A wreath.

The word sounds tainted, even in his own mind. Change one sound and you get ‘Wraith.’ He ought to call it a garland, but that makes him think about witches and rainbows and yellow brick roads. And it's just a bad idea to think about munchkins on helium at a time like this. It would be inappropriate to laugh, even though laughing is preferable to crying. Most people know he's sarcastic. Most people know that he's just a little perverse. Aiden did. But no one has ever had the opportunity to see how sick. Nobody knows about how he left Dex's wake early because someone put a paper umbrella in his Margarita and he remembered that time in that bar in San Diego when Mitch was drunk enough to think that sticking paper umbrellas up his nose would impress the ladies, and the drunken stumble to the emergency room to get them removed. He laughed so hard that he spit beer all over his nasal-cavity-challenged companion, but years later, dressed in black and unable to let the first tear fall for fear of what would follow, he laughed for three hours straight - laughed until his stomach cramped from exertion and his throat felt gritty and raw and he finally passed out on the sofa.

Aiden knew that. He was the only one that knew that. He supposes that he could have told Rodney - should have told him when he came over to bring John a meal after his close encounter with SuperWraith, bringing all the pent up grief and survivor’s guilt of having lost Gall and Abrams with him. He should have told Rodney, because, despite the fact that he'd never tell the arrogant scientist to his face, Rodney was his best friend. And it would have helped to make him feel better. But he didn't. He supposes that he wasn't ready to let Rodney see the mess he knows he is beneath the catholic-schoolboy exterior. He used to think that he wanted to keep it to himself - that he needed to keep everyone from seeing, whether out of pride, or pain, or because that was the only way that he could move on.

But that's a lie. Because he told Aiden.

He wants to tell them that. He wants to talk about how funny Aiden was, when he'd giggle like a little boy afterwards, stroking his fingers through John's chest hair until his eyes were half-closed like a cat, almost purring with content - and that’s when Aiden'd pull. A lot of people saw Aiden as a lapdog. They saw the admiration and wrote it off as hero-worship. They'd say that Aiden couldn't think for himself, wouldn't see things from any other point of view than that of Mr. Heroic Team Leader.

John's view of security was to watch and wait for something to pop up as suspicious. It didn't do well to get too anal about it. You made too many rules and you got too many loopholes - you got factions using rules against each other. You got power concentrated in the hands of too few. And you let your enemy know where it was that you were watching.

Aiden understood that. Bates didn't. And it was noncoms versus officers as per usual. And he understood that too - no matter how friendly you got, the CO was still a little bit of a bad guy, even fighting blue-skinned catfish from hell.

And leaving him out here . . . him, the guy who got his rank for fancy flying and a mind for tactics, not for his skill at command, with just a pair of Lieutenants beneath him. What the hell were they thinking? And if he goes . . . that just leaves Parker and the noncoms, which would not be good. She's a great soldier and smart as hell, but she doesn't have a flair for authority, especially not over a bunch of macho marines. He's not one to judge, but she's one critical piece of anatomy short of ever having full credibility.

He risks a glance to the side to look at her. Her bright blond hair is pulled back straight and severe, and her cheeks are wet with tears, her eyes red, but she hasn't moved from the rigid at attention stance, even to wipe the tears away. She and Aiden were friends back at the SGC, he remembers. He got the impression that they might have even been more than friends at one point.

He notices Teyla reach out from beside Parker to grip her hand. Teyla's jaw is set and her eyes have taken on this intense but almost distant quality, but she doesn't cry. He assumes that this is because she's had more than enough opportunities to get used to losing people she cares about, though he has to quiet that small little voice that remembers the conflict between them. It was never overt, and it was never dislike, just more of the traditional power conundrum. Teyla had the experience and the natural abilities, Aiden the rank and the common heritage, and for his part, John never was the type to sit them down and hammer out a concrete command structure. Aiden was jealous of how much John trusted Teyla, he thinks. But that doesn't mean they didn't like or care about each other. It's obvious looking at Teyla now, even if she doesn't cry.

John sighs and returns his gaze forward, even though he doesn't want to. He doesn't want to look at Rodney, pale and tucked into a wheelchair in the front row, Beckett standing next to him checking compulsively every few seconds. Rodney looks like he just returned from the dead, with dark circles and lines making even his full face seem pinched and gaunt, but he’s alert, the shadows in his eyes sharp as he stares straight ahead -straight through- expectantly.

That’s when John realizes that he’s supposed to be saying something. But what is there to say? There’s so much . . . he can’t compress everything he knows about the man into a short little speech. He can’t.

He fumbles with the edges of the sling that have his left arm strapped firmly in place. Everything is fuzzy, yet so close. He can see the blue cloth in gritty detail, feel it: rough, but light as a feather beneath the much-worn pads of his fingers. He closes his eyes as time breathes, inhaling and contracting so that when his eyes next open, Parker is standing at his place at the podium, trying weakly to smile as she speaks in tongues, in words that flow over him like a cool breeze, his sluggish mind uncomprehending. Whatever Beckett gave him for the pain is strong, but even drugs can only dull the edges of the hole he can feel inside himself. He’s numb, but the numbness hurts almost more than the pain, so thick and heavy and lifeless. If death is the most feared, the most painful, then surely numbness must hurt, because it’s death distilled.

He catches words every once and a while in the haze. “ . . . a good friend.” “. . . a man who would do anything for his teammates.” “. . . . watch your back.” “I remember the time when Aiden . . .” “Three days after I met him at the SGC, I mentioned that I had a leaky roof. He used to work in construction over the summers and he offered to help. Our first weekend back home after two weeks stumbling through a rank jungle looking for Naquadah and he’s kind enough to help the Newbie . . .” John wonders why he never knew that. Parker talks about Aiden’s grandmother and grandfather and how he used to send them a letter every weekend he was onworld. She talks about how Aiden drove 17 hours during a tornado-watch because his younger brother just got dumped by his first serious girlfriend and needed a shoulder to cry on.

John wishes he knew all these things. He wishes he had taken the time to show Aiden how proud he is of him. John’s only known Aiden as a dedicated soldier, as a friend, as a kid, as a wonderful team-member. He teased and he belittled, a little too much, sometimes. But that’s not what he regrets. He regrets not being able to say these things to Aiden’s face. And he regrets that he doesn’t even know enough about the playful kid that was his friend to give him the kind of eulogy he deserves. He’s glad Parker’s taken the initiative to do it in his stead.

Parker finishes, tears still streaming down her face, and steps down from the little makeshift podium in front of the Stargate. John knows he has to step up to take her place. He’s swaying on his feet, but as Beckett takes a step forward from behind Rodney, clinical concern in his eyes, John forces himself to take that step. He has to do this. He has to do it for Aiden.

He takes a deep breath, knowing the air should be sweet, but too numb to feel it. And then he puts on the smile he’s so practiced at wearing and opens his mouth. He was expecting to be tongue-tied, but he’s not. He’s always been glib, and even the death of Aiden Ford isn’t going to change that. “Thank you, Lieutenant Parker. I don’t think I could have captured it half as perfectly.” Inwardly, he’s wincing at the words. He can’t capture it. No one can. There’s nothing left and memory is too vast, too slippery. To capture the essence of Aiden Ford would be like trying to embrace the Pacific Ocean.

“I can only agree with Lieutenant Parker when she spoke of how much of a joy Aiden was. He took his job seriously, but with a sense of humor. He knew when to play and he took all the dirty jobs I assigned him in stride, while still making his displeasure known. Aiden was a good soldier, a more competent one than his commanding officer, and always there to watch his back. I guess all I can do is thank him. I want to thank him for serving with me, for being there when I needed him, for being there when I didn’t, and for being a there I wasn’t and doing it with a laugh, if not always a smile.” Though, God, Aiden could smile. He smiled and he made you feel like a kid again. John remembers soft seductive smiles and teasing playful grins. He remembers strong hands and a deep laugh and warm brown eyes. He remembers the play of skin against skin and he feels so heavy, like he’s sinking, weighted as he slips deep into Davy Jones’ Locker.

The guilt is weighing him down, all of the things he can’t say and doesn’t want to. Even now, he feels ashamed.

“And he will be missed, not as just a man, or an amazing soldier, but as a friend.”

He turns, feeling the clawing cliché of his words dig into him, ripping this numb flesh from bone as he takes the bright wreath of alien flowers and lets it slide into the shimmering pool of water before him. He wants to fall in after it, tumble into the depths of oblivion and let the waves wear this numbness away, but he knows that he cannot just fall through space, that there is a bottom to the bottomless pit and when he wakes he will not find nothingness, but another world, maybe heaven, maybe hell, maybe just the same, maybe with a sun too infuriatingly bright, maybe with not a soul in sight. But if there is one certainty, it is that it will not be a world where he can find Aiden Ford and thank him for his smile, or those skilled lips, or those dangerous hands, or that much-abused heart. And so the Gate shuts off and John stumbles, feeling hands gripping him and holding him up, but too numb to turn and let them see the tears that he cannot spill.

He's lost in a storm of emotions. The mast has smashed at his feet and the sails are in tatters. The God of the sea is angry and hell-bent on destruction and he's staring into the dark bruise of the horizon, fishing around in a waterlogged pocket for

A compass.

Aiden brought a compass with him to another planet. Rodney thinks it’s ridiculous, of course, despite the number of times it has actually come in useful. But John likes it. He's always liked it. Some people think it’s stupid, going by the book. So does he, as a matter of fact. But he realizes that sometimes . . . sometimes, when done right, the way Aiden does it, the book can be a good thing. It's a jumping-off point for those who don't know how to fly . . . hence, all the jumping. Aiden knows that he's a Marine, and not half as smart as most of the people here, but he knows what he wants and he knows who he is, and he's not ashamed of it.

John wishes he could be like that. He's getting closer now, maybe. He's finally letting some of the intelligence and just plain geekiness he's always tried to hide shine through. Of course, that might just be the fact that Rodney's ego might actually use up all the atmosphere in the room if he doesn't use all means necessary to counter and befuddle it. So he lets the scifi-references and the math skills out, just to watch Rodney gape, or grin with maniacal glee when he can get John, his own little 'protégée,' to best the rest of the scientists. But if he'd never met Rodney . . . he'd still be the cocky flyboy, the enigma, the picture-perfect hero, but little more. He's supposed to be brave, but he's not. He's not as brave as Aiden, and he's sure as hell not as good a soldier. He's a better pilot, and he just happens to have an exceptional gene. He's smarter, and, in his opinion, wiser, but that doesn't make him better. Because smart and faster and wiser are just adjectives. They tell him what he is in relation to the rest of the world, but take everyone else away, and he wouldn't know who he is or what to do.

Aiden might not know what to do, but he knows who he is. But Aiden's what? Twenty-six? At that age, John was flying search and rescue . . . drinking with Mitch and Dex when he was supposed to be on standby, because he was young and stupid and thought he was indestructible, and his friends told him that one or two couldn't hurt. At that age, he got a reprimand for a fistfight he got into with another officer because the asshole called him a 'pretty-boy fag.' At that age, he woke up in a bed with his best friend Jake and two of the most beautiful women he’d ever seen. At that age, he drove a dune-buggy off a cliff and fractured his skull hitting the water at the wrong angle. At that age, he still believed in love.

“Teyla said it was due north,” Aiden says, fingering the compass fondly before stuffing it back into his vest-pocket.

“Teyla doesn’t even know the meaning of ‘North,’” Rodney bitches predictably from behind. John doesn’t need to turn and look to find the frown on his friend’s face and the lack of anger in his eyes. Rodney loves to nag Aiden, and it’s a great show to just sit back and watch. Aiden might not be clever enough to play Rodney’s game of wit and sarcasm, but he certainly is good at getting the scientist to shut-up in the most creative of ways.

“Actually, Doc, I taught her to use one so that she can write down coordinates whenever she goes to meet trading partners. Her people use the sun in the same way we use a compass, so it’s not as though she can’t figure it out.”

“Well, you could just um . . . trust me to locate the nearest cluster of life-signs,” Rodney huffs, hating to be left out of the loop, even when the loop is military business that he claims interests him about as much as chimpanzees deciding upon the best grooming postures, given the relative level of intelligence.

“And what if the nearest life-signs are Wraith, Doc?” John was just about to say the same thing, and he smiles as he turns to find Rodney gaping just slightly.

“Well, then I’m sure that . . .”

As much as he’d like to hear whatever lame excuse Rodney’s about to come up with, John realizes that they have to be at the village in about ten minutes, and that these people put a huge amount of stress on signs and wonders, so they’d better not give them any unfortuitous ones. It’s bad enough that Teyla has the chicken pox and isn’t allowed out of quarantine.

“Well, boys and girls, as lovely as this is, I think I’m going to insist that Rodney stop bitching and we get a move on.”

“Me? What about him? He’s . . .” John just rolls his eyes, giving Rodney’s shoulder a squeeze as he passes. For some reason he’s having trouble keeping his hands to himself these days. These people have become such good friends; he supposes he’s just finally coming out of his shell.

“I’ve got point. Ford you take our six.”

“Yes, Sir,” Aiden says with a smile and John finds that it’s suddenly a little bit more difficult to walk. The last time he saw that smile was with his own cum dripping down the side of Aiden’s mouth to his chin. But before the slight tingle can get out of control, John forces the images from his mind. Years working in the military have trained him in mental discipline, even if some people might think he has problems with other sorts.

This is getting out of control. He can barely look at Aiden anymore without thinking about the feel of those warm lips on his cock, or the feel of those skilled hands pumping him, and definitely . . . oh God, he knows better than to think of the word ‘ass.’ John decides that there’s something wrong with him. He’s acting like a horny teenager, and about a guy. Maybe one of the five-bazillion random devices Rodney made him touch has messed with his hormones or something.

But then again, Aiden let him . . . nobody else has ever let him . . . not even Sara, and she had been into some pretty kinky shit. But Aiden trusts him. Aiden wants him. Maybe Aiden . . . no, that’s wrong. Aiden couldn’t, because Aiden isn’t gay and neither is John. John is just so confused. Maybe he should end it. Maybe he should end it before either of them decides to the cross the line, if they haven’t already. John does have a mission to worry about, after all. Yes a mission . . .

He’s reminded of the fact by a loud squawk from behind him. “Hey, Sheppard, how about a game of prime, not-prime?” Rodney sure is one vindictive son-of-a-bitch.

John smiles, turning to find Aiden with a pleading look on his face as he stares over Rodney’s shoulder.

And he thinks about how Aiden begged him to do it. His groin stirs again. He can’t deal with this. He turns to face forward again. “Alright, McKay, let’s see what you’ve got.” Aiden groans and John balls his fists.

“Five-thousand, two-hundred, sixty-nine,” Rodney says, and John swears that he’s put emphasis on the ‘sixty-nine’ on purpose. He would too, if he knew. Luckily he doesn’t.

And John’s mind is a flood of images. He shouldn’t be thinking about this. He shouldn’t be thinking about Aiden on his knees looking up at him through wide, innocent eyes. He shouldn’t be thinking of muscular abs and toned pecs and that spot on Aiden’s neck that makes him moan the sexiest moan if you bite it just right. He should be thinking about something safe, like

Teyla’s breasts.

They’re firm, but supple, and they bounce just slightly as she rolls off of him. She looks down briefly at the raging hard-on they both know that he’s sporting and then looks back up at him as though nothing has happened, reaching a hand down to help him up. He doesn’t take it.

Instead, he just sits there, panting and flushed, trying to calm his hormones and pull himself together. Teyla eyes him critically, then remarks, “I believe this should be the end of our session for today, Major. Will you be joining Dr. Weir and I tonight for dinner?”

All he can do is nod, embarrassed. Teyla returns the nod in that respectful far-too-communicative way of hers and walks out. He watches the way her ass sashays back and forth as she exits. Where in the hell do women, in all galaxies, learn to walk like that? He slams his head back against the hard rubber of the gym floor with a sigh.

What’s wrong with him? He’s trained with women before. He’s trained with Teyla before without this happening. But things are slipping now. They’ve been on Atlantis for too long and he’s gone too long without proper human contact. And it’s not just the time, because down in Antarctica he didn’t see much other than snow and ice and oh . . . some more ice, not counting his trusty right hand, of course. No, it’s the stress. He’s not supposed to be in command of an entire base. He’s not supposed to have to make decisions that could decide the fate of an entire galaxy. And he’s not supposed to face down soul-sucking aliens that look like they stepped right out of the latest scifi blockbuster to terrorize him. And if he is, then he should damn well be compensated with lots of benefits. That’s why Kirk was such a good captain: he was getting more alien nookie than a nymphomaniac let loose in Tijuana.

But, despite what Rodney seems to think, John is not enjoying the spoils of being a studly space commando that dealing with all these nasty interstellar dilemmas should get him. In fact, he’s presented with a pretty nasty dilemma right now – take care of this ‘situation’ in his pants right here and now and avoid the painful stagger to the showers, sit it out, or risk Teyla hearing him in those damn ‘unisex’ facilities the Ancients were so fond of. He’s decided that the fuckers were either too enlightened to masturbate or simply divided the entire city down gender lines. The latter seems unlikely.

He sighs, raising his head to maybe take a look at the problem, stare it down or something, when the door opens and in walks Aiden Ford . . . whistling. John’s dealing with a massive crisis here, and Ford has the nerve to whistle! They should send the kid back to the Andy Griffith show and be done with him.

John doesn’t see any way to hide the little party in his pants, so he sits up and gives Aiden his best ‘Ignore everything and look me in the eyes, Lieutenant’ look . . . which, Aiden blithely ignores (the kid might be stupid when it comes to knowing what’s best for him, but he can spot an implied order from space).

“Afternoon, Sir. Been training with Teyla again?” he says to John’s crotch.

Well, there’s not point in denying it, though he really doesn’t like where this conversation is headed. “Yes, Ford. Glad you noticed. Don’t happen to know any Orion Slave girls, do you?”

Ford looks at him like he’s crazy. Oh yeah, the kid’s too young for Star Trek. That’s a Rodney thing. Not that Rodney could help John deal with this. He’s hopeless enough on his own. “Huh?”

“I was just being a bit 1967, Ford. Don’t worry about it. Is there anything I can do for you?” He reaches out a hand for Ford to help him up.

“Actually, Sir, now that you’ve brought it up.” Another quick look to the crotch, as Ford pulls him to his feet. “I’ve been a bit ‘frustrated’ myself.”

“Why? You’re young and buff and probably pretty flexible. You’ve even got yourself a personality, too. I don’t see the problem. Just wear one of those sleeveless tanks of yours and strut around the mess for a bit and you’ll find someone.” Ford is lucky, in John’s opinion. He’s not commander of the base. He’s not isolated by rank and regulation. And John knows for a fact that he’s got at least four of the female scientists and most of the nursing staff lusting after him.

“I don’t really . . . well, civilians don’t understand. It’s not that I wouldn’t want candlelight dinners and walks down the beach and all that stuff in some perfect world where we don’t have Wraith butt to kick, but . . .”

“But, you’re just looking to relieve some tension.” God, he knows the feeling. He can still feel the feeling, in fact. Despite his preferences, all that toned flesh sticking out of Aiden’s sleeves isn’t helping in the slightest. God, does he have it bad.

“Yes, Sir.”

“How about Parker? I know this is a fishbowl, but I’m not going to prosecute if you bend the frat regs a little. It’s not like we all haven’t as some point. And, if you ask me, if being in another galaxy with blue-skinned bastards trying to suck your soul out isn’t a good excuse, then I don’t know what is.”

“I agree with you about the regs, Sir, but trust me when I say that Annie and I would be a baaad idea.”

So maybe the rumors from the SGC were true. “History?”

“Ancient.”

“Okay, then, how about . . .”

“Actually, Sir, I was thinking that because you have a . . . problem and I have a problem we might um . . . pool our resources and work on the problem together?”

“Oh.” He frowns a little, considering it. It’s not like he hasn’t done this sort of thing before. Normally there’s a lot less talking a bit more alcohol involved though. And he’s never done it with anyone under his command before. Under ordinary circumstances, he’d believe the regs when it came to that, but, as he just told Ford, this mission is different, and with his rank it’s either Elizabeth, Rodney, or run the risk of alien STDs. It’s not that he isn’t attracted to Elizabeth (she is part of the problem, after all), but judging by her continued attachment to this guy back on Earth, she’s not the type for casual, and she worries enough about him as it is. In fact, it would be kind of like dating his mother, in a metaphorical sort of way. As for Rodney, not only is he John’s best friend, but he’s no less under John’s command than Aiden is (in terms of the loss of objectivity part of the argument, not the coercion one. He doubts he could coerce Rodney even if he wanted to.).

Ford is looking at him too expectantly, like a dog sitting up on its hind legs, waiting for a bone. John’s dick is saying, ‘Damn the torpedoes, full speed ahead,’ and the big head knows that it’s not going to get any better offers, especially because he trusts Ford. Ford’s military too – he understands. “Okay.”

Ford sighs, rubbing his hands together, almost nervously. “Okay. What do we do now?” Leave it to Mr. Eager Beaver to run out of steam right at the important part. It’s not like John knows how to do this stuff; he’s not gay.

John runs a hand through his hair. “Um . . . how about you help me with . . . um . . .”

“Yes, Sir.” Oh, yes, Ford knows how to speak volumes with that phrase. This time it’s almost hungry, as the kid drops to his knees, yanking open John’s pants.

John never thought of himself as the kind of guy that enjoyed the power trip of command, but staring down at Ford on his knees like that is definitely attracting most of the blood in his body to a certain special place.

“Just tell me how you like it, Sir.” Ford says, leaning forwards. John’s dick twitches in response to that comment and he thinks he finally understands the mad attraction that they caution people against in regards to power structures.

And then Ford’s warm little mouth is on him, strong hands gripping his hips as he bucks forward. God this is good. How did he even live without this?

Ford has barely started, executing super technical maneuvers with his tongue, when John’s vision is beginning to blur with the heady rush of it all. He can’t control the thrusting of his hips.

He’s going crazy. All the tension is crescendoing, rising through him like fire in his veins. He even thinks, for a moment, that he might be becoming enlightened. Ford is damned good at this, and, looking down, seeing those liquid brown eyes looking at him, enjoying this ridiculous act of submission, John lets out a howl like the werewolf screaming his rabid fever, his unrestrained passion at the hallowed orb of

A full moon.

When people talk about being in another galaxy, the first metaphor they always use is the stars. There's something both impermanent and magical about them - woven into every fable of the world known to man. But, he's not a sailor navigating by the velvet wonder of the night sky. The kind of flying he does best is blind and dangerous, done by radar in the black of night. The stars . . . well, he left his astrolabe at home. But it's the moon that bothers him. It's not a smiling face or a rabbit grinding rice or anything like that. It looks hungry - tinged yellow, struck with a gash like a grin, a jack-o-lantern hanging threateningly in the sky. Dr. Warner over in astronomy told him that it's actually a dried salt bed, according to the Ancient database. He thinks it looks like a wound, stitched closed but still festering. He wonders how humankind would have evolved differently with a nightmarish visage like that watching over them every night.

He runs down empty corridors, looking out at the inky night gliding past, wishing the calm depths of the deep black ocean would be angry in the moonlight. But they're not. Everything is relaxed and tranquil and the world keeps turning, oblivious to the empty space now within it.

His muscles burn, veins pumping liquid fire, insides clenching. He knows the feeling well, running as hard as he can because his cross-country coach gave out a t-shirt and a hug when you ran so hard that you threw up. The shirts were ugly as shit, but he really enjoyed the hugs. He remembers this feeling so well: the cement slamming hard against his feet until he can feel the chronic splints in his shins and the sweat tasting gritty and real on his lips, the salt water a drop of promise in this insubstantial phantasmagoria.

He knows it, but he can't find a rhythm despite the too-soft lap of waves along the pier just outside this corridor, despite the regular turning of lights, gradually illuminating as he makes his way down the hallway, moonlight spilling through windows in shafts that light the darkness before him. Even the steady beat of his raging heart can't steady him. Perhaps it's the arm. It must be. He's gotten too used to the familiar rhythm of his own body to compensate. He slows just long enough to yank off the sling and toss it into the void behind him. The sensors don't even register it to turn the lights on. He longs to sink back into the black with it, but he doesn't. He just turns and keeps running.

He should be flashing back, remembering good times. Or remembering the look of frightened determination on Aiden's face as he ordered them to go. He should be crying tears. Pain is liberation, that much he knows. But all he can feel is this tightness in his chest, like a heart attack, like a sword hanging above his head, like all the sadness locked away in his heart building a heavy weight in his chest, trying to break out.

He runs and the pressure increases, but he's getting used to it. He can get used to a lot of things.

He body is slowing, the patterns of light and dark fading together before him until the black is white and the world is grey. Someone is breathing hard, gasping. A part of him is concerned for them. But now he's concerned with the sudden feeling in his legs. They feel like rubber - or like mahogany, hard and impossible to move. He stumbles and the world tilts. But that's okay, because the world was never right to begin with. He can barely remember a time when he's trusted it.

Something burns, but not the dazzling embers of fire. And he can't feel the heat. But there's no breeze, like Antarctica on a windless day, where the cold bites into the flesh without force or reason, until you feel like it’s welling up from within not from without. He reaches up to locate the pain and his hand comes back stained red. He looks at it in disbelief. It's surreal, like the blood of battlefields a galaxy away, where he took one look at the blood and forced himself to believe it was a video-game or a movie, and all that blood was nothing more than pixels, liquid and shifting across his vision, ketchup or chocolate syrup, delicious instead of metallic and choking, like the taste in his mouth right now.

He's sliding down the wall and he can't stop himself. His limbs are heavy and his chest heaves - natural like an avalanche, rumbling down a mountain in the calm manner of cyclical, inevitable doom.

Then hands, warm and smooth, supporting him, guiding him down to the floor, more panted breaths entwining with his own to make them only marginally less lonely.

"It's okay, Major." Panic, flooding a voice pitched high like a mountain, waves sharp and frantic lapping up against the shore of his eardrums, piercing the haze for just a second. Why does the voice sound worried?

He opens his mouth but he can't force sounds out when his body is trying so desperately to drag air in. He doesn't know why.

"You're going to be okay." An awkward patting at his good shoulder, like a second heartbeat. "McKay to the infirmary. Get a team to the East Pier first level, stat." Nobody says 'stat'. This must be a dream.

It has to be, because the only people he can remember who would grip his hand that way are dead.

And then his vision is blurring, going grey like the fog sweeping in off the pacific, grey like the silvery dark paint of his first car, grey like Aiden’s

Grey boxers.

They shouldn't be sexy, but they are. He shouldn't regret the fact that they're fast disappearing into the sheath of unsexy grey pants that make a completely unsexy ass look very . . . unsexy? Well, fine. He can appreciate Aiden's attractiveness. The Greeks were all into that shit, and they were some pretty smart guys. Hell, they were the basis for most of civilization. So if they were into naked mud wrestling and pretty young boys like Aiden Ford that had muscles that you wanted to carve into stone, just to prove that you'd seen them, then it was okay for John to be into them too. After all, didn't the Greeks invent falafel? And falafel was almost as good as a good old turkey sandwich, after all.

Normally he would think the door back unlocked, but this time he doesn’t. He thought that releasing some tension would get it off his mind. He thought that it would just evaporate with all the other thoughts that disappear along with his brain cells everytime he shoots himself out through his dick.

But this thought stays. No amount of late-night pondering or bag-punching or even mind-numbing meetings can banish it. The only way he can release it is with words.

"Rodney's gay," he tries to make it sound casual. He's got that down to a science, at least. But Aiden isn't fooled. He looks up from the weight's he's been adjusting on the barbells. The kid is like an open book - so easy to read. John smiles at the look of shock, but frowns when it turns into a scowl.

"Good for him." It isn't like Aiden to sound so bitter. John can't take the look of hurt that's suddenly sprung up in the young lieutenant's eyes, so he leans down and finished the work Aiden was doing on the weights. "What happened to ‘don't tell?’"

John shrugs. "He's civilian. He's my friend." He leaves out the 'best,' even though they both know it belongs there.

"That's why you're telling me his personal secrets?" Aiden raises his eyebrows. It looks like it's meant to be playful, but his voice is too level, too subdued.

John leans back onto his haunches, frustrated. He doesn't know why he's telling Aiden this. Normally he's very good at keeping secrets. Hell, he's been tortured for information before, and not breathed a word. But something in him . . . something feels off, like he's lopsided, everything shifted just a fraction from right, like flying in the fog of night, forcing yourself to trust the sensors when your eyes are telling you you're soaring through the clouds, free of ground.

He needs reassurance. "I'm just saying . . . This doesn't bother you does it?" Aiden is a marine from Idaho, after all. "It's not going to affect the team?"

Aiden lets out a frustrated sigh like a whisper, leaning his head back, eyes wide and dubious. "Jesus Christ, Sir." That's the first time John's heard Aiden speak the lord's name in vain - not even when he's screaming John's name like he's calling out to some blessed deity. "What did we just do?"

They had just jerked each other off against the wall of the gym, like after every sparring session. What was special about that? "Um . . . we just relieved some tension?"

Aiden stands, weights forgotten. "We just had sex, John."

"We . . ." It's not sex. They jerk each other off. Sometimes they use their mouths. They do it because it feels good. They do it because of the chain of command. Because, as Rodney so helpfully pointed out, John can't afford to go chasing every tail he sees offworld and he certainly can't get involved with any of the women on Atlantis. They'd get too attached, and he could die at any moment. And because he can't avoid bias when it comes to women. They do this because he trusts Aiden - trusts him with his life, trusts him to be responsible about this.

Aiden wipes his face with a towel then tosses it hard at John, who catches it out of reflex, nothing more. "I'm a man. You're a man. We just made each other come. You can call it whatever you want. But there's no way I'd judge Dr. McKay for doing the same thing. And with all due respect, Sir, I hope you don't either."

John has never seen Aiden this mad before - though he remembers overhearing Beckett tell Rodney that he and Aiden had gotten into it pretty good while trying to liberate the city from the Genii, At the time, John was pissed that Beckett was complaining about his second. It felt like a personal insult. "What the hell are you trying to imply, Lieutenant?"

He's expecting Aiden to look down at the floor and apologize, like a little kid just reminded who controls the allowance money. But instead Aiden turns on his heel and walks out of the gym, radiating fury. "Nothing, Sir. Forget I said anything."

John resists the urge to order Aiden back here to explain himself. Maybe he should. But he doesn't know if the issue Aiden's taking is with his style of command or whatever this thing is between them. "Ford?" He says, cautiously.

"I'd rather not discuss Dr. McKay's sex life any further, if that's all right with you, Sir," Aiden says as the door slides shut behind him, as though Atlantis himself can sense the barriers springing up between them.

"What a brat," John complains to an empty room. How dare the kid try to tell him he's a homophobe? John's Mr. Sensitive. He never skipped out on a single tolerance course. Granted they were mandatory, but it's not like he hadn't skipped out on other mandatory things before. And he didn't even flinch when guys grabbed his ass or threaten them for staring. Sometimes he'd even let them touch him . . . suck him off because he was beautiful and they wanted it so badly. It was no trouble, really.

He knows he should go after Aiden. He shouldn't let him leave like that, making John out for some sort of repressed asshole. But instead he packs up the rest of the weights and heads for the living quarters. He finds himself standing outside of Rodney’s door. He doesn’t knock, only stares at it, puzzled, for a moment before skulking off to the mess for a nice old

Turkey sandwich.

He doesn't believe his eyes. They'd run out of food from Earth a few weeks ago. But there it is . . . two slices of a grainy bread, his favorite, and some greens and . . . if that meat wasn't turkey . . . . He must be hallucinating it. But then again, of all the things one could hallucinate chained to a bed in the infirmary for three days, not talking, why the hell would he hallucinate food? Certainly he isn't that boring . . . granted he is dreaming of wheat not white, but still . . . No, if he were hallucinating he'd at least get up to princess Leia and a gold bikini, right? Or maybe a roller coaster, yeah, that crazy thing in Vegas at the top of the hotel, lights skipping through his cocaine-addled brain in commercialist nightmare of garish neon, redeemed only by the silky cool of the desert air at night.

"You need to eat." There's that voice again, the voice of the man with the cute little nose and the long eyelashes and the permanent scowl . . . the man with the bright blue eyes, the man he's very definitely not talking to. It’s not that he’s mad at Rodney. He just . . . he can’t speak to him right now. He can’t think about him. Every time he even looks at him he remembers. Every sarcastic snort, every eyeroll and he wonders: why this? Why Rodney and not Aiden? Was it worth it?

He shakes his head and rolls away, wincing as the motion pulls at the wound on his shoulder. He doesn't care though. Not talking to this man is worth it.

"Come on. It's just like turkey. Do you know how long it took me to find all the proper ingredients to make . . ."

He can't restrain himself. "If it's not turkey, what is it?" His voice sounds strange - dry and echoey. He frowns.

Rodney gets inordinately exited about it though. "Well . . . ah . . . it's actually a meat from some sort of animal the Athosians trap on the mainland, birdlike thing, fat with green feathers . . . Ford . . . shit, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have . . . but why the fuck shouldn't I be able to say his name? Even if his only legacy might be the poor birds he named ‘parroturkeys?’"

John chuckles just a little at the memory: Rodney bitching about the scientific inaccuracy of that and Ford saying that all the original taxonomical classifications were mostly description of structure or function; they were just in Latin, so people would make less fun of them. He remembers the fish-out-of-water gape on Rodney's face and Ford laughing like a schoolboy, only to spoil Rodney's increased respect for his intelligence by saying that he'd gotten that helping Dr. Kellogg in the lab.

Then the laughing jars his shoulder too much and the smile turns to a wince. He feels large comforting hands stroking awkwardly down his arm. But perhaps it’s that awkwardness that makes it so right . . . as awkward as he feels inside, like osmotic pressure - balanced inside and out.

Of course, Rodney can't just be caring without protest, so he says. "Don't you try that stupid wounded and drooling thing on me, Major. I'm not going to buy it. You got into this with your own cocky stupidity. 'Hey, I'm Flash Gordon. Never mind the fact that I've got a skewer-hole through my arm, I'll just charge blindly ahead for no apparent reason whatsoever without telling anyone should I, I-don't-know, need emergency medical intervention or anything.'"

"I needed to run," John coughs out weakly.

"Well, too bad. You have the rest of the people depending on your recovery to think about. You have all those worshipers who would be godless and unsatisfied without your clumsy military-issue bootsteps to follow. Who will the space-babes fawn after, prey tell?"

John is losing patience. This is exactly what he's not talking to Rodney: he can never understand. Even when John thinks they're getting close, perhaps even too close, Rodney's ego (or his insecurity, both sides of the same coin) gets in the way. "Look, you don't understand me, McKay. You will never understand me. And I don't need to justify myself to you. Is it such a horrible thing that I care that Ford's dead? I'm not some automaton. I'm not Mr. Perfect with all these so-called worshipers. I'm just a guy. A guy who lost someone he cares about. Or is compassion for another human being just too hard to understand?" It's a low blow, and he knows it. Because when it comes down to real suffering, Rodney is one of the most compassionate people he knows.

Rodney is staring at him now, his gaze so open that it's frightening, so he looks away. "Look, Major . . . John, I'm sorry. I'm not . . ." John can hear rustling, Rodney fiddling with sheets or papers or something. "I'm not very good at this sort of thing . . . giving comfort. But I know . . . You're not the only one hurting, all right? I know that he was more your friend than mine, but you don't have to live with the knowledge that he died so that you didn't have to, okay?"

If he can't cry, he can at least get mad. He feels that ever present weight in his chest pushing, expanding until he feels as though he's going to explode, burst open like a landmine, spewing shrapnel in wounds and gashes across the hearts and minds of all those he cares about. "You don't know what the hell you're talking about, McKay. I'm the one that had to make that decision. He's dead because of me. He's dead because I chose you over him. How do you think that makes me feel?"

Rodney gapes, lips and cheeks reddened in anger, his mouth hanging open like a wound. John can see the hurt burning in his eyes, hotter in the cool blue than in the red of his face. But he doesn't care. He's exploding, and he'll cut through anything, reduce anything solid to dust.

"You're always telling everybody how much better you are . . . how you're the smartest guy. You're Mr. Indispensable, needed everywhere because you're worth so goddamn much more than the rest of us grunts. You like to be right, Rodney, and this time, you are. Does that make you feel better to hear me admit that? You are better. You are worth more than Aiden Ford. Even though . . . . You're smarter. You're more necessary to this mission, to saving all our lives, fighting the Wraith, everything. You're the most goddamn important person on this base. And despite his youth . . . his potential, Aiden was just a worthless grunt whose job it was to die so that you could live. It doesn't matter that he was kinder, or more positive, or that he didn't make most people he came into contact with hate themselves, or that he took more pleasure in living or even that he was my friend, because all that doesn't mean as much as the mechanical ability to crunch numbers and come up with solutions. So I saved you, Rodney. Do you feel vindicated? That in the end, you could make as many people hate you . . . offend as many goddamn natives as you want, and I'd still always save you?"

Rodney's face has gone pale, his lip trembling as the hurt in his eyes only intensifies through the light sheen of tears he's refusing to shed. He doesn't say a word; he just turns and walks away, shoulders hunched in defeat.

John takes in deeper and deeper breaths, his vision blurring and darkening around the edges. Somewhere in the background something beeps, like a wail, like the world tearing itself apart from the inside out, and there's a voice above him.

"Bloody hell, what have ya done to yourself now, laddie? I knew I never shoulda let Rodney . . ."

For a moment, he feels guilty. He knows he hurt Rodney, kicked him when he’s down. Rodney is his best friend and he’s always wanted to protect him, never to hurt him. What’s changed? But then he thinks about Aiden’s smile, the brave face he put on as he screamed for John to ‘just go, Sir!’ and he thinks about those compassionate eyes, wide and fearful, goddamn dying like a fucking

Red shirt.

She’s wearing a red shirt. She has others, but this one is her uniform. She wears it every day. He needs to get used to looking at it. He needs to be able to look at her without shaking just slightly. He needs to meet her gaze without immediately looking away. If he keeps this up people are going to start thinking that there’s something wrong with him.

But every time he sees that shirt, all he sees is Aiden’s dark grey shirt soaked through with blood . . . so much blood. He wants to go back in time. He wants to go forward until that blood melts away. He wants to be anywhere but now, trapped in a bubble, trapped in a tear, unable to escape the moment that arrow flew across even the cacophony of his weapon sounding off, splitting the air like a sigh, like a pin dropping, like the crack in the great sheet of ice, sending the future tumbling into a frigid sea.

He blinks and Elizabeth is staring at him, the concern in her moss-colored eyes debilitating. He looks away, shrugging off the supportive hand on his shoulder.

“John, I know that this is hard for you. But I really think you should speak to Kate about . . .” They always sound so sweet when they want to ship you out to the headshrinkers. They even have Rodney going. But not John . . . he does his routine mental-checks, and he knows exactly the right things to say to keep her from getting the right to dig deeper. The guilt is his. He’s the one that sinned and he’s the one that should be punished. He can’t share it. What he and Aiden had . . . whatever it was, was private.

“No, Elizabeth. Ford was a friend and a good soldier and I am grieving for him, but he’s not the first one I’ve lost and he probably won’t be the last. I’m dealing with it, Elizabeth. That’s what I do; I deal.” He has to fight to keep the tremor in his voice from breaking out into a full-out avalanche. “The shrink thing has never worked for me. I just need some time and a little space.” He knows what he needs to say. He’s always known. And she’ll buy the lie. They all do, because when John Sheppard lies to others, he always does them the courtesy of lying to himself, if only for the moment.

“John . . . it would make me feel better if you went just once . . .”

“Trust me, Elizabeth. Please.” He knows that she doesn’t trust him. She’s not trained to. The job of diplomats is to find mutually beneficial compromises, not to cede authority, or sovereignty. She’s never bargained with her life. She’s never had to trust another man to die for her if need be. She doesn’t know what it means to trust.

But she wants to look like she does. And she’s good at that . . . at looking like . . .

He’s not looking at her, but he can feel Elizabeth’s sigh. “Okay, John. But I want you to know that we’re all concerned about you and that if you ever need someone to talk to . . . “

“I know who to come to, Elizabeth.” Then he forces himself to turn and face her, to meet her eyes and not let any of the darkness show, to stand tall against this crushing weight bearing down on him. He smiles reassuringly and grips her shoulder, almost surprised when his palm comes back blood-free.

She looks at him for a long moment. And just when he thinks that he sees the clouds of doubt circling, her face becomes hard and businesslike. “I’m sorry to have to do this, John. But with your team temporarily out of commission, I think that you should consider . . . modifications to the command structure.” She can’t even say it, and he finds that, for some reason, horribly distasteful. He probably can’t say it either. He hasn’t tried. But that’s the point isn’t it? That you’re not supposed to want to? If the person means enough to you you’re not supposed to just go on, business as usual. He wants Aiden to mean that much to him. He should . . . he should mean something.

“I’ll think about it,” he says, still not looking at her. He can feel her pursed lips, the weight of all the things she wants to say but still can’t quite bring herself to, all hanging in the air, pregnant with emotion and clammy like hot afternoons in Miami when even the sidewalks weep for want of rain.

He will think about it. Really, he will. Not because he wants to, but because he can’t stand for this to happen again. He needs to do something. He needs to protect people, because that’s his job and he failed it. It was Aiden’s job too and he succeeded far too well. God, he wishes Aiden were here now, not just for the smile and the stress relief and the infectiously enthusiastic presence, but because, despite his youth, Aiden would know what to do. John feels so lost. He wonders if he’s ever been objective in his life, if all his previous sanity was just an illusion and the truth is just now burning through. 

He makes it back to his office in a daze, sitting down with only a slight groan and pulling up the stack of paperwork he’s left to do in his ‘downtime.’ John wonders how many reports he’s done while not on painkillers, and thinks that it’s relatively few. It’s been little more than a week since Aiden died, and John’s really supposed to be back in his quarters resting, but both Elizabeth and Carson know that there’s no way that’s going to happen. He groans. He didn’t know how dangerous a job he was truly signing up for when he stepped through that Gate. But Aiden knew, and he came anyway.

After five minutes he finds his mind wandering, his eyes unfocusing, the world taken over by the dull throb in his shoulder - the lulling rhythm of a funeral dirge. He can’t concentrate. But he needs to do something. He can’t just sit here and let the numbness eat away at him until it swallows him whole. He wants to feel, damnit. He wants to feel connected to things again. He wants to laugh, laugh like he did at Dex’s funeral. He wants to feel passion. He wants to fly, to leave all behind like the world falling away below him as he sends the jumper vaulting through the twinkling grey of the stratosphere. He wants to feel angry again. He wants someone to blame. He wants to feel arms safe and circling around him. He wants the world to end in a blaze of hell-fire because then he’d thaw. He wants to fall. He wants to know if there is an afterlife. He wants to know if he’ll be judged and how. He wants the abyss if falling through it can make you weightless. He wants happiness. He wants love. He wants to scream.

But what he doesn’t want . . . he doesn’t want to cry. He doesn’t want to break down like a pussy, but he wants . . . he doesn’t know what he wants but he can’t stand this monotony anymore, living in a dreamworld, bound by the weight of his grief, sluggish and unable to think or move or feel.

And then, there’s a knock on his door. It repeats itself, more assertively when he doesn’t answer.

“Come in,” he sighs, not sure whether to welcome the company or resent it.

The door slides open and in steps Parker, hair pulled tight in a ponytail, eyes dry and skin pale and unnaturally smooth. Her lips are chapped, he notices, and that is the only flaw. She doesn’t look like a woman who lost her best friend just more than a week ago. She barely looks human, and he’s jealous. She clenches her jaw and stands before him at attention, the lines of her body so sharp that he’s afraid she’ll poke his eye out.

“Dr. Weir mentioned that you wanted to see me, Sir.” Why that tricky little . . . Elizabeth is a politician, of course. Who’s he kidding? She would never just let it be.

He sighs. Well, he’s going to have to do it sometime, and, despite the cliché, he’s always believed that there’s no time like the present, so he plunges desperately forward. “I wanted to speak with you about our command structure.”

She stands at attention, not looking at him but staring straight ahead. He doesn’t have the heart to tell her ‘at ease.’ He doesn’t think he could stand to see even the threat of tears in her wide blue eyes. They’ve been dancing around this long enough, and he knows that she’s been both dreading it and prepared for it.

“Yes, Sir.”

“You’re a good soldier, Parker.”

“Thank you, Sir.”

“And you know I . . .” His voice trails off. It cracks like he’s fifteen again, asking Ariel Ramirez to the base formal. He sounds ridiculous like this. Formality was never his style. “Look, Parker, what I’m trying to say is that I’m not going request you on my team. And it’s not because I don’t think you’re capable. It’s just that . . . we’re running a little short on officers and I would rather distribute the risk.”

“I agree, Sir.”

He lets out a breath he doesn’t know he’s been holding. For a while, he wondered whether or not he was just doing this because it hurt too much to lose Aiden. He was afraid that feeling that vulnerable had ruined his objectivity. And that he couldn’t stand to watch another brilliant young officer die at his side. He knows that there are risks. He knows that he would hate to lose another. But, in truth, there’s a certain validity to the idea that you send the grunts to the front lines. There is a reason that the military enlists from prisons and from high schools in dead-end rural towns, from urban centers in recruitment offices strategically placed next to liquor stores. He knows that the mission would go to hell in a goddamned handbasket if Bates or even Stackhouse were left in charge. He knows that officers are worth more. He knows that Aiden’s loss was pointless and futile. And yet he knows that he made the right choice. He left a man behind and he’s going to have to live with it. But it was the right thing to do and that’s the worst part of it all – that it could happen a thousand times and he would still choose the same.

“You’ll still be in charge of long-term off-world scientific research projects. And I still want you out in the field, but I’m going to start pulling back your off-world hours. I want you to familiarize yourself with personnel and the command elements of this base.” His voice sounds strange, hard like the squared faces and bodies of a Picasso, disjointed and raw. He barely recognizes himself speaking these foreign words, so formal.

“Understood, Sir. If I might ask, Sir, do you have anyone in mind for your team?”

“The matter is still under review. I’m willing to take any suggestions you might be able to offer, Lieutenant.”

“Understood, Sir. I have several candidates in mind. Would you like me to submit you a report or speak with you about it now?” Usually he’d rather talk, and usually she wouldn’t even bother to ask. But desperate times . . .

“A report would be fine, Parker. By 09:00 tomorrow?”

“Yes, Sir.”

She’s so quiet, so collected, so agreeable. He wants to reach out and shake her. He wants to scream, ‘Aiden’s dead! He died, Parker. And you’re just going to stand there, letting me talk about replacing him!’ But he doesn’t.

Instead he lets the silence stretch until it’s near unbearable. He knows by the slight twitching of her brow and the way she purses her lips against a protest that this is the point where he should be dismissing her, but he can’t bring himself to do it. He’s afraid that if she leaves, he’ll fall apart. He just needs contact . . . he can’t . . . he’s not talking to Rodney because he still can’t bring himself to look at him. And he’s definitely not talking to Elizabeth or Carson and especially not Heightmeyer. Teyla comes and sits with him sometimes, helping him in that strong by gentle way of hers with the physical therapy on his shoulder. But it’s not enough. It can’t keep the loneliness at bay. It can’t fill the gap that Aiden left in him. But maybe he doesn’t want to fill it. Maybe he wants to believe that Aiden’s irreplaceable. If he can only keep it barred, keep Parker standing here awkwardly, he can convince himself that everything’s fine – everything’s A-Okay.

But as the seconds tick slowly by, he can’t seem to resist. "How do you do it?"

"Do what, Sir?"

He doesn't want to say 'move on,' because he's done that before. He's done it too many times. He just . . . "You know." He half shrugs, forgetting the bandaging around his shoulder. The pain is sharp and comforting. He can still feel, unlike this automaton in front of him. He’s still numb, but at least he has this pain.

"No, Sir, I don't." She fixes him with this piercing stare, telling him that she definitely does know exactly.

He sighs, turning from her gaze. He doesn't mean 'keep it together' either, because if he knows how to do anything, its keep up an image. Sometimes he feels as though that's all he is. He's just an empty shell, entirely void of substance, weighing nothing at all. But now . . . now he feels so heavy, filled to the brim with this loss. He feels real. Numb and out of place, but real.

“How do you keep it from getting to you. You knew him better than I did.”

She finally turns to look at him and he can’t look away, mesmerized by her grief. “I cry myself to sleep every night, Sir. And the next morning I put on makeup I borrowed from Nurse Carrington so the bags under my eyes don’t show.”

She’s so straightforward, almost judgmental, that he physically has to take a step back. “Oh.” He gulps. All this time and he still hasn’t cried, not really. He wonders if this makes him coldhearted. He wonders if this makes him unfit. He wonders, again, what has changed.

“Permission to be dismissed, Sir?” She sounds so small and helpless. A part of him is disgusted by her weakness, while another part marvels in her strength.

He’s not sure whether or not he tells her ‘granted’ but he must have because she’s turning to walk out the door.

Only when she’s just leaving does she turn and say, quietly. “If you ever need to talk . . .”

“Dismissed,” he says, wincing at the hurt he sees in her eyes. So he’s being a bit of a bad guy. He has the right to be, doesn’t he? He’s been through a hell of a lot. He’s grieving. He deserves some slack. And why does he have to be the hero? Why does he have to be the one to make all the tough decisions? He just wants to be a guy. He wants to be a good guy. He wants to do the right thing. But he doesn’t want to always be the

White knight.

The white knight is staring at him from the chessboard, mocking him. Last week, that was the piece that Rodney used to checkmate him, and it's sitting there, still standing triumphant. It's part of their implicit agreement: leave the board be after every round - to remind them of the score, he supposes. Most of the time he doesn't mind, because most of the time he wins and Rodney has to stare at the aftermath of another stunning defeat for a week. But last week the bastard won and has been an insufferable prick about it since.

It's not as though it was even deserved. John was distracted. He couldn't help it. Aiden had just shown him this new thing where he'd rub his cock up and down John's ass crack until his came, all the while jerking John off. It was the same jerking, but there was that contact . . . that rub of skin against skin that he'd been missing in most of their previous encounters.

That's okay, he decides. It's okay because sometimes it's that contact you want from someone. It's why you still want sex even when you can get a life full of amazing blow-jobs. The ass thing was a little gay, and he freaked out just a bit at the time, but he can deal. He's good at dealing.

. . . as long as the goddamn white knight stops mocking him. He glares at it.

But his staring match interrupted by a loud yawn and a dark head of hair bouncing up from it's resting place on his chest. "Whatcha looking at?"

"Oh, nothing. Just thinking about my game."

Aiden pushes himself up to look around at the board, dark skin rippling with the rich musculature underneath, the cream-colored sheet contrasting nicely with the deep amber of his skin.

"Did McKay beat you, again?"

"You mean he hasn't told you so? Repeatedly?"

"Nope. But you're brooding more than usual."

"Am not." John snorts in mock indignation. "I don't brood."

"Yeah, right. You brood more than anyone I know, Sir - out on the East Pier at night."

"It's not brooding. It's thinking." John slaps Aiden on the arm as he reaches past him to grab some of this weird pulpy fruit Parker's team collected on their latest trade. Aiden brought a basket of it because he thought it would be a good ‘cum-chaser.' "Besides, how do you . . ."

"I have my ways." Aiden winks playfully, making John smile. "Just like to keep an eye on you."

"Why, Lieutenant, are you spying on me?" He pretends to be upset, but in truth, it's kind of touching. It's good to know that he has someone looking out for him. Aiden is so good at that. And John certainly doesn't deserve it. Aiden really should find himself a nice girl to take care of like this. The kid deserves to be happy and this thing they have will never be enough.

"Just making sure you stay out of trouble, Sir."

"Me? Trouble?"

Aiden rolls his eyes, and punches John playfully on the shoulder. "Loads."

John grins and tumbles out of bed, luckily landing on his feet, and dragging the sheet with him as he stalks over to the dresser. "Speaking of trouble, don't you have a training session with Teyla or something?" He tells himself that it's pure coincidence that he's beginning to learn Aiden's schedule. He is John's 2IC, after all.

"Oh, yeah. I almost forgot." He looks down at his watch. "Fifteen minutes. Hey, mind if I take a quick shower? I don't want to go out there smelling like . . ."

John feels himself blush, even though they're the only ones here, and obviously they both know that Aiden smells of John's cum. He interrupts before Aiden can say it out loud. "Knock yourself out." He pulls a towel from his dresser and tosses it.

"Thanks. Maybe I should bring my own next time, though." Aiden gives one of his wide little-boy grins, like John just gave him a model plane for his birthday or something.

The second his second has disappeared into the bathroom, John flops back onto his bed with a sigh, blowing the hair out of his face. "What the hell have I gotten myself into?" He asks the ceiling. This isn't him. He's never let it go beyond one or two times, and now . . . now, somehow he's managed to give this kid the impression that he can bring John food and move his stuff in (granted it is only a towel, but from every girlfriend he's ever had, he knows that's a slippery slope). Not to mention how he tried to . . . God, he's feeling claustrophobic again. Why did he have to . . . John isn't like that.

John picks up the white knight from Rodney's chess set, sitting in the corner, and twirls it around in his fingers. Next time they play, he's going to kick that smug scientist's ass. He grins. And then he realizes . . . "Oh shit, it's Monday night!" They always play chess on Mondays; it's Rodney's way of consoling him for the lack of Monday Night Football. He scrambles off the bed and makes a dive for the pile of his clothes before he realizes that he's still got his watch on. 7:30. It's not like Rodney to be on time, is it? He tries to put his pants on and listen for the shower at the same time, which ordinarily wouldn't be all that hard, except . . . except he really doesn't want Rodney to know what he's just been doing.

Then the bell rings. It's just like Rodney to choose the day when he's half naked with his 2IC in the shower to actually be on time. John has just enough time to pull his pants on before opening the door. He grabs a shirt from the chair, hoping that it doesn't smell, practically tackling Rodney at the door.

"Woah, woah, Sheppard, what's the rush? Did they send out a casting call for Kirk-wannabe's with Sesame Street hair? Calling all intergalactic space-trash?" Rodney, being his usual stubborn self, doesn't step out of the way as John tries to exit.

"I'm hungry, Rodney, if that's not a crime. I thought we could get some food before I clean the board with your ass." John forces a smile, hoping that it doesn't look as guilty as he feels.

Rodney squints and him skeptically. "You . . . you . . . there's something wrong with you. What are you trying to . . ."

John places a hand firmly on Rodney's shoulder and maneuvers him out of the way and into the corridor. "What? A man can't be hungry? As you're so quick to remind me, ‘do you even know the effects of starvation?'"

"I know, I know, I eat plenty, but you. Puh-lease. You're borderline anorexic. You never beg me to go eat."

"Fine, I'm turning over a new leaf. Now will you please just get a move on? I want some chow."

John starts off down the corridor, trying not to tense to much as he waits to hear the familiar sound of Rodney stomping after him.

"No. It's not fine. It's almost as though you're trying to get me out of . . . Oh." Rodney makes that strangely adorable (in a non-sexual bean-bag animal sort of way) ‘O' mouth of his. He trots up next to John, despite John's attempts to outpace him without breaking into a run. He takes a deep breath and nods to himself. "You've been having sex. You've got a woman in there that you don't want me to see. Another busty space-bimbo on the Kirk scorechart?" Rodney sounds resentful, jealous. Instead of being angry this time, though, John feels sad. Rodney's a good guy beneath all the snippiness and the sarcasm. He deserves someone good. He deserves attention. He shouldn't have to be jealous.

"I promise you, on Jumper One and Jerry Garcia's grave, that I'm hiding no busty space-bimbos in my room." It's not technically a lie . . . . He smiles to himself as they enter the mess, hoping the Rodney doesn't see through his clever aversion.

"Fine, then one of the female scientists . . . or a military chick . . . that cute blonde."

John grabs the nearest food-item without looking at it and hoping it doesn't slip through his sweating palms. "Nope, Rodney. I already told you, there's no woman in my room. You're imagining things because you're not getting any."

"The astuteness of your insights never fails to astound and astonish, Major. Where'd you learn that? Catholic-schoolboy Insults 101?"

"Sorry, I never took lessons in how to make my research team break down into tears. You know, you really should be nicer to Miko. For some completely mind-boggling reason, she seems to have a crush on you. You know, maybe you should . . ."

John sits down, feeling more comfortable now that they've moved on to safer ground. He puts a bit of mystery-meal in his mouth thoughtlessly and nearly chokes. But Rodney doesn't seem to notice. He's too busy staring down at his own tray, not eating, which is strange, considering that the only food that John has seen Rodney not eat when put in front of him would cause him to go into anaphylactic shock and die.

"John," Rodney sounds exasperated, but not in his usual condescending ‘I can't believe you could even think that, you Neanderthal!' sort of way. He sounds genuinely upset. "I have to tell you something."

John's brow furrows in concern. It's not like Rodney to lose the sarcasm. There must be something really serious. He leans further across the table, lowering his voice, despite the fact that the din of the dinnertime crowd drowns everything out. "What's wrong?"

Rodney sighs. "Nothing's wrong. I just . . . you can stop trying to set me up with women, okay?"

"Oh, you've got yourself a girlfriend. Way to go, Casanova!" he reaches across the table to give Rodney an encouraging slap on the shoulder. "So, is it anybody I. . ."

"No, I've got no one."

John's smile fades with the look of regret on Rodney's face. "Oh, sorry. Am I being too gung-ho about it? If it really makes you that uncomfortable, I'll stop." He reaches out to pat Rodney's shoulder. He didn't mean to embarrass him . . . well, not too much, anyhow. Rodney is probably the best friend he's ever had and he feels sorry that he seems to have hurt him.

Rodney laughs, but John can tell his heart's not in it. "Since when have you cared about making me uncomfortable? Or am I the only one who remembers a certain major telling me, ‘if I hear you bitch about the nonexistent wildlife one more time, McKay, you'll have an even bigger bear to deal with, and this one carries a P-90 and a temper that's very close to snapping.'"

"Hey, at least I give you fair warning before I shoot you." The banter is forced and so is the small chuckle he gives afterwards. Rodney's lips are pressed tight together and he has this stressed-out nervous energy about him, eyes darting everywhere, hands dancing in his lap. They've never been this awkward before, even with those first barbs they traded.

Rodney smiles a little, no doubt remembering the time he had on the personal shield and John shot him in the leg. "Fine. But, what I wanted to say . . . er . . . what I should tell you, Major . . . John . . . Major, is that you don't have to set me up with any more women because I . . . um . . . I prefer men. But you don't have to feel obligated to . . . God, please don't, in fact."

John forces a chuckle. He's completely taken aback, but all those laws of propriety his mother drilled into him come back as force of habit: smile, laugh at jokes, act graciously, maybe flirt a little. "Don't worry, Rodney, I think I can restrain myself from trying to get you together with Bates."

Rodney snorts. "Ewwww. But is he . . . ?"

"Don't ask, don't tell, McKay, and even without the regs, I really really wouldn't want to know."

Rodney looks around self-consciously. "Oh. I hope this doesn't make things . . ."

"Don't worry about it, Rodney," John says as casually as he can manage. "What you do in your private time is your own business. There's no need for embarrassment. We're both adults, right? I'm not going to judge you." That feels hypocritical somehow. He should say something . . . but it's not as though he can just up and say, ‘hey, I've had a guy suck my cock too. Feels good, doesn't it?' There's nothing to talk about – or so he tells himself.

Rodney sighs a little, picking up his fork and poking at his food. "Yeah, we're both adults."

"There's no lemon in this. I checked." John smiles encouragingly. He's made sure that the mess staff label things, on pain of death by starvation and bad Mariah Carey tapes.

"Thanks." Rodney sounds sincere. It's strange - just as strange as the fact that he's decided to not talk with his mouth full tonight. They discuss and upcoming mission in between bites and decide to skip the chess game – John is feeling a little tired.

When he makes it back to his room and collapses on the bed, Aiden is gone. So, for a long time, he sits unblinking, staring up at the

White ceiling.

That's all he's been staring at for days: White ceiling. The Ancients were a pretty advanced race. You'd think they'd be more original – apparently not. Usually he gets someone to bring him a laptop or, like the time Beckett practically tied him flat to the bed, gets his team to come visit him.

But now he realizes that it was mostly Aiden and Rodney. And now Aiden's dead and Rodney isn't speaking to him. Elizabeth wanders in occasionally, but the conversation is always awkward and forced – Elizabeth has never been comfortable with silence. Teyla, on the other hand, is too comfortable. She smiles warmly, her only words small encouragements as she has him grip her hand and extend his arm until he's pale and sweaty and disgusted with himself. Then she pats his shoulder, says ‘good job, Major' and sits quietly for a few minutes before promising to return later and wandering off. It is then that he realizes that most of his conversations with Teyla consist of him telling her about Earth and his oh-so-enlightened view of things. Yes, he's interested in her people and her culture, so far as that knowledge can help them fight the Wraith. But he's not up to talking shop right now.

It's strange, how this horrible turn of events has served to put every other relationship in his life into perspective. He wonders: if something happened to Teyla or Elizabeth would he react the same? He doesn't want to think about what he'd do if something happened to Rodney. It's too terrifying.

Then Beckett comes trotting in, breaking his reverie. John thinks that he and Carson might've been good friends if they'd met back in their college days, playing rugby and challenging each other to drinking contests, but the doctor/patient relationship has too much antagonism in it for John to really cross that line, especially while laid-up in the infirmary.

Plus, Carson is so damn . . . cheery. "How ya doing, lad?"

"Fine," John grumbles. He's been speaking in one-word answers for days now. Carson doesn't even blink.

"Just as informative as ever, I see." He looks down at a chart and then back up at John, compassion and perhaps pity flashing briefly in those clear blue eyes before he looks back down, the mask of the professional dropping easily into place. "Well, everything looks good on paper. I have half a mind to keep ya here an extra day to see to it ya don't do yourself more damage than you already have."

He looks at John expectantly, obviously waiting for a protest. John just blinks back. Sure the ceiling is getting pretty damn boring, but at least here, he doesn't have to put up any pretence. He's sick and a smile and a wince at the nursing staff is all he needs to get his private time and room service too. Out there . . . out there, he has to pretend that he's okay, hide the guilt just like always. But he's so tired and the weight is too heavy.

Last night, he dreamed of Marshall Sumner. It wasn't a strange dream, considering the number of times he's wished that the colonel was here. Not just because he wished the man were spared such a gruesome death, but because then John wouldn't be the one in charge, the weight of this command so crushing. It was strange because John would've thought he'd dream of Aiden.

In his dream, Sumner was sitting next to that cool mountain lake up in the Sierras, where John's father used to take him hiking, forcing him to walk until the blisters on his feet were bleeding and raw and he could barely lift the pack, more than half his weight. That was the closest John ever felt to his father. Strange he should find Marshall there by that lake where, after a 12 mile hike from which he was so exhausted he was having trouble keeping his eyes open, his father gave him the talk about the birds and the bees. And his father proceeded to tell him that it was a man's duty to protect his family, those he loved. He told John about honor and courage and heroes who went to war and maybe to death to keep their homeland safe, to protect those they cared about most. And, in that moment, before he flew planes and snorted coke and joined the wrong service, when he still spoke to his father and listened, John felt something magical, spiritual for the first time. That was his legacy – duty and courage and honor.

But in the dream, it was Sumner sitting by the lake, looking deep into the muddy water where dreams dwelled, as though he could divine something from the sight. Maybe he could. And Sumner turned to him, face ghastly and skin twisted and paper thin the way it had been when he nodded to John, nothing but the last threads of humanity left in his clouded eyes, and he said, "You did good, John."

And he woke, panting and sweaty and almost screaming from the pain in his shoulder as he tried to curl up into a ball in the darkness. It was the metronomic beat of the heart-monitor that calmed him, even after the night-duty nurse came running, smiling compassionately and giving him another shot of painkillers.

John had dreamed Sumner's accusations. He'd heard every startling detail of how he'd fucked up, ruined the mission. He'd heard, even awake, what the good colonel would have done, and like John's father, what a royally pathetic screw-up he thought John was. But he'd never suffered Sumner's praise before. His condemnation was always more than enough.

And so, now as Beckett rattles off a list of things he's not, under any circumstances, allowed to do once released to his quarters, John knows what he has to do.

Beckett orders one of the nurses to help him back, and John allows it. He notices Beckett looking on skeptically, but saying nothing. He'll cooperate, because this is important.

The trip is long, even though it's just fifty feet to a transporter and another twenty to his room, and John is exhausted by the end of it. He feels almost worse than he did a week ago when Beckett released him from the infirmary for the first time. But he puts on a brave and charming smile for Nurse Carrington and lets her set up a night table as he lies back in bed.

After five minutes of staring at a different and newly-uninteresting space of ceiling, he struggles to his feet and off down the corridor to where he knows he can always find Rodney.

The lab is quiet, for Rodney's lab, which means only a few technicians, whom Rodney is electing not to harass at the moment. It's a pretty rare occurrence; John wonders if he should film it for posterity. But it soon goes from quiet to quieter when John enters. The three lab-techs -Miko, Scott, and Token, whose names John makes it his business to know, precisely because Rodney makes it his business not to- look up and see John, look over to Rodney's quickly reddening face and make a dive for the door. They look like rats smashing themselves through cracks two at a time trying to escape the sinking ship.

Rodney stares at him, the rage painted clearly across his expressive features. John smiles sheepishly.

"Rodney, I'm so . . ."

Before he can finish, Rodney shouts, "Mayco, Sean, and Tinkle, if I open this door and find the three of you crouched in the corridor, I will personally . . ." his voice trails off to the sound of scurrying feet. Rodney smiles impishly, stepping out from around the lab bench, looking menacing. John can see why the research team is terrified of the man. He steps right up close to John, who tries not to flinch. "As you were saying . . ."

John gulps and swallows his pride. "I'm sorry, Rodney. I shouldn't have said what I did. I was hur . . ."

"Damn right, you're sorry, John. What right do you have, saying things like that? You're just lucky I don't believe in voodoo, or you could have caused real psychological damage, emotional trauma."

"I know. But, Rodney, you don't know how . . . how hard this is for me."

Rodney steps closer, eyes challenging. "Why, John? You've lost men before." That's true. John's lost a lot of men, a lot of friends. It's not just Mitch and Dex and Sumner and Markham and Grodin and Peterson and Gall and Abrams and all the nameless people he saw die on the floor of his chopper as he looked quickly over his shoulder during a medEvac, or the ones that he never even saw, only heard Micky call it.

It's all the people he didn't call back. It's the guys he laughed at the day after they sucked him off because he needed the distance. It's Cindy Thompson, to whom he paid an entire month's salary to get an abortion the year before he went off to the Academy. It's Jake and Dillon and Kali, whom he left on a beach in Thailand and never saw again. It's Father Matthew, whom he kicked in the balls when he put his hand a little too high on John's thigh during study for his Confirmation. It's his fifth grade pen-pal whom he stopped writing to when she told him to run away from home because his dad spanked him, as though it actually hurt. It's Lydia and Josh and Marie-Ann, whom he left after a wonderful summer in France and never wrote to like he promised. It's Christy, whom he heard contracted breast cancer at a mere 30, just before he left for Atlantis. He doesn't remember if he sent her a card or not. It's Jake, his childhood best-friend, whom he never spoke to again after that wild night in New Orleans. It's all the people he left on Earth without even a word or a single look back.

He's lost so many. But what's different? What's changed?

And then he looks into Rodney's expectant eyes and he knows. He let himself think that, this time, there might be a future. Not for himself, or for them together, but for Aiden. He'd planned that one day, Aiden would grow tired of him and find vindication with an exotic alien priestess or that Aiden and Parker might work out their complicated history or that Aiden might come out even and start doing that muscular Swedish maintenance tech who was always grabbing John's ass. And John had wanted it with all his heart. He wanted Aiden to be happy, and now he'll never get that chance.

"I . . . Rodney, I have to tell you something. Aiden and I . . . we were . . . I don't know what to call it, but . . ."

"You were sleeping together." Rodney says it like it's the most obvious thing in the world, like the gravitational constant or something.

"No. It wasn't sex." He's still adamant about that. Sex is an attempt at procreation. It's sticking a cock in an orifice . . . a what's it called? An orifice south of the border. Yeah. So what if there were a few times when Aiden let him put it in? He's not a flaming fairy. John doesn't have sex with men. He isn't gay. He and Aiden were not lovers. They were two guys trying to . . .

"Jesus Christ, John. I knew you were naive. And I definitely knew you were arrogant, but I never thought you'd be so fucking closeted. You're too smart for this." At least he still had that. "I mean, this borders on bigotry . . . no, it doesn't border, you crossed the border like a goddamn Mexican immigrant swimming the Rio Grande in hopes of greener picking pastures."

"Wow, Rodney, you sure have a way with words. Want to run that by me again?" If he can't win the substantive argument, he can always let it deteriorate into snipes and nitpicking.

But he doesn't want to part with his grief. It's weight is too comfortable, like the pack that you keep hauling because if you put it down, you know it will be even harder when you have to lift it up and keep walking on.

Guilt. He knows a lot about guilt. He was told that he was born guilty and all his life he's tried for redemption, but he can never quite get there.

"Look, John, can we not do this?"

"Do what, Rodney?"

"All this stupid snippiness. Usually when you do it, it's cute, but I just . . . we need to talk about this."

"You think I'm cute?" He meant to say, ‘you think it's cute?' He's so tired. He sleeps all day but he's still too tired to think straight. He regrets the tiredness as he regrets the words, but he can't take it back now that he's said it.

Rodney sighs forlornly, looking away. John's eyes widen. Rodney does think he's cute. The first thought to comes to his mind is: Liar. Then second is: Traitor. He backs up until he's pressed flat against a lab bench. "No," he says. He refuses to believe it. It's just too much. Can't Rodney see that? He's barely dealing, hanging on by a thread, and now Rodney has to dump this on him?

"No?" Rodney snaps. "It's not like I asked you a question, Major. I didn't ask you to tea to come and eat my little fairy crumpets or whatever. Why is it a crime that I find you attractive? You certainly seem to preen whenever anybody else does. Or am I not good enough for you? It's not as though I'm some lovesick teenager, following you around and bringing you chocolates and batting my eyelashes, spending late nights sitting in the control room watching you wander the city." Aiden did that. He realizes it now . . . Aiden wanted something else from him. Aiden wanted . . . and he . . . and he what? He was too closeted to see. "I never would have . . ."

"Shut up, Rodney." His voice is a quiet growl, a tightly leashed fury. Anybody else would have enough sense to get the hell out of Dodge right about now, but Rodney, for all his logic, is severely lacking in sense.

"No."

"No?"

"No, John, I'm not going to shut up. You've obviously got a lot of issues, and I'm sorry, but you're going to have to stop acting like a spoiled brat, practically killing yourself, and deal with them. We can't afford to lose you too."

"But we can afford to lose Aiden, right? Because he's just a dumb grunt who can't even break even with prime-not-prime." He feels the anger flare again. He's so out of control, yet still so numb. He feels like he's flying an old prop plane at max capacity, battling just to keep it aloft beneath the weight. Part of him wants to take it back the second after he's said it.

Luckily, Rodney just snorts. "Will you stop it? This is counterproductive. You and I both know that Ford wasn't worthless. We both know he was a great kid. So what if he couldn't play prime-not-prime to save his life? Okay, bad metaphor. The point is that it's not about that. It's about you coming to terms with the fact that you were in a relationship with him and he died. Look, I knew about you and Ford. I knew for a long time. And, yes, I did wonder why you chose him to experiment with instead of me, upon occasion, but I understand that he was young and hot and more your type." John wonders if he even has a type . . . for men at least. And why didn't he ask Rodney? Because Rodney's gay and he's not. But deep down he knows that's not the reason. "And . . . I'm okay with it, John. I just think that maybe you should be too."

"I am okay with it."

"Look, I'm not going to tell you anything cliché like, ‘If you need to talk . . .'" John smiles a little, despite himself, thinking about the number of people who have told him that, and how Rodney always knows how to cut through the bullshit to say what really matters. "I'm not going to say it, because I know that you need it. And I'm not going to take ‘no' for an answer. Heightmeyer is a twat who's barely even fun to play mindgames with. Elizabeth and Teyla, they're not going to understand. That leaves me, which is lucky for you, considering how brilliant I am and that I'm willing to make the time to accommodate you." Rodney grins, indulging in the in-joke of his own egoism.

"Why thank you, Mr. Wizard, for penciling me into your busy schedule." John rolls his eyes, stepping back a little closer to Rodney. This feels good. It feels almost normal.

"You're welcome. Now, aside from the obvious, what's bothering you?"

"Jesus Christ, Rodney, for a second there you had me convinced that you were a fully functioning headshrinker. What do you think is bothering me? Aiden's dead! I cared about him and I let him die. It's simple . . . it should be simple."

But it's not.

"It's more than that, though," Rodney sighs, looking John over. "Here, you need to sit down. You're practically dead on your feet." John looks down at his hands to find them shaking and nods, letting Rodney lead him over to this horrible metal slab protruding from the wall, the Ancient's ridiculously-modern version of a couch. John practically collapses onto it, moaning on impact.

"I told you, you need more meat on you," Rodney teases automatically, plopping down beside him.

"The Ancients must have had asses made out of cotton balls for these things to be even remotely comfortable."

"You'll get no argument from me there," Rodney agrees.

"You? Not arguing?"

"Hey, there's always a first time for everything. Now, don't try to change the subject. I'm being serious and it's not cute." He gives John a little nudge with his thigh, and John finds himself leaning into the touch. Every other time he's lost someone he cared about, he's found comfort in some anonymous touch: a prostitute, a one-night stand, a willing colleague due to ship out soon. Except this touch is far from anonymous.

"Did you love him?" The question is tentative, almost frightened, and Rodney doesn't turn to look him in the eye, even as John lets his head rest on his shoulder.

In truth, he doesn't know. He's not sure he knows what it's like to love someone. He's said it enough times. But the truth is that he never really loved his parents and it was all down hill from there. He's never felt like he fit in with anybody. He cares about people. He cares about strangers, but when it comes to specific people, even girls he's dated for months, he always feels like he's acting, like if he says it, then that makes it true. But there's always that niggling voice at the back of his mind, the one that asks him how he could possible know. If he'd never loved anybody, how would he know what the word means? It'd be like trying to explain a forest to man who'd lived his entire life indoors.

"I cared about him."

"Oh-kaaaay." Rodney rolls his eyes, but he seems almost . . . relieved. "So did I. But that's still not what's bothering you, is it?" When John doesn't respond, Rodney nudges him again.

"No, it's not," he sighs.

"Then what is?"

"Jesus, Rodney, it's not like we're talking about an experiment or something. I can't just quote you my emotional disturbance factor. I don't know."

"But you do, John."

"Maybe it's guilt." He's throwing Rodney bone here.

"But you did the right thing. You told me so yourself."

"I know. But I shouldn't have. I should've . . . you're supposed to protect those you care about." He's twelve again and his father is telling him about Vietnam, about how he got the letter from John's mother announcing his birth, crouched in a flooding foxhole in Danang, and how, that night, when he was on patrol, he killed a VietCong with his bare hands because he knew that, no matter what, he had to make sure his son grew up with all the freedom and opportunities a boy deserved.

"You did, John. You protected me. You fucking carried me back to the Gate bleeding all over the place with an arrow through your shoulder."

And then it all clicks into place. He's playing the images back in his mind, the moment he made the decision. He didn't make a decision, that's the problem. He didn't think. He saw Aiden go down and he ran on instinct. It didn't matter that he and Aiden were fucking. It didn't matter that Rodney was the smartest guy in two galaxies. It didn't matter that he was doing his job.

"But I would have done the same," he chokes on his own words.

"Excuse me? You're making even less sense than usual, Sheppard." Rodney tried to make his snapping considerate, leaning forward and fiddling with his hands.

"If Aiden had been the key to this expedition instead of you, I still would have done the same." John's voice is rough and he is ashamed, but he needs to say this. He needs to admit how horrible a person he is. He needs to admit his sins.

It's startling, gripping his heart like a vice, this revelation. He can't stand it. He's not the kind of guy who . . . he's always done the right thing. They call him impulsive, but this is the first time he hasn't thought before disobeying. This is the first time he's lost control and its scaring him more than he can let show.

But then Rodney's eyes are wide with wonder and he leans forward and John is too mesmerized by realization and stunned by drugs and grief and guilt tumbling through him like a storm to lean away. So Rodney kisses him. He's never done this before. Never with Aiden, never with another man, but it's sweet and tender and really not half-bad, even with Rodney's hands rough on his cheeks.

Strangely, he doesn't really care that he's kissing a man. He's spent so much time being afraid of it, that it's almost anti-climactic. What does matter is that this man isn't Aiden, and he feels as though it should have been. After all the shit the kid put up with from him, it shouldn't be Rodney reaping the benefits.

And as good as this kiss is, there's no way it can be good enough to overwhelm the guilt. What's he doing? First he lets Aiden die and then he kisses Rodney? He can't help but feel like a betrayer. So he pushes away, stumbling to his feet and running out of the lab.

"John, I'm sorry. I really shouldn't have done that. Stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid." He hears Rodney's self-recriminations as he runs of down the hall, the pain tearing through his shoulder.

He's in the jumper bay when he finally collapses into the seat of Jumper One, where Aiden let him . . . for the first time, staring at the well-loved controls and wondering if he can ever bring himself to touch them again. They seem too pure, too perfect for a monster like him. So, as his vision blurs slightly, he stares straight ahead at the

Jumper controls.

Aiden is pushing his back into the jumper controls, and despite the stabbing into his kidneys, it feels so damn good, nipping at that sensitive place on Aiden's neck and moaning into the salty skin. They haven't even managed to get their pants off, they're so desperate for each other.

John reaches down between them, feeling magnanimous. Aiden's done good. He's done damn good. Five more seconds and John's favorite bitchy scientist would have been one genius-sized brain short of functional. But Aiden's a good shot. He's a damned good shot and an amazing soldier and John is so proud of him. He wants to give him a gold star. No, better . . . he wants to make him feel good.

John's hands are shaking as he reaches out for Aiden's cock, wide and swelling and leaking just a little at the tip. He brings his own cock up next to it and wraps his hand around them both. Usually, Aiden does this, but today . . . today Aiden deserves a break.

"Oh, God, John," Aiden moans into his neck, nipping him just below the collar line and then licking up to his earlobe and sucking on it briefly. John sighs and thrusts erratically, tightening his grip. Damn, this is good. He leans his head down to nibble a bit on Aiden's jaw, enjoying the taste: hard working and almost violent. Then Aiden shifts so their foreheads are touching as he pulls John down onto the floor of the Jumper.

It's only two inches between them. John could lean down, a few inches, brush their lips together. Aiden's panting, his lips full, staring up towards John as he arches his back. But John shifts away. He knows that kissing Aiden would feel good, but he doesn't do that. Instead, John buries his face in Aiden's neck and bites down. Aiden comes, softening in his hand, leaving John still hard and aching, but too frightened after the near-kiss to move his head from Aiden's neck.

He lets go of his cock, expecting Aiden to reach up and finish him off, but instead, Aiden rolls him off next to him and fumbles with something from his jacket.

John's still hard, despite it all, and it hurts. He's panting and squirming, and then he feels something in his hand. He looks down and finds a tube of lubricant sitting there. This is wrong. Something is wrong. Why isn't Aiden being a good Boy Scout and jerking him off, goddamnit? His brain is sluggish and confused. He reaches down to take care of his cock. Maybe then he'll be able to think more clearly.

But Aiden seems to have other ideas because he rolls over on top of John and says. "John, I want you to fuck me."

John doesn't know what to say. He knew something was wrong. And he knows . . . well, he knows that, "I'm not gay."

Aiden pushes his pants the rest of the way off and straddles John, still panting down from his recent orgasm. "Sex is sex and I want it. No strings. You don't have to reciprocate."

"I just don't want this to change our relationship . . ." John winces the second the words have left his mouth. That's not what he meant to say.

"We're not having a relationship talk, because it's pretty obvious that this isn't a relationship." Aiden sounds oddly resentful. But he's right. This is a friendship. This is an arrangement. Because if it were a relationship, then he would be having a relationship with a man, and that's something he doesn't do.

"Okay, good . . . just checking. Um, then . . . why do you want to . . ."

Aiden sighs exasperatedly. In fact he almost looks angry. "Don't worry about it, John. I want to do this with you."

"But . . . "

"It doesn't have to mean anything other than that I trust you, okay? This is just about pleasure, right?"

He knows it's a trap, but he can't very well say it's anything but, "Yeah."

"Well, this will make us both feel good."

He puts on a fake grin, the one that he uses when he's scared out of his mind but wants the troops to follow him anyhow. "Alright, Aiden, let's check it out then."

Aiden laughs and slaps him on the ass. John stiffens a bit, but then Aiden is tonguing a sensitive nipple, biting down just enough to make John cry out involuntarily. Sex with any of his girlfriends had never been this raw, this violent. For some reason, he always seems to attract the nice ones.

And then there's something slick and cool on his cock, warm fingers erratically rubbing and tugging at it. The fingers leave for a while and John whimpers at their loss, opening his eyes to see Aiden crouched above him. He looks into the wide brown eyes and thinks he sees something there, like a spark, like the moonbeams skipping off the ocean in the dead of night. But then Aiden impales himself on John's cock and all he can see is stars.

It's never been like this before, so warm and tight and endless feeling, as Aiden moves himself up and down. John thinks he's never seen anything so erotic as this athletic, amazing kid, who just saved Rodney's life, fucking himself on John's aching hardness. This is amazing. And Aiden's moaning and panting like he thinks it's amazing too and then John's coming. Oh, God, he's coming and the world is exploding and . . . and . . . "Wow."

He sighs as Aiden rolls off him, curling next to him against the sudden draft. They lie, enjoying the post-coital haze for a moment.

John really likes Aiden. Aiden is amazing. Aiden just let him fuck him and that means something. And Aiden is just . . . he's awesome. John wants to say something. Aiden was such a good boy today. He was so good.

"You did good, Ford," he mumbles.

"Thanks, John, I knew you'd like it if you just gave it a try."

"Mmmm, yeah, I liked it." John tries really hard not to think about what that means. Then again, he always kinda wanted to try that on a girl too, but was too scared to ask. After all, he couldn't have them think he was gay, could he?

But it wasn't gay. It was warm and tight, and of course he liked it, any guy in his right mind would. But he's not done. There's something he wanted to say, about . . . about how proud he is of Aiden. "And on the mission too. You're a sharp shot, saved Rodney . . ."

"Thanks, S . . ."

"Wait, Rodney! We should . . . we should get to the infirmary. I don't want to miss him waking from his passing-out." Rodney didn't take to the idea of Aiden shooting his captor over his shoulder all that well.

"Don't you mean faint, Sir?" Aiden quirks his eyebrow, only looking slightly disappointed as he pulls his pants back on. John looks down to find that he's still wearing his, and zips them up, staggering to his feet.

"Yeah. Yeah, I do." He smiles and trots out into the corridor, stopping by his quarters to raid his secret stash. Rodney was a few inches short of Aiden's bullet and pretty close to pulling a Marie Antoinette, only without the hair and with a knife that wouldn't be half as clean as the guillotine. The guy deserves a little

Chocolate.

He's bringing a peace offering of chocolate. John has decided that enough is enough. He needs to talk to Rodney. He needs to make everything better.

He's not homophobic. He's not the kind of guy that will fall out with his best friend just because he comes out to him. He's not the stereotypical football player jock that Rodney always makes him out to be. Rodney is not allowed to be right about all those judgments the first week that they met, the ones that got them into the screaming match that started their friendship.

And besides, it's starting to affect the team. Teyla keeps bugging him and asking him why he and Rodney are fighting and Aiden's mad at him for some strange reason.

He needs to make this better.

So he knocks Fibanocci's sequence on Rodney's door, hoping to god that the scientist can forgive him, because, if he's honest with himself, he's not sure he can deal with this awkwardness. He needs their banter. He needs Rodney's smirking face and his clever comments and he needs the light feeling in his stomach when they're really flying, when John feels clever and interesting and so in his element that he could be doing this in a cave in the pits of hell and be happy. And it's not worth losing all that over some stupid little . . . something.

Then Rodney opens the door and John feels the guilt pile on. There are dark circles under Rodney's eyes.

Things haven't really been the same since Rodney told John that he was gay a few weeks ago. John likes to think that he's the kind of guy that's not bothered by that sort of thing, but, in truth, he's not. When they're talking, it's fine. He's never had a problem getting lost in conversation with Rodney. It's just that now they reach a certain point, a certain thrill of the back-and-forth banter that they've always had that makes them wonder if it's not flirtation, and they stop awkwardly. He's always wondering if he's giving off the wrong kinds of signals – wondering what Rodney thinks about him.

And so they go about their daily routines, but it's all too forced and people outside the team are beginning to notice too. John shies away from touch, keeping his personal space to a maximum. Maybe he ‘broods' a little bit more too. And Rodney spends a little more time in the lab.

But they haven't ostensibly been avoiding each other. They can't change anything on the surface, because then John would have to admit that the knowledge has made him consider something. It would mean that there's something there to consider, and he's not ready to admit that. He doubts he ever will be.

Last night he dreamed. He dreamed that he and Aiden were jerking each other off in the shower, only it was really this sauna in Miami where some offensive lineman for Florida State kept hitting on him. And just as Aiden was ghosting a finger over John's ass, he turned and Rodney was watching, his interest undeniable, despite this strange look of pain in his eyes, like when he was watching John get the life sucked out of him by the Wraitheroach (as Aiden called it). And John just froze. And then they were back on that planet with the Superwraith, baking under the hot desert sun and watching each other across a clearing. And then the Wraith came, and it was going to suck the life out of Rodney and John couldn't move. He couldn't even move when, instead of pressing its hand to Rodney's chest, it moved in and kissed him. And when he pulled back, they were in New Orleans and Rodney was smiling at him across a crowd of people, and John couldn't reach him. And then someone tapped him on the shoulder and when he turned it was Aiden, and he had beads around his neck and a drink with paper umbrellas in his hand and John woke up laughing, feeling as though he wanted to cry, because he never did manage to find Rodney and see if he was okay.

"Are you okay?" He asks, pushing his way into Rodney's room: a mess, as usual.

Rodney sighs. "Fine, come right in. It's not like I was doing anything important, like oh, say, sleeping for the first time in thirty-seven hours." Rodney moves to the dresser and pulls on a pair of jeans with grass stains still on the knee over his E=mc2 boxers. He's never done that before when John's barged in on him. They sit down on opposite sides of the bed, the only clean surface available.

"Thirty-seven hours?" As far as he remembers, there's no crisis. Everything is functioning top notch. They even had a sort of carnival on the mainland the other day and most of the science staff showed up, even Kavanagh. John remembers looking around for Rodney, before a band of Athosian children dragged him off to play football and take his mind away from things.

"I've been having trouble sleeping, if you must know." Rodney's not the only one.

John sighs. "I'm sorry."

"My, aren't we thinking highly of ourselves today? Watch out, Major, or your ego will get even more out of control than your hair. It's not because of you. You know, the whole, impending death-by-blue-soul-sucking-wannabe-metal-bands-on-steroids can give one . . . issues."

John laughs. "Tell me about it. Anything I can do?"

"Get rid of the Wraith, and solve world hunger while you're at it."

John laughs and reaches over to poke at Rodney playfully. "I brought chocolate?"

"Why thank you, Major, that makes it all better. We can Hershey's kiss them to death."

"So you don't want it?" John raises his eyebrows and Rodney snatches the chocolate out of his hand.

"Mmmfph, yes, ‘ank you, hypoglycemia, yuuum," Rodney mumbles with his mouth full of chocolate.

"You're welcome. Look, I know things have been kinda weird lately. I was just a little surprised."

"If it'll make you feel any better, I'm not going to jump you right now, or use my magic gayatron rays to threaten your oft-worshiped masculinity, despite my rabid desire to cut your hair and take your pants in enough so they don't fall down and trip you in the field."

"Ha ha. Very funny, McKay, careful you don't choke on that chocolate. Look, I really am . . ."

"Don't worry about it, John. Water under the bridge, as they say. So, while you're here, how about I do you the pleasure of letting me kick your ass at chess?"

"I thought you hadn't slept in thirty-seven hours?"

"Insomniac, hel-lo? Make yourself useful and grab the chessboard, will you? And I've got a Turkey Sandwich somewhere over there . . . under that shirt . . . no, the green one."

John gives a put on sigh, but does as he's asked. They play three straight games, and though John lets Rodney win the first, he wins the second two, by just a hair. By the time they're done it's into the early hours of the morning and they're both practically falling asleep over the board. Rodney flops back on the bed and John staggers over to lay next to him, too exhausted to stumble back to his own quarters, his argument with Aiden forgotten.

That night, he dreams of New Orleans, all lights and flashing colors and beautiful girls showing their breasts for beads and he and Jake strolling through the crowd like predators, swaying only slightly from booze and pot and so much motion. Only this time, it's Rodney there beside him, screaming at people who step on his toes and Aiden Ford beats up a stuffed piñata shaped like a Wraith and Elizabeth and Teyla are making out in the middle of the street, wearing nothing but beads. And then Rodney drags him into a little shop and smiles, bartering the white knight from his chess set for a piece of cake. John bites into it and instead of a plastic baby, he finds a ZPM. It's crunchy. And Rodney smiles this wide smile at him before snatching the ZPM and disappearing into the crowd, leaving John standing there holding a stale piece of

King cake.

It looks like king cake. He's half expecting to find a plastic baby ensconced inside, remembering that wild night in New Orleans when he woke up sandwiched between Jake and two of the hottest women he's ever met, one with skin like mahogany and the other with the silkiest red hair. He never did find his pants. John tries not to smile as he sees how carefully Aiden is chewing his cake. John's obviously not the only one to celebrate a wild Mardi Gras.

He knows that it's stupid to make these kinds of comparisons. He's almost as bad as Aiden, trying to make everything around him like home when it's not, define things in relation to himself, rather than to this new context they're suddenly thrown into. One of the mousy little anthropologists . . . Lin, gave them this whole lecture about making assumptions - looking straight at Rodney, of course. He said that if you take anything for granted, try to put it in the context of your own civilization, you automatically exclude possibilities, many of which could be very easily correct. Grown under different climates, different stars, there are so many permutations . . . you can't afford to make assumptions. That is the downfall of civilizations, Lin said - that they fail to adapt. He knows at least one people that made too many assumptions . . . they came here looking for them.

"Are you sure there's no citrus in this?" Rodney asks, poking at the cake.

"Shut up, McKay," John says out of the corner of his mouth, grinning at the blue toga-clad natives with the puke-green flowers in their hair.

John takes a tentative bite. It doesn't taste anything like King cake. In fact, it doesn't taste like anything he recognizes at all. It has a completely alien taste. Not bitter and not spicy, close to sweet, but not even . . . maybe powdery? He can't tell.

Well, whatever it is, it's ceremonial cake and they've got to eat it to cement the trade agreement.

John smiles wide. "Delicious." He didn't choke, so he takes that as a good sign. Still, he feels lost. Even though Teyla went over this step by step while laid up in the infirmary with the worst case of chicken pox he's ever seen (something about not having developed immunity) John still feels ridiculous and out of place, especially with his P-90 back in the cleansing hut along with his shirt and the rest of their gear.

He knows this is all part of some ceremony to test their purity and freedom from evil spirits or something like that and it's important to show submission and not to itch at all this damn blue body paint, or stare too pointedly at the artful, but still very pointy bows and arrows carried by the smurfs in togas.

But, if he correctly remembers what Teyla wheezed at him just before the all-important day of the two suns (yes, that means it's hotter than hell and the damn blue paint is running with his sweat) they're almost done. All that's left is the eating of the ceremonial bread and the drinking of the ceremonial wine and they can be off with a generous supply of tava beans. And, by God, he will not let Bates outdo him this time, even if he's baking under the paint and getting it all over his King cake.

Aiden, exempted from the blue by his oh-so-fortuitous dark skin, winks at him from across the ceremonial circle. John gives him a withering glare. Stupid kid sure knows how to gloat. Though the blue patternings around his eyes and face make him look oddly sexy.

"Well?" Rodney prompts, itching at the paint on the back of his neck and purposely looking as miserable as possible.

"Eat." The village elder prompts, poking Rodney innocently with a spear.

"Hey! Watch it. It's bad enough I have to be coated . . ." Rodney silences mid rant with a more threatening nudge from John.

"Thank you so much for your hospitality, Master Kiniawakylairaniley, we appreciate it and your willingness to trade with us more than you can know." John raises his thick, almost blood colored wine, which apparently does translate to a toast here as well, because everyone raises their glasses, Rodney grudgingly lifting his with a quick look from John.

"To a lasting bond between out peoples." Kiniawakylairaniley smiles, downing his like a shot. Everyone else is quick to follow.

And that's when it happens. Rodney's face goes almost instantly red, even beneath the paint. His breaths quicken and he's not really talking, only gasping. John is at his side before he can even register the natives standing, enclosing the circle around them, arrows pointed. "Epi . . ." Rodney gulps, his face swelling until his eyes are just mere slits in this doughy red mass, barely able to drag a breath in through swollen lips. John is panicking. He doesn't know what to do. He left the epinephrine with their vests back in the ceremonial tent.

The natives are shouting. The high priest is chanting something, pulling at John's shoulder and shaking something in Rodney's face. John pushes him away, lifting Rodney up so he can breathe and looking around wild-eyed. "He's in anaphylactic shock. I need to get something from our gear or he'll die."

"You are not permitted to do that. He is impregnated with evil spirits. Can you not see? An exorcism must be performed immediately." The priest is still chanting and the natives are yelling and everything is so loud, but all John can hear is the harsh panting of Rodney's breaths.

"No, you assholes, it's an allergic reaction!" John shouts, standing and moving right up in one of the warriors' faces. "Now let me get to our gear."

"I'm afraid you will not be allowed to do that, John Sheppard. If you truly care for your friend's immortal soul and good relations with our people, then you will step aside."

"I don't give a shit about his soul. I'm trying to save his life," John growls, panicked now. This can't be happening. He never really took all Rodney's bitching about religious fanaticism at face value before, but now that it's going to kill him . . . he can't let these people's ignorance mean Rodney's death. He can't face it. He can't . . . Rodney can not die. It's as simple as that.

John reaches down and unclips his berretta from its holster, nodding at Aiden to do the same. They back into the middle of the circle, taking a defensive stance over Rodney. He's wheezing now, taking in giant gulping breaths, limbs shaking with sweat forming all over his body, tears spilled from his eyes, though it's not clear whether or not he's still conscious.

John fires a shot into the air and the natives all duck in fear. "I will kill you if you don't let me help him!" And John is surprised to find that he means it. He will kill the chieftain and every one of the ten-odd warriors tightening this noose around them if it means it'll save Rodney's life. Because, despite the numbers, Rodney's worth more then all of them. Rodney's not just the key to Atlantis and the hope of humanity against the Wraith, but he's the best friend John's ever had and he's not going to let him die here like this. "Back away. You really don't want to know what these weapons can do to you!"

And they do, slowly. John bends to lift Rodney into a fireman's carry and they back out of the gap the natives have formed. And then Rodney picks that time to start a full-on seizure.

"The demon is escaping!" someone yells, and the next thing John knows, Aiden is jumping in front of him and falling and there's an arrow sticking out of his gut and blood welling up and turning his sweaty grey shirt a deep crimson and John is emptying his clip into the crowd, watching the bowmen fall, unthinking. And Aiden's wide eyes are looking up at him from where the kid lies in a puddle of his own blood. And John looks down at him in horror.

John wants nothing more than to pick him up and hurry him back to safety, to tell him that everything's going to be okay, everything's going to be fine, that when he gets out of the infirmary, they'll feel the comforting press of skin against skin again and laugh about this whole ridiculous debacle, but he knows that's not true. He can only save one.

"Just go, Sir," Aiden says. But before he even finishes, John has turned on his heel and is running, with Rodney's heavy weight on his shoulders. John has to remind him to ease up on the powerbars, damnit.

He's at the hut and he's already sweating bullets as he bars the door and drops Rodney unceremoniously to the floor, ripping through Rodney's discarded vest for the epipen, and fumbling it as he pulls it out of its case before shoving it deep against Rodney's thigh, while simultaneously pulling on his own field vest.

Rodney cries out, and John can feel his heart racing as he lifts him up again. Rodney is babbling nonsense at him top speed and moaning as John shifts his weight, grabbing his P-90 and charging out of the tent, firing blindly. They're not going to make it out of this alive. They're all three going to die because of a stupid citrus allergy, he knows it. Somewhere in this crazy galaxy a demigod with a sick sense of humor must be laughing his ass off at the irony of it all.

But John can't afford any more negative thoughts as he feels something slam into him, sending stabbing ripping pain through his shoulder. He looks down to see the perfectly sharpened flint of an arrow tip sticking out, slicked in his own blood. "Goddamnit! My day just got worse?!" He pants, staggering, dragging Rodney unceremoniously by an ankle now, still firing at the villagers halfheartedly. He's going to die, but he's not going to give up on that .0000000001% chance that they could get out of this alive. He's not going to give up on Rodney – ever.

He makes his way into the forest and down the path, leaving blood smattered all over the greenery of the leaves. It looks like Christmas. He's panting now, and judging by the dizziness, losing a whole hell of a lot of blood. He can barely stay standing, but he tells himself that he needs to live. He needs to survive because without him, Rodney is helpless. Without him, Rodney is going to die at the hands of these natives just like Aiden . . .

But John can't think about that now, as his vision is blurring and his knees are buckling and as he's pulling Rodney through the underbrush, because all that matters is getting out of this, getting back to Atlantis.

Then they're at the stream, and he's dragging Rodney across, and he knows that it's taboo for the Natives to cross this stream on the day of two suns, which is why they had no greeting party waiting for them at the Gate, so he allows himself to collapse on the opposite bank, letting the cool water numb the pain in his shoulder some as he pulls out the field dressings and does a slipshod job of patching his wound. He tries to push the arrow through, but it causes so much stabbing pain that he almost blacks out, which is the worse thing he can do right now, so he breaks off the tip -still horribly painful- and bandages it as best he can, though the gauze is soaked through within minutes.

Rodney is slightly coherent now, moaning, "John? John? John, you're bleeding." But there's not much he can do about it but sling Rodney's arm over his shoulder and keep going, murmuring encouraging nonsense, only half-aware of his own voice. He knows the epi will be enough to get Rodney back to Atlantis, but he can't afford to quit now; the man needs a doctor. If only the whole world weren't a red sea, this would be so much easier.

"Jesus, Rodney, time to lay off the midnight snacks," John groans as he forces himself slowly to his feet, vision blurring as he makes it to standing. So they stumble onward. John doesn't know how they make back to the Gate. He doesn't recall dialing. He only remembers the comforting whoosh of the Gate opening up and Rodney's panted breaths, the rhythm impelling him onwards.

He stumbles through the Gate, and there's a medical team rushing around him and he can't see. All that exists is a sea of red and Elizabeth in her red shirt and Caron's thick accent, urging him to lie down.

Elizabeth's lips are pursed in worry ass she asks the one question he doesn't want to hear. "Ford?" she says.

He shakes his head and passes out. And for a brief moment he feels like he's flying, like the first time Lieutenant Caldwell snuck him into one of the hueys at night and let him sit in the copilot's seat as they dipped and twirled. He can hear the beat of the rotorblades, meting out the strong rhythm of his

Heartbeat.

That's all John can hear: a heartbeat. It's soothing in a way that he's never known before. Or maybe he has, a long time ago when his mother cared enough for him to nurse him. He feels safe here and he knows that he's been dreaming, but for the life of him he can't fathom about what.

He doesn't want to open his eyes. Because he doesn't want to open them and face a world where Aiden Ford is dead and John himself is an asshole who used a poor innocent kid as a fucking experiment because he couldn't deal with the feeling he had for . . .

"Rodney?" he mumbles. The soft chest beneath his is too squishy and too warm, like a furnace, to be anybody but.

"Mmmm?"

"What happened? How'd I get here?" The last thing he remembers is Rodney kissing him.

He does a quick check of his body: stiff and sore. He moans at the ubiquitous pain in his shoulder, noting the drool spot he's left on Rodney's chest.

"I didn't want to carry you back to your quarters –bad back and all- and I figured I'd be in even more trouble if I called Beckett, so I let you sleep here. You woke up and mumbled something at me when I moved you to the floor."

John rubs the sleep out of his eyes. Isn't he supposed to be mad at Rodney? Rodney committed a serious . . . a serious what? Social faux pas? It's not as though that's unexpected.

"Here, I brought you a powerbar." Rodney pulls a half-smashed peanut butter monstrosity from his vest pouch.

John hates the things, but finds that he's famished, and too comfortable here pressed against Rodney's chest to get up and go for a proper meal.

"How long?"

"About twelve hours."

"And you've been here the whole time?"

"Had to keep all your devoted fans from taking keepsake photos of you drooling in your sleep," Rodney shrugs, reaching a tentative hand down to stroke John's hair. "Feeling better?"

His mouth tastes like cotton and he's still exhausted, but the numbness seems to have abated just slightly, and he feels safe and comfortable here, like if he doesn't move, none of it has to be real. They can just stay here like this forever. "Yeah," he nods to himself, surprised. "I guess I am."

"Good. So . . . er . . . does this mean . . ." John can hear the hope in Rodney's voice and he finds that he likes it. He likes it a lot.

But he doesn't want Rodney to be the rebound guy. And he doesn't want him to be a continuation of some failed experiment. In truth, he doesn't know what he wants.

"Maybe," John says, pressing himself closer into Rodney's heat. He doesn't think he's ready, but he thinks that Rodney deserves this. And Aiden . . . Aiden would be happy to know that John's starting to realize something . . . he's starting to realize that in the end, maybe it doesn't matter what they say because for the first time since Aiden's death, the world feels as though it fits him right.

"Good enough," Rodney shrugs beneath him.

"I could get used to this, though."

"Really?" He can hear the grin in Rodney's voice.

"Mmmm, I like you better as a pillow."

Rodney slaps at him lightly. "Asshole."

"Don't make me revise my maybe."

"Hah! That means that there's something there to revise!"

"But I'm revising it, so that doesn't matter."

"No you're not."

"Am toooooo," John yawns.

Rodney rubs a hand through his hair. "Go back to sleep."

"We're on the floor of the Jumper, you know that, right?"

"I'm still not carrying you back to a normal bed."

"Good point."

So John falls back to sleep, with his cheek pressed to

Rodney's chest.

It's not the most toned chest. And it's a bit lacking in the type of curves he's used to, but this isn't really a problem anymore. It's sexy, love handles and all. John practically growls as he pounces, smiling to himself because tonight's the night.

Tonight's the night John's letting Rodney make love to him.

It's been three months since Aiden died and John's shoulder has finally fully healed. He still does some physical therapy with Teyla, but Beckett has cleared him for gate travel starting tomorrow. He's not sure how much he's looking forward too it, though. So many bad things can happen out in the field. And he doesn't think he's ready to see another one of his team go down.

But he remembers what his father told him a long time ago when he first learned about love and sex and protecting the homeland. And he knows that Rodney will keep going out there, even if John refuses. And he knows that, as much as he likes Parker, she's not going to do half as good a job at protecting Rodney as John can. So he has to go.

There hasn't been a day that's passed when he hasn't thought about Aiden. Sometimes, when he's sleeping curled in Rodney's arms, he comes awake dreaming of Aiden and Sumner and Markham and the Wraith. Sometimes Rodney wakes, crying his name, or talking to Gall or Abrams. And only lying together does John realize that they all have their weights, their burdens. It's like the heat of the universe, the background noise that's always there – relativity, that's all that matters. And he's frightened and guilty and he's sinned, oh, God, he's sinned, but it's something that links him to every other person in this vast universe. Maybe even the void of space has weight, we just don't realize it because there is nothing to compare it with.

Sometimes the guilt is crushing. Sometimes he beats a punching bag until his fists feel like pulp and his muscles ache, and sometimes he goes for a long run down the length of one of the piers in the moonlight until he's too exhausted to stand and Rodney has to come and bodily drag him to one of the transporters.

And then he looks in the mirror and is disgusted with himself. He shouldn't be doing this. He shouldn't be with Rodney, dating, doing all the things he should have done with Aiden but didn't. He doesn't deserve to be happy when Aiden's dead.

Everything from that first night when Rodney kissed him then found him passed out in Jumper One is a dream. It's too magnificent to be real. And it's making him doubt this whole karma thing, because after how he treated both Rodney and Aiden, he doesn't deserve long dinners out on the South Pier in the moonlight or angry post-chess-victory sex on top of the poor innocent board. He doesn't deserve to bring Rodney chocolate or feel his warm caress over the tender newly formed scar-tissue on his shoulder. He doesn't deserve to take him on missions, or play footsie with him under the table at briefings. He doesn't deserve to eat off his plate or have impulsive jumpersex with Teyla and Graham sitting nervously in the front.

But then, Rodney wraps his arms around him and tells him that Aiden would have wanted them to be happy, so stop fucking it up, and John can't help but agree. Because Aiden was a good kid. Aiden was so much smarter than he is.

And now, after months of freakouts and pussyfooting around it, John is willing to take that final step. He's ready to give to Rodney what he hasn't let anyone else anywhere near.

"You okay?" Rodney says, kissing him lightly, and seductively.

"Fine." His voice cracks, but Rodney just smirks tenderly, instead of the sarcastic comment he might expect.

"Good. I love you, you know that?"

John nods. He can't say it back yet. He's beginning to believe that it might just be true, that maybe he does understand what love means, but he still can't say it and Rodney seems okay with that. He leans down and kisses John deeply, more passionately this time, and before John knows it, he's got a slick finger warmed and stroking John's entrance.

He moans, biting down on Rodney's lip as the finger dives in, pulling in and out slowly, until it finds a sweet spot. John bites until he draws blood, stars exploding across his vision. Why the hell didn't anybody tell him it felt this good? "Mmmmmmphf!"

"I told you, asshole," Rodney smirks, smugly. Okay, so maybe someone did tell him – repeatedly. "But somebody didn't believe me."

John should wipe that look off Rodney's face, but he's too busy writhing in pleasure, pushing himself back onto Rodney's fingers. Since where were there two? "Oh god! More!" He sounds like a spoilt child, but he doesn't care. This is too good. Rodney is too fucking amazing.

He doesn't give a shit if this is gay. No wonder everyone's so uptight about it. They're all jealous. He's not ready to declare his undying faggishness to the world, and he'll never be caught dead at a parade, but he really could get used to this . . . every day, whenever possible, please.

"Harder," he gasps, as Rodney hits his prostate again. Then the fingers are gone and he's whining before he can stop himself. "Don't stop! What do you think you're . . ."

Then something's pressing at his entrance and Rodney is pressing into him, a look of wonder in his eyes. John moans. It's a little painful . . . a little weird but if he just focuses on the look of transcendental joy on Rodney's face, the way he's focusing just on John like John is his world, he can forget the pain and strange pressure and ohmygod he does not want to forget that feeling.

"Rodney! God, Rodney!" he screams. This is so good: Rodney pounding into him. He feels complete. He feels so light, like he's flying again, the wind in his hair. And he dips and twirls, feeling the lift in his stomach, the Gs pressing him down, but the weight is transformed into joy by the pure adrenaline of sailing through the luminescent blue sky.

As they lay curled together afterwards, he knows that he'll still feel guilty. He knows that this should have been something he shared with Aiden, even as he knows that Aiden deserved it. He knows that even if the oppressive immediacy of his grief has finally broken, there's no getting over this. He's going to have to live with the guilt his entire life. But as Rodney lies half-snoring, half gurgling beside him, he thinks that maybe . . . just maybe, there's redemption to be found here.

There are things that make a man, things that mean that on that gilded scale some call justice, others judgment, the scale by which we are all weighed, before death or after . . . there are things that make the soul lighter than a feather. Aiden had them, he's sure, and now, perhaps, he's got a good shot too.

FIN