Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

John went back to his quarters as quickly as he dared without worrying anyone he might pass in the corridor. He had barely gone inside before he ripped his jacket off and threw it viciously into a corner. He yanked off his t-shirt, swiped it over his belly then hurled it after his jacket. He guessed he still smelled of sweat and sex, but it didn’t matter. Beckett would have to know, anyway.

He was freezing, drying sweat prickling like knives, but when he got to the dresser in his tiny closet he had to take a moment, forehead pressed to the cool metal, to shake, breathing through clenched teeth and swallowing hard to keep from weeping.

He’d made a mistake. He’d let himself get carried away and naively, stupidly, believed it would be all right. He’d believed it would be safe. But it wasn’t safe. It could never be safe. And now McKay was going to pay for it.

John balled his gloved hands into fists. No. He couldn’t let that happen. Not again. Not to McKay. McKay was too important to--to the Expedition. Like McKay himself was always saying, he was a valuable resource. It was John’s duty to protect him. Most especially, from John himself.

He clenched his teeth to keep them from chattering as he grabbed the first shirt he could find and yanked it over his head, shoving his arms through the sleeves. It was one of the long-sleeved ones. Good. Maybe he wouldn’t feel so cold, that way. And it would make sure no one touched him.

Beckett. He’d go to Beckett. Beckett could fix this. Maybe there was some kind of medicine he could prescribe. Something.

John left his quarters, then stood alone in the cool, brightly lit hallway. He shoved away from his door and moved rapidly toward the infirmary. He clipped his shoulder with the edge of the wall as he turned a corner too quickly, but he barely felt it. He might as well be back at McMurdo. John knew he’d never feel warm again.

***

“Beckett,” Sheppard said, and it was the quality of his voice, like someone treading the fine edge of panic, that made Carson all but drop what he was doing and go to him.

It wasn’t terribly late, but the infirmary was deserted for once--no one had come in with anything more serious than a sprained wrist, so there was nobody staying overnight. Carson had even left Anders off early, and he’d realized guiltily as the young man fairly fled, that it was the first time in as long as Carson could remember that the JaegerKorps Sergeant wasn’t practically stumbling and gray with fatigue.

Carson hoped he wasn’t going to have to call Anders back.

Sheppard was wearing a long-sleeved shirt, zipped to the neck, and his familiar shooting gloves, neither of which was particularly unusual. But his hair was damp, probably from sweat, since Carson could see beads of it on Sheppard’s temples, though his face was almost startlingly pale. He was breathing fast, like he’d come to the infirmary at a dead run.

Sheppard was shivering, despite the heavy shirt, minute trembles wracking his whole body. It was as if Carson were watching the man calmly freezing to death.

“Good Lord, Major,” Carson said, the words out of his mouth before he could censor them. “Lie down--I think you’re in shock.” Carson automatically reached for Sheppard’s arm to steady him, but Sheppard flinched and jerked back.

“You shouldn’t touch me,” Sheppard said. His voice was low and ragged, nothing at all like normal. His eyes were huge.

Carson obediently pulled his hand away. “I really think you should lie down, Major,” he said carefully. “Can you tell me what happened? Are you injured?”

Sheppard just shook his head numbly. “No,” he said. “I’m fine. It’s not for me.” He was looking at Carson straight on as he spoke, and moved his arms behind his back in what Carson recognized as ‘at ease’. Sheppard’s face was almost expressionless, except for the quiet sheen of horror in his eyes. He took a few more too-fast breaths. “You need to get Rodney down here,” he said. He shifted his gaze to somewhere over Carson’s shoulder, like a private giving a report. “I used my Gift on him unintentionally. You have to help him.”

Carson stared at Sheppard, feeling the unpleasant and all-too-familiar clench in his belly as his adrenal gland went into mass-production. He thought about back in Antarctica, when he and Sheppard had first met, how worried he’d been that the Major would use his Gift on him out of fury, charm him into harming himself. Rodney had scoffed at him about that. He had been adamant that Charmers were far less dangerous than most people believed.

It seemed like Rodney was wrong, after all.

Part of Carson wanted to grab Sheppard by the scruff of his neck and shake him until he confessed what he’d done to his friend, but even if that could somehow help the situation, there wasn’t time for it. Sheppard’s reaction alone made it frighteningly clear that Rodney was in danger.

“Why isn’t he with you?” Carson asked, and he couldn’t keep the accusation out of his voice, even as he tapped the earpiece of his radio.

Sheppard just shook his head minutely. “I couldn’t,” he said, voice weighted by guilt. “I’d make it worse.”

Carson felt his eyes widen at Sheppard’s admission. What the hell had he done to him? “Rodney, this is Carson. Come in.”

Carson had been half-expecting to hear weeping or incoherent screaming on the other end of the radio. Or worse, nothing at all. His next move would have been to wake Corrigan, make the Anthropologist use his Gift to find out where Rodney was. He’d been expecting to be scrambling for his emergency medical equipment, poised to run to the scene of some irretrievable disaster.

Instead, he got a tense, irritated, “What?” in return from Rodney, sounding completely normal.

Carson might have felt relieved, if Sheppard hadn’t been standing there looking like his world had just ended. Even if Rodney sounded the same, it didn’t mean that something wasn’t still wrong. “You need to come to the infirmary right away,” Carson told him. He didn’t say why because it was a public channel.

“Why?” Rodney snapped back at him. “You--" He broke off, and Carson could practically see his thoughts turning, changing direction. “Wait,” Rodney said, and Carson could hear the sudden snap of complete focus in his voice. “Is Sheppard with you? Is he all right? I’ve been trying to call him, but I don’t think he has his radio. He was acting--"

“The Major is fine,” Carson said quickly. His eyes flickered to Sheppard as he lied. Sheppard was still standing at ease like he was in the middle of an official reprimand; his eyes fixed on some distant point Carson didn’t want to think about. Sheppard was completely motionless, except for the overly rapid movement of his chest as he breathed. “But you’re overdue for your checkup.”

“No I’m not,” Rodney answered, automatically indignant. “You gave me one…. Oh,” he said suddenly, wary and alert. “Right. I’ll be right there. McKay out.”

Carson’s connection went dead, and he let out a tiny breath of relief that Rodney didn’t put up more of a fuss. Rodney wasn’t always subtle enough to be able to know when to play along with other people’s pretenses.

“All right,” he said to Sheppard. “He’s coming here.”

“Thank you,” Sheppard said. He didn’t look at Carson as he spoke. “I’ll go confine myself to quarters.”

“You bloody well will not!” Carson barked at him before Sheppard could move. He grit his teeth--Sheppard was reacting as best he could to whatever he thought he’d done, desperately trying ameliorate an intolerable situation. It wasn’t his fault he was currently embodying everything Carson had always loathed about the military. “What you’re going to do is lie down now, or I’m going to call some burly medics in here to hold you down so I can sedate you, y’ken?”

Sheppard just gave him a tiny nod, then went obediently to the nearest infirmary bed. His subdued, guilty compliance made Carson want to wince.

Sheppard lay down and stared up at the ceiling, looking anything but relaxed. Carson quickly adjusted the bed so that his feet were elevated. He considered giving him a mild sedative anyway, just to calm him down. Sheppard was outwardly composed, but his eyes had a terrible wildness, like the tiniest pressure would blow him apart. And Carson didn’t have to take his pulse to know his heart was beating much too fast, since it was echoed in the rapidity of his breathing. He was sure Sheppard wouldn’t let him touch his wrist or neck as it was.

“Major,” Carson said carefully. Sheppard’s face was like white stone when he turned to look at him. “You’ll have to tell me what happened, Son, so I know what to check for.”

“I touched him,” Sheppard said. He flexed his fingers against the mattress, as if in unconscious mimicry of his words. “It causes some kind of…emotional damage, I think.” The words were said without any inflection, but Sheppard closed his eyes tight for a moment, clenched his jaw so hard that Carson could see the muscles twitch. “He’s going to become suicidal.”

Oh, Carson thought. Dear God.

Sheppard had slipped into delusion, then. It was disturbingly common among Gifted, especially those with mental abilities. So much so that Carson knew almost every Gifted person at the SGC had been treated for a mental disorder at least once. Daniel Jackson occasionally had breakdowns so severe he couldn’t remember how to speak any language at all, and Lt. Colonel Cameron Mitchell had once suffered a manic episode where he was convinced he was completely invulnerable, rather than just especially physically resilient. General Jack O’Neill’s psychiatric observations had described him as ‘suspicious, distrustful and hostile’.

Among the Atlantis expedition members, Peter Grodin’s visions had caused him to collapse twice from mental stress, both times because he couldn’t prevent what he’d seen, and Sergeant Campbell took medication to help manage his compulsion to clean every surface before he touched it, which originated from his Gift of tactile psychometry.

Elizabeth Weir had confided to Carson that there were times when she couldn’t tell where others’ emotional lives ended and hers began. Carson knew she had been anorexic when she was younger, in a desperate attempt to control her body when she felt she had no control over her mind. Considering that the way her Gift worked meant she required at least a thousand extra calories a day to maintain basic health, Elizabeth’s willingness to starve herself was a telling barometer of her anguish.

And Sergeant Thomas Bates’ Gift had created distrust in him so fierce it constantly bordered on paranoia.

Stress made the likelihood of some sort of break much, much greater, of course. And God only knew Sheppard had been under more stress this past year than most. “Lad,” Carson said gently. “You know that’s not possible. Your Gift--"

“I know what I did, Carson!” Sheppard levered himself up to his elbows, his previously blank face alight with fury, and Carson stepped back in surprise and no small amount of fear. “Don’t tell me it’s not possible,” Sheppard snarled, then he drew in a ragged breath and looked away. “I’m not crazy. I know what I did.”

“How?” Carson asked, bewildered and concerned, and that much more certain that he was witnessing a burgeoning anxiety disorder--or maybe just the worsening of an existing one. Sheppard’s aversion to touch had been frequently referenced in his file, but had never been considered severe enough to impair his functioning. That might have just changed. “I don’t understand. What did you do to Rodney?”

Sheppard lay down again. “We had sex,” he said flatly, and Carson blinked but said nothing. At least that partially explained Sheppard’s appearance. “And I, my desire for him must have…triggered my Gift, somehow.” It sounded entirely clinical, and Carson wondered how long Sheppard had thought it out, the exact phrasing to best describe the self-recriminations clawing around in his head. “He won’t be able to, to survive without me. He’ll kill himself.”

Rodney rushed in before Carson could respond to that.

He looked only a little better than Sheppard did: unkempt, and like he’d yanked on his uniform over sleep clothes. But the bright combination of fear and anger was entirely him, as were the thought-quick movements and downward slash of his mouth.

Carson was so relieved he ignored the, “What the hell did you do to him?” that Rodney threw at him by way of greeting. That was perfect, normal Rodney, anyway, hiding his concern and compassion under misdirected rage.

“I’m fine,” Sheppard said, though Carson knew Rodney had to see that Sheppard was anything but. “Carson will help you.”

Rodney gaped at him. “Help me? With what? What are you talking about?” Rodney looked sharply at Carson. “Is he sick?”

“He’s convinced he’s used his Gift on you,” Carson said. He put his hand on Rodney’s shoulder, to guide him away from Sheppard’s bed. “I’m going to run a few tests to make sure you’re all right.”

“He thinks he used his Gift on me?” Rodney looked at Carson, obviously confused, then again at Sheppard, reproachfully. “You did make me let you leave, didn’t you? Damn it, John, what the hell is wrong with you?”

Sheppard shook his head, looking stricken. “I didn’t,” he said. “Not then. Before.”

Rodney’s eyes widened in surprise, then narrowed. “When? What are you talking about?” He turned back to Carson, almost pleadingly. "What’s he talking about? He didn’t even say anything!” He broke away from Carson’s grip and went to Sheppard. He put his hand on Sheppard’s forehead. Sheppard flinched violently and made a noise that reminded Carson sickeningly of a wounded animal. Rodney snatched his hand away.

When Rodney looked at Carson again his blue eyes were huge. “Does he have a fever? Carson, what’s wrong with him? What happened?”

Carson took a breath, tried not to clench his hands. “That’s what I’m trying to find out.”

~~~

In the end, Carson had run every test he could think of that had to do with brain function, on both men, and had even used his sight to find out if something at the genetic level had somehow changed in either of them. He’d taken blood as well, against Rodney’s vehement protests and despite Sheppard’s obvious fear (though having his hands in latex gloves had helped), but he was sure that would test normal, too. Neither of them were sick, much as Rodney was probably hoping otherwise.

As far as every test and Carson’s Gift showed, Rodney and Sheppard were still exactly the same as before.

He’d released Rodney back to his quarters, and Rodney had finally gone, though with reluctance. Carson knew he was worried about Sheppard, but Rodney was still recovering from his recent ordeal, and it wasn’t too hard to convince him he needed more quiet and sleep.

Sheppard was still in the infirmary. He’d changed into scrubs and allowed Carson to give him a mild sedative--probably because he knew Carson wasn’t letting him leave anyway--and he was asleep, breathing slowly, his heart finally in a normal rhythm.

Sheppard was also exhausted, no question. Carson was certain now that the Major hadn’t been sleeping much since he’d been released from the infirmary, after he and Rodney had gotten back from that hellhole of a planet. Carson cursed himself for not noticing, but Sheppard was exceptionally good at acting like he was fine. Carson could only hope that Sheppard would be more rational after a full night of sleep.

Now Carson was sitting in his tiny office, reading over Sheppard’s file and wondering what he was going to do.

The fact that Sheppard didn’t like to be touched had been recorded from his first psychological evaluation when he’d been accepted into the Air Force. It had been attributed to, variously, excessive shyness, low self-esteem, an abusive childhood or an unwillingness to accept his charm Gift. And then it was ignored. There was a small note suggesting extra caution for medical procedures, and that was apparently the end of it. Sheppard’s lengthy file had no record of his contact aversion causing difficulties, though at some point another assessment had almost causally mentioned that Sheppard ‘didn’t have many friends’, though this wasn’t considered anything to worry about, either. Nowhere had anyone written that Sheppard didn’t touch because he was convinced he couldn’t control his Gift if he did.

Carson sighed and ran his hand over his face. What had happened tonight might be something entirely new, or something that Sheppard had always believed, just hidden so well that no one had noticed it. In truth, Carson seriously doubted anyone in the military would have cared to notice, so long as Sheppard did nothing too untoward.

Carson wondered if Sheppard had ever mentioned this to Dr. Heightmeyer, since all the expedition members were required to see her regularly. Carson would definitely have to tell her what had happened.

Ultimately, Carson knew, the origin of this particular delusion was irrelevant. Maybe Sheppard had convinced himself out of misplaced guilt that he’d damaged Rodney, since Rodney had almost died shielding him. Maybe this was in response to the emotional turmoil of a new relationship, especially given the stress Sheppard was under at the same time. Maybe it was the stress alone, causing this. As with Elizabeth’s anorexia, Sheppard was able to choose, at least subconsciously, not to touch, when he was incapable of choosing nearly anything else that happened to him. Maybe it was a manifestation of internalized homophobia. Certainly Sheppard was about the last person Carson would have suspected of being attracted to other men.

Carson bent his head and began rubbing his temples, trying to stave off the headache he could feel inexorably seeping into his skull. The biggest question was, of course, if Sheppard was going to get over this, or if it was the first sign of an internal apocalypse that would end up with him incapable of functioning--or far worse, becoming a danger to others or himself.

Sheppard would have to go to Kate Heightmeyer in the morning, no question. At least his team was still grounded until Rodney recovered completely, which gave Sheppard two or three days to get back to himself. And Carson could always convincingly bump it to four, if need be. Rodney could only benefit from the extra rest; Sheppard’s whole team would.

Hopefully Kate would be able to clear Sheppard for duty, considering there was only Bates or Ford to replace him otherwise. And Carson was sure that having nothing to do would just make Sheppard’s problem worse.

Besides, Sheppard had been wearing long sleeves and those bloody gloves since before he’d got to Atlantis. Whatever reason he had for doing so, no matter how insane, really made no difference. Even if Sheppard avoided everyone with greater vehemence from now on, as Carson sadly suspected he would, that wouldn’t really change how Sheppard did his job, would it? It wasn’t like his position required physical contact.

Sheppard would have to see Kate more often, of course, and Carson would have to keep an eye on him too. At least Carson was sure Rodney would come running to him now if the Major so much as breathed in a way Rodney didn’t think was normal.

Ach, poor Rodney, Carson thought. If this had been a relationship, and not just sex, then it could only end badly. If Sheppard was convinced his touch was harmful, Carson was sure he wouldn’t go near Rodney again. And Carson was sure that Rodney, for all his bluster and prickliness, fell in love unreservedly. His heart would be broken for a good long time.

Sheppard’s too, and Carson realized he didn’t even want to imagine that. What kind of life could there be for someone who thought he was too dangerous to love?

Carson closed Sheppard’s file without adding anything to it. Breakdowns were so frequent among the Gifted that it would hardly be noted, let alone considered detrimental, but it still seemed unfair to make mention of a mental lapse that could well be gone by morning. And if it wasn’t, well, Carson would deal with it officially when he had to, as would Kate, and Elizabeth. Right now they’d just keep closer watch on Sheppard. And they still had medication, if it came to that, but Carson dearly hoped it wouldn’t.

He shut his computer down and stood up wearily, grimacing as muscles kept in the same position too long twinged in pain. He wanted to go to bed, but he wasn’t going to leave the infirmary tonight.

Sheppard was still sleeping peacefully when Carson checked on him. His eyes were moving under the lids, though he didn’t look agitated. Carson hoped whatever he was dreaming about was good. God knew the man deserved at least that.

***

He and Babs had been sleeping together only a couple of weeks when he got the news.

"I’m sorry, honey,” John said helplessly. “I have to go, I’ve got orders.” He looked down into Barbara’s puffy, tear-streaked face, and tried to show how frustrated she was making him.

He liked her, he really did, but the new orders were so great--He was getting to cross-train on Army helicopters! He would’ve thought she’d be happy for him, for this chance to advance his career. Instead, Babs was blubbering because it meant he’d be transferring across the country.

“Come on, Barbara! I’ll write, I promise. There’s no way we’ll lose touch.” John stroked back the damp hair from her forehead. “Stop crying, please, honey.”

She sniffed and scrubbed at her eyes with the heels of her hands. He handed her a tissue, and she blew her nose.

“You promise to write?” she asked in a small voice that didn’t sound like the usual Babs at all.

“Of course I will! Every week, okay? Promise,” he said, crossing his heart. But he’d already decided it’d be okay if he didn’t--Babs wouldn’t mind. She never pushed him about anything.

***

John walked back to his quarters, feeling groggy and a little sick, which he figured came from Beckett’s sedation the night before. Instead of feeling better for all the sleep, he felt strangely thick and slow, washed out. He just wanted to get to his room and shower before he had to face anyone. Beckett had kindly woken him up early enough so that John could get back into his uniform clothes and leave the infirmary before all but the earliest shift arrived. Carson had also told him that the official reason for John’s staying overnight was exhaustion, nothing worse than that.

John was grateful. He knew Beckett figured John had been suffering a minor breakdown, and John appreciated Beckett keeping his privacy. The last thing he needed was for the rest of the expedition to think their Charmer CO had gone insane, even temporarily.

It had been easy enough, in the light of day, to play along with Beckett’s assumptions, too. All John had needed to do was go big-eyed and startled and embarrassed and say, ‘I said that? Really?’, and Beckett had ended up chuckling and saying he’d been sure that a good night’s sleep would set John to rights. The undisguised joy in his eyes at John’s apparent ‘recovery’ had been both scary and humbling.

John still had to see Heightmeyer in an hour, and then once a day for the next two days at least, but John could do that. He’d learned a long time ago how to say what people wanted to hear, and Heightmeyer wasn’t Gifted--she'd never know what he was really thinking.

But the most amazing thing, what he could barely believe and what was still making him feel like his insides were melting in relief, was that Rodney was okay. Somehow, despite what he’d done, he hadn’t hurt Rodney after all.

It felt like John had dodged a bullet, gotten a reprieve he didn’t deserve. Next to that, he could handle anything. He’d happily see Heightmeyer and lie to her every day for the rest of his life, as long as Rodney was okay.

Rodney, who John had to pretend he didn’t want to…see anymore, or whatever it was they’d been doing. Fuck. Be with. Anything. John had no idea what he was even going to say to him.

Don’t come near me. I’m too dangerous.

So it was probably inevitable that Rodney was waiting by his door, looking freshly-scrubbed and jittery and concerned and uncertain and John wanted him so badly he ached, so badly he had to ball his hands into fists and shove them into his pockets, so he wouldn’t try to touch him.

He couldn’t touch Rodney again.

“Hi,” Rodney said. He gave John an anxious, lopsided smile as he held up one hand in greeting. “I went to the infirmary, before, but the nurse said you’d already left. You, ah, you going for breakfast?”

Rodney’s attempt at casual was ridiculous. John walked past him, swiping resolutely at the panel for his door. “No,” he said.

Rodney managed to squeeze his way inside before the door could shut him out, and John had to steel himself before he turned around in the still-dark room. His heart was beating so hard it hurt.

“Get out of my room, McKay,” he said.

Rodney looked surprised, which was teetering on upset, then he rallied and smiled, like he understood what John had really meant. “Shower. Right. I haven’t actually, ah, seen you naked yet. Sure.” He gestured vaguely over his shoulder. “I’ll just wait outside, then. Say, ten minutes?”

John kept his expression dead; he was good at that. “I’m not going to eat with you,” he said. “I don’t want you to wait for me.”

“Oh,” Rodney said, so obviously crestfallen that John had to look away so he wouldn’t see it. “Well, I guess that….” He blinked, and John could see his spine straighten, his eyes go from hurt and wide to glaring as he got angry. “Wait, is this about your freakout from last night? Are you still worried you did some kind of sex-induced whammy thing on me?” He held out his arms, as if showing himself off. “Look, for the last time, I’m fine! I’m completely fine!” What’s it going to take to get it through your astonishingly thick skull that you didn’t do anything to me?”

“This time,” John said. “I can’t--I won’t risk it happening again.”

“Nothing’s going to happen!” Rodney exploded, clapping his hands against his sides. “Jesus Christ, Sheppard, have you really lost friends to post-coital lassitude? I hate to tell you this, but not even you are that fantastic.”

“I’m not kidding, Rodney,” John ground out. “And I’m not talking about this. I’m not going to hurt you!”

“You’re delusional,” Rodney said in quiet astonishment. “Have you told Heightmeyer about this? Because--"

“Rodney, God damn it, leave me alone!” John scrubbed his hands over his face, inhaled the comforting scent of the leather covering his palms. “Please,” he said more quietly. “Just go. Just get out.”

But of course when he dropped his hands, Rodney was still there, looking defiant and angry with his arms crossed over his chest.

“No,” he said. “Not until you start making sense. Charm doesn’t work that way. It’s not tactile, it’s aural. It won’t work if you can’t hear it.”

John shook his head. “Not for me.”

“No,” Rodney said again, insisting, and John maybe hated him just a little bit for that, for his certainty. John wanted so badly to believe him. “It’s impossible. I’m sorry, but there’s just no fucking way. Not even for you.”

“On the desert planet,” John said. He’d crossed his own arms as well; the room was freezing. “When you’d used your shield to protect me from the drone, and you were…you were dying.” Even now it was hard to make himself remember, how Rodney had so unthinkingly done that. For him. And how awful it had been afterwards, John watching him die. “I touched you, when I used my Gift. It kept you alive.”

John saw surprise flow across Rodney’s face. “You used your Gift on me?” Rodney asked. “To keep me from dying? How--" Rodney shook his head, as if physically forcing himself back to their fight. “All that proves is that maybe touch augments your Gift, you idiot,” Rodney said, exasperation clear in his voice. “If your Gift even made a difference.” He glowered. “Not that I’m ungrateful, but forgive me if I have a bit of a problem with the likelihood of you having impartial judgment at the time. Here,” Rodney said. He stepped forward, and again, until they were less than an arm’s length apart. John forced himself not to back away. “I’ll show you.”

He reached out and touched John’s face. His fingertips were like fire.

It felt like John’s heart stopped. He reacted instinctively, trying to protect them both. He hit Rodney’s chest, hard, with the heels of both hands.

The blow sent Rodney staggering backwards. He cried out in surprise, a small, truncated yelp, then tripped over his own tangled feet and sat heavily on the floor.

“Don’t do that again,” John hissed. He wanted to touch his face, rub his cheek like he’d been stung. Instead he realized that he had his hands up in fists, as if he was preparing for a brawl.

Rodney was still on the floor, rubbing his chest and staring at him. “You hit me!” He sounded more shocked than anything else. “You son of a bitch.”

John lowered his hands. They were shaking. “I told you not to touch me,” he said.

Rodney climbed to his feet, and John didn’t help him. Rodney kept his eyes on John the whole time, his expression the same stunned disbelief, as if this was something even his enormous intellect could never have anticipated.

John put his hands behind his back.

“You hit me,” Rodney said again. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“I’m sorry,” John said.

Rodney just stared at him, still rubbing his chest, though John was sure it couldn’t hurt anymore. “If you wanted to end it,” he grit out, “you could have just said something. You didn’t have to attack me.”

In other, better circumstances John would have just rolled his eyes at the exaggeration, but there were never going to be better circumstances between them now.

“I’m sorry,” John said again.

“You’re sorry,” Rodney repeated, sneering over the word. “You’re always fucking sorry. Maybe if you say it enough it’ll actually make a difference.” He shook his head, a sharp, angry jerk, then turned and walked stiffly to John’s door.

“You know what the worst part is?” he threw over his shoulder, “I can’t tell if you’re just a bastard, or if you’re really insane.”

He left before John could answer him.

John unzipped the neck of his shirt and pulled it over his head. He meant to throw it into the corner, but it got caught on the back of his desk chair. John walked over to the desk to pick up the shirt again, and then somehow ended up grabbing the chair instead, and throwing it across the room.

It hit the far wall with an impressive crash, then fell to the floor with a loud thunk and rattled as it rolled away. John stared at it until it stopped moving.

Then he went and sat on the bed, with his arms wrapped around his body and staring at nothing.

This is good, John thought. This is the way it has to be.

It was cold, but he was used to that. It felt like he’d been cold for a very long time.

***

Dr. Rodney McKay’s face was very easy to read.

Since their first meeting, Teyla had wondered if that was one of the reasons he was so often abrasive and unpleasant to those around him. Perhaps he was aware of how quickly and clearly his face conveyed his emotions, and therefore had decided that it would be safer to appear merely angry, lest he otherwise reveal too much of himself. Certainly, she had soon realized that McKay had far greater depths to him than were evident if one didn’t know him well, including far more kindness and gentleness than Teyla thought McKay himself knew. McKay had also a far greater capacity to be hurt than she would have expected, given his apparent arrogance. Which was possibly another reason he seemed to prefer to keep others at a distance.

Teyla had found it oddly appropriate that his Gift was to make shields, since he seemed to feel so deeply in need of self-protection.

She was thinking of this because of the look that had passed across McKay’s face when Major Sheppard had entered the briefing room. Teyla happened to be sitting on the far side of the table from McKay, so she had a clearer view of his face than the door, and she did not fail to see how his eyes widened when he saw Sheppard, or how the surprise changed almost immediately to pain before McKay looked away and began pressing the keys to his computer, as if whatever was on the screen was of vital importance.

Lt. Ford and Dr. Weir looked equally surprised, though Weir schooled her features quickly. Ford, however, continued to nearly gape as Sheppard crossed the small space of the room and sat next to her. And Teyla was forced to admit she could not blame the Lieutenant.

Even after her conversation with Sheppard, when McKay had been injured by the suffering Telepath, Teyla still did not truly understand Sheppard’s self-proclaimed need to cover most of his body, especially his hands. She had, however, come to accept it as just one of the idiosyncrasies of his nature, much as the excessive joy he took in an overly-complicated game of ball-trade, or the black band he wore on his wrist that seemed to serve no purpose other than adornment. She was now so used to seeing his fingertips, showing like pink shoots above the black edge of his gloves, that she was sure she would be shocked if she ever saw the whole of his hands.

She was shocked now, but that was because she could no longer see any part of Sheppard’s hands at all.

The Major was wearing full gloves, encasing his hands entirely in featureless black. He was also wearing his jacket, which was not so unusual, except that this morning Teyla had found the city quite warm and could not imagine being comfortable in the expedition jacket Weir had given her. Everyone else in the room was wearing short-sleeved shirts.

Sheppard’s shirt, however, was one that Teyla knew to be long-sleeved, with the fastening that allowed it to be closed high on the neck, which Sheppard had done. That type of shirt was habitual for the Major, Teyla knew, but wearing it under a jacket wasn’t. The attempt to cover as much of himself as possible was so evident that for a moment Teyla wondered absurdly why he wasn’t also wearing a veil.

Except, perhaps, it wasn’t so absurd. Sheppard, unlike McKay, was a master of not showing what he was feeling. But even then, his expression was now so neutral he might as well have been wearing a veil, for all that one could see his face. Or a mask.

He had glanced at McKay as soon as he came into the room, but then just as quickly looked away.

“Feeling a bit chilly are we, Major?” McKay didn’t look at Sheppard as he spoke. “Or is this another pathetic attempt to enhance your inpenetratable aura of enigmatic cool? Because you just look ridiculous.” There was such acid in his tone that Teyla blinked in shock. She had heard similar words from McKay before, and often directed at Sheppard, but she had never heard him purposely try to wound with them, the way she could tell he was now. Weir had obviously heard the same intent, because she said McKay’s name in admonishment, sounding as surprised as Teyla felt. Even Ford looked stunned, and then wary, as if he expected McKay to turn his vitriol on him at any moment.

“Just feeling a little cold, McKay,” Sheppard answered easily, as if McKay had asked him a normal question. But Teyla did not fail to see the layer of darkness in his eyes, before they shifted back to showing nothing, and how he still would not look directly at the other man.

McKay snorted by way of answer. “I’ll bet.” The way he said it made Teyla certain there was some deeper meaning, and she wished she could ask.

“Are you all right, John?” Weir asked him, after glaring again at McKay, and Teyla knew her reason for the question. Sheppard could not have barricaded himself better if he, too, could create shields.

Now Teyla thought she understood why Sheppard had been avoiding her for days--and avoiding all others who knew him well, apparently. He had been hiding. Now he was hiding out in the open. Something was obviously, badly wrong.

But, “I’m fine,” Sheppard said, and though his voice was as pleasantly casual as always, his smile was as empty as the rest of his face, and there was nothing near a smile in his eyes. “Like I said, my quarters were a little nippy this morning.” He leaned into his chair, placing his arm casually over the back as if he were relaxed and content, as if he didn’t realize or care how easily the others would know he was lying. “So,” he said, “what’s the scoop on PX1-417?”

Weir continued to regard Sheppard for a moment, but he merely stared back coolly, as if challenging her to ask him directly about his clothes, and shortly Dr. Weir looked to her own computer and began the briefing.

~~~

Later, Teyla was glad that her people had visited the planet designated PX1-417 before and found it harmless, because she could not remember one word of the briefing, not even what she herself had said. McKay and Sheppard had behaved almost normally, except that each word McKay said to Sheppard seemed to have been chosen to cut, and Sheppard didn’t speak directly to McKay at all, except when he was forced to reply. Ford barely spoke, just looking uneasily between the two men, and Teyla could tell how much difficulty Weir was having controlling her anger. When she asked McKay to stay back at the end of the meeting, Teyla well understood why.

Ford fled immediately, which Teyla could also understand. Sheppard too left as quickly as possible, but Teyla ran a few steps and caught up to him.

“I need to speak with you,” she said.

Sheppard barely glanced at her. “Can it wait?” he asked, and now his voice was clipped and tight. “I’m kind of busy.”

“It can not,” Teyla said, and she deliberately grabbed his forearm around his sleeve, prepared to drag him with her if she had to, regardless of who or how many might be watching.

Sheppard flinched, and jerked his arm as if to pull away.

“Teyla!”

“Major,” she said evenly, looking up at him.

His face darkened with anger, and Teyla wasn’t surprised at how glad she was to see it, to see anything on his face other than the terrible, false disinterest. She could see how his jaw clenched, but when she turned towards the nearest balcony he followed, and she relented and let go of his arm.

When they walked to the railing, he stood nearly a body-length away from her. Teyla didn’t try to move closer, since it was evident how much he needed the distance.

“Tell me,” she said evenly, looking at his profile, outlined in the sharp morning light. “These clothes you’ve chosen--what kind of warning is this?”

The sound he made was nothing like a laugh. “It’s a little too late for that.”

Teyla moved a step closer, then another, relieved that Sheppard didn’t move away. “What happened, John?” She asked him.

He still wouldn’t look at her, but she could see his gloved hands tighten on the balcony rail, and his throat move when he swallowed. “I made a mistake,” he said quietly. There was no expression in his voice, but his eyes were suddenly, briefly liquid before they hardened. “I’m making sure I never make it again.”

Teyla thought of McKay in the briefing room, the pain on his face and his viciousness. “Are you sure the mistake isn’t what you’re doing now?”

She stepped closer and slowly reached out her hand and placed it over Sheppard’s. His gloves were smooth. She could feel the heat from his hand through them, and was strangely relieved by that. Sheppard didn’t move, as if he were afraid the slightest twitch would be disastrous.

“You shouldn’t do that,” he said.

“I do not believe you would hurt me, John,” she said. She squeezed his hand gently. The muscles felt like stone. “I don’t believe you would hurt any of us. We’re your friends--let us help you. Why are you dressed like this? What’s wrong?”

Sheppard glanced at her, but not long enough for Teyla to tell his expression, though a muscle bunched in his jaw. He pulled his hand away.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said. He scrubbed his face with his palm, then gripped the railing again, bowing his head. “I hate this fucking Gift,” he said quietly.

“What happened, John?” Teyla asked again.

For a moment it almost looked like Sheppard would answer, then he shook his head, pushing himself away from the railing. “Leave it alone, Teyla,” he said, though there was no heat in it. “Please, just leave me alone.”

He turned, and Teyla watched him walk back into the city, his back as straight and stiff as if he were going to his execution.

***

The first time he saw Skip Mallone again, over a year later, the other man stalked right over and sucker-punched him in the face so hard that John fell to the ground.

“Ow!” he complained, holding a hand over the throbbing in his eye and cheek. “What the hell was that for?”

“For killing my sister, you piece of shit,” Skip hissed, an expression of utter loathing on his face.

John blinked with his good eye. “What? What the hell are you talking about? I just read her last letter….” Oh, wow, it had been almost seven months, now. He’d just been so busy, he’d kind of lost track. His blood froze as he replayed what Skip had just said. “Wait! What’s wrong with Babs?”

“She’s fucking dead, you fucking asshole,” Skip said bitterly. “I wish I’d never laid eyes on you! Why the hell did I ever introduce my own sister to a Goddamn, fucking Charmer in the first place? How did you do it? How did you do it, huh? How did you charm her? She thought you were going to get married! She kept waiting for you to ask, for you to send for her to join you. Her and that fucking brat you spawned in her belly! She kept saying that you took your time about everything else, and she kept waiting for one of your letters to have a ring inside it, and then she was going to tell you--"

Skip stopped, swallowing, his eyes going distant. “And then she lost the baby. And she was so sad. So sad, all the time. There was nothing we could do for her. We tried….” Skip’s eyes snapped back to John’s face. “And then you stopped writing, you fuck.”

She’d been pregnant? They’d only had sex a handful of times before he’d gotten his transfer orders. “Skip. What happened? What did she do?” John felt the blood drain away from his face, and he felt dizzy, like he might pass out.

“What do you think? She killed herself. Mom says she just took the pills by mistake. I know better. She just gave up. My beautiful sister….” Skip wiped tears out of his reddened eyes and pointed a shaking hand at John.

“Don’t ever fucking cross my path again, or I swear I’ll find a way to kill you so they’ll never find the body.”

John nodded dumbly and watched from the ground while Skip stalked away. It was getting dark. John tilted his head up to look at the sky, and let the tears run into the hair at his temples. Eventually, he’d have to get up before he got mugged, and find some transportation back to the base. Right at that moment, though, his mind just wailed over and over, Sorry Babs, sorrysorrysorrysorry…so sorry….

But it was too late. Just like Artie. John’s touch was poison.

I can’t, John thought. I can’t ever do that to anyone, ever again.

***

Elizabeth let out a breath and leaned forward so she could rub her temples with her elbows on her desk. She glanced at the time readout on her computer screen and pursed her lips in irritation.

John had two minutes before she’d consider him officially late and give him hell for it. It wasn’t as if she didn’t understand his reluctance--Elizabeth wasn’t particularly looking forward to this meeting, either--but surely he had to understand that his not bothering to be on time was only exacerbating the problem?

Elizabeth let out another breath, this one far closer to a deep sigh. It didn’t help that she’d been picking up residual shock and grief from everyone around her all morning. Not only was it contributing to the vicious tension headache she’d been fighting since the nanovirus plague began, but the foreign emotions were so omnipresent and so strong that they kept enhancing Elizabeth’s own, to the point that she had found herself hastily smearing away tear-tracks more than once. She knew she couldn’t afford to look overwhelmed or out of control--not ever, but especially not right after a crisis of this magnitude--and in the end she’d coped by essentially hiding in her office. At least it meant that there were fewer people near her, and therefore less external emotions to have to deal with.

She knew that John was approaching her office even before the door chimed, because what she was suddenly feeling could only belong to him.

Resignation, annoyance, a bit of guilt, maybe just for being late, maybe for what had forced this meeting in the first place. And underneath, there was the small pulse of sadness, winding through it all like the thread of a melody. It was stronger than it had been for awhile, which Elizabeth was sure came from the loss of five more expedition members, but she had felt it for weeks, inter-cut with minute flares of anger, until she had gotten so used to it being part of John that it seemed impossible he had ever been different.

She knew it had started at the same time John had begun to wear his jacket over his long-sleeved shirt, like a layer of armor, and had replaced his shooting gloves with gloves that covered his entire hand. And Elizabeth knew it had something to do with Rodney, because of how John's emotions always flared up when the other man was around. But Elizabeth had no idea what, exactly, had caused any of it, or what if anything she could do about it.

All she knew for certain was that Rodney was making John sad and angry. Rodney's reaction to John was more complex, but then everything about Rodney's emotions were always more complex. Elizabeth had never experienced someone so mercurial, who could experience so many, often contradictory, emotions at the same time. Having an argument with Rodney sometimes felt like being at the vortex of a hurricane.

Elizabeth took another breath, steeling herself for what she knew was going to be unpleasant, then glanced at the clock on her computer again. John had made it with less than one minute to spare. Elizabeth smirked at what was either John’s luck or his temerity, then closed the computer and walked over to her door and opened it for him.

“Hi,” John said as soon as the door opened. He had his normal, casual smile, but Elizabeth felt the new wash of anxiety from him as he spoke. She wondered if John had any idea how useless his pretenses were with her, and then decided that he most likely didn’t, and she was just as glad for it. “I would’ve been here sooner,” he explained, “but the doc insisted on checking me for radiation exposure.” He shrugged, a picture of put-upon innocence, though Elizabeth had no doubt he had taken the longest route possible from the infirmary to the control room. The tiny burst of smugness certainly didn’t indicate otherwise. “You know how Carson gets.”

“I certainly do,” Elizabeth said. She smiled at him, deciding to let him have the minute victory rather than call him on it, childish though it might be. But still. “Thank you for getting here as quickly as you could,” she said, as she stepped back and gestured towards a chair, and she grinned inwardly at the brief touch of John’s chagrin.

She watched him sit, leaning back in his chair with his ankle crossed over one leg and his gloved hands on the armrests. The gloves were black leather, good quality, shining slightly in the bright light coming through the glass walls of her office. Elizabeth wondered how hot they were, if they were as uncomfortable to wear all the time as they looked. She wondered if John knew how alien they made his hands appear, as if they were prosthetics instead of flesh and bone; as if they didn't actually belong to his body. She wondered if he’d care if he did.

“Are you okay?” Elizabeth asked when she had retaken her seat. She purposely kept her eyes on John’s face, far away from his hands. She felt John’s anxiety take forefront again, along with the resignation and a new hint of startlement, possibly because of her question. It made her sad to think he’d be surprised that she cared. The guilt, and sorrow, had slid into the distant background.

“Yeah, just a little nuke,” John said easily, shrugging, but his relief--doubtless at having survived apparently intact--was obvious. “Nothing, really.”

Elizabeth was relieved as well, but she only smiled. She knew John well enough to know that he’d only feel awkward at any overt concern. “The naqahdah generator plan was very clever,” she told him. “Good work.”

John smiled in reaction, and she could feel his smugness again, only slightly less irritating for being well-deserved. “Thank you,” he said with mock formality. “Now, I’m going to bed.” He stood to leave, and Elizabeth caught the twist of hope, and was sure it meant John was thinking she might not call him on his actions the way she knew he’d been dreading.

Well, he was wrong. “We need to discuss what happened earlier,” she said flatly, no room for argument.

“Now?” John asked, though he turned around as he did. Elizabeth could feel his weariness as well as hear it in his voice, along with his trepidation.

She just looked at him. “That can never happen again.” And she knew damn well he knew what she meant.

John looked back at her for a long moment, then came back to the chair and sat down again. “Look,” he said, “I’m sorry about--"

Elizabeth interrupted him. “I understand your expertise in military matters,” she said quickly, “and I agree that I should defer to that expertise in such situations.”

“Thank you!” John said it in a way that made it obvious he only felt she was giving him due acknowledgement. His sense of surprise and vindication were equally clear.

“But,” Elizabeth added immediately, “you are not the one who decides what is and what is not a military situation.” The return of his chagrin was satisfying. “Now,” she continued, “both General O’Neill and Colonel Sumner warned me that you don’t respect the proper chain of command.”

For a second he reacted like she’d slapped him--the same wide, wounded eyes and a sharp sense of shock and betrayal. The sudden rush of fear was unexpected, however, and almost inexplicable, until she remembered the black mark on his record, and what he’d gotten it for.

“Elizabeth,” John said, voice earnest and tense, “I know that sometimes I see a situation a little different than, than other people might, but you’ve got to know I--"

“John.” Elizabeth cut him off. His eyes were still too big, his expression rendered utterly defenseless by what he thought she believed. “I know you didn’t use your Gift, John,” she said. “Not on me, and not on Sgt. Bates. I would’ve felt it if his emotions towards you or me suddenly changed. And they didn’t.”

She saw him swallow, and pressed her hands to the table so she wouldn’t sag under the onslaught of his almost overwhelming relief.

She made sure he was looking at her. “Given your record, your holding back like that over something you felt so strongly about means a great deal,” she said seriously. “I want you to know that I appreciate it, knowing I can trust you.”

His reaction to that was complicated: happiness, irritation, an unexpected trickle of anxiety, pride, and even a flicker of shame. Elizabeth could barely sort them out, let alone even guess at the meanings behind them all. But when he said “thank you,” simple and heartfelt, she knew with absolute certainty that he meant it.

“But,” she said again, and she could almost hear him groan. “That doesn’t change the fact that you still endangered yourself and the lives of many others.”

Now there was defensiveness, overlaid with anger. “Because I thought it was the best course of action to take,” John said. “And, by the way, I saved your ass.”

Elizabeth managed not to roll her eyes, wondering if he was missing the point on purpose, but he was still churning with so many different emotions that it was hard to tell. She settled for, “I know you did. But you have to trust me.”

“I do!” Sheppard said vehemently. But what she felt from him said he didn’t--not entirely, not enough. It was in the touch of uncertainty, that little bit of doubt.

And there, right there, was the irony. After all her concerns about having Major John Sheppard, the maverick Charmer with a bad reputation as part of her expedition, after her argument with General O’Neill and all her self-recrimination for her lack of faith, Elizabeth trusted John. But John wasn’t sure he could trust her. He didn’t really think she would make the right decisions.

It was unfair, and it infuriated her, and she had absolutely no idea what she could do to change it.

“Do you?” she asked him, but she already knew the answer.

He never got a chance to respond anyway, because right at that moment Rodney and Carson came in.

And the stab of longing, want, need, that roared out of John the moment he saw Rodney was so deep and so intense that Elizabeth gasped, felt like she couldn’t breathe.

There was relief as well--that Rodney was alive, surely--and new, fiercer guilt, like something gnawing, and the sorrow: waves of it so strong it was like drowning, and Elizabeth looked at John and she couldn’t believe that none of this, none of this, was showing on his face. But outwardly he was as calm and distant as the sky.

And Rodney….

Rodney’s strongest emotion had been grief, which was more than understandable, but when he saw John it was replaced by a maelstrom of bone-deep pain and rejection and disappointment, interwoven with resignation, an incongruous bud of happiness, and a quiet hum of despair. Rodney was angry, too, like a constant growl of distant thunder.

And above it all, like a beacon in a storm, was a longing that mirrored John’s, directed at him like a spotlight. It was so bright and strong she half-expected John to be haloed by it, or blinded.

She realized she’d been staring at John when Carson called her name for the third time, and she blinked herself back to the present, feeling small and strangely lost.

“I’m sorry,” she said, dismayed at how rough her voice sounded. John was looking at her with his eyes narrowed, and it occurred to her that she might have been horribly transparent, showing on her own face everything he refused to. She forced herself to smile, knowing it had to be terribly fake, and turned to look at Carson’s worried eyes. “I think I just…fazed out, for a minute there. It’s been a long twenty-three hours.”

“Going on twenty-four,” Rodney said with his typical brusqueness, and Elizabeth made herself look at him, fearing what she’d see in his eyes. Rodney could never hide what he was feeling.

But he just looked tired, this time, tired and concerned about the nanovirus, and Elizabeth listened and nodded through his and Carson’s tag-team confirmation that the virus hadn’t been made by the Wraith.

Then she smiled and thanked everyone, and let John go, and if he made sure to follow well behind Carson and Rodney, well, it was nothing unusual--he always walked ahead or behind. She asked him to close the door behind him, and she waited until he did.

Then she grabbed a Power bar out of her desk and ate it ravenously. And then she leaned back in her chair and looked up at the ceiling, and stayed that way for a long time.

The longing. God, she hadn’t known. She hadn’t known anything.

She’d known they were upset at each other--because of each other--of course. That had been more than obvious for weeks. But she hadn’t known this. Not that...not that they were in love. Or had been. Maybe the longing was just residue, like the last bit of blood seeping from a wound. The crisis must have made their emotions stronger, brought them to the fore. Nothing was quite so good for personal clarity as thinking someone you cared about was going to die, and they’d both been in mortal danger.

She hadn’t known, and she couldn’t ask, because she wasn’t meant to know. John and Rodney were very good at keeping secrets, better than Elizabeth would have ever thought. Without her Gift, she doubted she would have had any indication of what was going on between them.

“What do I do about this?” she whispered. “What do I do?”

There was no question of her betraying them to Stargate Command. Even if they were able to contact Earth, even if she'd wanted to confess what she now knew, Elizabeth had no proof of any kind of fraternization. Emotions didn’t count, even if someone with a Gift found out about them. And John and Rodney’s behavior on base and in the field had been no better or worse than it had ever been.

She was…. A little surprised, that it was the two of them. Maybe even a little disappointed, if she was being honest. She had entertained thoughts of both men, every so often. They were quite different, but in their own ways equally appealing. Not that she would have ever approached them.

She supposed it was moot, now.

But there was nothing she could do about this, because doing anything, offering sympathy, advice, a warning, would mean that she knew how they felt about each other, and that was a violation she would never admit.

They knew she couldn’t turn her Gift off--they had to know that, it was in her file, it was no secret--but between knowing that and knowing what it meant was a gap so large she doubted even Rodney could fathom it.

She had been concerned about John trusting her. Telling them what she now knew would ensure that both John and Rodney would never trust her again.

So she couldn’t do anything. She wasn’t going to do anything. Not unless Rodney or John came to her and asked for help. And she knew they never would.

Eventually their tumultuous emotions would fade. They always did, it was just a matter of time.

She just hoped they wouldn’t be destroyed by them first.

***

John sat on the balcony, leaning back on his hands and enjoying the view of the stars while Chaya finished her portion of the food from the picnic. He kept sneaking little peeks at her, watching her eat.

"Mm…." she murmured appreciatively around a mouthful of strawberry, "this is delicious, John."

"Well, enjoy it while you can because it's the last of what we have." He was barely paying attention to what he was saying. His entire focus was on her face, the delicate movements of her mouth and hands.

She was beautiful, and sweet, and so sensual it was breathtaking. And he wanted to want her so badly it was making him crazy, because she was safe. He couldn’t hurt her, and she wanted him.

His charm didn’t work on her. For whatever reason, Chaya was possibly the one person in the galaxy, maybe the entire universe, who wasn’t affected by his Gift.

He’d tried, back on Proculus, to get her to be more receptive to the idea of taking in refugees. John wasn't always sure if he was actually charming people when he wasn't trying to, but after over twenty years of knowing he was Gifted, he at least knew when he was intentionally putting his Gift behind something he said. And he’d tried hard enough with Chaya that he’d weak and light-headed, and had ended up sleeping the entire time Chaya had gone to ‘consult with Athar’ or whatever to make up for it. And Chaya hadn't even twitched, hadn't changed anything in the timbre of her voice or the tilt of her smile.

Chaya was safe. She was beautiful and sweet and invulnerable to him. Maybe John could even bring himself to touch her.

She wasn’t Rodney, but he couldn’t have Rodney anymore. He never should have tried to in the first place.

“Then I am honored,” Chaya said, and for a moment John couldn’t even remember what they’d been talking about. When he realized she meant how he had given her the last of Atlantis’ quality provisions, he said,

“When Rodney finds out, he's gonna kill me,” because it was the first thing that came into his mind.

You’d deserve it, was the sharp, nasty thought that flared instantly afterwards, but he knew it had nothing to do with the food.

This wasn’t a betrayal, John being here with Chaya. John and Rodney couldn’t have a relationship--couldn't have anything. It wasn’t John’s fault if Rodney didn’t understand that. John had made it very clear. How many times could he say he was sorry?

There was nothing between them to betray. John’s mistake had been in pretending there ever could have been.

"Athar will save you," Chaya said. She smiled flirtatiously and swayed towards him, her lush, strawberry-wet mouth sliding open--

John jumped up, his heart hammering, and tried to lean nonchalantly on the balcony railing. "Oh! Oh, um, good."

Chaya was kind. She didn’t question his abrupt nervousness, but indulged him with more of their meaningless conversation, until John felt comfortable enough to sit down next to her again.

He picked up the bottle of Athosian wine. "More?" he offered. He gave her his warmest smile, trying to imagine her lips against his, her tongue in his mouth. She’d probably taste of wine and strawberries, and her hair would smell like the flowers in her garden. Like summer, perfect.

Rodney’s hair had smelled like his sweat and faintly of soap, and his mouth had tasted like old toothpaste when John had kissed him.

Chaya was holding out her glass and smiling at him. "Yes, please," she said, so very patient.

“We uh...traded for grapes,” John said, forcing himself back to where he was, back to Chaya. “The Athosians--Teyla's people--they make this on the Mainland.”

It hadn’t been so difficult talking to her before, when he had been showing her the city and trying to convince her to let her planet be a safe haven for the galaxy’s refugees. But now, here, with her beautiful, open face and bright expectation between them, all his words were failing him.

It had never been this difficult with Rodney, but that didn’t matter. This was what he could have. He just had to stop acting like an idiot and make it work.

John was actually thankful when Chaya didn’t respond to his inane small talk. Instead she squared her shoulders and looked him in the eye. "John,” she said, gentle and kind, “John, I wasn't really truthful with you about something." She took a breath, obviously nervous, obviously steadying herself, and oddly, it made him feel calmer. "On Proculus, when told you I did not feel lonely…. Coming here, and being with you...it reminded me. Reminded me what it was like to not be alone."

She was looking at him, her eyes big and hopeful and dark, and he could have this, it would be so easy….

John jumped to his feet again and paced nervously, trying to quell the sudden churn of nausea in his belly.

You’re not betraying anyone, John. You can touch her and you’re not betraying anyone.

"What is it, John? Are you well?" Chaya's anxious voice brought him back to himself.

John spat out a weak laugh. "It’s nothing, Chaya. Really. Well, I mean…uh, It's...it's just that this is the first time I've been in a romantic situation with a woman--from, from another planet, I mean--and it just strikes me as really, um--"

"Wrong?" asked Chaya tremulously.

"No, God, no!" John was sweating under his long-sleeved shirt and jacket. Maybe...maybe around Chaya, he could take off the jacket, even roll up his sleeves. God, he could take off his gloves, and the idea of that, of touching someone the way everyone else did, with nothing between them….

He laughed again, happy and nervous and guilty and terrified. "Just--I just...feel funny." He kept laughing, couldn't help it. "Sorry. I'm sorry. I just thought that I would--"

Chaya was kind. She was so kind. She looked at him and said softly, "You said it yourself, John. We're both human."

"Yes. Yes, we are." John managed to force the laugh down to something more like a smirk. "And I'm really glad you didn't say 'family', otherwise I'd have to leave."

"Don't," said Chaya, in a low, needy voice. "Don't leave, John."

He came to her as if pulled by magnets, and knelt down next to her. His eyes locked on her face, tilted up to his own like a flower to the sun.

"I'm not going anywhere," he said. And he put his hands on either side of her beautiful face, and he kissed her. He felt her touching his face in return, small points of fire on his skin, and freedom stretched out, wide and dizzying beneath him.

She tasted exactly like he thought she would, like wine and strawberries. And her hair smelled like a garden in summer, and it was beautiful and perfect, and nothing like what he wanted at all.

~~~

In the end, it was almost a relief when he found out that he’d been wrong, that he couldn’t have this either, because Chaya was an acendend Ancient who’d been lying to them all along.

The fact that she’d come to Atlantis for him was an irony so bitter that John might have choked on it, if he hadn’t already been so angry.

And he wasn’t even sure who he was most angry at: Chaya, for lying, or Rodney, for catching her out and ruining everything.

And then, of course, Chaya had to leave. Her people were in trouble and she had to go help them. Chaya turned into light and flew through the stargate, back to Proculus.

John followed her. He’d told Elizabeth it was because it was the best way of finding out what was happening, but he knew she knew that was a lie.

He was also certain that Elizabeth knew he'd go with or without her blessing, that he'd disobey her again, even use his charm on her if he had to. But he didn't have to do any of those things. He had no idea what Elizabeth’s own Gift told her, barely knew what he was feeling himself, but he saw something like understanding in her eyes when she backed down and allowed him to go.

~~~

“Don't worry, John,” Chaya said. Her voice was sad and so very kind. “I won't touch you. Just close your eyes."

He hadn’t been certain he’d wanted to do this ‘sharing’ thing she’d offered--she’d said it would let them know each other as well as anyone ever could, and that was too intimate, too close. There was so much about himself that he was sure she wouldn’t want to know. There was so much he didn’t want to tell her.

But she promised she wouldn’t touch him, and he’d felt like he’d owed her this, so instead of refusing he’d just made a dumb joke and obediently closed his eyes anyway.

She didn’t touch him, just like she’d said, but pretty soon he felt a…warmth. A golden glow suffusing him, like drowning in warm honey.

"Oh, wow,” he said, wonderingly. “This is--This is cool."

Chaya Shared with him the significant moments of her life, both as a human and as an Ascended being. A lot of the Ascended stuff was literally impossible for John's human brain to comprehend, but he could feel the gist of it. He was awed and humbled by Chaya. What she shared with him was unfiltered, uncensored. He could feel her nobility and her stupidity, her greatest triumphs and utter failures. She stripped herself bare for him, naked from the soul out.

And after that, when he felt her turn her attention to him with a wordless question, he could do no less. He gave her all the triumphs and joys of his brief existence, and also the most crushing, horrible episodes of his life, including the horrors of Afghanistan, and even….

“John,” she said quietly, her voice like a soft, insistent tap on his mind. “John, their deaths were not your fault.”

John’s eyes flew open, and he stepped away from her. The light that had surrounded them both dropped away.

"How can you say that?" he demanded, almost shouting. "They died. I didn't know I was charming them, but I must have--I had to have done it anyway. I didn't know I was charming anyone, but I did. I was charming people all over the place. I was a dumb, stupid kid who didn't know when he was hurting people.” He took a breath, and his lungs hurt. “I killed them, Chaya. And I’m never--I won’t hurt anyone else that way again."

Chaya pressed her hand to John’s chest, slowly and gently, and John grit his teeth so he wouldn’t knock it away. Her earnest eyes held his own, and she petted his chest the way one might soothe a skittish animal.

"What about your Dr. McKay?" Chaya asked innocently, softly. "I did not sense in him any immediate urges to end his own life."

John almost hit her, and only held back because of the absurdity of physically assaulting an Ascended being. If she had been an ordinary woman, he would have certainly struck her, and that made him sick to his stomach with self-loathing. He turned away, pushing her hand off his chest, and began stalking back to the jumper.

"You don’t know anything,” he growled, not bothering to speak over his shoulder, knowing she would hear. “Just keep the hell away from me."

“John!” She cried after him, plaintive and yearning. Hearing it made John feel like his heart was twisting in knots, but he didn’t look back, and she didn’t stop him, though he knew she could have, easily.

He left her standing in her perfect garden, and he didn’t think of Rodney all the short way back.

***

When he got back from Dagan, Aiden made his way to the infirmary as soon as he found out what happened with the Wraith dart. He got to the area where Markham was supposed to be and saw Markham's buddy, Sgt. Stackhouse, sitting forlornly next to the other man's bed.

"Hey," Aiden said softly to Stackhouse. Markham looked like he was he was hooked up to every medical tube and monitor the Doc had in the house. His face was pale and still, with bruised circles under his eyes.

Stackhouse made to stand up and Aiden waved him back. Stackhouse nodded at him instead. "Hey, sir."

"I just got back." Aiden indicated Markham. "How's he doin'? Heard he tangled with a Wraith dart."

Stackhouse sighed. "Jamie's alive, sir. But teleporting the whole jumper, with him and me in it…it was too much for him. Doc Beckett said if it had just been the jumper, it wouldn't have been so bad. But he's not supposed to be able to teleport live things." Stackhouse sighed. "He saved our lives, sir."

"Is it like when Dr. McKay shielded the Major from that drone on the SuperWraith planet?" Aiden asked him. "McKay nearly didn’t make it," he explained. It wasn’t like he and McKay were buddies, really, but it still bugged him to think about it.

And he’d have figured a thing like that would have brought McKay and the Major closer as friends. Only, pretty soon after McKay got out of the infirmary, he and Sheppard had some kind of big falling-out, and the two of them had been strange and cold with each other ever since. Like this miserable mission to Dagan. Not only had they not gotten the stupid ZPM, not only had they run into Kolya, of all people, but he and Teyla'd had to run interference between McKay and Sheppard the whole time. They'd been stiff and formal with each other, but with this vibrating energy underneath, like any minute they were going to start yelling or something. Aiden was sure it was McKay's fault. The Major just didn't start fights with people. McKay did all the time, though.

"Well," Stackhouse said slowly, his eyes on Markham's slack face. "He was luckier than Dr. McKay, I guess. We got him to the infirmary right away, so Sgt. Johansen was able to heal him a little. It really drained him, though, and the docs told Johansen to rest before he tries to help Jamie again. So they've got him on life support in the meantime. Doc Beckett says he's not gonna die, but it'll take a long time for him to recover." Stackhouse sighed and ran his fingers through his hair.

"That sucks," Aiden said sympathetically, but he pulled up a smile. “But at least he’s gonna be okay, right?”

Stackhouse smiled and nodded, though it didn’t look like his heart was in it. “Yeah. At least the Doc says he’ll be fine, eventually.”

“That’s good,” Aiden said. An awkward silence settled. Jamie Markham didn’t look like he was going to be fine.

“So,” Stackhouse said a moment later, “how did your mission go?”

Aiden let out a breath and shook his head. He wished he had better news, since he was sure Stackhouse could use the distraction. “Don’t ask.”

"No ZPM?" Stackhouse looked resigned.

"Man, we had it in our hands, but--" Aiden shook his head again. "I should probably wait until after the debrief with Dr. Weir to tell you about it, though." They'd almost had the ZPM until Kolya had come to steal it from them, and then the Dagans had snatched it right back. The Major had tried to charm the Dagans into giving it up to them--Aiden could tell when that was happening now that he'd seen it before. But the Dagans had been resistant somehow. It had been kind of surprising that Sheppard hadn't been successful, actually, since Aiden had seen just how powerful his charm could be. But McKay had told him later about charm not working on religious fanatics, or anyone who was too deep into their own beliefs to be swayed from them. It was too bad. They could have really used the ZPM, now that the Wraith knew where they were.

Aiden sighed. He needed to get to the conference room for the debriefing. He clapped Stackhouse on the shoulder. "I gotta go, man. You keep an eye on Markham, and let me know when he's doin' better, okay? Say hello for me when he wakes up. Tell him I thought it was completely awesome that he teleported a whole puddle jumper."

Stackhouse summoned a smile. "Yes, sir. I'll tell him that."

Aiden walked away, the beeping of the monitors following him out of the infirmary.

***

“Dr. McKay,” Peter Grodin said, trying not to wince as his own voice made his headache that much worse. “I need to speak with you.”

Rodney didn’t even glance up from the readout on his laptop screen. His entire attention was focused there as if his life depended on it. Peter tried to ignore the fact that it probably did, and not just Rodney’s. “I’m a little busy, Peter,” Rodney said testily. “So you may want to save your doubtless vital tidbit of information until, say, after the Wraith have eaten all of us.” He hit a key, then almost instantly grimaced at whatever the results showed him. “Fuck.”

Peter blinked--he couldn’t remember the last time he’d heard Rodney swearing. “It’s about the mission to repair the defense satellite,” he said quickly. “You have to go instead of Radek.”

That did get Rodney’s attention. He blinked at his screen, then turned to look at Peter. “What?” Rodney asked, looking both irritated and confused. “Why? Wait,” Rodney said, “you look like crap.” His eyes widened. The blue of the irises was almost startling next to the inky stains beneath them. Peter wondered when he’d last slept. “Oh my God, you had a vision, didn’t you? What is it? What happens?” He slid off the stool so he was standing in front of Peter, whatever simulation he was running apparently completely forgotten. “Does someone die?” Rodney’s face paled as he obviously thought about it, until the dark smudges under his eyes looked almost purple, as if he had lost a fight. “Is Radek going to die?” Rodney asked. Then he gasped as another thought occurred to him. “Am I going to die? Am I meant to buy it out there?” His eyes narrowed, and he crossed his arms in panicky belligerence. “I’m not going to let myself get blown up by some Wraith Hive ship just because you saw it happening!”

“No!” Peter said quickly, then couldn’t stop the grimace. He automatically rubbed his forehead, though it didn’t much help. “No--that's not it, Rodney. You don’t die. But if you don’t go instead of Radek, Atlantis won’t survive the attack.”

Rodney blinked again. If anything, he paled even further. He swallowed, but his voice was still low and strained when he spoke. “What did you see, Peter?”

Peter took a breath. He’d been rehearsing this on the way here, the best way to explain without giving away too much. “It’s Radek’s Gift that’s the problem,” Peter said carefully. “He…while he’s repairing the power supply, he finds another problem that….” Peter looked away for a moment, swallowing the way Rodney had. There was no point in telling Rodney about it. It wouldn’t change anything. “He finds another problem that isn’t important,” he finished, making sure his voice stayed even. “But he won’t stop trying to fix it, even…even when there’s no hope. And because he won’t stop concentrating on, on the unimportant thing, the satellite isn’t ready when the Wraith arrive. None of the ships are destroyed.”

Rodney nodded, looking a little numb. “Three Hive ships.” He rubbed his hand over his face, then pulled it down to cover his mouth. He stared over Peter’s shoulder for a moment, and Peter could practically see Rodney imagining it, was certain Rodney could envision the destruction of Atlantis down to the last charred beam.

“I don’t understand,” Rodney said, looking back at Peter. His expression was stricken, like a betrayed child. “Why would Radek waste so much time on something that wasn’t important? He wouldn’t do that. Not if the whole city was at stake.” His forehead creased in confusion. “Can’t you just tell him not to? I mean, I know his Gift makes him go off on what he calls ‘choral tangents’ all the time,”--Rodney's fingers made little air-quotes--“but I’m sure he can suck up his scientific curiosity enough to, you know, fix the satellite. As a matter of fact--"

“He won’t stop!” Peter said loudly, as Rodney was reaching up to activate his radio. He had to close his eyes for a second at a double rush of pain. Only part of it was physical. He opened his eyes to see Rodney looking at him with wary surprise. Peter knew he wasn’t known for his outbursts. “There is nothing you can say that will change what he will do,” Peter said clearly. “If Radek goes, the city will die.”

Rodney was still staring at him, his expression somewhere between confusion and anger. “What the hell is Radek’s Gift going to tell him about the repair job that’s so compelling he’ll risk Atlantis because of it?” He took a step closer. “That doesn’t make any sense, Peter! Why would I ignore something like that?”

“It’s not important!” Peter shouted, ignoring the beating pain it caused. Rodney actually bobbed back from him. “Just….” Peter took another breath. “You don’t have his Gift, so you won’t see it. Not until later, when it…well, there won’t be anything that can be done. And it doesn’t matter,” he insisted. “Please,” he said, begging. “We’re wasting time. You need to go instead of Radek, Rodney. It’s the only way.”

Rodney looked at him a long moment, then he crossed his arms again. “No.”

Peter all but gaped at him. “What?”

“I said,” Rodney enunciated slowly, as if Peter were dimwitted, ’no’.” Not until you tell me what the hell’s going on.”

“We don’t have time for this!” Peter burst out, gesturing violently, and whoops, that was rather the wrong thing to do, as the room blurred and wavered for nauseatingly long seconds.

“Peter!” Rodney had him under his arms, gripping so tightly that it hurt. “Damn it, why didn’t you say something?” Rodney steadied him awkwardly against the lab table, until he was able to hook the stool with his foot and yank it towards them.

“Ta,” Peter said wearily, climbing onto it with an effort.

“Here,” Rodney said, yanking a blister packet out of his pocket. He pulled on one of Peter’s hands, twisted it until it was palm-up, and unceremoniously popped four glucose tablets into his palm. He pushed them towards Peter’s mouth, ignoring Peter’s flinch. “Take them before you faint, you idiot.”

Peter sighed and tipped his hand into his mouth, scrunching up his face involuntarily at the taste.

Rodney was watching him closely. “Better?”

Peter nodded, swallowing thickly around the cloying remnants of the pills in his mouth. “Sorry,” he said.

Rodney rolled his eyes. “Yes, please apologize for collapsing from exhaustion.” He snorted. “And they say Canadians are the scary polite people.” He shook his head. “When’s the last time you slept, anyway? Or ate anything? Never mind.” He huffed in annoyance, grabbing Peter by his upper arm. “Come on, you’re going to the infirmary.”

Peter swung his head up, the realization, the sudden hope was like a stab in the chest. For a moment he couldn’t breathe.

If he went to the infirmary, he wouldn’t be able to go on the mission to the satellite. They’d leave without him.

Maybe he didn’t have to die.

Peter hesitated. It felt like the glucose tablets had turned to pebbles in his stomach. “I…."

Rodney yanked on his arm, none too gently, and Peter had to grab the edge of the table to keep himself from tipping off the stool. He glared at Rodney, who completely ignored him. “This century, Grodin,” Rodney said. “Unless you want to suffer the ignominy of riding out of here on a gurney.”

Dear God, Peter wanted to live.

But if he didn’t go, someone else would. Maybe nothing would happen to them, but how could he risk that? How could he even think about risking that?

“I have to go on the mission,” Peter said.

Rodney looked at him like he’d gone mad. “Are you kidding me?”

“It’s a fifteen-hour trip,” Peter said quickly. “I can sleep in the jumper. I’ll be fine. Rodney,” he said, trying very hard not to think about the irony in that. He put as much weight into his voice as he could, trying to convey the importance, the absolute necessity. “I have to go. It must be me.”

Rodney pulled his hand back, looking at Peter as if at an absolute loss. “Why? Why does it have to be you?” He gestured at him, obviously pointing out that he was still slumped precariously on a lab stool. “You look like something a Wraith threw up! What makes you so special that you can’t stay here? I mean, yes, I chose you specifically, but you shouldn’t let that make you all--"

“Because I don’t want anyone to get--to get hurt in my place, Rodney!” Peter snapped wearily. He sighed, rubbing his forehead again. His head was still killing him, and all he wanted was to finally go to the damned jumper so he could kip out for a few hours before…before the inevitable.

“Well, why would anyone….” Rodney stopped, went still, and Peter could see the absolute second when he got it, the moment of realization dawning on his face, and Peter shut his eyes in resignation.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly.

“Shut up.” Rodney grabbed him by the shoulders, his grip so fierce and unexpected that Peter’s eyes flew open. He gave Peter a little shake that did nothing for the brutal pain in his head. “You son of a bitch, you were just going to let yourself die, weren’t you? You self-centered, martyring bastard!” Rodney’s jaw was thrust out and he was panting with what might have been rage, except that his eyes were suddenly wet. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” Rodney let go of him finally, shaking his head in furious disbelief. “Did I somehow indicate that only suicidal assholes should apply for the science division? Fuck, between you and Brendan--!”

Rodney cut himself off, and his face darkened. “You are going to tell me exactly what you saw in your vision, Grodin, or I swear I will leave you here and take Radek instead.”

Peter glared at him, his heart pounding in a horrible morass of fear and guilt and hope. “You wouldn’t risk Radek’s life.”

Rodney glared right back. “I’m trying not to risk anyone’s life here! Don’t you get it?” He closed his eyes momentarily, as if fighting off his own pain. His expression softened. “Please, Peter. Just tell me what you think is going to happen. Maybe, maybe there’s a way I can fix it.” Rodney put his hands on Peter’s shoulders again, gently now, as if helping to keep him upright. “I don’t want you to die, Peter,” he said. “I really don’t want you to die.”

Peter looked at him, At Rodney’s open face and his obvious misery and concern. This man is my friend, he thought, unbidden, and the realization was no less surprising for being true.

“All right,” Peter said. And he told Rodney about how, when it was too late to go back for him but too early to give up, Radek’s Gift would tell him that the airlock wouldn’t pressurize or open remotely once the power had been rerouted to the weapon, trapping Peter in the satellite; how in his vision, Radek kept trying to solve both problems until the three Wraith Hive ships arrived and glided past, untouched.

Rodney listened, his eyes distant and horrified, as Peter described everything that was going to happen. Then he blinked and shook his head roughly, as if dragging himself forcefully back to the present.

“Wait a minute,” he said. “Assuming I can fix the satellite even without Radek’s Gift--and we will, because I can fix anything--You’re telling me you want me to go instead of Radek just because I won’t see the problem with the airlock until it’s too late?”

Peter nodded. “Yes,” he said softly. “There’s no way you could notice the problem.”

“But why does that mean you’ll die? Won’t all the Hive ships be destroyed?”

Ah. He’d forgotten to mention that. “No,” Peter said. “I forced a second vision,” he explained quickly when he saw the shock wash over Rodney’s face. “I can do that, if I concentrate hard enough.” Just like he could extend his visions themselves, with enough effort. The experience wasn’t unlike twisting a corkscrew into his brain via his eye socket. He’d only done it twice before in his life--most recently just before the storm, not that it had helped--and hoped he would never have to again. “You reroute the power, but we only get one ship before the patch gives out. The other ships destroy the satellite.”

“Fuck,” Rodney said, with vehemence. “And you’re still inside when it blows up.” It wasn’t a question.

“Yes,” Peter said.

“Right,” Rodney said thickly, nodding. He turned away, paced a few steps, then turned back again. “Would Radek do better?”

Peter smiled a little, no mirth at all in it. “I told you how Radek does.”

“Right, right, right, you did. Damn.” Rodney pulled his fingers through his hair. “Okay, so we’re still screwed--deal with that later.” He looked at Peter. “The problem is you stay on the satellite to help reroute the power internally, and then you can’t get out because you’d have to do it manually, and there’s no pressure in the airlock.”

Peter was about to answer, but he’d barely opened his mouth when Rodney started laughing.

“Oh my God,” Rodney exclaimed, still grinning wildly. “I’d say you were a moron that didn’t deserve the Cracker Jack box your useless degree came out of, but you’re exhausted and just had a vision, so I’ll be nice. But that doesn’t mean I’m not going to hold this over your head for the rest of your life….” Rodney’s grin faltered. “Which may not be all that long, actually.” He smiled again, a little wanly. “But it’s not going to end on an Ancient defense satellite.”

“What?” Peter’s eyes widened, and his heart sped up until it was painful, like a jackhammer against his chest. “What do you mean? How--"

Rodney raised his hand, forestalling Peter’s words. “Let’s put it this way--I think there’s room in the jumper for another spacesuit.”

Peter gaped at him. And then he put his head in his hands and laughed until he was wiping tears away.

***

"I don't know if I can do this, Dr. Heightmeyer," Cpl. Albert Conroy said nervously, glancing at Sheppard out of the corner of his eye. Kate didn't need to have Albert's Gift to be able to tell Sheppard strongly disapproved of this experiment, and was only agreeing to it because of the possible intelligence they could gather on the Wraith--the Major had said as much. Ostensibly it was because of the danger to Teyla's mind from the Wraith, but Kate knew Albert could easily read Sheppard’s personal distrust of him as well, assuredly because of Albert’s attack on Dr. McKay. Sheppard’s real feelings were obvious to her only because he’d told her about it, in one of their sessions. It was one of the few things he’d said that Kate was sure was true.

Sgt. Bates, standing nearby with a Wraith stunner gripped tightly in his arms, radiating distrust, was also easy to read even without telepathy. At least she wasn’t lying about anything.

"I believe in you, Albert," Kate said softly to him, both to bolster his confidence, which he would be able to read, and because it was the truth, which he would also be able to read. Albert would do everything in his power to protect Teyla through her upcoming ordeal. It was why Kate had suggested him as a safety net.

Even though she wasn’t Gifted herself, Kate Heightmeyer had based her entire professional career on working with Gifted individuals since her beloved older sister had died in a psychiatric facility, made insane from her unrelenting visions of possible futures, constantly drained by her Gift beyond her metabolism’s ability to cope. Kate had found that she had enough insight and sympathy to be a truly good listener, but enough distance to be objective, and was creative and effective at finding solutions to her patient’s problems--even better, at guiding her patients to find their own solutions.

But, despite a lifetime career of dealing with all the peculiar things a practice full of Gifted people could bring to the table, Kate’s time in the Pegasus galaxy trumped everything she’d previously experienced. After all, she’d brought a caseload of Gifted patients with her, and then had to add in all the twists and permutations Pegasus introduced to their problems.

A few days ago, Major Sheppard had come to her, not to talk about his obvious issues with intimacy, as Kate had dared to hope, but to request that she see Teyla about the Athosian’s difficulty sleeping without nightmares about the Wraith. She had acquiesced to the Major’s request and gone to see Teyla. After some initial resistance, Teyla had confided to her what Dr. Beckett’s Gift had seen when she had first come to Atlantis--that Wraith DNA was included in her genetic makeup.

Eventually, that had led to the bizarre situation they found themselves in now. The possibility that Teyla could communicate mind-to-mind with the Wraith was no stranger than all the other Gifts the people on Atlantis had, though a more uniquely Pegasus Galaxy Gift than most.

Kate focused on her patients. Teyla was outwardly calm and resolute, but she must be terribly frightened by what might await her, a nightmare of identifying with her people's most feared and hated enemy. She took Teyla's hand. "The hypnosis will be painless, Teyla. Dr. Beckett will inject you with a mild sedative to help you relax." Teyla nodded at her, and she nodded at Carson. Carson injected the sedative into the IV port. "Now you'll feel Cpl. Conroy join with your mind. Visualize it as holding hands. He's here to protect you, Teyla. Whatever happens, Cpl. Conroy will make sure you're safe." And he would. Albert was far stronger than he imagined.

There was no doubt he had read her thought. After all their months of training, the best Albert could do was lower the mental "volume" of other people's thoughts to an indistinguishable whisper in the back of his mind. He could never turn off his Gift completely, never truly rest without Carson's medication to let him sleep. Now Albert lifted his chin and stepped up to Teyla's bedside, pulling the IV stand with his glucose drip behind him.

Albert turned his gaze to Teyla. "Ms. Emmagan, ma'am, please call me Al. I'm here to protect you, like Dr. Heightmeyer says. I promised Major Sheppard that it'd be my life, or my sanity, before yours. Sgt. Bates is here as backup, in case anything goes wrong. He'll stun us both if he has to. All we have to do is concentrate on contacting the Wraith without them knowing about it, and finding out as much as we can."

Teyla took a deep breath. "I understand, Corp…Al." She smiled at him. "Please, call me Teyla." She looked over at Sheppard. "We will do our best, Major Sheppard."

"Just be careful," Sheppard's tone was clipped, tense.

"We will try," Teyla acknowledged. She sighed. "I am feeling quite relaxed. Dr. Beckett's sedative must be taking effect. Al, would you take my hand in reality, as well as mentally?"

His smile was shy, but genuine. "I'd be honored, Ms. Teyla." He glanced nervously at Sheppard, who glared at him, but Albert still stepped close and took Teyla's hand with his own. He took two deep breaths, then all expression left his face.

Teyla's eyes widened momentarily, then she seemed to settle. She met Kate's eyes. "We are ready, Dr. Heightmeyer." Albert’s lips shaped the words a beat behind her, but he didn't voice them. His face remained blank, eyes focused on something in the far distance that only he could see.

Kate took out a penlight. "Remember, Teyla, we can wake you at any time using a very low-grade electrical current. It won't hurt at all. Just say “out” and we'll end it. If you can't speak, indicate you wish to pull out to Albert. Just think it and he'll know. He'll get you out, or tell us so that we can do so. Okay?"

Teyla squared her shoulders and nodded. Albert nodded as well, shallowly, as if he was a marionette with strings attached to Teyla.

"Alright. Just focus on this light." Kate focused the penlight into Teyla's eyes. "You said that the feeling that you get from the Wraith is a cold, dark feeling deep inside you. Look for that darkness. Now close your eyes and listen to it. Feel it. Go to it. Go to that place, Teyla." She watched Teyla's face, so serene looking with her eyes closed, tense suddenly. "What do you hear? Teyla? What are you hearing?"

"Voices," Teyla intoned dreamily, a frown wrinkling her forehead. "Many voices." Next to her, Albert’s lips formed the same words, his forehead wrinkled in the same pattern, but he continued looking sightlessly off into the distance.

"Follow one, Teyla," Kate told her. "Only one. What do you hear? Do you see anything?"

"I am--I am on a ship. I see Wraith!" Teyla's hand gripped Albert's more tightly.

"Good, Teyla," Kate said soothingly. "That's just what we want. What are they doing?"

"There are other Wraith, and--And they do not notice me. I am walking through the ship. Past people cocooned for later feeding." Her voice was tense. "I pass them. I am in some sort of control room--Oh!"

Teyla gasped and opened her eyes, wide. She looked at everyone in the room, glaring fiercely. "You are all so pathetic!" she exclaimed, her voice unexpectedly deep.

"That's not Teyla!" Sheppard took a step forward, shaking off Bates' restraining hand with a violent gesture.

"Nothing can stop us. You are all going to die!" the thing with Teyla's face sneered. Kate stepped back, suddenly deeply afraid. It had all seemed theoretical until this moment, when it felt like she'd abruptly stepped into a horror movie.

"Conroy! Get Teyla out of there!" Sheppard yelled.

Albert, whose mouth had been voicelessly mouthing whatever Teyla had said until this point, suddenly threw his head back.

"We will…AH!" The deep voice that had taken over Teyla's vocal cords cracked, and Teyla's head snapped back, mirroring Albert’s. Both their bodies were tense, necks arched back, mouths opened and teeth bared.

"Shall I administer the electrical current, then?" Carson asked anxiously, hand hovering over the button.

Kate raised her hand, noting absently that it was trembling. "Not yet. Wait. Just a minute. Albert can do this."

As if he heard her words, Albert sighed gustily. His head straightened, and he slumped against the side of Teyla's bed, loosening his grip on her hand.

Teyla mirrored him, exhaling profoundly, then sagging deeply into the bed, eyes closed, head lolling, limbs limp.

"Teyla!" Sheppard took another step forward.

Carson leaned in, glancing at Albert nervously, and checked Teyla's pulse and respiration, her pupil's responses. "She seems to be fine, Major. Heart rate’s a bit on the quick side, but that's to be expected."

Kate went to Albert, taking his arm to support him. "Albert? Are you alright?"

"Yes'm," he slurred, leaning against her. "Tired, I guess."

"Sergeant Bates, please get me a chair for Albert," Kate said urgently, as Albert seemed to falter and lean more of his weight onto her.

Bates handed her a chair, and she maneuvered it under Albert in time for him to drop into it. "Carson?"

"I expect he needs a wee bit more glucose," Carson murmured, taking Albert’s vitals. He took a quick blood glucose reading, nodded to himself and increased the dosage on Albert’s IV line.

Teyla stirred. "What happened?"

"It looked like the Wraith took over your body," Bates said grimly.

Teyla took a deep breath and sat up. "Corporal Conroy--Albert--pushed the Wraith away from me. He…no one has ever resisted the Wraith's mind control before." She turned to Albert in the chair by her bed.

"Dr. Heightmeyer, is he well? Albert? Al?"

Albert took a deep breath as well and straightened in his seat, blinking his eyes at her. "I'm fine. I'm good, Ms. Teyla.” He smiled. “A snack and a quick nap, and I'll be ready to do this again, whenever you are."

"What are you talking about?" Sheppard radiated anger. "Neither of you are doing this again. It's too dangerous! We didn't know the Wraith could take control."

"Major," Teyla argued. "I was close! I was so close. I saw a hologram--I think it was a map, maybe even a battle plan."

"We know their plan," Bates said scornfully. "They're coming to kill us all."

Teyla shook her head. "It is more than that, Sergeant. They want something from us."

"Yeah, to eat us," Sheppard drawled sarcastically.

Teyla shook her head. "No, no. More than that. They are…they are desperate."

Kate frowned. "What do you mean, Teyla?"

Teyla's forehead furrowed. "It is difficult to describe. Just before the Wraith seized my mind, I saw--They are desperate. They are confident in their dominance over us, mainly because there are so many of them, but they are too many to sustain for long. They have all awakened early and there is not enough food to go around. And there was something else. Something I was almost able to see…."

"What part of no don't you understand, Teyla? It's too dangerous. I'm not letting you do that again," Sheppard insisted harshly.

"John, I must try!" Teyla argued. "There was something important, I know it! Albert will protect me." She turned to him.

Albert nodded. "Yes! I swear, sir. The Wraith took me by surprise before. I'd been waiting for Ms. Teyla to tell me to get her out, only the Wraith…. Anyways, I know what it feels like, now. As soon as I feel the Wraith fixin’ to get Ms. Teyla, I'll pull her right back. I swear, sir." Albert gulped under Sheppard's narrow-eyed stare.

"Albert can do it," Kate let her own confidence in Albert’s ability warm her voice, fill it with certainty that Major Sheppard would hear. "If he says he can do it, Major, he can."

Sheppard cast a quick look at Bates.

"You already know what I think, sir," Bates said tightly. Albert blinked at him, glanced guiltily at Teyla, then stared down at his shoes. “They all believe they can do this, anyway. None of them are lying.” Bates looked unhappy at having to admit it.

Sheppard grimaced, shook his head. "Okay. But, I want you both to take a nap and have something to eat before you try this again. I want you in tiptop condition, got it?"

"Yessir!" Albert nodded soberly. Kate patted his shoulder.

"Very well, John," said Teyla. "But only for a brief time. I know this information will be important."

Sheppard nodded to Carson. "Doc, take care of them, please. I'd like--"

The alarm for offworld Gate activation sounded, then a call over the intercom for Major Sheppard to come to the gateroom.

The Major left quickly, followed by Sgt. Bates.

~~~

Later, at a meeting called by Dr. Weir, Kate would find out about Lt. Ford’s report of the Alpha Site being compromised by the Wraith, and give her opinion to Dr. Weir that, despite Sgt. Bates' opinion, Teyla could not have given away their plans to the Wraith. "Cpl. Conroy would have been able to read that, Dr. Weir," she said. "He would have warned us about it immediately. The fact that he did neither indicates to me that we haven’t had a breach, other than the Wraith are now aware that we're attempting to spy on them."

"About that," Sheppard shifted uncomfortably. "Teyla is sure there's some important intel to discover. I've given her the go-ahead to try again."

Weir nodded slowly. "If you think that's best, Major. Sgt. Bates, I'd like you to be in charge of locating a new Alpha Site for us."

Bates straightened in his seat. "Begging your pardon, ma'am, but don't you think I should watch over the spying mission again? If you're going to allow Teyla to--"

"Anyone can stand guard with a stun gun, Sergeant," Weir interrupted. "But finding us a new Alpha site is a priority. I want you to work together with Lt. Ford on this project, but I want you in charge."

Bates raised an eyebrow at Sheppard. “Sir?”

Sheppard nodded reluctantly. "Ford’s a good officer, but you're enough of a sonofa--" He cleared his throat. "You're more cautious, and that's important when we're finding an Alpha site. You'll each have a team, but it's your mission. You decide where the teams go, and you have the final approval over the site. Does that meet with your approval, Sergeant?” He barely waited for the sergeant’s nod. “Get to it."

Bates bared his teeth in something that might have been a smile. Kate would have to start working with him more often--if they survived the Wraith attack, that was. "Yes, sir. Right away, sir."

"Very well," Weir said, standing up from the conference table. "Dr. Heightmeyer, Major Sheppard, you have my approval to give your intelligence gathering experiment another try."

~~~

The next attempt was easier, in a way. They knew what to expect. They had a chair for Cpl. Conroy to sit in, and had fed both Albert and Teyla shortly before they made their attempt.

"I see a Wraith," Teyla said softly, deep in her trance, Albert mouthing the same words a beat behind. "It approaches one of the cocooned humans. It is feeding!" She cried out, shaking violently, and Carson darted towards his equipment as if to rouse her immediately, but she relaxed, and straightened into a sit again. "Thank you, Albert," she said conversationally.

Kate smiled to herself. "Do you see any other Wraith? Maybe someone you can follow into a control room?"

Teyla's face smoothed out. "Yes. I follow. I can see a map. I hear them. They--They speak about the attack. They are excited about a new…." Her forehead wrinkled in concentration. "There is another Wraith. He is--"

Teyla's eyes flew open, and it was a stranger looking out. An alien. It bared Teyla’s teeth. "You must learn fear of your rightful masters!" it said. "Soon I shall fee--!" Teyla screamed, her head snapping back.

Both Teyla and Albert slumped. Carson jumped to Teyla's side, taking her vitals.

"Is she okay, Doc?" Sheppard asked anxiously. "Teyla, what did you find out?"

Teyla roused slowly. "I am fine. Albert rescued me." She took a deep breath and straightened. "I saw their plans. I saw the route their ships are taking."

"Good!" Sheppard clapped his hands together, the gloves making it a muffled sound.

"There is more, Major Sheppard," said Teyla. "They do not just want Atlantis. They rejoice in the news of a rich, new feeding ground."

"Oh, God," Sheppard said, his voice filled with dismay. "Sumner. The female Wraith wasn't just feeding on him, she was interrogating him! They know about Earth!"

Teyla nodded. "That is why they are all waking up. That is why they are coming here. They know that Atlantis is the only way to get to Earth and a new galaxy to plunder."

"Lord have mercy," Carson said, paling. Kate's own stomach sank with dread at the news.

"Sir, there's another threat as well. A whole deal closer to home," Albert said grimly. He turned to Teyla. "Did you feel it, Ms. Teyla? At the end? The Wraith that tried to take your mind--it wasn't on that ship. It was here."

Kate looked around wildly, thoroughly spooked.

"Albert is correct, Major Sheppard," Teyla said urgently. "My nightmares have a source. I have been sensing Wraith for a reason. There is a Wraith in Atlantis."

***

Aiden watched the Wraith pace the holding cell. It looked angry, if anger was an emotion Wraiths even felt. He wrinkled his nose. The last time he’d smelled that funky musty smell the Wraith gave off was when the Wraith the Major had called Steve was in this same cell, and the time before that, it was on the Wraith ship where Colonel Sumner had died. Aiden hated that smell.

He looked over his shoulder as the door to the brig opened and Major Sheppard came in with Teyla and Conroy. “Sir,” he greeted them. “Teyla, Corporal.”

“At ease, men,” Sheppard told the other Marines. “How’s it going, Lieutenant?” asked the Major, his forehead furrowing as he watched the Wraith. Teyla and Conroy nodded at Aiden and the other Marines, but didn’t say anything. They both just backed into the wall behind them, in the shadows.

“All quiet, sir,” Aiden said somberly. The Wraith’s capture had gone smoothly, once they got the bright idea to use the lifesigns detector, but McKay and his team had left to try to repair the Ancient defense satellite a few hours ago, and Aiden suspected the Major was worried about McKay. Whether you were on the outs or not, when your friends were in danger, you just worried. And there had been some nasty rumors going around that Dr. Grodin had experienced a vision about the trip to the satellite, and Grodin’s visions were always bad. It had a lot of people more than a little jumpy.

“Has he said anything yet?” Sheppard interrupted Aiden’s thoughts.

“Nothing much, sir. Not yet.” Aiden answered truthfully. Growls didn’t count.

Sheppard walked over to the bars and addressed the Wraith. “Hey, you! You got a name?” The Wraith sneered at him. “Okay, then, we’ll call you…Bob!” Sheppard said, faux-cheerfully. “Listen, Bob, I hate to be an ungracious host here, but I’m gonna need to know what you’ve been up to all this time.”

The Wraith showed his teeth again.

Sheppard relaxed his stance, and his face assumed a pleasant veneer. “Listen, Bob, I need to know what you’ve been doing, and I'm gonna need to know now. Why don’t you just go ahead and tell me everything?”

Holy fuck. Aiden blinked. The Major was trying to charm the Wraith! Aiden looked at him nervously. Major Sheppard knew by now that he couldn’t charm Wraith. No mental Gifts worked on the Wraith at all. Corrigan never knew where they were, either, and Dr. Weir couldn’t feel their emotions. Doc Beckett had said something about how maybe the Wraith physiology was just too different for mental Gifts to work.

For a moment, the Wraith’s face stilled, but then he shook his head and snarled at Sheppard. “Human, you play at thought control as if you were a Queen, but you are no Queen! Your pitiful attempts to bend my will are--!” The Wraith broke off into a wrenching scream, then slammed his body against the forcefield, hands curved so that his claws were prominent, showing all his teeth. “GET OUT! OUT OF MY MIND, YOU WRETCHED FODDER!”

Aiden had jumped back when the Wraith lunged, but the Major had stood his ground, his posture relaxed and laid-back. Then it was Teyla who was screaming.

The Major pulled out his pistol. “Conroy!” he barked. Teyla’s scream cut off.

Major Sheppard signaled to Sgt. Peters, who cut off the forcefield. The Major pumped two rounds into the Wraith, point blank.

Aiden looked wildly over at Teyla, who was limp in Conroy’s arms. “You okay, Teyla?” he asked, as breathless as if he’d been the one screaming.

“She’ll be fine, sir,” Conroy assured him. He sounded shaky and out of breath. “I’m gonna take Ms. Teyla to the infirmary, Major, if that’s okay with you, sir.”

“Do it,” said Sheppard tersely. His eyes never left the Wraith. “Have Beckett check her out.”

As Conroy helped Teyla walk out of the room, Sheppard locked gazes with the Wraith, who snarled at him again as he knelt on the ground, black blood seeping from the bullet holes in his torso.

“My wounds will heal, human,” he taunted.

“Oh, yeah? I’ve wondered about that. Exactly how many bullets does it take to kill you guys?” Sheppard shot the Wraith two more times. Its body shook with the impact of each round. “You gotta understand, Bob, I have absolutely no problem with killing you.” His voice was absolutely relaxed and conversational. He shot twice more, ejected the cartridge, and reloaded.

“Sir?” Aiden asked him nervously, visions of war crimes dancing goulishly through his head. He knew the Major had explained that the Wraith weren’t exactly signatories to the Geneva Convention, but he also knew that war crimes were often labeled so after the fact.

“Sir?” Aiden tried again. “Major, I think maybe we've gone a bit too far.”

“Nah, I don't think we've gone far enough,” said Sheppard dismissively, firing three more shots into the Wraith, who collapsed to the floor of the cell. “Now do you think I’m still screwing around, Bob? Tell me. Tell me if you’ve sabotaged this base or not!” Sheppard’s voice took on a deeper register, became intensely commanding, and Aiden found himself biting his own lips to keep from blurting out something, anything.

Old, whispered stories were suddenly haunting Aiden’s thoughts: Black Ops Charmer interrogators, merciless men who could flay your mind open; the Charmer interrogators the Nazis had used in World War II, who forced confessions just so they could make their kill quotas. That’s not the Major! Aiden thought desperately. He’s not like that. But even with Steve, the Major hadn’t gone to this dark place.

The Wraith writhed on the floor of the cell as Sheppard dispassionately shot it two more times. It howled and growled half-words, stuffing its hands in its mouth.

“Tell me, Bob.” Sheppard’s voice had dropped, becoming gentle, cajoling. “None of your Wraith buddies will know. Just tell me.” The Major’s voice pried at the most shameful secrets in Aiden’s soul, and they fluttered just behind his clenched teeth. One of the other Marines behind him whimpered softly.

The Wraith gasped brokenly and dragged himself across the cell, away from Sheppard. He left trails of black blood on the ground. “Vermin!” he growled at them. “Those who feed upon you will know what you've done to me.”

“I really don’t think so, Bob,” Sheppard said mildly, then shot the Wraith again. “TELL ME!” he commanded, the charm writhing beneath the words.

Aiden twitched. He should…he should do something. The problem was that his mind was absolutely blank at the moment and he had no idea what it was he should do. And right now he was just as afraid of Major Sheppard as he was of their Wraith prisoner, should it escape the cell.

The Wraith shook his head as if coming out of a dream. “I will tell you this, human. No matter where you flee, we will find you. And we will find Earth. And when we do, we will feast!”

“Oh, I doubt that, Bob,” said Sheppard, just as mildly as before. He holstered his pistol and slowly stripped off the glove from his right hand. “Open the door, Sergeant,” he said pleasantly. Peters leapt to obey, unlocking the cell with shaking hands.

Sheppard strolled into the cell as if he was just heading to the Officers’ Club. He tucked the black glove into his belt and flexed his bare hand. The Wraith stared at the Major’s hand the way all of them were doing: with a horrified fascination.

Aiden’s mind was spinning like a rodent on a wheel. Sheppard never took off his gloves. Never. He didn’t like to be touched. So why was he taking them off now?

“Well, if you’re not gonna say anything, Bob, I really don’t have the time or the manpower to waste guarding you. And it’s not like we can meet your dietary requirements.” Sheppard smiled in false apology. “So, if you won’t talk to us, how about you just--die.” The Major’s bare hand stretched out towards the Wraith and Bob shrank away from him, pressed up against the opposite bars of the cell.

Suddenly the Wraith’s body jerked, and jerked again as bullets struck it repeatedly. The Major turned and raised an eyebrow at Aiden, who lowered the P-90 he’d just used. The Wraith slid the rest of the way to the floor, dead in a puddle of its own blood.

“Sorry, sir,” Aiden apologized hollowly, eyes wide and cold sweat slicking his body. “I couldn’t…I couldn’t watch you go there, sir.”

To his profound relief, Sheppard glanced at the Wraith then shrugged and turned away, putting on his glove again as he left the cell. “No problem, Lieutenant. I think we got whatever we were going to get out of him already.”

The Major went to the door of the brig and Aiden followed him, aware of the eyes of the other Marines darting nervously towards Sheppard and away. Aiden had to act like everything was cool, or the men would get more freaked out than they were already. “Clean up the mess, will you Sergeant?” he told Peters.

“Yessir.” Peters snapped a salute, his eyes a little wild. Aiden nodded and returned the salute before stepping out of the brig, aware of the men’s eyes on him--the only officer between them and their Charmer commander.

He found Sheppard in the hallway, crouching down and leaning heavily against the wall. He was next to Teyla, who was sitting on the floor and leaning against Conroy, who was in almost the same position as she was. Why hadn’t they gone to the infirmary?

“Did you get anything, Teyla?” Sheppard was asking, and Aiden realized he was panting like he’d just finished a hard run.

“Yes, Major,” Teyla answered him. “Your distraction was most effective. The Wraith never noticed me lurking in his mind once I left the room. Albert and I can make a most comprehensive report of their plans--at least as far as this particular Wraith knows them.”

“Good job!” Sheppard’s voice was warm, but he was pale and trembling. He began rubbing his temple absently as Aiden watched, as if his head hurt. There were beads of sweat on Sheppard’s forehead.

Aiden fumbled in the pockets of his flak jacket, fingers clumsy with relief. It had all been a show. A distraction. Not real. Aiden was so relieved he thought he might just slide down the wall himself, join the rest of them on the floor. “Here you go, sir,” Aiden handed Sheppard a packet of glucose tablets. Sheppard grimaced, but took them anyway, with a weak smile. He popped a few, swallowed them down, then handed the pack to Conory, who took them with a surprised blink and a nod of thanks.

“Let’s get you to the infirmary for real this time, Teyla,” Sheppard told Teyla. Aiden didn’t like how weak he sounded. He wondered how much of an act it had been for Sheppard to walk so casually out of the room.

“I am fine, Major,” Tyela protested automatically.

“Let’s ask Beckett to check you over, just in case, okay?” Sheppard insisted.

“Yeah, Teyla, that’s a good idea. Give the Doc a chance to check the Major out too,” Aiden said quickly. He met Teyla’s eye and raised an eyebrow, hoping she’d get the hint.

“Nah, I’m fine,” Sheppard said dismissively, though he was wiping sweat out of his eyes, and Aiden could easily see how badly his hand was shaking. His eyes were heavy-lidded with obvious pain. “All I need’s a few minutes to get my head down.”

“Pardon me, sir,” Conroy said. “But I’m kind of tuckered out from what we just did too. I don’t know if I’ll be much good getting Ms. Teyla to the infirmary by myself. If it’s not too much trouble, sir….” Bless the guy, Conroy was playing along. Not that he really looked much better, actually. He was white as milk, with most of his grey t-shirt wet through from his own sweat. He and Teyla were leaning against each other like they would each slump to the floor otherwise.

“Yeah, okay, I’ll help.” Sheppard smiled tiredly, as if he knew they were pulling a fast one on him but was willing to go with it. He pulled himself carefully to his feet, and the rest of them held warily back, knowing better than to offer to help him. Aiden helped Conroy and Teyla get to their feet instead, and followed them as they made their shuffling way to the medical wing.

“Sir,” he said softly to Sheppard, walking slowly and stiffly next to him. “Sir, you can’t do something like that again. You’ll scare the men.” He already had.

“I’ll keep that in mind, Lieutenant.” Sheppard’s tired voice was wry. “If any of us survive long enough.”

Aiden swallowed hard and kept his mouth shut the rest of the way to the infirmary.

***

USMC Colonel Dillon Everett strode through the stargate into Atlantis like he owned the place. Well, he supposed he practically did--stamped and sealed from Lieutenant General O’Neill himself. Dil took great pleasure in handing his orders to assume command over to that pretty Dr. Weir. The look on her face! And on Major Sheppard’s, the Charmer.

Cowards. Giving up Atlantis without a decent fight. He’d show them what properly led Marines could do. And after he and his men had whooped some Wraith ass, Dil had a bone to pick with that Charmer, too.

Dil Everett had known Marshall ‘Swampy’ Sumner since OCS. They'd served together a long time, and kept in touch when they weren't posted at the same base. Swampy had been there for Dil during the breakup of his marriage, and Dil had been the first person Swampy called when his own wife and son had died during childbirth, so many years ago. Swampy was the oldest friend, and the closest thing to a ‘best’ friend, that Dil had. And this smirking, pansy-assed Charmer bastard had killed him.

The report had read that it was a mercy killing, but in Dil's experience, reports lied or conveniently shaded the truth far too often. It was just too perfect that with Swampy out of the way, this lousy Charmer had been able to just take command. Dil had never trusted people with the mental Gifts, anyway, Charmers least of all. He was aware it was hypocritical of him, since he was Gifted himself--but his own Gift, telekinesis, was strictly physical, and suitably martial as well. Not sneaky and slimy like a Charmer's sleazy Gift. And yeah, Swampy’s Gift had been labeled ‘mental’ too, but that had never mattered to him. Swampy’s Gift always came off more like an advanced case of intuition. "This situation really stinks," Swampy would say ominously, and Dil always knew that it was more than Swamp's opinion, that something was really wrong. Or Swampy would pronounce someone as "smelling kind of oily", and Dil would know they were a Goddamn liar. But, dammit, if somebody or something smelled bad, Swamp would say it, not use his power to manipulate them, or dredge out all that person's secrets, or make them do something against their will.

And just in case Dil hadn’t already taken him for a no-good sonofabitch, the damn Charmer had the gall to challenge Dil’s authority in favor of backing the woman, Dr. Weir, skirting right on the edge of insubordination. Dil allowed himself to be maneuvered into explaining his plan to Weir, but he made sure the Charmer knew he was on thin ice. “Major, this is the last time I give you an order twice, y’hear?”

“Yessir,” Sheppard said briskly, all business. Then he went off to recall the troops evacuated to the Alpha Site.

Dil set about setting up the defense of Atlantis, rescuing all their useless pansy assess. He wished he could’ve included the Athosian girl in his plans--she was really something--but he’d seen the report about the Wraith’s ability to take over her mind, and she was just too much of a security risk. It was a shame, since he liked a girl who could kick ass, especially one as pretty as she was.

And then the setbacks began.

They survived by the skin of their teeth, but that had only been the first wave of Wraith darts. And there were two Hive ships still coming. Dil had to admit he was a hell of a lot less optimistic at the second tactical meeting than he had been at the first. He was beginning to think that he’d underestimated the Wraith.

“I know we’ve discussed this before, but the circumstances have just changed,” McKay said. He rubbed the center of his forehead vigorously, as if he was trying to keep his brain working. Dil found himself suddenly feeling quite a bit of sympathy for the man, and no small amount of awe that he could keep going, under all this pressure and with no sleep. No small amount of awe for all the expedition members around him.

He was beginning to think that he’d underestimated them, too.

“We know from Antarctica that the Chair is not just a control mechanism for the drones, which we now no longer have,” McKay continued. “It also tremendously amplifies the power of whatever Gifted person sits in it. My Gift is creating shields. If I use the chair, I might be able to shield the city--”

“No,” Sheppard barked immediately, so loudly and forcefully that Dil blinked and stared at him. “I already told you, you’re not doing that.” The Charmer had been so controlled until this moment, Dil hadn’t thought there was any genuine emotion in him. Apparently, he’d been wrong. “We also know,” Sheppard continued more calmly, albeit through clenched teeth, “that the Chair drains anyone using their Gift faster than normal as well. You’d be dead inside an hour.”

“It at least buys us an extra hour to think of something else to do!” Rodney shot back hotly.

“Oh, yeah? And who’s going to think of it, with you dead, Rodney?” grit Sheppard, clenching his fists. “You’re the one who’s always bragging that he can pull miracles out of his genius ass! What happens when you’re not around to do that?”

McKay sank down into one of the chairs in the control room, hands over his eyes, and Dil could practically feel his exhaustion, pushing against him like a wall. Dr. Weir abruptly stood up and paced a few feet away, to stand next to one of the consoles with her arms crossed. “Well, right now my genius ass is right out of miracles, Major. I’ve got nothing. Nothing at all.” He scrubbed his hands over his face. “I’m too tired, I can’t think. I can’t think of anything else, okay?”

“Rodney,” Sheppard said in a low voice, as he went to stand next to the other man. That was all, though. Any other decent human being would have gripped his friend’s shoulder in a show of support, or patted his back or something. Sheppard just stood there, looking pained, those dumbass gloved hands hanging at his sides.

Apparently, it was enough anyway. McKay looked up over his shoulder at Sheppard and met his eyes. He nodded soberly, then suddenly blinked and turned back to Dil. “Did you bring a Healer with you?”

What that had to do with anything, Dil had no idea, but he answered the man anyway. “Yes, of course, we brought the best the SGC could spare.”

“No, no. I mean a serious, world-class Healer!” Rodney was standing and snapping his fingers at him. “A Healer the caliber of Janet Fraiser!”

Dil grinned at the bombshell he was gonna land on them. “We got the good Dr. Fraiser herself! She’ll be here when the Daedalus arrives. She couldn’t come with the first wave. Had to arrange for childcare for her daughter.”

“Great! That’s great.” Rodney was pacing back and forth. “But she might not get here in time to do us that much good. Do you have any decent Healers with you now? I’m thinking if I’m on a glucose IV drip, with a really good Healer standing by, I could shield the control tower at least, for a day, maybe two.”

“Rodney, no! You can’t!” Sheppard protested again, but this time it sounded more desperate than angry. Dil figured that maybe the two of them were better friends that he had thought.

“If you can think of anything else, Major, I’d love to hear it!” McKay snapped.

“I have an idea!” That was Zelenka--the wild-haired, little man who seemed to be Jiminy Cricket to McKay’s Pinoccio. “Why shield, when we can attack? The losses from the weapons satellite slowed the Wraith down. If we manage to destroy another ship, perhaps they will slow down yet again. All we need is to purchase time, no?”

“Yeah!” Sheppard agreed, his expression fierce. “We target the Hive ships! We fly the puddle jumper in stealth mode right down their throats.”

Dil frowned, to hide how stunned he was. “Are you volunteering for a suicide mission?” he asked.

“That is almost my idea, Major,” Zelenka interrupted, speaking smoothly over McKay’s sudden and surprisingly horrified, No! directed at Sheppard. “But I see no need for you to fly to your death, when we have a man with teleport Gift on Atlantis.”

McKay looked at Zelenka like he’d just gone nuts. “You want Markham to teleport a puddle jumper?”

Zelenka rolled his eyes. “Not puddle jumper!” He looked at Sheppard, his almost comical face suddenly going as fierce as Sheppard’s had before. “Nuclear weapons.”

“Wait,” Sheppard said, raising his hand. “Markham’s still in the infirmary, isn’t he? And doesn’t he need to see where to teleport something to?” Sheppard frowned over the idea.

“Well, we do have a Healer who can get your man out of the infirmary,” Dil offered. “He’s not quite Dr. Fraiser’s quality, but if your man is a Marine, he’ll do half the work himself.”

“Wait!” McKay exclaimed, snapping his fingers. “Teyla! Teyla and Conroy!” He practically yelled their names, waving his hands. “Teyla can look right into the Wraith ship through the Wraith’s own eyes! And Conroy can do the same thing he did with Teyla before, and use his telepathy to let Markham ‘see’ through her eyes as well. It can work! Especially if we put Markham in the Chair, and amplify his teleporting Gift.”

“Except you’re all forgetting that we don’t have any nuclear bombs left,” Dr. Weir chimed in, indicating the sensor screens still fuzzy from the Wraith’s detonation of the nuclear space-mines.

Sheppard exchanged a look with McKay. “I think I know where we can get another nuke,” he said meaningfully.

Weir’s eyebrows climbed up her forehead. “Major,” she said, “I don't know how sympathetic the Genii'll be to our situation.”

“The Genii?” Dil asked. Who the hell were the Genii?

He was completely ignored. “They want to test their weapon,” Sheppard said, like this was somehow obvious. “Now's their chance.”

“Let me pass!”

Dil cocked his head. “Was that your Athosian girl, Major?” he asked Sheppard.

Sheppard frowned. “She’s not my anything, sir. But it is Teyla.” They went over to the balcony to see the Athosian trying to get past the guards. Dil signaled to them to stand down.

Teyla looked up at them. “I need to talk to Dr. Weir!”

“Yes, Teyla?” Weir answered her, concerned. “What's the matter?”

“The Wraith!” said the girl. “The Wraith are in Atlantis!”

“Damn! They must have beamed in when they made those kamikaze runs, like that one did before,” said Sheppard. “Teyla can sense them.”

“We’ve got to have a little talk about you giving me all your intel, Major,” Dil warned him. “I’ll deal with cleaning up these Wraith. I’d like you and Dr. McKay to work on that bright idea y’all had. Ma’am,” Dil nodded to Weir. “I can’t think of anyone better suited to talking anyone out of anything than your sweet self. Are you willing to try to get that nuclear weapon for us?”

Weir nodded gravely, but the ghost of a smile quirked her lips. “With such a charming invitation, Colonel, how could I refuse?”

Dil smiled winningly at her. “Pull this off, and I'll buy you a drink.” He turned to the others. “Get busy everybody!” He came down the stairs, as the group scattered. “Now Ms. Emmagan,” he said to the Athosian. “Do you have any ideas for cleaning out this Wraith infestation we seem to have?”

The girl straightened and nodded, her expression regal. Dil could well believe she was a tribal leader. “Yes, Colonel. I do.”

“Excellent.” Dil nodded. “Let’s get to it!”

***

Dil Everett signaled his men to halt while he acknowledged the call over his communicator. "Dr. Weir! Back already, are you?"

"Yes Colonel.” She sounded triumphant, but exhausted. Of course, Dil knew that all the expedition members were beyond mere exhaustion at this point. “I've obtained two nuclear devices from the Genii."

Dil grinned. "Well, good for you! I do believe I owe you a drink, Dr. Weir."

Her answering smile came through even over the comm. "We're not out of the woods yet, Colonel. Dr. McKay says the devices will need some fine-tuning before we're going to be able to use them."

"I'm sure the good doctor will have them up and running in no time," Dil assured her, tuning out the grousing he could hear from McKay in the background. "Meanwhile, I'll be Wraith-hunting if you need me."

"Very good, Colonel. Dr. Grodin tells me that we can expect the second wave of Wraith darts within the next hour or two."

"We should have this infestation mopped up by then,” Dil told her, with only a little more confidence than he actually felt. “We'll be ready for them, Doctor. And let's hope Major Sheppard manages to have his little surprise ready for them as well. Everett out."

"I sincerely hope so, Colonel,” Weir answered him. “Weir out."

Dil signaled his men to fan out.

***

Radek Zelenka swore copiously as he dropped another set of pliers.

"I know, I know," Rodney commiserated, shoulders-deep in the casing of his own nuclear device. "The Genii must have put these things together with the 'Dr. Science' kits they got for their equivalent of Christmas."

Radek wiped the sweat off his brow with his sleeve and retrieved the pliers. "No, Rodney, it is not the Lego-constructed nuclear device that has me fumble-fingered. It is the drugs. Medication Dr. Beckett has given us so that we may work instead of sleep. It makes my hands shake, Gift harder to use. I am concerned I will make mistake."

"Ah sleep! Sleeeep, wonderful sleep," Rodney crooned. He sighed. "We get to sleep when this is over. Or when we're dead, whichever comes first. You're not allowed to make any mistakes in the meantime, Radek."

"I know that," Radek blinked hard to clear the blurriness from his vision. "I will not make any errors, Rodney," he promised.

***

The damned Wraith were right out of a particularly cheesy horror movie, thought Dil, as he emptied his clip into one. It jerked back with every bullet, but it kept on coming, relentlessly. Dil remembered vaguely reading in one of the reports that when a Wraith was so resilient to damage, it meant that the damned thing had fed recently. Damned right it had fed, on one of his men, Goddammit! If he'd had even one lousy minute to concentrate, he could hit it with his Gift, but it just kept coming. With a grimace, Dil pulled out his pistol and started shooting again.

***

"Are you up to this, Sergeant?" Sheppard asked. Markham still looked more than a little pale.

But, "That new Healer, Olivetti, fixed me up good as new, sir," Markham said staunchly. Sheppard narrowed his eyes a bit, noticing the worried look on the face of Markham's buddy Stackhouse. He sighed. They didn't have any choice.

"Okay, the Doc's going to set you up with an IV glucose drip to keep your blood sugar up," Sheppard told him. And thank God the SGC had thought to send more of those. "Conroy's just reported in that he's on his way, and Rodney will be here in a few minutes with the first of the nukes. Once I get hold of Teyla, we’ll be ready.”

“Aye, sir,” acknowledged Markham.

“You,” Sheppard told Stackhouse, “get to stand guard duty. Make sure no Wraith get to these guys while they’re doing their thing. Got it?”

“Aye, aye, sir!” Stackhouse said smartly.

Sheppard grinned and shook his head. Marines. Gotta love ‘em.

He touched his comm. “Teyla? Report. Teyla?”

Where was Teyla?

***

Teyla whirled and swung down hard with her bantos rod, striking the Wraith in the head again. And again. She backed away quickly when the Wraith roared and swung a clawed hand at her. She darted in again and knocked its hand aside as it reached for her, then backed away a few more steps. She had succeeded in luring it away from Colonel Everett, but she did not believe she would be able to defeat it with her bantos rods alone.

When she and her team had come across Colonel Everett’s dead men, and the Wraith beginning to feed on Colonel Everett himself, she had known that she couldn’t shoot it with the Earth-people’s P-90s. Wounding a Wraith while it fed simply made it feed faster as it drained the strength to heal itself from the victim it fed upon. Instead, she knocked the Wraith away from Everett, with her ‘sticks’ as the Major called them, and proceeded to lure it away while the rest of her team rescued the Colonel.

Now would be a good time to employ the P-90, though. Her bantos rods gave her no hope of actually defeating the Wraith. She simply kept it at bay while she wracked her mind for what to do next.

Suddenly, she heard a ‘whoosh’ sound, and the Wraith moved abruptly away from her, as if shoved by invisible hands. The bark of more than one P-90 had the Wraith jerking in place as bullets riddled it. She aimed her own weapon and shot at it as well. It finally fell to the ground, but she shot it many more times, just to make certain.

Finally, Teyla looked over at her benefactors. Dalia, Halling’s sister’s eldest daughter, nodded and smiled at her shyly, brandishing her P-90. Cpl. Jeter grinned at her, and hiked his own P-90 in salute.

Ralke, Charin’s niece’s husband, and Sgt. Debusschere stood on each side of Colonel Everett, supporting him.

“Colonel, are you well?” Teyla asked him with concern.

“Thanks to you, pretty lady,” he said, smiling. The Wraith had not done much damage, his face hardly showed any of the signs of ageing. “That was some impressive ass-whooping you did.”

He straightened and gently shook off his supporters. “I’m just a mite tired from using my Gift.”

“That,”--Teyla mimed a push with both hands--“Was you, Colonel?”

He nodded. “Not as impressive as what you can do with your bare hands, little lady, but not bad for an old Colonel, don’t you think?” He shook his head. “That was a Wraith. Huh. Any of you fellas have something to eat?” His expression was genial, but his eyes were a little haunted.

That was when Teyla finally heard Major Sheppard’s summons over the communications channel.

“Yes, Major. This is Teyla. Yes, certainly. I am on my way. I should be there in a few minutes.”

Teyla turned to her team. “Major Sheppard has summoned me for my part in our attempt against the Wraith ships. You will please excuse me, Colonel. Ralke, Cpl. Jeter, Sgt. Debusschere, would you please stay with Colonel Everett? Dalia, kindly accompany me."

She had turned to leave, Dalia in her wake, when Colonel Everett spoke again. “Good luck, Teyla. By damn, I wish I had a dozen like you in my command.”

“Stay away from the Wraith, Colonel,” Teyla advised him with a somber nod, then she turned and ran down the corridor.

***

"Are you sure you can handle this, Conroy?" Sheppard asked him again. You couldn't tell by his voice or expression how much the Major still disliked and distrusted him, Al had to give him that. Even the tone of his thoughts was brisk and business-like, and someone with a less powerful Gift wouldn't have been able to read the Major's opinion of him underneath the focus on the mission.

Dr. Heightmeyer had said Al was one of the most powerful Telepaths she knew of, and Al could easily read that Sheppard would probably never trust him, because he’d hurt Dr. McKay.

It didn’t matter. Al knew he should be focused on the task at hand. Defeating the Wraith was a lot more important than the fact that the Major might never forgive him. So Al nodded his response to Sheppard as firmly as he could.

He was glad Dr. Heightmeyer had joined them, though. She was a silent, supportive presence in the background, looking very out of place with a pistol strapped into a holster on her thigh. Wierdly, Dr. McKay also had confidence in him, even though he'd been the victim when Al had gone a little nuts. It would have been comforting to linger in McKay's thoughts, as it had been from the very beginning, but McKay was fiercely focused on the task at hand as well, and underneath that he was a jumble of thoughts and emotions, most of them colored with terror over their situation, and all of them soaked so completely with such deep weariness that it made Al feel sleepy just to dwell on them too long.

"We will be fine, Major," Teyla assured Sheppard. Her slim, strong hand gripped Al's firmly, her strong, disciplined mind sliding into a link with his own as easily as if they'd practiced this every day. Do not fret, Albert, Teyla's thoughts consoled him. I have every faith in your abilities, and your protection. You have already kept me safe from the Wraith many times. The only ones with anything to fear from this exercise are the Wraith. The grim, somewhat bloodthirsty overtones of that last thought were oddly comforting.

Al reached up for Sgt. Markham's hand. They were all seated, so they'd have less chance of falling and hurting themselves if they collapsed from exhaustion. They all had IV glucose drips too, to keep their blood sugar up when the time came. Markham was in the Control Chair, which McKay said would amplify his Gift, though it would also drain his energy more quickly. Al could read how tired Markham's still was just underneath his resolute surface thoughts, and the fear he was trying to hide, even from himself. Al caught the edge of Markham's thought, Goodbye, Danny, as the Sergeant glanced at Stackhouse, who was stationed at the doorway, but he turned down the ‘volume’ on it, so he couldn't distinguish anything else. All he had to know was that it was private. Al had spent a lot of time with Dr. Heightmeyer, training himself to recognize the tone of private thoughts and learning to automatically ignore them.

Markham reached down to clasp Al's hand in his own, with a nervous look that matched his nervous thoughts. "I can already read what you're thinking, Sergeant," Al told him with a teasing smile, to make the other man more comfortable. "Doc Heightmeyer taught me how to tune it down so that I don't really understand it, though. It's just like a kind of hum in the back of my head." Markham was smiling back, reassured, as their hands joined.

Except here, we'll be able to speak to each other, mind-to-mind, Al thought to Markham. Can you ‘hear’ me?

Uh-huh. This is weird, thought Jamie Markham.

Tell me about it! Al thought. He ‘heard’ Teyla and Jamie's amusement/sympathy.

Jamie, we've already been told how this will work, but lets go over it again and show you, okay? Al thought to him. Jamie nodded.

You can "hear" Ms. Teyla, right? Al asked.

Hi, Teyla.

Hello, Jamie.

Good, Al told them. Now, the plan is to have Ms. Teyla focus on one of the Hive ships that're coming, and use her link to the Wraith to find a good spot to plant the nuke. I see what Ms. Teyla sees and, through me, you'll be able to see it too. Hopefully well enough to teleport the nuke right into that ship. Are you good with that? Can you see what Ms. Teyla is seeing, Jamie?

It's weird. It’s making me dizzy, Jamie complained.

Close your eyes, Sergeant. It will help, Teyla said.

I'm just going to be the connection, okay guys? I won't be paying no mind to what you're thinking unless you holler real loud, so remember to do that if you want me to pull y’all out or help you, okay? Al explained.

"Are they okay? They're awfully quiet," Dr. McKay whispered loudly.

Al blinked his eyes open, derailed from his train of thought. McKay's thoughts and worries were loud, clinking around like ice cubes in an empty glass.

"They're fine, Rodney," soothed Dr. Heightmeyer. "They're just going over what they're about to do so that they're prepared."

"Ah, okay. Just remember to warn me before the Sergeant teleports the nuclear device, Conroy," McKay pointed at him impatiently. "I have to arm it and start the countdown before he transports it, or else we're just giving the Wraith a nice present, not bombing them."

Al found himself grinning at McKay's quip. He nodded. The Doc was right, that was an important point. Did you hear that, Jamie? We have to warn Dr. McKay before you send the nuke over so that he can set the countdown, okay?

Yeah, got it. Jamie was impatient to start. He activated the control chair. Through him, both Al and Teyla could feel the feedback from the Ancient technology, the potential from Jamie's Gift gathering, ready to be used.

What a rush! Al wasn't sure which one of them thought that.

Let us begin, Teyla said simply. She began breathing to put herself into a state of hypnosis.

"We're starting, Major," Al warned Sheppard, before letting himself sink into his own trance-state.

~~~

"Okay, that's freaky," John mumbled to Rodney, and exchanged a little grin with him before they both remembered the complicated knot between them and froze up again. Keep your head in the game, John! he scolded himself.

"I am on the Wraith ship," Teyla said, eerily calm. "They are eager to reach Atlantis. Eager to seek their new feeding grounds." Seated next to her, Conroy mouthed the same words, a beat behind her, like her personal mime. It was still just as creepy as it’d been the first time John had seen it. The Healer, Sgt. Johansen, accompanied by several nurses, hovered behind them all.

"Jumping Jesus on a pogo stick!" breathed Markham suddenly. "I see them! I see them too! Are we looking through a Wraith's eyes, Teyla? Damn, that's fucked up." Conroy's mouth formed Markham's words as well.

"Quick, Sergeant, before they notice Teyla and try to take her over like they did the last time," John warned him. "See if you can get a bead on where to park the nuke."

"Yeah," Markham swallowed heavily. "Yeah, get it ready. I think I see a good spot."

A few moments later, Rodney stepped back to stand next to John. The nuke was emitting a low beeping sound, and a little red light was blinking on top of the casing. "It's ready to go anytime you are, Sergeant."

"Okay," Markham's voice sounded anxious. "Okay, NOW!"

The device blinked out of sight with a faint pop of displaced air, and Markham immediately gasped, then sagged in the Control Chair, which shut down and went dark.

Teyla’s sudden scream was horrifying, the more so when it stopped, like a sound track abruptly cut off. She lolled in her chair as well, and began to slide out of it. Rodney dashed in and supported her body as it slid to the floor.

Next to her, Conroy had released both the hands he'd held and doubled over in his chair, holding his head and vomiting on the floor between his feet.

Heightmeyer crouched over him, rubbing his back. "Albert! Albert, are you all right? What happened?"

"Feedback." He gasped and coughed. "Oh, my head. God. Hurts."

"Get him something to wash his mouth out and something for the pain," John told one of the nurses, who was looking unsure as to what he should do. "Conroy, report. Did it work?"

"Yes. Sir," Conroy gasped. "Worked. Just. Stayed too long. Feedback. All Wraith dead at once. Screamed."

"Good job," Sheppard told him, vastly relieved. He turned to Rodney. "How is Teyla doing? How’s Markham?"

"I think she just fainted," Rodney offered, subdued, as he held her in his arms. The nurse checking Teyla's vitals nodded. "She just got a shock to her system and passed out."

Sgt. Johansen had gone to Markham as soon as the chair had shut down. Now he looked up, sweating and fumbling to swallow some glucose tablets. Apparently he'd been healing the Sergeant. "We need to get him to the infirmary immediately,” Johansen said. “Olivetti needs to heal him as well. I can’t do more than this. He’s just too weak."

"Do it. Let's go. Let's get these people taken care of," Sheppard ordered. He ran a hand through his hair, wishing he could dredge up enough energy to feel anything other than thankful it had worked.

He looked at Markham, his limp body being gently transferred to a gurney, and wondered how the hell they’d ever manage to do this again.

***

"Colonel, I hear you had a little run-in with the Wraith," Weir said, leaning forward in her seat. She, Grodin, Everett, and John were sitting in the conference room, waiting for Rodney, Beckett, and Heightmeyer to join them.

"Not exactly an experience I'm all that eager to repeat," Everett said, rubbing at the center of his chest, lumpy under his shirt with what must have been a bandage. A Wraith feeding scar. John studied him. Everett looked nothing like Sumner had, at the end. He didn't even look as bad as Brendan Gall had. If he'd never met Everett before, John wouldn't have been able to tell that anything had happened to him.

Abruptly Everett locked gazes with John. "Major, I wasn't gonna tell you this, but Marshall Sumner was a good friend of mine. We served together a lot of years. You know, when I first got here, I could not for the life of me figure how it was that you could go as far as you did and not save him. Worse, you admitted to firing the shot that killed him--"

"Sir," John interrupted, leaning forward. "There isn't a night that doesn't go by where that moment doesn't play in my head. By the time I'd reached Colonel Sumner--"

Everett slammed his hand down on the table, making John blink and shut up. "What I was gonna tell you, boy, is that I owe you an apology!"

"Sir?" John sat back in confusion.

Everett looked down at his hand, back to rubbing his chest. "Now that I've met the Wraith up close and personal, I believe I would have done the same thing as you did when you found Colonel Sumner. I saw what that thing did to my men. I believe you did what Swampy would have wanted.” He gave John a small, sad smile. “Thank you."

John swallowed. "Thank you, sir." He gave Everett the best salute he could remember how to make, then gave in to the need to cover his eyes with his gloved hands for a moment.

Then Rodney came in the conference room, talking on his comm. "I don't care, Radek. Use whatever resources we have. What's the use of saving anything? Either the SGC will be able to resupply us eventually, or else we'll all be dead and we won't care anymore. I'm at the meeting, I've got to go." He slumped down in the seat next to Weir and looked around. "You haven't started yet, have you?"

"No, Rodney, we're waiting for Drs. Beckett and Heightmeyer," Weir told him, the faintest tinge of amusement at Rodney's antics in her voice.

"Oh, good. Wake me when it's time to start." Rodney carefully put down his laptop, folded his arms on top of the conference table, and pillowed his head in them. Five seconds later, they could all hear his soft snores.

Weir rubbed her fingers over her mouth, as if that could erase her reluctant smile. She raised her eyebrows in apology to Everett. "We're all very tired. We've been working long hours under incredible stress for weeks. But Dr. McKay…I honestly have no idea how long it's been since Rodney got any more sleep than that." She tilted her head in the direction of Rodney's slumped shoulders.

Everett nodded understandingly and leaned back in his own chair, rubbing slowly at his chest and looking off into the distance with a troubled gaze.

John tried to make notes or to think of something productive, but he kept sneaking glances at Rodney. He was incredibly tired himself. He fought dual impulses to either mimic Rodney and take a little nap, or to lean forward and stroke Rodney's hair.

Something made him look up at Weir and catch a too-knowing look in her eye. He flushed and looked away. He kept forgetting that she could feel everything he did. John pushed back his chair and went to the side-table and its basket of snacks. He picked up a couple of pieces of fruit and some Power bars, and went down the table, distributing them. Grodin nodded his thanks over the Athosian plums without looking up from his laptop. Weir didn't raise her eyes as she thanked him for the almost-grapes, and Everett raised his eyebrows over the bright blue Pegasus version of apples, but took one anyway. John carefully placed a Power bar on Rodney's computer, and went back to his seat, gnawing on his own Power bar.

Beckett and Heightmeyer finally showed up a few minutes later.

A discreet poke from Weir woke Rodney, who simply inhaled sharply and sat up, pulling his laptop open and tearing open his Power bar as if he took five minute naps every day. For all John knew of his work habits in the labs, he might.

"So, what's the news, Carson?" Weir asked, steepling her hands in front of her.

"I'm afraid it's bad news," Beckett said. "Lt. Olivetti was able to heal young Markham enough that I can be fairly sure that he'll make a full recovery, but he'll need several days' rest before he'll be able to attempt this again."

"We don't have that time, Doctor," Everett said grimly.

"Aye, I know,” Beckett agreed unhappily. “But another bout of using that Chair will kill the lad." He raised his hand. "And, before you ask, he's already volunteered to make the sacrifice." Beckett sighed. "However, in my medical opinion, I don't believe he has the strength to do anything useful at the moment. He will certainly die, but it well may be for nothing. I doubt that, even with the Chair boosting him, he could teleport so much as a paperclip right now."

"That's it, then," said Weir, despair in her voice. "We'll have to evacuate and destroy the city after all."

“There’s still the puddle jumpers,” John said levelly. “And another nuke.”

Weir’s eyes widened, and Everett opened his mouth, but Rodney cut him off.

"How is Conroy?" Rodney asked, not looking up from his computer.

Beckett looked startled, as did Heightmeyer. They looked at each other.

"Everett’s Healer took care of his migraine and exhaustion, and he's doing much better," said Heightmeyer carefully, looking at Rodney with curiosity.

"Aye," agreed Beckett. "A good meal and the lad will be right as rain. Teyla recovered nicely as well. I'd like her to rest a wee bit longer, but her Gift is not like ours. She should be fine."

"Good." Rodney nodded. He turned to Grodin. "Peter, how far away are the Wraith now? Did our attack slow them down?"

Grodin took a breath. "Well, as you know, our long-range sensors are still not working properly. However, the one shot we were able to get off with the defense satellite destroyed one of their Hive ships, and that set them back considerably. It’s probably slowed down their advance a day or two. As far as Dr. Simpson has been able to see with her Gift, Markham’s effort did indeed destroy another Hive ship, and apparently bought us more time." He looked apologetic. "I'm afraid not as much as a few days. A day, perhaps. Two at most."

Rodney rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Good. I think--I think that'll give us enough time. Zelenka and I have thought of a way that I can shield the city for at least a few days."

John shot to his feet before he realized he was going to. "Are you crazy? You can't do that! What part of the Chair is going to suck you dry don’t you get? You can't possibly hold a shield over even a part of the city for more than a couple hours before it kills you! We already talked about this."

Rodney met his eyes and lifted his chin. “Leaving aside the absurdity of telling me I can’t sacrifice myself when you’re still hell-bent on blowing yourself up--“

“Rodney,” John growled.

Rodney ignored him completely. "--I'm not going to sit in the Chair, Major. You will."

John felt like he'd been punched in the gut. He sat down abruptly. "What? What are you talking about? I can't shield anything."

"No,” Rodney said pointedly. “But you can direct the Control Chair. The ATA gene doesn't just give us Gifts, in case you’ve forgotten--it activates the Ancient technology. And you, Major, have the most powerful expression of ancient technology activation here. If Conroy can link us, like he did Teyla and Markham, you should be able to direct my shield power."

"But what good does that do, Rodney?" Weir asked the question first. "The Chair will still drain either you or the Major, won't it? This way the worst-case scenario is that you both die. I don’t see how that’s an improvement."

Instead of answering her, Rodney tilted his head towards Heightmeyer. "Conroy doesn't actually need to be in physical contact to do that conduit trick, does he?"

Heightmeyer frowned, but answered him anyway. "No. No, he doesn't. It augments the visualization he uses to help him perform the activity, but he doesn't need to physically be in contact. It just comforts most people."

Rodney waved that away. "I'm not most people." He faced Weir. "Zelenka and I have been modifying the stasis chamber we found with the Old You," he told her.

"Why?" Weir asked simply, her forehead wrinkled.

"So that I can be inside while the Major uses my shield power,” Rodney explained, like that should have been obvious. “Zelenka and I are hoping that the stasis field will slow my metabolism down enough so that I can last until the Daedalus gets here with the ZPM and we can engage Atlantis' own shields." Rodney sat back, looking triumphant and determined, as he often did when he revealed the brilliant solution to a problem, but expected objections from less brilliant minds.

John sat there and felt waves of cold washing through him, so bad that it was taking all his control not to shake. All the same, he made the objection that Rodney was so obviously expecting. "Even if this works…even if it works, McKay, you could still end up dead. Rodney, I could kill you."

Rodney met his eyes and nodded solemnly. "I guess I'll just have to trust you, Major." The expression in his eyes was utterly open, completely accepting. "My goal is not to die, of course, but either way, at least we'll have bought more time." He broke his gaze from John's and looked down at his hands. "The sacrifice is acceptable to me.” He pulled his head up, “Besides,” he added briskly, “we're out of other options--other sane and reasonable options,” he said quickly when John opened his mouth. “I don't see that we have any other choice."

“You call killing yourself ‘sane’ and ‘reasonable’?” John protested. The ice was in John's lungs now, a heavy weight that made it difficult to draw breath. He aborted Rodney’s blurted argument with a wave of his hand. "Even if we shield the city, Rodney, that isn't going to make the Wraith go away. Why should they?" He clenched his hands into fists on the tabletop and looked at Everett. He was trying to make him understand, force him to see the impossibility of Rodney’s plan, recognize that John was by far the more expendable one. Don’t order me to kill him! "They'll just keep coming, and coming, and coming. Like they did with the Ancients. They’ve probably already called in their buddies right now.”

Everett shook his head slowly. "I have my orders, Major. They are to hold this facility at all costs. And now you have your orders as well." He tilted his head towards Rodney. "Assist Dr. McKay in his plan."

No. John clenched his teeth. “I really think flying a jumper in is a better plan, sir.”

“No, Major,” Weir said. She glared at him, as if his insistence on the simpler, easier plan was a personal insult. Did she think he wanted to die, or something? But if it came to him or Rodney….

“I am not going to authorize any suicide missions when we have a viable option,” Weir said flatly.

“McKay’s plan is a suicide mission!”

“Even if his chances are slim to none, Major,” Everett snapped, “that’s a damn sight better than certain death--and I for one agree with Dr. Weir that we’re not going to sacrifice any of our personnel needlessly. And that includes you.” The Colonel’s eyes narrowed. “What did I tell you about giving an order twice?”

John's heart was a frozen lump of ice, sluggishly pumping icewater through his veins. He looked at Rodney. Please, Rodney. Please don't make me kill you. Say something. Come up with another brilliant plan. Please.

Rodney never looked up.

***

Carson had insisted on a lot of medical prerequisites before putting the plan into action, of course, but Rodney had expected that. It didn't stop him from complaining about taking the purgatives, or about their inevitable result. It sure as hell wouldn't stop him from complaining about the catheter, either, when the time came, although he wouldn't have been happy soiling himself.

Seeing Sheppard go through the same routine should have comforted him--shared misery and all that--but it didn't, since all it did do was emphasize that Carson's people were expecting to have to perform medical intervention on both of them at some point, and Rodney definitely didn’t need that kind of reminder, thank you very much. It also meant that they were each dressed in loose scrubs. Rodney supposed he was grateful it wasn't hospital gowns, leaving their bare asses out for everyone to ogle.

But the scrubs were bad enough, by the look on Sheppard's face. He was finally out of that damned long-sleeved shirt, but Rodney wasn't as happy at the sight as he'd expected to be. Sheppard looked…naked, and not in any good way. He flinched away from anyone who even looked like they might be getting too close, let alone trying to touch him, even for medically necessary purposes. They'd taken Sheppard's gloves, too, and he'd looked about ready to mutiny over that until Carson had cleverly suggested surgical gloves. Worst of all was Sheppard's eyes every time he looked at Rodney: raw misery and sorrow, there for anyone to see.

Rodney tried not to catch Sheppard’s gaze, much.

In the Chair room, Rodney noticed Heightmeyer looking at Sheppard and blinking, as if seeing him in a new light. Rodney caught her eye and nodded coldly. Yes, you've been falling down on the job. It's been that bad and you never noticed, let alone did anything about it. As if she could read his thoughts too, Heightmeyer flushed and looked down. It wasn't fair to blame her, though, Rodney knew. At least not entirely. Sheppard was so, so good a hiding his problems, at acting as if there was nothing wrong even if there blatantly was. And the line between ‘acceptable eccentricities’ and ‘needing psychological intervention’ was notoriously fine amongst the Gifted. And it wasn't like Heightmeyer didn't have a looney-bin's population of Gifted individuals to look after already, all of them needing her help in some way or other. He himself had…. Well, best not to dwell on that.

Instead, he helped Radek run the final checks on the stasis machine they'd hauled into the Chair room. They'd gotten it to function when it was horizontal, instead of vertically as in its original configuration. Rodney had an inkling he'd want every shred of energy available to him--even the low level effort of standing up might be too much. They'd padded the bottom of it so that he'd be comfortable enough, not that he'd noticed much the few times they'd put him briefly into stasis to try it. You didn't really feel much going on outside your mind during stasis. Even the needs of your body faded to insignificance, its functions slowed to a crawl. The mind stayed active to a point, though. It was more like dreaming than anything else, but Rodney thought it would be enough, that he would have enough volition to activate the shield and let Sheppard take it over, then enough awareness to simply maintain it. It had to be enough.

A little cot and medical equipment had been set up for Conroy in the Chair room as well, and Conroy looked even more forgettably invisible than usual in the medical scrubs, standing around like he was trying to look steadfast and brave, when all he looked like was anxious and out of his depth. Conroy could probably have linked them up from a comfortable bed in the infirmary, and Rodney could have left the damned stasis chamber in the room where they'd found it, instead of going to the trouble to have the thing unhooked and carted in here, then hooked up again with what were probably the highest-tech extension cords in existence. But the psychological factor of having them all in proximity to each other would mean a lot. Rodney had learned not to discount the unquantifiable voodoo of medicine and psychology in his time here (although Carson and Heightmeyer would never get him to admit it), and they needed every advantage they could get.

It all had to be enough. Rodney just hoped it would.

***

They practiced linking up via Conroy a few times, first with Rodney out of the stasis machine, then with him in it. John was freaked out about the intimacy of it, although Conroy was as invisible as it was possible to be and still be breathing and in the same room. Rodney kept his surface thoughts brisk and business like, and John tried to do the same. It helped that they really needed to focus on the matter at hand, so he couldn't dwell on how strange it was to hear/see/think/experience someone else's thoughts.

They experimented to see if John could wield Rodney's Gift, first with Rodney outside the stasis chamber, then within it. John tried it on little things, very conscious that he didn't want to use up all of Rodney's energy on playing around. Despite the seriousness of the situation, it was still neat to have a Gift that was not his own--a Gift that was useful and downright cool.

But it wasn’t very hard not to feel envious, considering Rodney’s Gift was most likely going to kill him, with John along to help.

Rodney’s Gift had already nearly killed him, expended to protect John himself back on the SuperWraith planet. It still made John's heart stammer to think about it, so he resolutely kept it out of his mind, kept the image of Rodney's body convulsing far from where Rodney or Conroy could pick up on it.

Finally, they had fiddled around and tested all they were going to be able to test.

One last time, Zelenka compulsively checked the Mark II naquada generator that was hooked up to the Chair and the stasis machine, using his Gift and simply laying his hands on each piece of equipment, feeling for any hint of problems. They had all agreed to wait until Elizabeth or Everett told them to put up the shield, to conserve their resources (Rodney! substituted John's mind) until the last moment.

Rodney shook Zelenka's hand firmly, hugged Beckett, and said a brief word of thanks to his medical support team. John took the hint and thanked his own medical team, then tried not to complain too much when they put in the IV lines and the catheter. He radioed Weir and Everett to report on their status. "Colonel, Dr. Weir, we're as ready as we're going to be. Whenever you give the word."

"Acknowledged, Major," said Everett. "Hang tight, son. They're coming. We'll let you know when."

"Good luck, Major. Good luck, Rodney," Weir added.

"Thank you, Elizabeth," said Rodney. "I've, ah, I've left a few final words, and a note for my sister, and for you and the science staff. They're in the documents folder in my area of the network, and also on the hard drive of my favorite laptop. Radek knows which one I mean.” He gave a shaky smile. “It's been…it's been a privilege and an honor working with you. With all of you."

"Now, Rodney…." said Weir.

"You're not allowed to talk like that, Rodney," John ground out, glaring at him from across the room. "Tell them yourself when we finish getting rid of the Wraith."

Rodney scowled at him and turned away, settling into the stasis chamber.

"Good luck, gentlemen," said Everett.

"Thank you, sir," John answered him, and sat in the Chair.

"Major Sheppard, I'd like to initiate the connection between yourself and Dr. McKay before he goes into stasis," Conroy spoke up, startling John--he'd forgotten the guy was in the room. "It's easier for me that way."

John swallowed and nodded. "I'm ready, Conroy." He breathed deeply and did the self-hypnosis thing that Heightmeyer had taught him. Soon he felt Conroy's mind slide into his own, a cool, innocuous presence: the lettuce in a sandwich, the moss on a tree, the background hum of an air conditioner, the scent of grass growing.

He felt it when Rodney came into the connection. Rodney's mind was unmistakable, un-ignorable. It was the sun on a cloudless day, a fierce wind blowing on your bare skin, a symphony orchestra playing the 1812 Overture, a hot Indian curry burning its complex flavors on your tongue and opening your sinuses. It was Rodney McKay, in all his grandiloquent, genius, gorgeous glory.

Okay, is everyone good? John asked.

Everything looks all right, sir, Conroy responded.

I'm fine, let's get on with it, groused Rodney, and turned on the stasis device.

The burning, violently lively urgency of Rodney's mind was suddenly muted and slow--dark, thick, sweet molasses, the grand wheeling of stars in the sky, the constant percussive heartbeat of ocean waves crashing onto shore.

And love. Warm and passionate and demanding and gentle and for him--for him--for John, who kept running, and pushing him away. Love for John, who couldn’t have it. Who didn’t deserve it. Who wanted it so badly.

John reached for it with the pure, mindless need of a plant reaching for light. And for a moment he touched it, and it enveloped him and he was so happy--

John? Oh my God.

John’s breath caught like someone had dropped a stone into his chest. He yanked himself back from Rodney so quickly that he saw Conroy flinch.

You’re in love with me? Rodney’s thoughts, slow like the spin of stars and touched with shock and wonder and a sluggish flare of anger, like a slow-motion flash of lightning. You asshole! How can you be in love with me?

I’m sorry, John sent back to him. He forced himself to uncoil, to let Rodney know how he felt, that it was true; he loved him. God, Rodney. I’m so sorry.

I don’t understand you. Lava, tumbling down the slope of a volano. Why do you keep pushing me away, John? What happened? What the hell is wrong with you?

Rodney--

Suddenly, Conroy was diffidently requesting his attention. Major? It's Dr. Weir, sir.

"NOW, Major! Put up the shield now!" Came Weir’s frantic voice. "The Hive ship is in orbit over the planet, and another wave of darts is headed towards Atlantis!"

Let's go, Rodney, John sent, knowing it carried an undercurrent of love/terror/despair/determination.

Fine, Rodney answered, and the undercurrent of terror was there as well, but it was firmly overlaid with confidence/hope/trust/anger/love. So much love. Go.

John activated the Control Chair, feeling the potential grow like a nova blooming behind his spine. And then he seized Rodney's shield like a net of glowing gold, and flung it around his city.

***

"Yes, Colonel. Rodney's shield is active now. I'm sure your men can deal with the Wraith darts that were trapped inside the shield. Of course, Colonel Everett. Thank you. I know that you'll deal with any Wraith that managed to beam into the city as well. I'll keep you apprised of any new circumstances from here. Yes, certainly. Good luck, Colonel. Weir out."

Elizabeth sighed, and let her head rest on her folded arms on her desk for a moment, just a moment. Colonel Everett was a brave man. When he'd been in the control room earlier, she could feel the waves of terror he tried to hide as he got ready to go out and eliminate the Wraith that had beamed into the city before Rodney and John had been able to shield it. Everyone in Atlantis had been walking around with low-level terror in their bellies for days--it made it that much harder for Elizabeth to control her own fear when she was constantly bombarded with everyone else's. But Everett had actually experienced a Wraith beginning to feed from him, and he had still gone out again to make sure the Wraith were contained himself, when he could have justifiably stayed in the command center and ordered subordinates to go in his stead. He knew, though, that they needed every able-bodied person to defend the city, and that Elizabeth could coordinate the defense as well as he could. She had read his trust and confidence in her, hard-won as that had been. A brave man.

Elizabeth lifted her head as someone came up to her office. Sgt. Campbell and Peter Grodin were only allowing certain people in, so she wouldn't be swamped with emotions all the time. Whoever this was would be important.

Elizabeth blinked the tired blurring out of her eyes to see Radek Zelenka, politely standing at the entrance of her office, waiting to be invited in.

"How is it going, Dr. Zelenka?" she asked him, smiling. She continued smiling through the rush of nervousness, admiration, and a brief flare of the attraction he felt towards her.

He squelched it quickly. Like Sergeant Bates, Radek was one of the few people who didn't fool themselves about the extent of Elizabeth's abilities. He was well aware that she would pick up his emotions--all his emotions, appropriate or not--all the time. That she couldn’t shut it off.

It meant he was always a little shy around her, a little nervous, especially since he obviously admired her and found her attractive. His feelings of admiration and desire were always profound, he couldn't seem to help it, but they were always quickly suppressed, since he knew she could pick up on it. He was always a touch embarrassed by what he felt as well. But he never behaved inappropriately. He never let it interfere with their work.

A brave man as well, albeit in a different way, to know his heart was an open book before her and still work professionally with her, and not expect anything from her, or blame her, as she knew some people had done in the past and still did sometimes.

Elizabeth let her smile grow warm.

Radek smiled back at her, taking off his glasses and wiping off the smudged lenses with the hem of his shirt. He basked in the attention from her, but they really didn't have the time, so she toned down her smile a bit and raised her eyebrow in inquiry.

"Yes?" she prompted.

"Oh! Yes, I have come to report." He put his glasses back on and straightened them nervously. "Rodney's shield is functioning well so far. The stasis chamber seems to function as we had theorized it might, slowing down his metabolism enough that the effort is draining him more slowly as well. The intravenous nutrients Dr. Beckett insisted on also seem to be helping." Radek ran a hand through his hair. "Major Sheppard is being drained by the Chair more quickly than we had hoped, even though he is not using his Gift, merely directing Rodney's." At her look, he hastened to reassure her. "He is well, also. No need to worry yet." He frowned. "I might say differently by tomorrow."

Best not to dwell on that. "The rest of the city?" she asked.

Radek nodded. "I have damage control teams attending to the most critical systems destroyed by the Wraith weapons or their sabotage. However, I would suggest not trying to take a shower until this is over, one way or another."

Elizabeth chuckled weakly. "Much though I would like to, I don't have time to even contemplate a shower right now, much less indulge in one."

Concern for her rang like a bell from him. He picked up a few pieces of fruit from the basket on her side table. "Come, Dr. Weir. You deserve a short break. To eat, and rest your eyes." When she began to protest he shook his head firmly. "No. Come with me, please. I wish to show you something important."

Although she thought it was most likely a ploy to get her to take a break, Elizabeth got up anyway, took an Athosian plum from his hand--she was ravenous and hadn’t even realized it--and followed him out to one of the balconies.

~~~

On the balcony, Elizabeth stood next to Radek and breathed deeply of the fresh air, then wished she hadn't. She smelled burning. Parts of her city were still on fire. The sky outside was the usual clear blue of Atlantis, but it was shot through with glints of pale gold, as if the sunlight were frozen, crystallized in mid-air. As she watched, a patch of sky overhead bloomed orange-gold, like a chrysanthemum.

"Oh my God! What's that? Is that, is that Rodney's shield?" Elizabeth asked, torn between wonder and horror.

She didn't need Radek to answer out loud, she could feel the confirmation as his emotions washed over her, awe and worry and a sympathetic wince of imagined pain. "Yes, that is Rodney shielding us all against the Wraith weapons." As he spoke, another violent flower bloomed, then another. Radek's pain and worry deepened. "It seems wrong, that it can look so beautiful, when each time it is like a blow against my friend's back."

"Yes it does," Elizabeth murmured in agreement, watching the flowers of fire bloom, red and gold against Rodney's shield, imagining each one taking a few more moments off of his life. The life he had put between herself and harm's way more than once. She remembered the energy creature, Kolya's malice, the tale of a drowned Atlantis from the older version of herself, Lt. Ford's story of Rodney shielding Major Sheppard from a drone weapon, Rodney's own words in the conference room yesterday. The sacrifice is acceptable to me. It was strange to realize how truly brave Rodney was as well. He didn't display any of the usual signs of courage--in fact he usually wore his fear right out in the open, where anyone could see and mock him for it--but he always did what needed to be done, no matter what it cost him personally, no matter how afraid he really was.

Another flower of the Wraith's anger, of Rodney's sacrifice, bloomed overhead.

With the stark evidence of Rodney's courage sparkling above her, around her, it felt exceptionally cowardly to feel as vulnerable as she did. Only one man's life and determination stood between her and utter annihilation.

Two men, because John Sheppard was spending his life for their sakes as surely as Rodney was. Elizabeth remembered the misery on John's face, the misery and fear emanating from him when Everett had ordered him to help Rodney carry out his plan, and remembered the sharp, wild look in his eye when he had volunteered--twice--to fly a jumper with a nuclear device on it right into a Hive ship. She was sure that John would much rather have sacrificed himself in a clean burst of fire than this slow chipping away at his life force, and his best friend's life force as well.

Next to her, she could tell that Radek was also feeling vulnerable beneath the onslaught of the Wraith's malice, yet he took a small, protective step closer to her, as if to come between her and any threat, should it get past Rodney's shield. Elizabeth's heart filled with an almost unbearable tenderness, in spite of everything that was happening around them, and she gave in to impulse and took Radek's hand in her own.

She felt his surprise, then the surge of warmth and fierce protectiveness as he took another step closer, and wound his fingers between her own in a strong grip.

They stood shoulder to shoulder and stared together in wonder and fear, at the blue and gold and painful red of Atlantis' shielded sky.

"I wish the Wraith would just go away," Elizabeth said, knowing she sounded like a child, knowing that Radek wouldn't think less of her for this. "If only we could just disappear, so that they could never find us."

A violent, electric emotion Elizabeth couldn't name ran through the man next to her, so she wasn't as surprised as she could have been when he swung her around and looked wildly into her face. "What? What did you just say?"

Elizabeth blinked. "I wished the Wraith would leave."

"No, no, the other!"

"I said…if only we could disappear…." Confusion wrinkled Elizabeth's brow.

"Yes! Yes! You are brilliant woman! Zlatíčko!" He leaned up and kissed her, quickly but soundly, on the mouth. Then he released her, his eyes enormous, his emotions roiling.

Elizabeth touched her tingling lips, a smile teasing at the corners of her mouth. "I take it you have an idea?"

Radek’s answering smile was brilliant. "Yes! Yes, but first I must check. I must see if it is possible. It is too bad Rodney is unavailable to discuss this with, he can always see the flaws in my plans…." He had already begun to walk quickly away from her, muttering to himself.

Elizabeth's smile broadened. "Dr. Zelenka? You will keep me apprised and let me know what your idea actually is eventually, won't you?"

He turned around, flustered. "Of course, Dr. Weir. I will keep you updated, but first I must check--" Suddenly his hand went to his lips, and his eyes went comically wide behind his glasses. She felt his shock and embarrassment and childlike glee. "Oh!"

Elizabeth grinned, strode up to him purposefully, and kissed him, quickly but firmly, on the lips. "Go,” she told him. "Figure out the details of my brilliant plan and get back to me."

Radek flashed her a look of pure adoration--she didn't need her Gift to feel it; it was written all over his face--turned, and dashed away, muttering to himself again and placing calls on his communicator.

Elizabeth walked slowly back to her office, eating the plum, firmly ignoring the flashes in the sky from the balcony behind her.

***

Aiden felt his body vibrate with the rail gun's massive kick as he shot the dart cleanly out of the sky. The satisfaction of a righteous kill warred with the keen awareness that the dart he'd just blown to smithereens had held the lives of the Marines who'd once manned the rail gun he'd blown it out of the sky with. Better to consider people dead once the Wraith beam got them. Nothing they could do to save them anyway.

Aiden knew that he'd rather be blown from the sky than to end up feeding some Wraith. Semper Fi, guys, he saluted his fallen comrades.

He searched the sky in the sector covered by his rail gun. No darts visible, no darts approaching. The sky sparkled strangely, like some fine golden threads were woven into it. It reminded him of McKay's shield. Aiden wondered if McKay had found a way to shield the city with his Gift. If so, Aiden knew what that meant--McKay was a dead man. No way could he keep up that sort of effort for very long. Aiden had seen what it had done to McKay to shield the Major from one drone. Semper Fi, Doc. Aiden mentally saluted McKay as he would have one of his own officers. No one could say you didn't have what it takes, man.

That was when the Wraith attacked. It grabbed Aiden by the back of his tac vest, yanked him off the seat of the rail gun, and swung him around, feeding hand poised to strike. After the first moment of shock, Aiden fought back. Apparently the Wraith had never learned judo, because Aiden flipped the big guy right over onto his back and filled him full of lead when he was down.

The first Wraith wasn't done twitching when the second drone grabbed Aiden from behind, monster-powerful hand around the back of his neck. Damn, those things were strong! And sneaky, too. Aiden would have sworn there weren't any other Wraith around. Judo wasn't much good this time, as the Wraith effortlessly held him out at arms length, his feet dangling off the ground, and shook him like a rag doll. Aiden felt his brains rattling around in his skull and had time for probably his last thought: Shit!

At first the lurching sensation just felt like the Wraith yanking him around some more, and then he and the Wraith went spinning over the balcony railing, and Aiden thought crazily, Why's the Wraith pulling me into the ocean?

"Shit!" he gasped, as another lurch yanked him from the Wraith's grasp. He dangled in mid-air, like a kitten held by the scruff of its neck, and watched the Wraith cartwheel down to the ocean far below. He craned his head around to see what had caught him, and was startled to see--nothing. Nothing at all. "SHIT!"

"Calm down, son," the voice came from above, and Aiden looked higher, back up on the balcony railing, where Colonel Everett was leaning, his hand outthrust as if he was grabbing at something. Me, Aiden realized with a sick feeling in his belly.

"Don't struggle, Marine!" Everett bellowed, and Aiden forced himself to go limp. The strain on Everett's face was evident as he made a gathering motion with his hands. Aiden felt himself getting yanked up slowly, inch by inch.

Finally, he was close enough to the balcony railing so that the other Marines with Everett could reach over and grab him, haul him up the rest of the way. Aiden was very glad to feel human hands on him rather than those invisible lines of force. He collapsed on the floor of the balcony, next to Everett, who was sitting on the floor with his back to the railing, pale and breathing hard.

"Thanks, Colonel," Aiden told him, grateful, giving a wobbly salute. "I thought I was done for. Here, sir." He offered Everett a Power bar from his tac vest. After going offworld with McKay so often, he'd learned to habitually stash a few extra Power bars in his gear. "You need something to eat, get your strength back."

Everett nodded and wordlessly tore into the Power bar, consuming it quickly. Aiden handed him another one without saying anything, watching the color slowly come back into his face. One of the other Marines gave the Colonel a canteen.

Finally, Everett got to his feet. Aiden still felt a little shaky, but he got up as well.

"Okay, men, let's get going," Everett ordered, straightening his uniform with little tugs. "The Wraith are infesting this place like damned cockroaches. Let's go stomp 'em out."

Aiden exchanged a grin with another Lieutenant as the Marine handed him a spare P-90, and he followed the group as they headed out, doubletime.

***

"Dr. Zelenka!" The technician monitoring Rodney's stasis chamber called him, panic in his voice. "Dr. Zelenka, something's wrong! Come quick!"

Radek's heart was beating fast even before he ran over to the stasis chamber, dodging the medical personnel crowded around it. A glimpse through the clear panel showed him Rodney's body spasming in a convulsion. "Do prdele!" He didn't have time to check the diagnostics, he simply knelt, laid his hands on the machine, and closed his eyes, employing his Gift.

"Dr. Zelenka!" called the technician monitoring the Chair. "There's a problem here too! It's serious, sir!" The medical personnel began to buzz around Colonel Sheppard as well--Radek could hear them, but he didn't dare distract himself by looking. He could only deal with one problem at a time, and Sheppard's problem was likely due to Rodney's anyway.

The malfunction was proving elusive. All the stasis chamber's systems seemed fine, except…except there was a power fluctuation! There! Radek’s eyes popped open. "The Mark II generator!" He didn't even bother to stand up, dignity be damned, and crawled on hands and knees like a child over to the generator. It was failing! He remembered Rodney saying that it ran in a state of barely-contained overload.

From his cot, Conroy began uttering a low, keening wail, punctuated by harsh, hitching breaths, as if he was being repeatedly punched in the stomach.

Out of the corner of his eye, Radek glimpsed a flailing limb as Major Sheppard lay convulsing in the Chair. "Do prdele!" he snarled. "You!" he snapped his fingers, Rodney-style, at an engineer whose name didn't come immediately to mind. "Get over here! Bring me those tools!"

As the man scrambled over, Radek shut his eyes to concentrate. What to do, what to do….

An explosion rocked the building. Colonel Everett's frantic voice came barking over his comm., "What the blue devil is going on? Where's the damn shield?"

"Not now!" Radek answered him tersely, turning off his communicator. Now he more fully understood Rodney's snapping replies of "Working! Working!" when someone interrupted him in a crisis to ask for status reports. He couldn't afford the time or distractions right now. Not just his two friends' lives, but the lives of everyone in Atlantis were on the line. He needed to concentrate.

Radek set his hands on the casing of the generator, using his Gift to let the device itself tell him what was wrong.

His eyes snapped open. "YES!" Now he knew what to do! If only he could get it done in time….

***

The Wraith warrior snarled and flung Dalia's broken body aside as Teyla emptied the rounds of her P-90 into its body. Oh, how Halling would grieve! Dalia had been the last living member of his sister's family.

All too soon, Teyla's ammunition ran out, but the Wraith kept advancing, strong from having recently fed. Teyla dropped the P-90 and pulled out her bantos rods, backing up. The Wraith grinned evilly, sensing an easy victory. Teyla snarled back, and held herself ready for battle.

***

Elizabeth's heart plummeted when Wraith's beam weapons began striking the city--her beautiful city--and it began to burn and shatter. Damage reports started coming in a flood, as critical system after critical system was damaged or destroyed.

As she managed the influx of reports and panicked requests for information or assistance, she asked Dr. Grodin and Sgt. Campbell to begin preparing for evacuation and self-destruct, after all.

She barely noticed the tears streaming from her eyes. There was no time right now to acknowledge her grief. If the shield had failed, it could only mean that Rodney, and probably John as well, lay dead or dying.

***

"Bloody Hell!" Carson swore. "Crack it open! It's not doing anything to help him anyway," he told the technicians. They obeyed him and opened the stasis chamber so that he could get at Rodney's convulsing form. "Lt. Olivetti, man, can you--"

"Immediatamente, Dottore," Olivetti leaned in and applied healing to Rodney, enough to bring him out of convulsions at least. They had all agreed in the beginning to apply healing judiciously, so as not to exhaust the Healers right away, when a bigger effort might be called for later.

Rodney finally lay still, his face sickly grey and a line of drool running from his open mouth. He looked barely alive. His respiration and pulse were much too fast, his skin cool and clammy. His eyes ran back and forth beneath closed lids, as if he were dreaming.

"Ach, Rodney, lad," Carson whispered mournfully, as he and his team worked to stabilize his friend. Even if Rodney managed to survive this, he might be looking at brain or major organ damage. As he worked, Carson swore under his breath at the bloody Wraith and the bloody Pegasus galaxy, and at his own bloody self, for finding a way to activate Rodney's bloody Gift, which was going to bloody well kill him….

***

Tom Bates saw the Wraith advancing on Teyla and fired his P-90 before he even realized he was going to do it. It took a lot of rounds for the damned thing to go down--it must have fed recently. Tom tried not to think of who the Wraith might have fed on.

Teyla straightened and sighed, looking down at the dead Wraith. "Thank you, Sergeant Bates. I was out of ammunition, and I could not have held it off for long."

Yet, she'd been ready to face the thing with only those sticks she carried, and go down fighting. "You lost your group?" Tom asked her.

"Yes," she said simply, sadly.

Tom jerked his head in invitation. "Come on, we're doing a sweep of this sector."

"Very well." She nodded in agreement, collected her P-90, and accepted the extra rounds of ammunition he handed over before joining the group of Marines in the corridor.

"This is Teyla Emmagan," Tom introduced her. "She's on our side."

And he found that he wasn't lying at all when he said that.

***

"There, done!" Radek slapped the access panel down and restarted the Mark II. The ready lights glowed reassuringly, and it hummed gently. He placed his hands on it and inspected it with his Gift. Good, it was working well.

With a groan, Radek levered himself up onto his feet and made his way over to Beckett. An explosion rocked the building, and he grabbed the edge of the stasis chamber to stay on his feet.

Radek looked at Carson's face, deliberately not looking at McKay. He didn't want to see what his friend looked like while he was dying. Radek didn't fool himself by pretending that Rodney would survive this. "Carson, is he stabilized? The stasis chamber should be working again. If he is able, we can start it again at any time."

Carson nodded. "Not that it will do him much good, poor bugger. Just make sure this kills him more slowly." There were tears in his eyes.

Radek swallowed, and put a hand on the doctor's arm. "Carson, this is not for him, it is for us--to keep the shield active a little longer. Rodney always knew it would be for us."

Carson nodded again and wiped his eyes. "Aye. Go ahead and activate the bloody thing. He's as stable as he's going to get."

It was the work of only a few moments to activate the stasis chamber again. Radek munched absently on a Power bar one of the nurses had handed him. He watched across the room as the medical team around Conroy signaled a thumbs-up, then the medical team around Sheppard did so as well. He caught sight of Sheppard sitting up and looking blearily around, then sinking his head back to the headrest of the Chair, and leaning back, activating it. Even from across the room, the man had looked exhausted and spent. Radek's throat swelled and he had difficulty swallowing down the suddenly completely unpalatable lump of Power bar.

He snagged a sport’s drink from one of the nurses and drank it all down dutifully. Then he activated his communicator. "Dr. Weir, this is Zelenka. The shield should be active once again. We had a minor glitch with the naquada generator."

"Oh thank God!" Weir's voice was gravelly with exhaustion. "How long have we got?"

"A day. Probably less," he admitted darkly. "McKay doesn't look good, and neither do the others."

"Understood." Her voice was very small.

He had no words of hope for her.

***

It had been more and more difficult to wield the shield for a while now. The battering of the Wraith’s weapons was becomming harder and harder to bear--John could feel the loss of strength in his own body, but he felt it worse in Rodney’s through the link. It was like holding a fire hose with the water pressure falling off. At first, the decline had been gradual, but in the last little while it had been failing in a series of uneven tugs, like somewhere, someone was shutting off a valve. He felt Conroy’s pain, and through him, Rodney’s, like a distant nightmare. He tried to contact Rodney though the link Conroy had created, cajoling, shouting, ordering Rodney to live. He tried to use his own Gift, but he was so tired that even with the added power of the Chair it did done nothing but leave him almost too weak to open his eyes.

And then John suddenly felt the pressure of Rodney’s Gift fall away completely. He couldn't reach it anymore. The Chair's power failed him and the golden net of the shield grew smaller and smaller, until at last it crumbled to dust in his hands.

And suddenly, where Rodney had been, a warm, seeping comfort in the back of his mind, there was a blank. Nothing. Rodney was gone.

Rodney! John cried with his mind, with all the despairing terror of a toddler who has lost his parents. Rodney, Rodney!

Rodney didn't respond.

***

USMC Lance Corporal Albert Conroy had learned to make himself invisible as a child. Being quiet and unnoticed meant his mother didn’t beat him up as much. It meant the other kids at school didn’t pick on him as often, even though he was skinny and short for his age until he turned nineteen, and dressed in thrift-store clothes because his family was poor.

Once, one of his commanding officers in the Marines had told him he could have been a sergeant by now--should have, even, except that he ‘was too damn inconspicuous’. Al had tried to be more assertive after that, speak up a little more, but a habit of a lifetime was hard to break, and he was so used to letting himself fade into the background that not doing it was both baffling and terrifying. He’d ended up resigning himself to an undistinguished career. He’d even convinced himself he was okay with that.

Al had never understood why he’d been picked for the Stargate Program--he was sure there was nothing special in his record--except that he had the ATA gene, even though it was inactive for both Gift and Ancient technology activation. He’d ended up helping to guard scientists at the Antarctic base, too consistently amazed to be bored by it, and then he’d been chosen for the Atlantis expedition. He’d often wondered if he had that same CO to thank for it, the one who had seen something in him when no one else had, Al included.

It was almost funny that pretty much the most real initiative Al had ever taken was when he’d brutally attacked and kidnapped Dr. McKay, but Al tried not to think about that much.

Now, though, he couldn’t help feeling that his whole life had led up to this, that his awful, wonderful Gift had somehow come to him because only an expert at being unnoticed would be able to do what he could do.

He was a protector and an anchor, and a conduit. And he was very, very good at it. The best, Dr. Heightmeyer had told him. The best she’d ever seen.

Al had never been the best at anything. He’d been afraid to try. But he liked it.

Except that even being the best wasn’t going to be enough, not here. McKay was dying, and there was nothing Al could do about it.

He could feel McKay’s exhaustion like a rising tide, slow, because of the stasis chamber, but unstoppable. Dr. Beckett had put a nutrient and a glucose IV in the stasis chamber with him, but Al knew that wasn’t enough. He could feel how it wasn’t enough. McKay’s body was still shutting down, his thoughts spiraling slower and slower, going grey, dark.

It hurt. The pain had been growing for hours--days?--until it was so bad now it felt like there had never been anything else, just agony, going on and on and on. Al was pretty sure he had managed to keep the worst of it from seeping through to Major Sheppard, though he knew Sheppard was feeling it anyway. Pain threaded through all three of their minds, dark red like drying blood.

It had already gotten so bad once that Albert had been sure he was going to die too, when the generator powering the Chair at stasis chamber had shut down. Without the stasis chamber’s protection, McKay was suddenly so weak he’d gone into convulsions. Al had been so deep inside both Sheppard and McKay’s minds that he hadn’t noticed anything was wrong--hadn't even recognized the panicked thoughts of Dr. Zelenka and Dr. Beckett, though they were both in the room--until all of a sudden McKay was near death, his dimming mind dragging Sheppard and Al down with him. The pain was unbelievable.

Someone had brought McKay back that time, enough so that Al could pull both he and Sheppard far enough away that they were no longer in danger from McKay’s mind, and he’d been aware of it when Zelenka had fixed the generator, and McKay had been given a stimulant and a new glucose IV, and they’d been able to keep shielding the city.

Al had lost track of time again, after that. Except for the pain coming back, rising like spikes being pushed one by one into each knot of his spine.

McKay’s Gift was fading, falling away as he died.

Al could ‘hear’ Major Sheppard: coaxing, then shouting, ordering McKay to stay with them, to keep concentrating, stay alive. Al could feel it when Sheppard used his Gift, trying to charm McKay, convince him somehow not to give up and die.

It didn’t work, except to leave Sheppard so weak that Al was gasping from it, feeling like there were stones in his lungs. And then the shield flickered, then again, then shrunk and crumbled and splintered into nothing. McKay’s thoughts went silent. It was like the sun going out.

Al heard the distant explosions, the alarm in the minds of the medical and technical teams. Sheppard’s screams of grief and fear and rage fell like bricks in Al’s head, crashing down and breaking.

Al’s eyes shot open in time to see the Major rocket upright in the control chair. The machine shut off instantly. Al could hear explosions all over the city now, the Wraith attacking in earnest.

“Rodney! Rodney!” Sheppard was still screaming in Al’s head. He yanked his Gift back, muting it as much as he could until it was like the hissing of a violent rainstorm.

The medical team with McKay were swarming around him like frightened bees. Dr. Beckett was shouting something, and Lieutenant Olivetti had his hands on either side of McKay’s head. Olivetti’s Gift was like a warm hum, a ribbon of orange light, but Al couldn’t sense anything from McKay at all. He wondered if the lieutenant could raise the dead. He didn’t think so.

Sheppard was fighting feebily with two of the nurses in the team assigned to him, who were pressing him back to the chair. He was demanding, then begging, for them to let him go to McKay. He kept insisting that he could help, that he knew what to do. But he was so weak now he could barely talk, as ineffective as a baby against the women’s determination. Al could feel it when Sheppard’s thoughts faltered, then slivered into unconsciousness. One of the nurses started calling for help.

He felt like he was floating, his eyes slipped down to blurred slits, too tired now to block anyone’s thoughts or even make sense of them. He felt like a tiny pebble in a raging current, overwhelmed and tumbling, sinking down and down and down.

He realized, distantly, that he couldn’t remember who he was, but it didn’t matter. He was just so tired--

~~~

Al thought he might have grayed out for a while, because the next thing he was aware of was that he could see clearly again, and he knew his own name. There were warm hands on his chest, and Al could feel Johansen’s Gift as a pulse of quiet blue light, like the heart of a small flame.

He looked for Sheppard, and saw him lying on a gurney Al didn’t remember anyone bringing in. His mind was like static with unquiet sleep. Olivetti was with Sheppard now, with his hands on either side of the Major’s head. Olivetti’s face was tight with concentration, his thoughts jumping like the line on a heart monitor as he pulled Sheppard back.

And there was a woman standing next to McKay’s stasis chamber, wearing a green coverall with a patch that said Daedalus. She was very small, with dark brown hair, and she had one hand wrapped around McKay’s, and another hand on his forehead. All the medical crew were standing aside, watching her, their minds thundering with anxiety and hope. Her Gift in Al’s mind sounded like the roar of an avalanche, and it blazed like the white heart of a star.

He heard it when McKay gasped, but it was by the sudden rush of thoughts: tumbling slow with McKay’s lack of consciousness, but like sharp, clear light, almost as bright as the Healer’s Gift, that Al knew that Rodney McKay had come back, that he was alive.

The Healer--and this was Dr. Janet Fraiser, her name was like a prayer in everyone’s mind--let out a soft sigh and fell gently backwards. A male nurse caught her and lifted her almost reverently into his arms.

Al fell asleep with Johansen’s hands still warm and solid on his chest, healing him, and with Dr. McKay’s life like comfort in his mind.

***

Radek smiled as the ZPM slid smoothly into its slot in the power console. He looked up and met Sgt. Bates' eye and gave him a thumbs up. Bates grinned at him--a startlingly pleasant expression on his usually grim face--and turned to exchange smiles with Teyla. Weren't they normally at odds, those too? Nevertheless, it was comforting to have them both guarding him against any stray Wraith that might be wandering around while he was installing the ZPM.

He turned to the control panel, checked the readouts, and patted the panel when the display showed optimal conditions. He input the command to initiate Atlantis' ZPM shield.

Radek activated his communicator. "Dr. Weir, Colonel Everett. Zelenka reporting."

"Yes, Radek?" Elizabeth's voice was eager.

"I have good news! Atlantis' own shield is activated." His smile died on his face. "If only Rodney could have lived to see this moment."

"Radek, I'm so glad to be able to tell you this," Elizabeth's voice was trembling. "The Daedalus brought Dr. Frasier, just as Colonel Everett promised us. She healed him, Radek. It's a miracle. Rodney's alive."

"Chvála bohu!" Radek muttered, before he had to sit down, right on the floor. Oh, Rodney. Oh, thank God.

"Doc? Doc, you okay?" Bates called, his voice sounding concerned.

"Yes. Yes, I am fine. Is good news. Dr. McKay lives." Radek got heavily to his feet.

"Thank the Ancestors!"

Radek readily agreed with Teyla's sentiment. He would thank whoever he had to, as often as he had to, to have Rodney back safe with them.

But now, now he had to get back to work if he was to implement Elizabeth's brilliant plan.

***

"There are no words to adequately convey how glad we are to see you, Colonel," Dil Everett told Caldwell, with complete sincerity.

Caldwell preened a bit, and Dil let him. The boy deserved to wear the hero's laurels for a little while at least, coming in the nick of time like that.

Caldwell turned to Weir and smiled charmingly at her. "I'm very impressed with you and your people, Dr. Weir. You've accomplished an almost impossible task with very limited resources."

Weir nodded at him crisply. "We're not done yet, Colonel Caldwell. There is still one Wraith ship in orbit above our heads. Until that's gone, Atlantis is not safe. And honestly, even if they leave in the next ten minutes, there's no guarantee that they won't come back with plenty of reinforcements. That's why Dr. Zelenka has come up with a plan to not only send them packing, but to keep them away."

Dil smiled privately to himself. He supposed Caldwell made a fine figure of a man, and maybe under other circumstances a lovely woman like Elizabeth Weir would have noticed that subtle bid for her attention. But Caldwell hadn't seen the way Weir looked at that scrawny little Czech scientist lately. Dil supposed there was no accounting for taste, and he had yet to figure out women. According to his ex-wife, he never would.

Zelenka stood up at the head of the conference table, and nervously ran a hand through his wild hair. "Gentlemen. Dr. Weir. Even if we drive them away today, the Wraith will come, and keep coming, in greater numbers, until they defeat us, as they defeated the Ancients before us. We know that they seek Atlantis as a gateway to a rich new feeding ground in the Milky Way galaxy. They want Earth."

"So, what are we supposed to do about it?" growled Caldwell, shifting in his chair.

Zelenka picked up a pointer and fiddled with it, then turned on a presentation screen behind him. "It was originally Dr. Weir's idea. We must make the Wraith leave of their own volition, because they will believe that Atlantis is no longer here for them to plunder."

"Just how are we going about making that happen, Dr. Zelenka?" Dil leaned forward, rubbing absently at the Wraith feeding scar. Dil already knew that, if he survived, he'd be heading home when this battle was over. He'd lost his stomach for the Pegasus galaxy and everything in it, even Atlantis, if it included the Wraith. He was done. He was going to put in for retirement, see if he could get in a little fishing before he got too old to enjoy it.

Zelenka perked up. "This is also Dr. Weir's idea. We will become invisible! You see, the puddlejumper's cloaking device…."

***

“Okay,” Rodney said, standing in John’s doorway ten days later. He looked anxious and determined, his chin thrusting out as if daring John to contradict whatever he was going to say. “I’ve been thinking a lot about this, and we have to talk.”

John blinked at him. He’d been packing for the trip back to Earth, and he still had a black, long-sleeved shirt rolled in one gloved hand. He realized he’d begun squeezing it like he was trying to strangle something, but couldn’t manage to make his hand relax.

He could feel his heart suddenly, like a weight. He knew exactly what it was Rodney wanted to talk about.

“Rodney,” he said, voice tight. “I don’t--"

“Shut up,” Rodney said. “You don’t get a say in this.” He bulled his way into the room, forcing John to back up so their bodies wouldn’t touch.

John kept moving backwards until he was standing in front of his bed. He dropped the t-shirt on it, next to his duffel bag, then crossed his arms. He yanked up his best glare like a weapon. “There’s nothing to talk about, Rodney,” he ground out. “I told you--it's over. We’re done.”

Rodney crossed his arms as well, glowering so fiercely John was almost surprised he didn’t burst into flame. “Cut the bullshit, Major. I know how you feel about me, remember?”

John managed not to flinch. God, he’d hoped Rodney had forgotten that. “It doesn’t matter,” he gritted. “It doesn’t change anything. I’m sorry,” he added, more softly. He was more sorry than he could ever say. He turned his back to Rodney, grabbing the shirt and shoving it viciously into his bag. “I’m busy, Rodney,” he said to the duffel.

He figured he had to have been expecting it on some level when Rodney grabbed his arm, because he didn’t startle or try to pull away, though he resisted when Rodney yanked him around. But in the end he allowed Rodney do it, rather than let the situation devolve into a fight.

“Rodney!” He spat, voice deadly. He jerked his arm, and at least Rodney let it go.

But Rodney’s eyes were blazing like a desert sky. “No,” Rodney spat at him. “No, you do not get to do this again. I know how you feel about me, Sheppard!” he barked. “And I know that whatever this fucking game is, it’s hurting you more than it’s hurting me.” Rodney shook his head. “I’m not letting you run away this time. Not anymore. You’re going to tell me what the problem is, why the hell you won’t let yourself touch anyone.”

John looked at Rodney for a long moment. Rodney just stared defiantly back at him, but the hardness in his eyes relaxed, let go.

“It’s okay, John,” Rodney said.

John closed his eyes. He ran his palm over his face, feeling the smoothness of the leather, centering himself. Rodney waited.

John lowered his hand, took a breath. “I’ve killed people,” he said. “With my Gift. I touched them, and….” He swallowed, resisting the urge to look away. “I touched them and they died.”

He had expected Rodney to react with shock, maybe disgust or fear. But Rodney just frowned, like he was trying to understand. “Tell me what happened,” he said.

John sat down on his bed, closing his hands into tight fists on his thighs. It was easier to talk looking down, watching the leather reflect the light. Easier than seeing Rodney’s reaction in his too-expressive eyes.

“The first one was…his name was Artie,” John said, speaking quietly. “We were fifteen. I think he…I think he was kind of in love with me.” John licked his lips, gathering his thoughts. Saying it out loud felt worse than the sharing had been with Chaya--it felt like he was ripping his skin off. “One time, we started, I guess we were making out in his room. But we heard his mom coming, so we stopped. I was kind of freaked out, so I--I ran away.” He’d expected Rodney to make some kind of noise at that, maybe a smirk or something to show his contempt, but Rodney was completely silent. “I wouldn’t talk to Artie afterwards, because I didn’t want to be called a fag, you know?” And here John stopped, the guilt freezing the words like ice in his chest. He shivered.

“What happened, John?” Rodney asked gently.

John nodded slowly, still looking at his clenched hands. It felt like forever before he could force the words out, but Rodney stood quietly, patient.

“I did something to him, when we kissed,” John said at last. “I didn’t know it. I didn’t know I was Gifted until later, but I still charmed him, somehow. He…he couldn’t take it, that I rejected him. He kept trying to talk to me, and when I wouldn’t, he--he killed himself.”

No one said anything for a long time after that. John opened his hands and clasped them together so hard that they started shaking.

He heard Rodney swallow, in the still of the room. “You implied there was more than one.”

John gasped out something that wasn’t anything like a laugh. “Yeah. I did it again.” He shook his head violently. “God, I was so stupid, but I thought…. She was so cool about it, that I was a Charmer, and I thought it was okay. That I was. But, but I should never have touched her.” He ducked his head, running his fingers through his hair, then clasping them tightly over the back of his neck. Babs. Oh, God, the baby…. “It was fine until I touched her.”

“What did you do?” Rodney asked, relentless.

“Please, Rodney,” John whispered. “Don’t do this. Don’t make me do this.”

John heard the two steps that meant Rodney was right next to him. But Rodney didn’t try to touch him. At least he didn’t do that.

“What did you do?” Rodney said.

John’s head shot up. “I killed her, okay? I fucking killed her! Just like Artie! I went away and I promised to write her but I didn’t, and she was waiting and waiting for me and, and she was pregnant and I didn’t know so I never wrote back and she died!” John sucked in air and blasted it out through his clenched teeth. His throat hurt. “I charmed her,” he said softly. “Just like Artie. And when I didn’t stay with her, she killed herself.”

“So, you’ve had two lovers, and both of them committed suicide,” Rodney said. For once John couldn’t read his expression.

John nodded numbly. “That’s why,” he said simply.

"You’re wrong, you know," Rodney said simply. "You didn’t kill them. Didn’t you ever think that they killed themselves because sometimes, that’s what people do? Listen to me!” he added, because John had rocketed to his feet, his mouth open to argue, his heart squeezing in sudden, frozen rage. “I know what you think you did, and yes, it’s possible that--that if you’d been there for them they wouldn’t have…done anything. But your Gift doesn’t work like that, John! No one’s Gift ever has.” Rodney spread his hands. “Chances are--chances are they would have killed themselves anyway. I'm sure it was horrible, but statistically--” He shook his head, eyes grave and sad. “It wasn’t you.”

“Two people, Rodney,” John said, voice rough. The anger hadn’t thawed yet, and it was good to let some of it out. “Two people dead. Because of me. Because I touched them, and then I rejected them. How can you tell me I’m wrong?”

“Because you’re wrong!” Rodney burst out. “Sheppard, don't be an idiot, okay? If your theory held any validity whatsoever, I'd have drowned myself off the south pier by now. Look at me--I'm fine!” He spread his arms.

John’s breath hitched. He turned his face away.

“John,” Rodney said quietly. He reached out and barely touched the side of John’s face with his fingertips. It burned, but John didn’t move away. “John, you can't hurt me. I've got a shield, remember? And the best mind in two galaxies. I can take care of myself."

John looked at Rodney. He knew his eyes were wide, probably a little wild. He thought he might be shaking. “But, but I know what I did, Rodney,” he said, insisting on it. It felt like he had to, like if he didn’t, if he believed Rodney, something might break: the world; himself. Everything. “It’s my fault.”

"It wasn't, John,” Rodney said, like it was the only possibility. “Would I risk my life if I really thought you could do something like that? Would I?" Rodney raised his eyebrows. "Would I be standing right here, trying to make you believe me?”

John swallowed. “I want to believe you,” he said. It felt like something breaking, cracking inside him, opening.

“You can,” Rodney said. “Here.” He slid his hand along the side of John’s face. John hissed in a breath, but he forced himself to stay still. “Think whatever you want,” Rodney said seriously. “You can’t hurt me. You won’t hurt me.”

John’s chest was so tight he could barely speak. “I want you so much,” he managed.

“You have me,” Rodney said. "You've had me all along." And when his hand caressed its way down to John's neck, it was like electricity, like a shock of fire and power.

John couldn’t help gasping.

And then Rodney’s lips were against his, moving, touching, kissing. It was electricity and fire, soft, so soft. Warm.

Oh! John’s eyes flew open. When had they closed? He felt both of Rodney’s hands against his face.

“You won’t hurt me, John,” Rodney said, words like a promise, like love, and John wanted so badly to believe them, believe them the way Rodney did.

He must have made some sound, some response, because the lips were back. Warm, soft, the shocking moisture of the tip of a tongue. John felt a jolt run down his spine and was glad of Rodney’s hands on him, keeping him balanced, holding him up.

He could feel the heat of Rodney’s body all along the front of his own. They were only touching at the lips, and Rodney’s hands on his neck, along his jaw. John couldn’t help it, the yearning, his whole body yearning to get closer, to--oh God!--to touch. When Rodney’s mouth opened, John’s opened as well. When Rodney’s tongue delicately licked just inside his bottom lip, John couldn’t stop, couldn’t stop the moan from pouring out of his throat. Couldn’t stop his own tongue from touching, tasting. Couldn’t stop his body from arching forward to make contact, his arms from winding themselves around Rodney’s neck, his waist. Couldn’t stop his hands from clutching handfuls of physics-geek t-shirt.

Warm, so warm. So hot. “So hot. God, you are so hot.” Oh! That was Rodney’s voice. John blinked, licked his lips, still tasting Rodney. Rodney’s crooked lips were red and wet, his blue eyes glittering, bright with electric fire. John’s brain was still trying to form a thought when Rodney rocked into him, rubbing his whole body against John’s, pushing him against the bed, but holding him up, so John didn’t fall. The hot brand of Rodney’s erection slid against John’s thigh and the crease of his groin.

John’s mouth opened on another gasp, as he suddenly became aware of the weight of his own erection, straining against the cloth of his pants. And Rodney’s lips, his mouth, were back for another kiss. Pushy, comforting, amazing Rodney.

Another jolt slashed through him as one of Rodney’s hands stole under his shirt, caressed the bare skin of his waist. Those sounds he was making--John had a vague awareness that he should be embarrassed about them, but right now he didn’t care. Right now he wanted, wanted….

“John, John, please. Let me--Let me, please.” Rodney, unzipping the collar of his shirt. Panting, mumbling against the skin of John’s throat, kissing and nipping, making John arch and groan. One of Rodney’s hands had startlingly migrated past the loosened waistband of John’s pants and was cupping and kneading his ass. When had that happened?

And now the other hand was…was…holding John’s gloved right hand. Opening the snap at the wrist with clever, deft fingers. Tugging carefully, slowly peeling the glove…. Off.

Rodney held the inverted glove up for a moment, both their eyes locked on it. It looked like a snakeskin, recently vacated. Next to the black skin of the glove, the skin of John’s bare hand looked excessively pale, felt a bit damp.

John felt entirely naked, looking at it, even though he still had most of his clothes on. He shivered as goose bumps pebbled his skin.

John swallowed again around the lump in his throat. His lips were suddenly dry again, and he licked them reflexively. His heart was going so fast it almost hurt to breathe. “Rodney--”

Rodney dropped the glove like it meant absolutely nothing and cradled John’s bare hand in his own. It felt more intimate than if Rodney had been holding his bare cock in his hand instead. John felt lightheaded, his pulse pounding in his throat and in the heavy weight of his erection. All the nerve endings in his hand sparked where they touched Rodney’s skin.

“You won’t hurt me, John,” Rodney said, so low John had to concentrate to hear it above his pulse. “You can’t hurt me.”

“Rodney,” John didn’t recognize his own voice, it sounded like gravel, like sand. He let his head drop forward, his eyes sliding closed. “Rodney,” he whispered. “Touch me. Please.”

Rodney moaned and swayed against him again. He opened his eyes to watch Rodney bring John’s hand up to his mouth and tenderly, gently, kiss the palm with his soft, warm lips. John whined a little and pressed against Rodney, pulling him closer.

Rodney slowly, deliberately, kissed and licked and nibbled his way across the uncharted territory of John’s right hand, starting from the inside of the wrist and working his way up the palm, biting gently at the mound at the base of John’s thumb, tiny licks up the lifeline. John bucked and moaned, held securely by Rodney’s comforting bulk.

He should have felt trapped, should have wanted to run and escape, but he didn’t. He felt simultaneously completely vulnerable and utterly safe.

“John,” Rodney said softly, his voice a caress. He held John’s gaze intently as he slid John’s first two fingers into his mouth and suckled on them, his eyes finally gliding shut with a look of intense concentration as his warm, wet tongue explored.

John felt as though he’d been pulling gees then suddenly slammed into weightlessness. The sensation was all-consuming, a direct electrical connection from his fingers to his cock. Rodney pressed against him another time and swirled his tongue against John’s fingers, ending with a flick, then a light nip at the sensitive pads, and abruptly it was too much. John’s nerves lit up, sizzling with fire, and John panted harshly and clutched Rodney as he came.

Rodney held him through it as he shook, his big hands like anchors, and John put his forehead on Rodney’s shoulder and shuddered against him until the aftershocks had passed and he was calm again, quiet.

“John,” Rodney said softly, into his hair. He sounded a little surprised. “Are you okay?”

John just turned his head until he could press his lips against Rodney’s throat, at the point it met his shoulder. He felt something in him that had been frozen nearly solid was coming alive again, and it was agony, like burning, a martyr’s ecstatic immolation.

The pain said he was alive. Alive, alive.

“I will be,” John said, and he smiled against Rodney’s skin.

He wouldn’t die from this. Neither of them would. Rodney would shield them both.

***

Epilogue

“Are you sure you don’t want any sunscreen, Major?” Rodney asked, holding out the little oval container as they walked. Gold flickered over it as he waggled it back and forth. “You’re skin’s not used to sunlight yet--I don’t want you to get cancer.”

“No thank you, Rodney,” John said, a little pointedly. He adjusted his sunglasses, staring happily up at the weirdly redish sky. “And it’s Lieutenant Colonel.” Rodney was sure he was trying to sound irritated, but he didn’t miss the added spring in John’s steps as he got to remind Rodney of his new rank yet again. Rodney smiled inwardly and pretended not to notice.

It was harder not to stare at John’s biceps, but Rodney decided he could indulge himself a little, since they were alone. John had cleverly convinced Ford and Teyla to go off with the new guy, Major Loran or something, so that even though they were searching for the badass Wraith-killer--whomever he or she was--Rodney couldn’t help feeling like it was almost a vacation, even with the particularly deadly sunshine.

“I could shield you, then,” Rodney offered, because John’s arms were scarily pale, attractive though they were. Just like the back of John’s neck, which after being under a high collar for so long, looked like a strip of white paint trapped between John’s dark hair and the black collar of his t-shirt. “My shield protects against UV-rays, too.” He smiled smugly. “I tested it.”

“What about you?” John said, sounding concerned, which would have been sweet if Rodney hadn’t known by the tiny smirk that it was a filthy, filthy lie. “I don’t want you to get cancer, either.” And he tipped his sunglasses down so Rodney could see his eyes when he smiled at him.

“Nice try, Major,” Rodney said, ignoring the ‘Lieutenant Colonel!’ that John interjected immediately. “But I also put on my SPF 100 sunscreen. The shield is just extra protection. Seriously,” he said. “We’ve both been irradiated already, and there’s only so much the human body can take, even with healing.”

John stopped, sighed. “Fine, Rodney. I will put on your vile-smelling sunscreen.”

“It’s coconut!” Rodney protested, but he turned off his shield instantly and handed the sunscreen over. Their bare fingers touched when he placed it in John’s palm, and Rodney heard John’s breath catch.

“You’re fine, John,” Rodney said quietly. “You won’t hurt me.”

“I know,” John said. All the same, his smile was a little strained, but Rodney ignored it. He knew it would likely take months, possibly years, before John truly stopped being wary of casual contact. It might never even happen.

But John was on a mission with Rodney, wearing a t-shirt and tac vest, instead of the long-sleeved, high-necked shirt and jacket. And he didn’t wear his gloves anymore. And that alone was worth everything.

It made Rodney take John’s free hand in his--slowly, because it still spooked John sometimes, if people touched him too fast--just to feel the smooth, sun-warm skin under his own, to be able to weave his fingers in between John’s and use it to pull John closer, to kiss him on his lips that tasted a little of sweat and too-bright sunshine. And John kissed him back without any hesitation at all.

“You can put it on me, if you want,” John said. He smiled, though it was shy. “I’ll take my shirt off.”

Rodney bit back a happy moan, leaning in to kiss John again. He was still amazed that John would trust him that much, even after all these weeks, more amazed that John trusted himself. Amazed, and incredibly grateful.

“It, ah, makes really good lube, too,” Rodney blurted, when they pulled apart again.

John laughed. “Later.”

Rodney sighed. “Fine. Take off your shirt.”

John just laughed again, but dutifully handed the sunscreen back and started undoing his tac vest.

Naturally, as soon as John’s t-shirt was tangled up over his head, the caveman snuck up out of nowhere and stunned them.

Of course in the end that turned out all right anyway.

END