever tries to solve them. He speaks in whispers as loud as shouts and no one ever gets his meaning. He smiles a thousand frowns and they never stop to question the sadness in his eyes.

He could make love like an animal, like a god, like it were a celebration, or the end of the world, but no one would ever know.

Mostly, when he makes love, he is drunk.

There exists a man and at the age of five he fell of a merry-go-round and skinned his knee. He was trying to fly.

At twelve he called his math teacher a 'know-it-all good-for-nothing cocksucker.' Now he knows that his teacher did, in fact, enjoy a nice juicy cock. He was grounded for two months and bruised for a week.

At fifteen he kissed his best friend on the dirty old couch in the basement. He has never really gotten over it.

At eighteen he joined the Air Force Academy and when he was twenty-one he started calling himself an officer.

At thirty-four he watched his two best friends die and got shipped off to the ends of the earth, where there was plenty of time to wonder.

At thirty-six, he found out that wasn't even close to the farthest the government could send him.

There exists a man and his form is that he has green eyes and hair that would rather not follow the rules. But form, he thinks, should not be important. Not here. Not now.

There exists a man and he knows that one day he will not exist, and he is okay with that.

There exists a man and he knows that day is today . . .

He wakes to motion, but it is all his motion, the room sliding before his eyes as he bolts out of bed. He can hear his heart racing, the blood rushing in his ears like a river he once knew, high in the desert, delivering the cold spring melt to her parched lips and sacrificing drop after drop like blood on an altar to gods long forgotten.

His skin is dry, not cold and clammy and reeking of fear, like so many nights waking to images of monsters with skin like the dark side of the moonlight and eyes like predators that hunt you silently from the trees. He does not remember nightmarish images, thoughts jumbled and fading with the light of day.

He remembers smells – blood, powerbars and coffee, the crisp clean smell of purified air, sweat: his own, Rodney's.

He remembers tastes – not having brushed his teeth for the 49 hours since waking, coffee, an MRE, blood again, but not particularly unpleasant, the last sip of water he would ever have. It wasn't as sweet as one would imagine.

He remembers touch – the soft cool of Elizabeth's hands grasping his, the slap of a training stick against his arm, the warmth of the chair flowing through him, the itch of his too-starched military-issue sheets, the toned muscle of Aiden's bicep beneath his palm as he squeezed it, wishing him good luck, the ever-so-subtle brush of fingers as he handed Rodney a piece of equipment,

He remembers sensation – pain, exploding through him in an instant more excruciating than all existence, the familiar pressure of the jumper controls in his hands, exhaustion turning the volume down a notch, adrenaline coursing through his veins, muscles contracting and releasing just to have something to do, motion, flying again, for the last time.

He remembers sounds – the plea in Elizabeth's voice as she begged him not to go, the familiar swoosh of doors as he ran down corridors, Rodney yelling at someone or something, footfalls, panted breaths, cloth rustling, the subtle hum of the jumper, more emotion than sound.

And he remembers emotions – fear, of death, of the destruction of that which he cared about, of pain; loneliness as he sat alone in the silent flight to his own end; anger that it had gotten this far, that he was the one to make this sacrifice, that this enemy would dare not to die. But most of all, he remembers the regret.

And that is how he knows it is not a dream. In his dreams he is detached. In his dreams there is no understanding of consequence. There is guilt . . . oh, god, he knows there is guilt, but the lines of causality are jumbled, the delicate web of interaction swatted and scrambled in a second so that all that is left is effect – an unaccountable weight, a pain in his chest, but a million miles from physical. He sees it painted into images, a snapshot of pain like the photos they printed of him in the Times, bloodied and pathetic, when people apologized even though they couldn't begin to understand what he had gone through.

But this . . . this isn't like a photo. It isn't like a music video, jumping from cut to cut, because the subconscious is the only art he has left in him. It's like memory, lucid yet untenable, painted in broad strokes and merging so seamlessly into the present that if he were to doubt it, he would have to doubt all of time.

He used to wonder . . . back in the days of exhausted stumbling and motion slowed to the exquisite detail of a blade of grass or sped by him in words unintelligible through a haze of drugs or alcohol or just plain exhaustion. He used to wonder if there was such a thing as time.

But if there is no such thing, then what about time travel? He knows that it's possible . . .

Well, according to Einstein's General Theory of Relativity, there's nothing in the laws of physics to prevent it. Extremely difficult to achieve, mind you – you need the technology to manipulate black holes to create wormholes not only through points in space but time.

It'd be worth it . . . just to drive a really cool Delorian.

And he's yet to get his hands on one of them. Well, since the time he forged an ID and tried to sneak into a dealership . . .

But he hasn't gone back in time. There are no burns on his skin. His heart isn't droplets of radioactive mush splattered throughout the void of space. He doesn't even have that lump on the back of his head from his fall at the hands of a Wraith stunner. And, though he knows his fair share of wild-eyed mad scientists, he hasn't seen a flux capacitor anytime recently.

And flux capacitor! That doesn't even mean anything! Tautology if I ever heard it. It's like saying, I saw a mammalian human yesterday . . . as though humans could be anything other than . . .

Actually, Laddie, that's dependent upon whether you're going by an ancestral definition or by a functional one, since many of the creatures in this galaxy . . .

Shut up, Carson, or we'll make you watch Outbreak. See how you like it.

Hey, I like that movie!

Of course you do, Major.

Not even the memory of Rodney and Carson squabbling amicably at movie night could bring a smile to his face, however. Even if time doesn't exist, he knows what day it is now . . . it's the day the Wraith will attack . . . the day he'll die.

He swings his legs over the side of the bed and starts with his usual morning rituals, missing the time in between pulling his Berretta out from beneath his pillow and giving his hair one final check in the mirror. Maybe if you do something enough times . . . it becomes unnecessary to actually experience it. Maybe you can jump forward in time like that.

But, even if 'You Only Live Twice,' you can die but once.

He sighs, trudging out into the corridor and running a hand through his hair, rendering that last mirror-check completely useless.

So, he can see the future. Should he go consult Beckett? Have him check for brain tumors or hallucinogenic substances? Check for signs of schizophrenia, perhaps? No, why waste the time if he'll be dead in 49 hours, give or take, especially when he's needed elsewhere.

And what would he do anyhow? He's seen enough movies, read enough plays, learned enough to know that you don't mess with time . . . that as much as you try, you can't predict how your actions will change the future.

In the future, he'll destroy the hive ships – take both of them out. He felt it the moment before there was no longer any mind left to connect to non-existent sensors. He felt it in the afterburn. He will die, but he will die knowing that Atlantis will be safe . . . that the people he loves will be safe . . . that Rodney will be safe.

And, even if he might get out of this with his own skin intact, he knows that saving all those lives at the cost of his own will always be worth it. Knowing what will happen can't change the fact that that particular trade's a damned good bargain. All it does is make these next 49 hours the beginning of his purgatory.

Sure enough, he exits his room just to run into . . .

"Hey, McKay." Is that what he said last time? Has he changed history already? Will the slightly exaggerated smile that he knows is plastered on his face make McKay just a little happier? Happy enough to give that extra push to get the bombs to work? Or will the extra second he spends staring perplexedly translate to a delay that will cause him to need a certain engineer longer, preventing them from relaying an important message that could change the course of the battle for the worse?

"We're all going to die. What's with the . . . why are you . . . stop grinning like an idiot, Sheppard. Don't you have something to fortify, something to reinforce, mindless orders to give?"

"Um . . . " The grin won't go away. He thought he was never going to hear Rodney snap at him ever again.

Rodney stares owlishly.

Well, this certainly isn't what he remembers. But he's calm . . . Mr. Cucumber . . . he can do this. He drags up a patented eyeroll and an apathetic shrug. "I can't be glad to see my favorite geek? Savior of the world? If only I had a pen, I could get you to sign my arm."

Rodney returns the eye roll. "Puh-lease, Major. I don't have time for your personal little psychosis. As much as I'd like to figure out what the hell is going on inside your head (in the interest of science, of course), I have work to do. You know . . . saving all our asses and everything. Briefings . . ."

Yes, he remembers this: the briefing. "Briefings that the ranking military officer might be attending as well?" He raises his eyebrow and gestures down the corridor. "Ladies first."

"Har har. You wound me with your rapier wit."

He smiles. He can't help it, watching Rodney trot off in the direction of the briefing room, fast enough to maintain the veneer of annoyance, but nowhere near fast enough to make it even the slightest effort to catch up.

He watches the way Rodney almost wiggles his butt as he walks, drinking it all in, knowing that this is the last he'll get.

He's never really thought much about death. He's seen more than his fair share, sure. He's cried more than the requisite number of tears. He's walked the edge, teetered on the brink, more times than he can count. But, he's never been much of a believer in heaven and hell, or reincarnation, even. He's seen the blackness in glassy eyes that won't shut and known that that would be him someday, but he's never understood what death really means until this moment.

Even as he flew . . . will fly, straight into the jaws of death itself, even as he woke with absolute certainty, he did not comprehend it in its vast unknowability. But now, looking at Rodney and knowing that he will never see him wiggle his ass again, or bite some unsuspecting lab-tech's head off, or smile that uncertain half-smile that comes out when he's not looking constipated . . . looking at him now, slipping away, it is clear that death means simply the absolute extinction of possibility.

Probability . . . possibilities . . . statistics. He's good at math, but he knows that, at the end of seemingly infinite complexity, there is a simple binary. Or maybe it's at the beginning: existence a perquisite for life, death the only certainty, acting as a border on the field of possibility - like a fractal, infinite area contained in finite space.

That shouldn't scare him. Infinity is more terrifying than death, if you think about it. He remembers myths and legends of those cursed to live forever, like Prometheus, chained to his stone, or the elves in Lord of the Rings. God, Liv Tyler is hot.

But death is scary, because even though he knows that Rodney will go on . . . that the world will keep turning without him in it, he won't experience those things. They will be dead to him, unless he believes in some hereafter.

He shakes his head, shedding these morbid thoughts like droplets of water coming in from a storm, and jogs a few long strides to catch up with Rodney.

"Have a plan?" He grins. He knows Rodney does. Not just because Rodney is Superman, in at least one pair of eyes, but because of the future.

Rodney looks him over speculatively, the intensity of the stare mitigated by a certain softness that's just for him. "As a matter of fact, I do."

He gives Rodney a smack on the back, letting the touch linger longer than he normally would. He promised himself that he wouldn't indulge normally. He knows that they could never be together. But today he's going to die, and he wants to take with him all the petty comforts he can get.

Rodney looks askew at the hand that has, of its own volition, moved to a strangely muscular shoulder. For a second, something akin to hope flashes in his eyes, but it disappears far too quickly to tell.

The briefing is how he remembers it – all doom and gloom and tech-talk. He finds himself looking around the room, looking at people that he might be seeing for the last time, searching his memory to try to recall if he'll run into Carson again, or Dr. Lin from anthropology or even that asshole, Kavanagh. Yes . . . Carson, he'll see, and Bates, but not Grodin and not Miko from Rodney's lab, or Nurse Carrington, or Dr. Kellogg. He tries to find some sort of significance . . . tries to find something in their movements, in the way his gaze follows them as they leave that's more than contemplative. Maybe this is one of those stages that person that talked about the stages of death spoke of. Not that he puts much stock in psychology, no matter how attractive Dr. Heightmeyer happens to be.

Then Elizabeth says, "Not to put any undue pressure, but at this moment, that satellite is the only thing standing between the Wraith and Atlantis."

He's supposed to give a caustic, 'No undue pressure.' But he finds that he can't. He couldn't possibly say that when he knows that it's specifically that pressure that's going to cause Rodney to take risks, that's going to cause Peter Grodin to sacrifice himself, and that's eventually going to force the manual operation of a jumper with a nuclear bomb.

Instead, he says, "Good luck." It's forced, but he can't be genuine when he knows how this will all pan out. Rodney needs to go. He needs to go because if there are three hive ships then there's no chance in hell only one jumper will be able to take them out and he can't risk Rodney flying the second one himself.

He walks out into the corridor, shoulders slumped, feeling for all the world that this is wrong – that he should be doing something. Maybe he can make a difference. Maybe he can go looking for that Wraith that's hiding in the city. But he can't yet. He can't do anything until Rodney leaves for the space station, because that needs to happen. It needs to happen, even if a few words might prevent Peter Grodin's death. He can't say anything that might make Rodney be the one to stay locked up in the station instead, even as he knows that one human life for a single hive ship destroyed is more than a fair trade.

But he's already changed history, because instead of running off to his lab, Rodney catches up to him and grabs his arm. He doesn't turn, closes his eyes and tries not to feel the comfort of the touch, tries not to feel when he knows that it'll be useless, that it'll only cause him more pain. He sighs.

"John." His name. It sounds so strange now – such a meaningless utterance of empty syllables. Rodney never calls him that. Rodney calls him Sheppard. And that small little gesture – the tiniest fluctuation in time and history and what's supposed to happen and what's not is enough to break his rigid control, to make him turn, disarmed.

Rodney pulls him back into the briefing room at that and closes the doors. "John . . ." They can't tear their eyes away, the intensity of the gaze is binding, an unspoken promise, woven with the treads of possibility, of all the possible futures they won't be able to live out. "if we don't make it . . ." Rodney pauses, expecting him to say otherwise, to use his determined optimism to reassure, as always. But he can't, because though he's been known to disobey orders, he doesn't make promises he doesn't think he can keep.

And Rodney must see some of that hopelessness, some of the tragedy of knowing what has to happen and not being able to change it, because his eyes shift back and forth nervously, his hands coming up to brush an already stubbled cheek. And then Rodney's leaning forward and there can't be any resistance, even as history screams out against it. Those big blue eyes are mesmerizing, the weight of the future impelling him forward inevitably – bodies in motion, in the void, they can grasp infinity.

The kiss is desperate and sweet at the same time. Rodney's tongue is soft and playful, constantly in motion, and his arms are strong, his body warm. The comfort of this embrace is almost too much. It's too great a blessing. It's so wonderful that he thinks there must be some great tragedy occurring on the other side of the universe – children dying, genocide, war, just to balance it out.

When the surreal feeling, the feeling of sensation so intense like his dream, like his last breaths, like a life lived underwater, with nothing but the silky feeling of liquid caressing the skin with each slow movement . . . when it has finally passed, they are gasping for breath, unable, once again, to break the gaze.

And then he remembers . . . what has changed? What did he do wrong? As much as he loves this, as much as he loves Rodney, this isn't supposed to happen. "Why did you do that?" He can't help but sound panicked, accusatory.

Rodney lowers his eyes in shame – their brilliance is missed almost immediately. "I'm sorry, I thought you kissed people who you . . . who you're attracted to."

"No . . . why now? Why today when I'm about to . . ."

"Well, excuse me if my timing sucks, all right? I just saw that look in your eyes and thought that maybe we might die -more than I usually think we're going to die- and I couldn't stand to have that happen without letting you know how I feel. Is that a crime? I mean . . ."

"You're not going to die." No, Rodney is going to live on. And now he's going to have to live on knowing that there was nothing he could do to save the man he just kissed and confessed his feelings for.

"John, is something wrong with you? Because I hate to tell you this, but you're acting a little strange. Maybe you should see Beckett . . ."

"No, no, I'm fine. I'm just a little . . . stressed."

"So that whole kissing me back thing wasn't because of some sort of pressure release, craziness . . ."

He should backpedal. He can feel the significance of this moment. It feels so grand, so luminous that it has already changed the colors of his entire world, given him hope, made him want to fight, made him want to change things so that he and Rodney can be together. How can such a moment not change the future? He needs to . . . but Rodney is looking so hopeful, eyes shinning, fidgeting nervously, lips swollen from the kiss to end all kisses.

"No, it's not a mistake." And he means it as Rodney leans in to kiss him again.

Before they know it they are sprawled out across a conference table, hands roaming every inch of skin, panting out the meter of the future with their breaths, with heartbeats racing and every inch of skin thrilling, pulsing, music playing to touch as skin meets skin and he is flayed open, wide and defenseless to the inevitability greater than history itself, Rodney plunging into him, filling him to the brim, making him, reshaping him. And he feels like flying. He feels like maybe he's felt this before – happiness, that maybe regrets can melt away and leave him breathless but whole as he is now, cradled in strong arms, protected if just for this one isolated moment from the burden of the future.

Zelenka is waiting for them outside of the jumper, fidgeting and continuously pushing at his glasses. Rodney is flushed in embarrassment, trying to smooth down his hair and, if it's possible, trying not to look like he doesn't smell of sex. Zelenka, of course, is oblivious. "Where have you been? I look everywhere for you! Jumper is prepared. I was thinking that I should go . . . you know more . . ."

"No."

"With the due respect, Major, I think you have not the qualifications to discuss this."

"I said, 'no,' Dr. Zelenka. Rodney is going to go on the mission because he knows more about the station and you are going to stay. I don't care about my qualifications. That's an order. And don't bother telling me that you're not military, because we're in the middle of a . . ."

"All right, all right, Major, if you insist."

Rodney doesn't interrupt, just looks quizzical, questioning the sudden vehement protest, probably thinking that he's trying to suddenly be protective and alpha and whatever. He wants to say that he's not like that. He wants to say that he knows what needs to happen, but instead he says, "The clock's ticking, McKay. You'd better get on with it."

Rodney nods, looking slightly put off, but starts towards the jumper, only to be caught by a hand on his arm and a far too brief squeeze, a look of intensity, a look of passion, and a genuine, "Take care, Rodney." They'll see each other again. It's destined.

Only after the jumper has descended into the Gateroom and he hears confirmation of departure over the radio, does he allow himself to turn to Dr. Zelenka, who still looks disconcerted and far-off, and says. "We need to get to the biometric sensors."

"But I have meeting with Dr. Weir. We need to discuss data . . ."

"It'll have to wait."

He's not going to lose this time. Before he was resigned to his fate, but now he knows he can change it – he already has changed it with just a look. He can beat this. He knows what's going to happen so he can stop them from wasting their time. They don't need to go to Planet T-Rex. Teyla doesn't have to punch Bates' lights out. Bates doesn't have to end up in a coma from the goddamn Wraith, which is at least one life that he can save –or significantly better- with this gift.

"But, Major, biometric sensors require too much power. We must focus on . . ."

"Trust me on this, Dr. Z."

"Yes, er . . . fine, I trust you. Rodney says you are smart man. He says you are most irrational, but sometimes have moments of not-so-stupid-American-militaryness. Perhaps this is one of those, yes?"

"Oh, it's most definitely one of those." He clenches his jaw in determination. He won't fail. He has all the cards. How could he?

"Lieutenant Ford, Sergeant Bates, Teyla, security team alpha to the control room."

Zelenka is staring wide eyed at the screen as the announcement is made, blinking owlishly, mouth agape. "How you know this? Major, it is one in a million . . ."

"Lucky guess, Radek. Damn lucky guess. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a Wraith to hunt down and you have to tell Dr. Weir about your computer virus."

He turns and walks away, leaving Zelenka still blinking in confusion.

"Wait, Major Sheppard! How did you know I . . ."

He cringes. That was careless. But he puts on his most flippant tone, his most winning grin, hoping to confuse the Czech with his levity. "I have my sources." He winks, feeling foolish and weak in the knees.

Luckily, Radek is from the former Czechoslovakia, from a military program and a country with such a wide reaching spy network that most anything could be documented and filed away for later use – even to air on the radio. Zelenka doesn't find it strange that the military might be spying on him. "Ah, yes, the intelligence military. I had forgotten."

He breathes a sigh of relief, meeting Ford and Teyla and Bates in the corridor.

"What is it, Sir?" Bates inquires, with the disgusting air of military precision. But he only needs to call up the memories of the sergeant lying motionless, a tube down his throat and dark bruises across his face to make any annoyance fade away.

"We have a Wraith in the city."

"A Wraith, Sir? How's that possible?" Ford, with that childish look of disbelief.

"Zelenka found it using the biometric sensors. It's hiding in one of the empty labs over by generator station one."

"That would explain the feeling I have been having, Major." He looks at Teyla for the first time today. She's still wearing white hospital scrubs under her vest, instead of her usual blue hippie-bondage shirt, as Ford calls it. He realizes that he's unthinkingly paged her from the infirmary. He was supposed to be discussing her release with Beckett when he ended up making love to Rodney in the conference room. He tries briefly to determine whether or not she's hurt by his negligence before he remembers that she doesn't share his knowledge of what's 'supposed to' happen.

"Since the dart scanned us, right?"

"Yes. How did you know?"

"Because it must have beamed in before the ship exploded."

"So it's been here all this time?" Bates is both angry and incredulous, lips sneering.

"Yes, Sergeant. Now it's time we take it out."

They move down the corridors in silence, splitting up so that Ford and Teyla and Anderson can block the rear exit and he and Bates and Ramirez can go in from the front. This time, he's not going to get stunned. This time, he orders the others to come in from the sides, preparing to duck himself.

He's right in front of the door and it still hasn't opened. Maybe this time it's not expecting them. Why would it? It hasn't attacked anyone yet. He turns to motion to the others to fall in behind him when he flips the door control, but doesn't get a chance to finish the order as something slams down on his back.

Instinct takes over and he rolls, stumbling to his feet only in time to get a smack to the face from a sickly, green, clawed hand – the hand of the Wrath who had been waiting for them in the rafters. How did it know? Why wasn't it where it was before? What does he think he's doing? Those are the last thoughts that fly through his head before he hears the thick crunch of impact as he slams back against the wall and the world fades to black.

Instead of awaking to numbness and a Wraith leaning over him, threatening his death and the downfall of Atlantis, instead of Teyla's soft words of comfort, instead of pins and needless and the tired slur of Carson's already thick accent, he wakes to a hammer in his skull and Rodney, half resting with his head in his hands.

He moans, unable to articulate much with the Denver Broncos doing linebacker drills against his skull.

Rodney sits up abruptly, startled. Some of the stimulants he's been taking must be wearing off. But, through the fatigue and worry heavy in his eyes, there is a smile, a joy to see his new lover awake and alive – despite the headache. He doesn't remember this. He doesn't remember much – maybe this is all a dream.

"John! It's about time. You have no idea how much you scared me. I pop out for thirty-odd hours and save the day -again, might I add- and all you manage to do is get yourself slapped around by another Wraith, whom Lieutenant Ford has named, Reginald, by the way. Don't think the kid quite gets it, but anyway . . . I'm babbling. Why am I babbling? Oh yeah, I haven't slept for forty-two hours."

"Mmmmpf . . ." He makes a vague noise and some pathetic gestures towards the pitcher of water on the side table. His jaw feels tight, throbbing like the day after a good bar fight or a bare fisted boxing match. He runs his fingers across the bruise he can already feel forming there, probing the tenderness. He's had this happen to him before . . . but it's not now. Now, he's supposed to . . . But when is now? And Rodney is definitely not supposed to be here. Last time he woke up in the infirmary, Rodney was still off on the ancient satellite.

Rodney hands him a glass of water, threads a hand through his hair and down to cup his cheek.

"You were doing a pretty good impression of it a minute ago," he mumbles.

"Hm. That. Yes. Resting the old eyeballs. You missed a whole . . ."

"Yes, I know. I know, you destroyed a hive ship, but there's still two on the way. But what are you still doing here?"

"What does it look like I'm doing? Making sure you're okay. I was worried that you'd . . ." Rodney gulps. "Besides, Colonel Everett –asshole you haven't met yet, who supposedly brought with him all the answers- won't let us in on the big military strategy powwow. You know, it's always cast aside the civilians - we don't need them; they can't fight. But then when push comes to shove they always need the scientists to bail them out . . ."

He blinks, finally deciphering the words of Rodney's rant, as the volume drills holes through his skull. "Wait. Everett's here already?"

"Yes, he's here. Hence me bitching about him . . . You must have hit your head really hard. Maybe I should get a nurse."

"What happened to Beckett?"

"Brig, trying to work this Goa'uld interrogation device Everett brought with him on Reginald." He wonders if, last time, he did the right thing. What if they missed out on valuable intel by executing Bob before Everett and company arrived?

"Bob."

"Whatever you say, Major."

"John."

"You want to name the Wraith after yourself? Isn't that like a bad stereotype from every stupid detective movie ever? The villain and the hero are really the . . . hey, you can't get up yet. You need to get . . ."

"I need to stop Everett."

"Stop Everett how?"

"Just help me up."

He leans forward, clamping down on the nausea and the pain in his temple. He can do this. He needs to do this. They can't afford to waste six nuclear warheads so idiotically this time around.

Rodney reaches for his earpiece, obviously to call Beckett, but is forced to stop by a handful of toppling major.

"Hey. Hey, watch it. You're not as light as you look, you know."

He wants to answer, but instead the nausea overwhelms him and he ends up losing what little he's had time to eat all over the infirmary floor. Rodney is rubbing his back, holding him up as he shudders and he wants to freeze time – stay in this moment where there's nothing but feeling and sensation, no thoughts, no plans, nothing but comfort and care and concern.

"Lie down, John. You're obviously not thinking straight . . . not that you ever do, but this is more crooked than usual."

"Do you trust me, Rodney?" Hey, it worked on Zelenka. But Zelenka is a pussycat and Rodney is the big bad Lion, the one scared of the mouse.

"Don't be ridiculous. Of course I trust you."

"Then, goddamnit, Rodney, help me up!"

"But that doesn't mean that I let my trust in you under ordinary conditions overwhelm the rational argument, which points out the fact that you've been unconscious with a concussion for more than twenty-four hours, and are most likely not in your right mind."

Actually, he couldn't really argue with that, though he couldn't help but feel a little hurt anyhow, considering what he trusted Rodney to do to him. "Okay, fine. I'll prove it to you. I . . . please let me finish before you tell me how you think this is impossible, but I know what's going to happen. I predicted that there was a Wraith in the city because I saw it before."

"Or maybe you just hallucinated it. Has Carson been giving you any of that happy juice – the kind that gives me a rash?"

"No. Look, I asked you to let me finish. I've been unconscious for the past twenty-four hours, right?"

"Yes . . . duh . . . as I just said . . ."

"So, I couldn't possibly know that you destroyed one hive ship, but lost Grodin in the process?"

"You could have overhead someone talking . . . they say that people in comas . . ."

"I wasn't in a coma," though from the hit on the head sure felt close, "and you've been sitting here. Did anyone say anything?"

"No, but I didn't get back for fifteen hours after it happened. And you . . . you couldn't possibly. Well, maybe . . . do brain tumors show up on whatever tests Carson did on you?" Rodney dived for John's chart, flipping through it frantically. "That bastard didn't include the scans. Oh my God, you're going to die! We need to . . ."

He might die. That, at least, was true. "We need to get to the control room. When this is all over, Beckett can poke and prod and scan me immobile, but right now, we need to focus on saving all of us from dying."

"Why? John, what'd you see?"

But he doesn't answer. He can't. He pushes himself up and manages to stumble to the door.

"John, you're really starting to scare me here and you know how I react to mortal terror. . ."

"Get down to the chair room and try to find a way to remote pilot the jumpers. We have more time now . . . especially if Everett doesn't deploy the nukes."

"Nukes? What nukes? Why didn't anyone tell me we had nukes? I'm the chief scientist, with the best knowledge of the defensive capabilities of this city. Someone should have informed me that we have . . ."

"Rodney. Shut up and get that chair working."

"But . . ."

"Everything's going to be okay." Maybe that's a lie, but he'll do his damndest to make it the truth. "Now, stop using your mouth and start using your brain." His voice is soft this time, too warm, like it's never been before, changing history.

Rodney smiles just slightly at the reference and follows John out of the infirmary.

"Are you sure you're . . ."

"Now, Rodney."

"All right, all right, Major. I'm going."

The walk to the control room is longer and harder than he anticipated. By the time he meets Elizabeth, standing looking lost on the balcony overlooking the Gateroom, he's sweaty, out of breath, and more nauseous than before. And his head still hurts.

At least Elizabeth offers him a warm, if anxious, smile. "John. Good to see you up. How are you feeling?"

"Fine. Look, Elizabeth, we need to stop Everett from deploying those nukes. He's going to . . ."

"Wait. John, back it up. What warheads?"

"The nukes he's placing in the upper atmosphere. The Wraith can detect them. They're going to use asteroids to . . ."

"John. How do you know this? Are you sure you're okay? Carson said that you suffered a pretty hard blow to the head." He's tired of everyone thinking he's sick. He needs to convince them . . . why won't they do anything? He's beginning to understand what it felt like to be Chicken Little."

"I'm fine, Elizabeth. Now we need to stop them from . . ."

"I'm sorry, John, but I don't know what you're talking about. They won't even let me into the briefing. Everett just came in, gave a bunch of orders and pulled Lieutenant Ford and Sergeant Bates into the conference room. I've been in charge of this base for nearly a year now, and I'm responsible for these people's lives."

"I know, Elizabeth. We'll just go and talk to him – reasonably." He hopes.

Colonel Everett is just as much of a pompous dick-in-charge asshole as he remembers. Only this time he loses brownie points for being unconscious for the triumphant arrival.

"Major. Good of you to join us." As though he could help it . . .

"Sorry, Sir."

"Now, what I need for you to do, Major, is to take our pilots who've just received the gene therapy to the Jumper Bay to learn the basics. Do you think you can do that?"

"Actually, Sir . . ." he has to close his eyes, the world spinning just a little, the harsh bite of Everett's 'sound-off one, two' tone, cutting deep into his pounding skull.

"Sit down, before you fall down, Major."

He wants to stand defiant. He wants to tell Everett all the things he wanted to say last time but didn't because he was afraid that he might actually see Everett again in the near future. Now, frankly, he doesn't give a shit. He just wants to survive this. He wants to never see the piles of bodies. He wants never to hear Ford and Teyla disappear over the radio. He wants to live long enough to be with Rodney. He wants them to just be together. Is that too much to ask?

But he can't stand. His knees are wobbling and he realizes that he'll suffer a loss of credibility if he pukes all over the conference room table where he and Rodney made love not long ago, or perhaps once upon a time, because he can't understand time anymore, what's real and what's not. So he collapses into the nearest chair, trying to look as dignified as possible, and refusing to close his eyes, despite the brightness of the lights.

As he composes himself, Everett focuses on Elizabeth. "Dr. Weir. I thought you understood that this is a tactical briefing."

"She needs to be here," he pants.

"I don't remember asking your opinion on the subject, Major."

He winces, trying to remember what he said last time to convince Everett. He's not sure threatening to withhold his services in this state will be all that compelling. Instead, he simply decides to ignore it. "With all due respect, Sir, deploying all our warheads is a really really stupid idea." So that didn't come out as diplomatic as he had intended . . .

"Is that just an empty insult or would you care to provide me with a reason why?"

"The Wraith are going to detect them. They're going to take them out using asteroids from the nearby belt and we're going to be left defenseless."

"Major Sheppard, would you care to tell us how you arrived at these conclusions or are we just going to work under the assumption that while you were concussed, the Easter Bunny told them to you?" He really wants to kill this man. Why can't he see? All the answers . . . the future is there as clear as if it popped up in a crystal ball – the biggest strategic advantage of all time, and he's going to let his ego get in the way of it.

"I just know, okay? Everything else I've predicted has turned out to be right so-far: Rodney destroying a hive-ship, Grodin dying, your arrival, the Wraith hiding in the city."

"The major did have an uncanny knowledge of that one, Sir." Ford comes through, at least – not that the kid is hard to convince: if you tell him 'gullible' is written on the ceiling, he'll look up.

"Well, if you can suddenly predict the future, Major, how come you ended up knocked out in the infirmary?"

"Because I changed things . . . it was at a different time."

"Precisely, Major. It's different this time. We have it all worked out. Now I suggest you get back to the infirmary and get yourself checked out again." Everett steps closer, speaking in low enough tones that the rest of the room can't hear. "I'm letting this one slide due to the head injury, Major. But this is the last time you contradict my orders. Is that clear?"

He grits his teeth. He wants to scream. He wants to shout. He's briefly considering decking Everett and locking down the Jumper Bay. He has to do something. He needs to . . . he's so close. He has all the knowledge, but he still can't change anything. Human pigheadedness is all that stands between them and the assets they need to fight the Wraith.

Last time, he said, 'understood.' This time, he's about to shout something rebellious and unrepentant when Beckett bursts in, out of breath and panting.

"Ah, Dr. Beckett, just the man I wanted to see. If you could please escort the major back to the . . ."

Beckett regains his breath. "It didn't work, Colonel. In fact, it backfired . . . the Wraith used the device to force a mental link with Teyla. She attacked Sergeant Bates. We had to kill the Wraith to stop it, or risk killing her with too many stuns. She's recovering in the infirmary."

"Bates?"

"He's suffered several fractured ribs and one hell of a blow to the head. I had to put him into a medically induced coma to protect . . ." Déjà vu. But he doesn't have time to stop and think about it. He needs to stop Everett.

Everett looks troubled, oddly compassionate and angry in the same way he did when he spoke about Sumner's death. It makes sense – Bates served with Sumner for a long time, of course Everett would have known him too.

"Thank you, Doctor. Now, if you would please take Major Sheppard back to the infirmary where he belongs."

Beckett blinks, confused for a second before he notices that his patient is, in fact, not in the infirmary where he belongs. "Major! I should've bloody well known better than to leave you in Rodney's care. Now, come with me, lad."

Beckett grabs him by the elbow, but he doesn't budge. "I may still be a little weak, Sir, but I can still help your men with the jumpers." Maybe he can disable the skylight somehow, or convince them not to deploy . . .

Everett squints, scrutinizing him in that disturbingly intense, doubtful way he remembers from Boot Camp. He doesn't fidget, but the colonel is unmoved anyhow. "As much as we appreciate it, Major, I'm sure that one of the other gene carriers can handle it. It's more important you're fit to fight when the time comes."

He opens his mouth to protest, but Everett cuts him of with a "Dismissed." And on the way out, "Oh, and, Doctor, I'm no medical professional, but you might want to perform some additional scans on Major Sheppard. He's been acting a little strangely."

"Thank yeh, Colonel," Beckett says, half dragging his patient out the door, glaring at him.

As they leave he hears Everett questioning Ford. "Now, where is that Dr. McKay? We need him to start hooking up the mark-two to the chair device."

"I think he's already down there, Sir."

"Good. It's nice to see someone taking the proper initiative around here."

Now, he realizes, Rodney is their only hope. He just hopes that this time, there'll be time enough.

"Aye, there's nothing abnormal on your scans, but I'm not about to go releasing you just yet."

For the past three hours he's done nothing but be scanned, poked, and prodded by Beckett and his staff of Nazi nurses in every possible way. Apparently Rodney told the good doctor about the whole premonitions thing, out of misplaced concern.

"Look, Doc, you can't deny that there are things I need to be doing right now – urgently." He doesn't have time for this . . . time is running out. "If I don't get back out there, people could die."

"I know, lad, but I have to agree with the colonel – you're no good to us if you exhaust yourself before the fight. And I cannot risk givin' ya the same uppers I gave Rodney and Radek in your current condition."

"Fine. But I need to . . ."

His argument is interrupted by the familiar crackle of his radio – which Beckett had taken away several hours ago, 'for your own protection.' He closes his eyes for a minute, locating the sound, then reaches into Beckett's right coat pocket.

"Hey!" The protest is half-hearted, and they both know it. It's one thing to keep him from contacting people and another to stop people who urgently need to talk to him.

"This is Sheppard."

"John. You were right." Elizabeth sounds defeated, tired, and she's not doing her best job of hiding the scorn from her voice – Everett has to be listening. "The Wraith sent asteroids. We lost all six of the warheads."

He sighs, hanging his head. It's all happening over again. He's just beginning to consider that perhaps this is hell – this is the feeling of the fire of eternal damnation. But then he remembers Rodney, and the feel of those lips on his own, the transcendent look in those big blue eyes, and he knows that it could never be a punishment, no matter how frustrating this is. Purgatory, maybe . . . a light sentence.

"I'm coming up . . ."

But before he can finish, Everett interrupts. "No, Major, that's not necessary. We've got everything under control." Like hell they do. He knew that Everett was an asshole, but not this much of an asshole. He can't dismiss this out of some sort of wounded pride!

"With all due respect, Sir . . ."

Luckily, he doesn't have to protest, because Elizabeth takes things into her own hands. "Tell me what to do, John."

"Go to the Genii homeworld, get us two A-bombs. Tell them it'll be beneficial for both our peoples. They get to test their weapons on the Wraith. We get to not die."

"Got it."

"Dr. Weir, are you aware of the threat . . ." he hears Everett say before Elizabeth clicks her radio off.

The second she's off, he radios Rodney. "How's it coming?"

"Problem solved. Of course it'd be nice to know what I solved it for."

"Once Dr. Weir gets back from the Genii homeworld, you're going to fix up two half-baked nukes to go into the jumpers."

"Oh, is that all? Well, in that case . . ."

"It's okay, Rodney. You can do it."

"Just because I did it before . . ."

"No, because I believe in you."

"As much as I appreciate the sentiment, Major, I'm not the one you should ask."

"What?!" he barks. Since when does Rodney McKay back down from a challenge?

"I'm saying that, as hard as this is to believe, considering my overwhelming brilliance, there's one person here more qualified to work on 1950s level nuclear technology than I am. I mean, I'm not superman. It didn't lead a double-life doing both theoretical wormhole physics and out-of-date weapons development. You should get Dr. Schwartz. He practically constructed Israel's nuclear program from scratch – if the conspiracy theories are to be believed."

Dr. Schwartz . . . Dr. Schwartz . . . why hadn't they used him before? He scrolls through the names – the people that died in the first wave of attacks. Schwartz came back to help fight and . . . he died. But the doctor doesn't have to die this time. He can protect him. He can give Rodney more time to make sure that the damn generator doesn't go dead. They can destroy the hive ships and they can cheat fate. Because why else would he be granted this chance?

"Okay. I'll get the doctor then. You need to start working on the generator."

"I already worked on it, Major. It's fine. Miller tested it for me. Everything checks out."

"It's not going to, McKay. It's going to go dead right when we need it."

"I highly doubt that, Major. Look, I checked it. I keep checking it, a bit compulsively actually. Ha. Well . . ." He can just picture Rodney fiddling nervously with his fingers, suddenly aware of his neurosis.

"You checked it compulsively last time too." His voice is slow and deliberate, crescendoing. "If you can't find anything wrong then have a backup."

"There's hardly enough time . . ."

"I'll make you time." If he could move time and space, he would. He can. Time is an illusion, just a tool to see how one thing links to the next. He knows there's something beyond it. If he could just get there, he could change the world. "Just do it."

"Major, I don't think you understand . . ."

"I understand exactly how much time we have left, Rodney. And trust me when I say you really need to do this."

"John . . ." Rodney's voice goes from combative to pained in a second – the second 'Major' becomes 'John.' He wonders if it will always be this way - if every time he hears Rodney call him by his first name, it'll sound like the end of the world. "Please tell me what happens."

He hears some scuffling and looks up to see Carson retreating with a half-wince, half-smile, obviously catching that he's intruding on something private. It's the perfect opportunity.

"Sorry, Rodney, gotta go."

He looks down at his watch. Before, after the asteroids hit, he spent about twenty minutes organizing those that chose to fight, fifteen rechecking the armaments on the northwest defensive turret, ten in total transit and five briefing Everett. That means that he has approximately forty-five minutes until the first wave.

Dr. Schwartz isn't in the Gateroom like he expected. Which makes sense, because this time around Ford and Bates were the ones giving Everett the grand tour. They would've recalled all offworld personnel right away. This means that Schwartz could be anywhere. And so could Everett. John ducks out of the room and into an empty corridor. He could call Ford up on the radio, but for all he knows, Everett's with him right now. That's too big a risk. Everett's started a war – he started it the second he read the report on Sumner's death, and no matter how important it is, he's not going to go out on a limb to trust the man who killed his buddy.

Fortunately, there are only so many places that Schwartz might be stationed. He searches his memory for the right one, but he just can't grasp it. That casualty report was too long and he had other urgent matters to attend to. He's kicking himself for not being more attentive, for not caring more.

So he sets off down the corridor, headed for the designated center for relief and structural repair and monitoring, where he assigned Schwartz unknowingly to his death a lifetime ago.

He's almost there when he hears the sing-song bark of Everett's voice, flashing him back to his drill-instructor in basic. "As military commander of this base, I must have my doubts."

"I understand, Colonel. I am beginning to have doubts as well." Teyla? "I understand if you would like to keep me under observation until such a time in which my services as a fighter are required. I would most likely do the same were I in your position. However, on behalf of my people, I am obligated to inform you of their desire to stay and fight beside you for this planet, which has become their home." Teyla, submitting? Teyla agreeing that she's a threat to security? Teyla, defeated? He can't believe his ears.

"Thank you, Ma'am. You are every bit as mature and wise as I read about in the mission reports. Everything is being taken care of. Now, if you would please accompany Sergeants Baker and Davis to the infirmary, I would be much obliged. We will not hesitate to call, should your services be needed."

"Of course, Colonel." He can almost hear how charmed she is by Everett treating her with such respect. He wonders why he himself has not been able to win her submission without a fight, despite the flirtation and the fact that he did, in fact, save her life. He knows that Teyla doesn't always understand his sarcasm, maybe sometimes thinks him patronizing. She must respect Everett's formality, if nothing else.

After he hears the bootsteps heading off the other direction, he hits his radio – he knows where Everett is now.

"Ford?"

"Yes, Sir?"

"Do you have Dr. Schwartz with you?"

"No, Sir. He said he used to work in R&D for weapons like the railguns Everett got us, so I sent him over to the main line. Was that wrong, Sir?"

"No, Lieutenant, that's better than what I would've done." After what he'd done, Schwartz had died. That balcony, he knew, was safe.

"Thank you, Sir. Has Dr. Beckett already cleared you?"

"Not technically. But he's declared me conditionally-sane, which makes me an able body."

"Understood. Would you like me to reassign Dr. Schwartz, Sir?"

"Naw. I'm gonna pull him for something else, though. You just keep on doing what you've been doing." Ford would do a good job. He trusts him. He has to.

He takes off at a run for the main line. Everett might be out there, but he has to take the risk. They need Schwartz. They need him to survive.

The balcony is bustling, people checking and rechecking the guns, scientific people scurrying in and out, and, in the center of it all, Colonel Everret.

Just as he enters, the colonel turns, like he has eyes in the back of his head.

"Major. I thought you were still recovering in the infirmary." His voice is hard. He's not happy.

"Yes, Sir. But Dr. McKay paged me. He said that he needed me to go get someone to help him out."

"Is Dr. McKay incapable of radioing for said person himself? Or is the chain of command too difficult for his gigantic brain to understand?"

He clenches his fists, trying desperately not to show anything, not to argue. The last thing he needs right now with the world coming down around them and his reality tearing apart at the seams is for Colonel Everett to find out that he's bisexual.

"No, Sir. I just figured I should be of some use. I wasn't doing anything in the infirmary."

"You were under observation, Major. Even that alien princess of yours can understand the need for that." He is forced to grip even tighter, until the nails dig into his skin. Nobody insults both his lover and his teammate.

Everett turns, spotting the man who, to him, appears to be the least necessary. "Hey, you. Escort this man back to the infirmary." It just happens to be Dr. Schwartz.

And he thought he wasn't lucky.

They second they're out of earshot of the colonel, he pleads. "Look, Doctor. I came here to get you. We need to go down to the labs right now, okay?"

"Why?" Schwartz blinks, pushing thick glasses up his nose. "I was helping on the rail guns. I think they need me more there . . ." He pushes against the grip on his arm, but there's no way a scientist can possibly overwhelm a man who knows that if he doesn't do this, he's going to die.

"Because I need to keep you safe for when the A-bombs get back."

"What?"

"You ask too many questions, Doctor. Come with me."

"I'm a doctor not a bloody fighter pilot!"

"Yes, yes, Dr. McCoy, I understand. Now sit in the chair."

"Rodney, you were there the last time I tried to operate one of these things. I nearly killed Major Sheppard and the General. Have you forgotten that?"

"No, Carson, I haven't. But the Wraith are in the upper atmosphere and this weapon is our best line of defense and I really, really don't feel like dying."

"Then you do it!"

"I can't do this and be available for any other technical problems . . ."

Beckett's not supposed to be here. Beckett's supposed to be in the infirmary, tending to patients. The only place a doctor should be at times of war is tending to patients.

"Look, I just came down here to find Major Sheppard. Get Stackhouse or somebody who actually knows what they're doing."

"Like me?"

"Major." Carson smiles. Rodney nearly jumps out of his skin.

"Jesus, John, don't sneak up on me like that - especially when we're all about to die and I haven't slept in fifty hours."

"Sorry. Look, we're running out of time. Out of my way, Carson."

"Not bloody likely, son. You are in no condition to operate anything with a mental component. Who knows the effect either the concussion or whatever it is that's making you think you can see the future will have on this kind of device, or on you, for that matter?"

"In case you haven't noticed, Doctor, we're at war. Now get out of my way." He turns to Rodney, pleading for help.

"Actually, Carson, would you rather have a concussed Major Sheppard or you operating the device?"

"Good point. I'd best be off to the infirmary then."

"Good idea," he snarls.

Rodney takes a brief moment to pat him awkwardly on the shoulder, eyes showing deep concern and wishes of good luck, but not speaking. Then Rodney breaks away to begin fiddling with outputs and things, pretending that it's all just business as usual. Whatever he needs to keep going.

They chair is comfortable, just like he remembers it, easing the weight of destiny somehow.

Elizabeth stumbles back through the Gate, finger-shaped bruises on her neck and eyes radiating cold furry. Two nuclear bombs are rolled in behind her. She storms up to the balcony, ignoring Colonel Everett and making straight for the man that sent her on this mission.

"This better work, Major."

He can't do anything but stare at the dark bruising on her neck and the cut he notices bleeding down her left cheek. Before, she came back unharmed. "Elizabeth . . ."

"Kolya wasn't too thrilled to see me." Last time . . . last time when she went later . . . she spoke to some harmless underling. She didn't interact with either Cowen or Kolya. "But I got you your weapons, Major." She sighs. "Put them to good use."

And with that, without a word to Everett, she walks proudly, though on shaking legs, into her office, but it's made of glass, so even then, she can't break down.

"Get those taken to Dr. Schwartz's lab," Everett orders, like it's his idea.

John wants to go to Elizabeth, wants to hold her and let her cry the tears he knows she needs to cry, because he's been there too. He wants to know what they did to her. He wants to gate back to the Genii homeworld and gut that bastard Kolya the way he should have done the last time they met, but he can't.

There's something more he needs to do. He taps his radio and calls to the infirmary. "Send Teyla up."

"Major?" Everett raises and eyebrow. "What exactly do you think you're doing?"

"We have Wraith in the city, Colonel. We need all the expert fighters we have."

"And you learned this in a . . . premonition?"

His radio interrupts them. "She's already on her way, Major. Something about there being Wraith in the city? Is this true, son?"

"Yes, it is. But don't worry about it. We've got everything under control."

It's his turn to raise an eyebrow at Everett. But the moment is short lived as Teyla comes bounding up the steps. "Major, there are . . ."

"Wraith, Teyla, I know. Now, where the hell is Ford? We need to start a sweep right away . . ."

Teyla's face falls and suddenly she can't look him in the eye.

"What? Teyla, what's the matter?"

"I am sorry, Major. I had thought you already knew."

"Knew what, Teyla? Just tell me!"

"Lieutenant Ford . . . I am so sorry, John. The Wraith took him."

He's speechless. This isn't supposed to happen. Well, maybe it is. He remembers the radio silence, Elizabeth calling out. But no . . . Ford isn't supposed to die. Ford is young and strong and he's supposed to be here, helping Sheppard and bitching about always having to be the bait. This is not the way . . . he feels his knees buckling, remembering to lock them at the last minute.

He ordered Ford to take a secondary position, ready to sweep in should anything happen. Ford wanted to be on southwest . . . oh God. He should have remembered. He should have said something. He should have cleared that whole area. But if he had, maybe that dart would have swept somewhere else. Maybe it would have gotten Everett on the main tower, maybe the infirmary, maybe even the chair room.

All this proves is that the future can be changed. And that has to give him hope.

"All right, then. Let's move out." He shoves the pain of loss aside. He'll have time to face it later. Or maybe he won't. In that case, why waste his time thinking about it now?

The hive ships are upon them and he's struggling. He can't keep reality and vision separate. He can't keep the memory of pain exploding through him, of those tense moments in the jumper, of his whole life flashing before his eyes at bay. They tumble across his vision and he can't tell what's real anymore.

Death seems inevitable. But it can't be. He has to fight. He has too much to lose. He can't lose.

He sees the sensor readouts and he runs. He runs until his muscles ache and he can barely breathe. Everett doesn't need to order him. He knows what he needs to do.

Reality is a blur. The sound of footsteps on the hard tile of the corridors mark the seconds ticking by. Time . . . he can hear it in each beat, impregnating each moment. And yet he knows it's as ethereal as a dream. He just needs to wake up. He just needs to wake up and find forever.

And then he's crashing into the chair room, nearly knocking Rodney over.

"Hey, hey, watch out, brilliant scientist here. I think you bruised a rib," Rodney wheezes, but his voices is soft and he's stroking a hand down a stubbled cheek. This is too intimate, too small, too perfect. They're about to die and all he can think about is the feeling of those rough fingers on his face, the desire to lean in for a kiss, the wish that this was all there was and that he'd never have to let it go.

"I hooked two of the mark one generators into the mark two, so it can filter their power into the system. Schwartz and Zelenka finished the bombs twenty minutes ago. Now will you tell me?"

"No," he says as he sits down in the chair. This is going to work. And if it works then there's no need for Rodney to know that there's a reality in which all he's left with is a 'So long.'

He pushes memories of lives past from his mind, focusing only on the familiar feel of piloting the jumper, feeling his memories, his flight path take over. He's sitting in the jumper. He's going in, diving, cloaked between Wraith darts. He can see explosions blooming brilliant against the sky. He feels free and calm, like he's flying, even as he feels that solid metal of the chair beneath him.

And then . . . and then he feels the impact, a blinding flash of white across his vision, the bomb going off, the day saved. Happiness and then darkness

"John. John. I need you to wake up. John, don't do this."

Someone is patting his face. And then there's a slap. Ouch.

"Hey!" he moans, groggily. What just happened?

"Oh thank god. You . . . fainted for a second there."

"I thought we were calling it 'passed out.'" He rubs at his temples, squinting.

"You caught some feedback from the blast. You were out for a minute or so."

"The ships?"

"You got one of them. But the other should be a piece of cake, right?"

He feels his heart slow, caught in a net of cold dread like a mountain lake under the moonlight, like the cool feel of handcuffs snapping across naked wrists, like Antarctica during the long night, the wind blowing through your very bones. That's not supposed to happen. He's supposed to get them both.

And now, he knows that it's not going to work.

"Reset the generators," Rodney barks.

He just gets a glimpse of Dr. Schwartz connecting a plug before everything goes up in flames. The city fire system clicks on and they're drowned in white powder like snow. Everything is fresh and white and new and they've just lost any chance they ever had.

Schwartz is dead. He checks for a pulse, but it's pointless. Schwartz had to die. He was supposed to die in this battle and it's good that it's in an explosion, a quick purifying blaze instead of at the hands of the Wraith.

Rodney rushes to a control panel, but they both know it's too late.

He takes this moment to breathe Rodney in, take in every line and curve of his body, even the worried frown on his expressive features, the scent of coffee and sweat and something haunting and pungent and just so Rodney, the rich sound of his voice, even shot through with panic as he mumbles. "We just blew all three generators."

Rodney just stares into space, haunted by the spectacular nature of this failure. His blue eyes are so bright in the darkness, darting back and forth, yet standing still. This wasn't how it was before. Before, he never saw Rodney defeated and it never broke his heart the way it does now.

And for some reason he remembers Elizabeth, standing so still, hunched over the railing of her favorite balcony,

They say that time is like a river. They say that you can throw a stone in, change all the subtle currents and the nuances that differentiate moment from moment, but in the end it always arrives at the sea.

I would rather believe that we determine our own destiny.

I know you would, John. But I just saw myself die so that we might live. And even that is tenuous. I have to believe that her sacrifice was for a reason. I have to believe that this is the way its supposed to be, not that other universe where Rodney drowns and you die in a puddlejumper crash and I sacrifice my future so that another me, whose experiences I'll never know has a chance to play the explorer.

He thinks about Bates' bruised face staring up at him. He thinks about Grodin dying. He thinks about the Wraith still knocking him out in the end and he knows that he's not going to change the future – that he can't really cheat fate, no matter how much he loves Rodney. It's simply not meant to be. But at least he has this . . . at least he knows what it's like, even for these brief moments, to be with someone . . . to be happy.

"Rodney . . ."

"Shut up, John. I'm trying to think. I just need a moment . . ."

"Rodney, there are no moments." Another time, another life, the last thing he said was, 'so long, Rodney.' He said it because he knew that Rodney would argue. He always knew that Rodney would not allow himself to fail, to be unable to save his best friend. He doesn't know if that other Rodney can live with it, with those three brief words his only comfort. But he's not leaving this Rodney with that.

He breaks those words with a kiss, trying to pour everything into it – the need, the acceptance, the passion, all that life they should be living together but can't.

"In the other life, I die. I leave you without a goodbye. I leave you without you ever knowing how much I love you. Bates died and so did Grodin and Schwartz and Ford got taken by the Wraith, but at different times, different ways. There's nothing you could have done. I don't want you to think for a second that this is your fault or that you failed me, because it was never meant to be. Promise me you won't feel guilty."

Rodney nods slowly, dazed, and not accepting it fully, but he will. It might take some time, but he will.

"Now, I love you. But I have to go."

He leans in for one last kiss. It's not brilliant or spectacular. In fact, it's awkward and overeager because they're both trying so hard to make it good, to hold on, to make it stop time itself. But they can't.

He pulls away and forces himself to turn because if he doesn't he knows that that pained plea in Rodney's eyes will keep him here forever.

"I love you too," Rodney says from behind him. And that, perhaps, makes all the difference in the world.

He's ready this time. He's died before, and it's not so bad. Maybe this is all a dream. Maybe he'll wake up and it'll be the morning again – like that episode of the X-files when the bank kept exploding until they got it right.

Or maybe, that's all she wrote. And, oddly, he's okay with that. Sometimes you can't change things, but at least he has one thing – he knows that Rodney loves him and he's going to die knowing that he's safe and that, even if it's not immediate, he'll be able to move on with his life. That's all that matters, really. That's all he could possibly ask for – to die knowing that he's loved.

So, instead of staring at the display, sweating, fear washing over him like a wave and the stillness weighing down upon him like a monsoon, he goes out smiling.

There's a blinding flash of light and there's pain, but it's fleeting, easily cast off like a robe, revealing something altogether different beneath. He feels pure somehow. He feels happy. Yes, he's dead. Yes, he's given up any chance of spending his life with a man he's just found out that he loves and who loves him back, but all that is swiftly fading with his form as the brilliance beneath shines through.

This is right. This is real. It's beyond real. This is how things are supposed to be and even though he feels a slight twinge where his heart used to be, knowing that Rodney will have to mourn him, he feels the rest of his being sing out, in harmony with some great master plan, just beyond the horizon, unreachable right now, but glimpsed in the corner of the inner eye, in the subtle movements of energy and light and beauty all around him.

And then, he's in a diner. It's clichéd – with those disgusting pink leather benches and the coffee that's hot and stimulating and not much else and the waitress in the skimpy blue dress with too much makeup and curls in her hair. He doesn't recognize the people sitting here, but everything seems oddly familiar – déjà vu.

Then the waitress approaches, a big smile on her face as she guides him to a seat. He stares around in wonder. Didn't he just die on an exploding starship in another galaxy? How did he get here? Why is he no longer flying? Why a diner?

And then the waitress winks at him. Her nametag says, 'Oma Desala' and that name sounds so familiar, but he can't quite put his finger on why.

"Are you just going to sit there, Johnny, or are you gonna order something?"

John gapes, trying really hard not to stare and sputters. "Um . . . well . . . what did I order last time?"

"A second chance," she says with a wink.

He finds himself smiling.

FIN