[SGA] Remember Paul Van Riper
Title: Remember Paul Van Riper
Pairing: McKay/Brown, McKay/Sheppard
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 7700
Summary: There's more than one battlefield on which to play a war game.
Notes: Written for
's sickness challenge. Many thanks to miriam for the fantastic beta.
Originally Posted: February 24, 2007
Remember Paul Van Riper
Rodney was busy chasing the last three peas around on his tray when John made his pitch. For a moment it looked like Rodney might actually be considering the idea, but then John realized the last pea was just giving him trouble.
"Ha," Rodney said when it had been captured, a mix of triumph at his own success and derision at John's suggestion, "no."
"No?"
Rodney made an aborted scoop for John's peas, but they had safely taken cover behind his mashed potato fort. Rodney frowned. "No. As in, I have a better chance of landing a date with Pam Anderson than you have of getting me to authorize that. Also, give me your peas."
"Pam Anderson?" John said disapprovingly. "C'mon, Rodney. And no. They're my peas."
"You don't even like peas."
"I like these peas."
"Because they're yours or because I want them?"
"Both."
Rodney sighed dramatically, already looking for a way around the fort.
John pulled his tray closer to him, then reconsidered. "If I give you my peas, will you give me your authorization?"
"I repeat," Rodney said, "ha. No."
"It's a good idea, Rodney. You can't tell me--"
"Major, if you want to have Marine Olympics with your jarheads -- jugheads?"
"Jarheads."
"--jarheads, then by all means, feel free. But my people are scientists, and most of them never even go offworld. Requiring them to play your reindeer games would just be a useless waste of their time, something they don't have enough of as it is."
"It's in everyone's best interest to be able to defend themselves," John countered. "You can't tell me you don't feel more secure now than you did when you first started going offworld."
But Rodney refused to budge. "If you think it's such a great idea, go over my head and get Elizabeth's authorization."
Unfortunately, John knew Elizabeth would never authorize a move toward the militarization of Atlantis, no matter how minor, at least not without Rodney's support. And Rodney knew it. John had been headed off at the pass.
"Fine," he said, "but if any of your people want to participate, you don't do anything to discourage them. No insulting, no threatening, no firing. Fair enough?"
Rodney nodded, surprisingly agreeable. "Fair enough."
John narrowed his eyes. "You still can't have my peas."
"That's okay," Rodney said, and John realized the pudding cup Rodney was digging into was John's own.
--------
John had never really given up on the idea of civilian combat training, and when he formally assumed command after his promotion it was on his short list of things to do. Unfortunately, what with turning blue and bug-like, being stuck in unascended hell, and, perhaps most importantly, learning that his alter ego was an active member of the Mensa club, he had a few more important things on his mind.
After their return to the city following their unceremonious eviction, John found himself setting a few new goals for himself and for Atlantis. They required some difficult decisions, and one of the first was doing all he could to ensure his people could better defend themselves.
To that end, he made maneuvers mandatory for the Marines and highly recommended, if only in a strictly unofficial capacity, for the civilians. A fair number of them participated without encouragement, many of them women. John was unsurprised to find Cadman looking rather smug at the first session's turnout and he wondered, not for the first time, what ladies' poker night was really like.
Still, the numbers weren't as high as he would have liked. He started making the rounds, quietly issuing personal invitations to all the scientists he thought might be called on in an emergency. As an afterthought, he did the same with the medical personnel.
Word spread quickly and the armory slowly started to fill up on Thursday afternoons. Their numbers grew in fits and starts, then swelled impressively after a new wave of personnel arrived on the Daedalus. John was relieved to find Lorne with a clipboard in hand the following Thursday, silently offering his assistance.
To say they were a motley crew would be putting it kindly (and after he shared that thought with Lorne, "Same ol' situation, sir" became his standard response to John's, "Sitrep, Major?"). Basic drill was particularly problematic, with Lorne being reduced to frustrated analogies ("Cover is like hide-and-seek, only if I find you, you're dead."), but once it had been learned, other IMTs were much easier to teach.
Two months in, when even the slowest of the initial learners and the newest of the latter ones had become proficient in the basics, Lorne suggested moving them out to the mainland for a session. "Everyone likes a competition, sir," he said. "Maybe a little capture the flag? Team building, camaraderie, skills application -- couldn't hurt."
"Capture the flag, huh?"
"Yes, sir. We could even throw in some prizes -- nothing big, just whatever we have on hand. Maybe even some time off. I know Heightmeyer's been making some noise about a mandatory rest day."
John could already hear Elizabeth's effusive approval. She'd become increasingly concerned about the ease with which Atlantis' personnel overworked themselves and thought there hadn't been any problems yet, both she and John intended to keep it that way.
"I think that just might be doable, Major." John fixed Lorne with a look that was only mostly joking and asked, "You wouldn't happen to be bucking for a promotion now, would you?"
"And do your job?" Lorne said with a wry smile. "All due respect, but hell no, sir."
"Smart man," John replied. "Still, that's a damn good idea you've got there."
"My mother was a teacher, sir. I picked up a few things."
"Where'd she teach, War College?"
Lorne looked faintly embarrassed. "Kindergarten art room, sir."
"Ah," John said, thinking that the mystery of the caricatures that occasionally appeared on the city-wide notice board had been solved. "I see."
Lorne coughed. "So, capture the flag? And then maybe some weapons training?"
"It's a go, Major."
--------
"What exactly is the meaning of this?" Rodney demanded, looming in the doorway of John's office with a full-on scowl.
John pointedly pecked his way to the end of the cost code on his requisition form before he looked up at Rodney. "The meaning of what?"
"Oh, you know what," Rodney said, all narrowed eyes and righteous indignation.
John hazarded a guess. "Forty-two?"
"Cute," Rodney said. "Real cute."
John gave Rodney his most irritating smile. "I try."
"I was in the lab this morning," Rodney steamrolled on, "running simulations with Dr. Esposito--"
"The one with the really nice--?"
Rodney glared daggers. "What? The one with the really nice what?"
"Never mind," John said, although he was only going to say smile. He went back to his form.
"Anyway," Rodney continued, "she just up and left. Apparently she has the afternoon off because she won some stupid king of the hill--"
"Capture the flag."
"Whatever, king of the hill as part of your stupid Marine Olympics and she gets an afternoon off. Which -- and this is the part that really irritates me --"
"You don't say," John noted mildly.
"--nobody told me about."
"Hate to tell you, buddy," John said, pecking out P-I-C-A-T-I-N-N-Y and cursing Excel when he ended up in a different cell halfway through, "but you approved it."
"I certainly did no such thing."
John gave up and opened his email. "Last senior staff meeting. I believe your exact words were, 'Yes, fine, whatever, is this over yet?'"
"Which can in no way be construed as agreement," Rodney said, as though it were clearly evident.
"Right," John agreed, addressing his email to Lorne by replying to a message from three months ago. "Except for the 'Yes, fine' part."
Rodney huffed and threw himself into the chair opposite John's desk. "Look," John said patiently, "she was supposed to clear her time off with you before she took it. But she won it fair and square and you approved the policy, so you can't exactly revoke it now." N-E-E-D M-O-R-E, John began.
"Yes, well," Rodney said after a moment, looking slightly guilty, "she may have mentioned clearing this with me last week. Not that I'm going to take her word for it," he added quickly. "That woman's a harpy."
"She's new, Rodney," John said. P-I-C-A-T-I-N-N-Y, he continued. "She's been here what, two weeks? You can't possibly know her that well. I'm surprised you even know her name."
Rodney waved his hand dismissively. "She likes Cadman. Her kind stick together." Then, "Are you going to finish typing that or turn 40 first, Sheppard?"
"Hey," John said defensively. "I'm moving right along."
"If you're in grade three with Mavis Beacon, maybe," Rodney said, yanking the laptop toward him. "I see enough incompetence everywhere else; I don't need to see it here, too. What are you trying to -- caps, Sheppard?" he asked, disappointed. "Didn't anyone ever teach you basic netiquette?"
John would have protested both the invasion of his privacy and the insult to his person, but they didn't weigh very heavily against free typing service. "I was telling Lorne to requisition more Picatinny rails."
"What's a Picatinny rail?"
"If you came to the training sessions," John said pointedly, "you'd know."
Rodney crossed his arms. "Do you want to go back to waiting for 40?"
"Fine," John said. "They're standard mounting platforms for the lights and scopes on the P90s."
"There, was that so hard?" Rodney asked, fingers already speeding over the keys. Sheppard needs more Picatinny rails, he typed underneath John's half-completed attempt. Requisition some.
Also, I traded his Top Gun sunglasses on P6X-412. When he figures it out he'll whine, so I'd replace them before that happens. They're model no. Is That A Semi-Automatic In Your Pocket Or Are You Just Happy To See Me?.
JS:rm
P.S. Stop trying to steal Zelenka for your team. YOU CAN'T HAVE HIM. There's nothing wrong with Parrish, aside from the blatantly obvious.
He slid the laptop back to John after the email had been sent. "Here."
"Thanks," John said begrudgingly. "You know, if you came to a session, I could show you how to use a Picatinny rail."
"Right," Rodney said dismissively. "Building a ZPM and winning a Nobel prize or things that go boom? So hard to decide."
"Come on, Rodney. You've come a long way since you first started going offworld. It would do the other scientists good to see you there. You have a lot to teach them."
"Appealing to my ego? That's transparent even for you."
"Okay," John said. "You're just going to have to depend on the incompetence of others to save your life, then."
"Yes, well, I'm on your team. It's worked fine so far."
John was almost touched.
"All right, back to work," Rodney said, "since it'll take me twice as long to run those simulations now."
"I'll be sure to tell Esposito you appreciate all her hard work," John said.
Rodney huffed as he left, and John checked his sent folder.
"MCKAY!"
--------
And then Rodney died.
Only he didn't die so much as pull a Dr. Jackson, Lorne explained. "That kind of stuff happened all the time at the SGC," he said, "usually near the end of the fiscal year. Word was, General O'Neill thought Jackson was doing it just to get out of the paperwork."
John knew what Lorne was trying to do, knew that in some ways he'd been walking around like Rodney had died and hadn't come back. When he was asleep, he dreamed of bright blue skies, endless and empty and lonely. When he was awake, he couldn't look away from the notes he'd written for Rodney's eulogy. When Rodney asked me to speak, the first one read, he told me to make up a few nice things about him. I don't have to.
Something in his expression prompted Lorne to add quietly, "It tore him up every time, sir. Always made Jackson promise never to do it again."
"And the next fiscal year?"
"Like clockwork, sir," Lorne said. "But he made it back every time."
John just nodded. Lorne slid another few pages across the desk for John's signature, then gathered them up and shuffled them into order. When he reached the door, he turned and said, "If I can make a suggestion, sir?"
John waved him on.
"Maybe we just ought to give the doc less paperwork."
John sat alone in his office after Lorne left, tracing the shapes of the letters he'd written, a weak attempt at capturing Rodney's manic brilliance and heartfelt faith in words. And in much the same way John made most of his important decisions -- on the fly, from the gut, and not always the best idea ever -- he made a decision about himself.
And Rodney.
--------
Unfortunately, Rodney had made some decisions of his own.
About Katie.
"Please," Rodney was saying to Zelenka when John walked into the lab, "would you like a hydrospanner to go with that negative power coupling?"
"What's going on?" John asked as he came into the lab, leaning against the table and reaching for the schematics in question.
"Someone's been reading a little too much of their Official Star Wars Guide to Vehicles and Vessels," Rodney said scathingly.
"Essential," John corrected absently.
"What? Oh, that's -- never mind." He turned back to Zelenka. "And just where do you propose we draw the power for this from, hm?"
"We are working on an integrated hyperdrive for the jumpers," Zelenka explained to John. "Apparently, Rodney did not hear me when I said this was a rough approximation."
"Yes, of failure."
"Perfect," Zelenka snapped. "Then it will fit right in with your previous attempts."
"Oh, ha ha."
"If you're not careful, McKay," Zelenka said, yanking his schematics back from John, "I'm going to put in for a transfer."
"To where, Coruscant?" Zelenka turned on his heel and strode off. Rodney yelled after him, "We both know you've done your best work under me!"
Zelenka's response was no less offensive for being in Czech.
Rodney turned to John. "And what do you want?"
"Nice to see you, too, McKay."
Rodney just snapped his fingers in his favorite hurry-up gesture. John gave him the eyebrow. "Well," he drawled, "there's beer involved, but only for people who aren't rude."
Rodney sighed and sat down. "Fine. Good afternoon, Colonel, how are you, now what do you want?"
"Better." John leaned down, brushing his shoulder against Rodney's, and lowered his voice. "Game room, 2200. You bring the sandwiches, I'll bring the beer."
"I can't tonight. I have a date with Katie, the first since the whole Cadman debacle."
"Oh," John said, "Right. It's just that I think I discovered a mechanism for trade."
Rodney's eyes lit up and he moved closer so he could whisper. "Trade? Really?"
"Yeah. I thought maybe it was the next level now that our countries are producing surpluses."
"Huh," Rodney said consideringly. "What does the interface look like?"
"Really simple -- just asked me if I wanted to initiate trade. It gave me a list of items and quantities that wouldn't hurt our stores, but I think there's an override option."
"Hey, wait a minute," Rodney hissed suddenly. "Why were you in there alone? Were you cheating?"
John could have pointed out that cheating was more Rodney's purview, but he'd learned Rodney's preferences on discretion and valor long ago. "No," he said, wounded. "I was just thinking about giving my country a name."
"That better be all you were doing."
"It was."
"Good." Then Rodney moved away and said in a more normal tone, "I can't, though. Katie."
John put on his best brothers-in-arms expression. "Yeah, no, I understand." He stood up and added as an afterthought, "I'm sure this won't be the only chance we get. Making us wait until the next level if we don't initiate trade now would just be stupid."
Rodney paused. "That would be stupid. Wouldn't it? They wouldn't do that, right?"
"I'm sure they wouldn't," John said, and he was. But making a decision was only the first step in accomplishing a goal.
He could see the exact moment Rodney caved. "Right," he said. "They wouldn't, but just to make sure, we should trade anyway. I'll reschedule with Katie."
"Okay," John said easily. "If you're sure. Twenty-two hundred -- and don’t forget the sandwiches."
"I won't," Rodney said. Then, "Wow. Trade."
--------
Three weeks later John walked into his office and found new pair of sunglasses sitting on his desk. Beneath them were two stapled pieces of paper. The first was a drawing of Chuck, who was guarding a flag on a hill and fighting off at least 20 Marines with a P90, quite skillfully -- especially considering that a busty Cadman had wrapped herself around him in a very appreciative way.
The second was a requisition form John didn't remember signing, but that bore his signature nonetheless. On the list of items were enough NVGs, fluorescent paint pellets, and airsoft Berettas and P90s to wage a small war. Simunitions for the civilians, said a note in Lorne's handwriting. Nothing says team building like the opportunity to shoot the shit out of each other.
John thought of all the brass who'd said he'd never be a good commanding officer and laughed.
--------
And then Carson died.
Only he didn't come back. Rodney blamed himself solely and entirely and couldn't be convinced otherwise, no matter what anyone said. He was inconsolable in his own way, snapping and shouting and belittling with even less provocation than usual. He didn't take any bereavement leave when he notified Carson's family, even though Elizabeth suggested it; didn't take any until it stopped being a suggestion.
He returned a week later to an endless list of performance evaluations and seemed just as determined to keep his distance from them as from his friends. John understood; you didn't get used to losing people, especially the ones who mattered, until you'd lost too many. He never wanted Rodney to reach that point, even if it meant that quietly unshakeable grief instead.
It was Wednesday when Rodney finally set his dinner tray down next to John's for the first time since he'd returned. He seemed disinclined to talk, so John let him be. In a show of commiseration, he left his pudding pack well within reaching distance and even nudged it a little closer to Rodney, but he didn't bite. They ate in companionable silence and John was halfway through his orange when Rodney said, a propos of nothing, "So I proposed to Katie Brown."
John choked violently on his orange. "What?" he said, coughing and spluttering, half-chewed orange bits spraying unattractively across the table.
Rodney jumped back and swiped at the bits that had landed on his bare arm. "Are you trying to kill me?" he demanded shrilly.
"Sorry, sorry!" John said, still coughing, lunging across the table and blindly wiping at Rodney's arm with a napkin.
Rodney batted his hand away and said tersely, "Don't touch me. And throw it out."
John jogged for the trash can and returned a moment later with a handful of antibacterial towelettes. Rodney made a mad grab for them.
As he furiously scrubbed down his arms, he noticed they'd attracted the attention of half the mess. "What?" he barked, fixing them all with a glare, and most everyone found their trays suddenly fascinating in response.
"I'm sorry," John said again, wiping his own hands down just to be safe. "It's only dangerous if you ingest it, right?"
"If I thought your assassination attempt was a serious one," Rodney said bitingly, "I'd already be in the infirmary. As it is, I'll be lucky to escape without hives. Thank you ever so much."
"Are you sure you shouldn't get checked out?" John asked, collecting Rodney's discarded towelettes as he finished with them.
"Of course I should. And I will," he said. "Trust me, if I felt an allergic reaction coming on, you already would've known."
"Okay," John said, and made another trip to the trash to throw the towelettes away. When he returned Rodney seemed marginally less irritated, but still had that pinched look that meant he was worried. "So, you proposed to Katie?" John ventured after a moment, taking his best guess.
Rodney nodded, pushing his tray way. "By accident."
"How do you propose to someone by accident?"
"It was...before Carson," Rodney said. "We were having lunch and I mentioned something about seeing my sister with her family and how it made me think I'd like to get married and, well, accidental proposal."
"Did she say yes?"
"No," Rodney said quickly, much to John's relief, "she knew it wasn't an offer, I made that sort of clear, but now it's -- now it's out there. It's on the table. It's the giant leukemia-curing fern in the room."
"What?"
"Never mind. The thing is, I haven't talked to her since I got back. What do I do? What do you say to someone after an accidental proposal? Is there a protocol for this situation?"
"I don't know," John said. "The one time I proposed to somebody, it wasn't an accident."
"You proposed to somebody?"
"Well, yeah. It's how I got married."
"You're married?"
"Not anymore," John said quickly, redirecting his attention. "Look, let's focus on Katie. You don't really want to marry her, right?"
"No. Not that she's not nice and all, but when I was talking about marriage, I was talking in the hypothetical. You know, later. Someday. Eventually."
"Then you have to tell her that."
"And suddenly I'm not surprised you're not married anymore," Rodney said. "You can't just tell a woman you don't want to marry her, not repeatedly. At least not if you want to keep seeing her."
"But you don't."
"Want to keep seeing her? Of course I do. She likes me."
"I meant marrying her."
"Oh, no. I don't want to do that."
"Then you have to make that clear."
"Of course!" Rodney said sarcastically. "Why didn't I think of that? Thanks, Kirk, you've been such a big help."
"I'm not--" John said, and then, "Fine. Ask Teyla. Or Elizabeth, she's a diplomat. If this doesn't call for some diplomacy, I don't know what does."
Rodney gave him a withering glare. "I can't ask my boss for advice about my personal life."
"She came to see you after you got shot in the ass and were high on morphine," John pointed out. "If you're harboring any delusions of pride, they're just delusions, Rodney."
Rodney studied his empty tray like it might hold the answers. Finally he said, "I'll figure it out."
John nodded. Changing the subject, he said, "Hey, so guess what Lorne got me?"
--------
"Listen up, minions!" Rodney barked, standing beside Zelenka in front of a whiteboard that read in bold letters:
SUN TZU WAS A SISSY
(but we can learn from him)
Thick packets made their way through the assembled crowd as Rodney surveyed them all with a mix of smug excitement. "There's a new sheriff in town, namely me, and the game has changed: it's science vs. military now, Red Team vs. Blue Team, and you should all know that I expect a win."
"And what makes you qualified?" someone called from the back. "You haven't even been training. We've been doing this for months."
"For one," Rodney said imperially, "I am the boss of all of you. For two, I'm part of Gate Team 1 and I've seen more combat situations than all of you combined. I think that qualifies me to lead you raggedy lot."
"Wait a minute," a female voice said. "I thought this was about team building between science and military."
"Oh, who was that?" Rodney said, rolling his eyes. "Miko, was that you?" She shook her head and pointed at a petite blonde doctor. "Oh, you're Heightmeyer's little friend," he said disdainfully. "For one, stop spending so much time with her. For two, yes, this is all about team building, if by 'team building' you mean 'kicking their ass.' That was a stupid question. Nobody ask any more of those.
"So listen: Colonel Sheppard's been teaching you tactics, but I'll be teaching you strategy. What's going around is a list of the official rules. Learn them. If you break them, we're disqualified and you're fired. We'll meet Saturday at 0700 in the war room in the north tower to discuss our battle plan. I'm thinking the best defense is good offense, so keep that in mind. Any questions?"
"What about communications in the field?"
"We can work only with the standard range of radio frequencies," Rodney replied. "No encryption in case of an emergency, so you'll all have to choose a call sign."
"Is Dr. Z going to be Fumbles McStupid?" someone joked.
Zelenka drew himself up to his full height and puffed out his chest. "I am Max Payne," he said.
"And you, Obenhaus," Rodney said, narrowing in on the joker, "can be Fumbles McStupid."
"I was just joking!" he protested, but Rodney made a show of writing it down anyway.
"What about you, Dr. McKay?" Parrish asked.
"I'm Marty McFly," he said, and then, "What? If I called myself Einstein, that would be a little obvious, don't you think?
"Any more questions? Remember, no stupid ones."
"What about stakes?" Simpson asked. "Major Lorne said there'd prizes of some sort, but he didn't say what they were."
"Ah," Rodney said, "Colonel Sheppard and I hammered that out earlier with the official rules. Each member of the winning team gets one favor of unspecified magnitude, within reason, from one member of the losing team. But we're not playing for prizes, people, we're playing for pride.
"This is your priority for the next two weeks until game night on Thursday's full moon. If you have questions or suggestions, see Zelenka. If they're not asinine, then you can see me. Now go. And remember, your jobs are on the line."
"You know you can't really fire them," Zelenka whispered to Rodney as the crowd began to file out.
"Watch me."
--------
Monday's whiteboard read, MANAGEMENT OF THE MANY IS THE SAME AS MANAGEMENT OF THE FEW. IT IS A MATTER OF ORGANIZATION, and Simpson brought Rodney a complete list of call signs that he disseminated for immediate memorization.
THE GENERAL WHO WINS THE BATTLE MAKES MANY CALCULATIONS IN HIS TEMPLE BEFORE THE BATTLE IS FOUGHT, said Tuesday's whiteboard, and Evanston came to Rodney with specs for the adjusted hop up.
Wednesday's message was SUBTLE AND INSUBSTANTIAL, THE EXPERT LEAVES NO TRACE. THUS HE IS THE MASTER OF HIS ENEMY'S FATE and Esposito slipped Rodney a prototype for a Beretta silencer.
PRETEND INFERIORITY AND ENCOURAGE HIS ARROGANCE proclaimed the whiteboard on Thursday, and Rodney reminded them all repeatedly to give nothing away at that night's training session, their last before the next week's game.
--------
Saturday morning the science team filed into the war room room groggy and bleary. The whiteboard greeted them with:
FIRST ANNUAL ATLANTIS CHALLENGE
REMEMBER MC02!
Rodney shoved a thermos of coffee and a sheaf of papers into Evanston's hand as soon as he walked through the door. "Get to it," he said curtly. The rest of the team settled in while Evanston drew a complicated series of Xs and Os on one of the four whiteboards.
"Hey, why does he get to diagram?" Obenhaus asked, petulant at having his rest day commandeered.
"Because he has experience," Zelenka said.
"What kind of experience?"
"I was captain of my foosball team in grad school," Evanston reported proudly.
"You captained a foosball team?" Parrish asked.
"Hey, shut up and pay attention, all of you," Rodney said, and launched into a history of Paul Van Riper and MC02.
Three interminable hours later, all four whiteboards had been filled with Evanston's scribbled diagrams for Rodney and Zelenka's battle plan. It was complex and carefully scripted, and Rodney wasn't satisfied with their understanding of it until after the fourth round of pop quizzes.
"All right," he said finally. "The rest of the day is yours, at least until we reconvene at 2200 in the courtyard of the east tower for a practice run." Over their loud grumbles, he added ominously, "Your jobs. Tell no one where you're going or why." He flipped one of the white board over to reveal SECRET OPERATIONS ARE ESSENTIAL IN WAR; UPON THEM THE ARMY RELIES ITS EVERY MOVE. "And remember -- I expect a win, people."
--------
O'dark hundred Monday morning, Lorne joined John and Ronon for their daily run. "Morning sir," he said, saluting sharply and trying not to stare at John's bedhead. "Ronon."
John grumbled in response. "He means 'Good morning,'" Ronon translated. "He doesn't wake up until we're done. Maybe that's why he's so slow."
John's second grumble sounded suspiciously like, "Fuck you."
Lorne laughed. "Guess this isn't the best time to ask about ATCHAL then, is it?"
John yawned as Ronon set the pace. "What about it?"
"Do we have a plan, sir?"
"What sort of plan?"
"To avoid a goat rope?"
"Do we need one? I was thinking mostly let 'em win, only, y'know, not let 'em win."
"Ah. Brilliant plan, sir."
John gave Lorne the eyebrow, but Lorne just grinned. "I take it the Marines want a little more than that?" he asked.
"Afraid so, sir."
"Fine," John said, yawning again. "Gather 'em up at 1300. I'll have a plan by then."
--------
"So the plan," John said to the assembled Marines, "is to let 'em win. Only, y'know, not let 'em win."
John's plan was met with much grousing. "What the hell kind of plan is that?" someone called from the back.
"A zoomie plan, that's what kind," someone else heckled.
Lorne scanned the crowd. "Was that you, Martinez?"
"Zoom, zoom, zoom," Martinez sing-songed.
"I kinda like the sound of that," Lorne said. "Tell your mom that's what I want her to call me next time I come see her."
The team laughed and Martinez flipped Lorne the bird good-naturedly.
"All right," John said, reining them in, "this whole thing was an exercise in team building. It was the science team's idea to face off, but let's not lose sight of the point."
"Which is what, sir?" Cadman asked.
"The point is that nothing says team building like the chance to shoot the shit out of each other," Lorne said. "And if you want to be able to do it again next year, you're going to need the scientists to keep coming out for training. Don't fuck it up."
"That's the point," John agreed. "Be in the armory Thursday. We roll out at 2030. Dismissed."
--------
Thursday morning dawned bright and clear. Rodney barricaded himself in the war room to review his battle plan one last time. John skipped his morning run and had donuts for breakfast.
Thursday afternoon, Katie broke her arm.
She'd been on a routine mission, collecting plant specimens the Ancient database had flagged as having antitoxin effects. Dr. Bluestein had stumbled and when Katie had reached out a steadying hand, he'd tripped and taken her down with him.
It was very untimely and very unfortunate, particularly when Rodney was the first person Katie radioed when she reached the infirmary. Half an hour later, Rodney radioed John.
"I can't play tonight," he said gloomily, "I'm bowing out. Zelenka's going to take my place as commander."
"What?" John said. "Why? What happened?"
"Katie broke her arm."
"And?"
"And it's her right arm. She's right handed. It's a pretty bad break, multiple fractures, and she's going to need someone to take care of her."
John swore. "Doesn't she have any friends?"
"Of course she has friends! But I'm her boyfriend," Rodney said, "and this is my job. Plus, Cadman said so."
"What does Cadman have to do with anything?"
John heard shuffling and Rodney lowered his voice. "I asked her if I could bail on Katie. She said--"
"You're going to Cadman for advice?"
"Yes," Rodney said, as though it should have been a foregone conclusion. "How do you think I got past the accidental proposal debacle? I wasn't about to ask Teyla or Elizabeth."
"I didn't know you had," John said. "How did you?"
"Cadman said to buy her a big gift. I got her a one terabyte hard drive."
"You got her a hard drive?"
"They were on backorder at the SGC; it was a big deal. Focus, Sheppard. Look, we're still on shaky ground. If I bail on her now, it's two steps back, like I never bought the hard drive and never made up for the proposal. But if I stay, then I'm two steps forward and I'm in, Sheppard, if you know what I mean. And I really, really want to be in. It's been a long time since--"
"Okay!" John cut him off. "Okay, I get it. Just...isn't there anything else you can do?"
"Hey, I was looking forward to this, too. But if my options are spending the night freezing with Zelenka and trading in a win for a favor from a military monkey or spending the night warm with my girlfriend and trading in a win for sex, it's not really a hard decision. And there's always next year."
"Fine," John said, trying not to sound as petulant as he felt. "If you're sure."
"I'm sure. I'd like to be out there to see the look on your face when we kick your ass, but a man's got to have his priorities."
And John now knew what Rodney's were. "Okay," he said.
"Hey -- good luck."
"To Zelenka, too."
--------
The Challenge itself was mostly anticlimactic without Rodney there, though John could see his handiwork in Red Team's strategy. They struck fast and struck hard, taking out a full quarter of Blue Team before they could scramble a defense.
The Marines on Blue Team, however, were much more experienced at search-and-destroy than the scientists. Their strike team made short work of Red Team's flag guard -- at least until they walked right into an ambush.
"Great," Lorne hissed into his radio, listening to Red Team's chatter on his handheld, "I'm about to get my ass handed to me by a beaker named Schrödinger's Pussy."
"Hey," John said, taking fire from someone named Spicoli (Parrish -- he'd bet money on it), "everything's going according to plan."
"And what a brilliant plan--" Cadman started to say, but John tuned her out when he felt the cold press of a Beretta's plastic muzzle against his temple.
"Mercy."
John swore.
"Sorry, Colonel," Zelenka said, though he sounded anything but.
John trudged back to the command post, where he found half of Blue Team already huddled around a radio. "Not a word, Martinez."
"Wouldn't think of it, sir."
Red Team finally faced defeat forty minutes later, when what was left of John's strike team had neutralized all but one of Red Team's members: Zelenka. He held them off until he was almost out of ammo, then made a wild kamikaze run and took out six Marines before Cadman got a hit. Lorne clapped him on the back even as he took Red Team's flag and when Zelenka returned to the staging area, the Marines stood to shake his hand.
--------
John left Lorne and his team in the armory with orders to clean up and clear out. He headed for his quarters, then changed his mind and detoured to the eastern residential block.
He stood in front of Katie's door, thinking long about discretion and valor, and remembered how it felt when Rodney died.
And how it had felt when he came back.
He knocked on her door as quietly as he could and steeled himself.
When Rodney answered, he was sleep-fogged and disheveled. His shirt was on inside out and his hair was going seven different directions at once. John smiled.
"Hey," Rodney said rustily, letting the door slide shut behind him, "how'd the Challenge go?"
"We won," John said, "but it was close. Zelenka single-handedly held off half a dozen Marines for the better part of an hour."
Rodney smiled sleepily. "Crazy bastard."
"That's pretty much what we said."
"Well, congratulations."
"Thanks," John said, "but that's not why I'm here."
"Why are you here?" Rodney asked, scrubbing a hand through his hair. "It's got to be what, two o'clock? You can gloat tomorrow. I'll give you a whole five minutes."
John took a deep breath, then hesitated.
"Well?" Rodney prompted after a long moment.
"I'm here to trade in my win."
"What?"
"A favor of unspecified magnitude, within reason, from a member of the losing team."
"I know that," Rodney said, "but I don't--"
"Rodney," John interrupted, "I'm going to do this one thing, and then we're not going to talk about it again. That's my favor." He paused. "I just think you should know."
"Sheppard, what are you--" But the warmth of John's hand sliding around the back of Rodney's neck silenced him, drawing him into a kiss that was soft, chaste, and, like John, deceptively simple.
John pressed him closer for a moment, then two, and drew away slowly. "We're not going to talk about this," he said quietly, lips brushing against Rodney's cheek. "I just wanted you to know."
He let Rodney go then, and cleared his throat as he put a wide space between them. "You should probably get back inside before Katie wakes up," he said, and turned and left without a single look back.
He was at the end of the hallway before he heard her door open.
--------
Though John thought it had gone as well intentionally undermining someone's relationship could be expected to go, Rodney studiously avoided him for the next week. John didn't see him once: not in the labs, not in the mess, and he even begged off the weekly senior staff meeting, citing an allergic reaction to some alien flora of Katie's.
John hadn't expected better, and he'd prepared himself for worse, but it still seemed like he'd spun it in. He'd already decided to track Rodney down and ask about replacing him on the team, if only temporarily, when Rodney showed up unexpectedly at Thursday's training session.
"Hey, Doc," Lorne said. "Finally came to join us?"
"No," Rodney said stiffly. "I actually came to talk to Colonel Sheppard. Colonel, may I have a word?" He gestured toward the hall and, ignoring Lorne's questioning glance, John followed.
Once they were safely outside the armory, John jumped in first. "I'm sorry," he said, "I--"
"Shut up," Rodney interrupted.
"Hey," John said warningly, "I was only going to ask if you wanted me to find a temporary replacement for you on the team."
"What?" Rodney said. "Don't be stupid."
"Well, since you've been avoiding me--"
"I haven't been avoiding you, I've been thinking. You kind of caught me by surprise there, Kirk; I didn't exactly see it coming. I needed some time to think."
"Are you done thinking now?"
"Obviously, or I wouldn't be here."
"Okay," John said, "so are we good or not?"
"What, just like that?"
"Yeah, just like that. There's nothing to talk about: it's over, I'm sorry, and it won't happen again."
"No," Rodney said. "Trade your favor in for something else, because I want to talk."
"You always do."
Rodney gave him a lopsided smile, like he was responding to something John hadn't said. "I'm flattered," he began. "I never thought about--" he made a gesture that looked like building a sand castle "--before, but I think I could be. For you."
John could hear the surprise in his voice when he said, "That's not how it works."
"Of course that how it works. You're presented with options and you made a decision. And this is one I think I could make, but if I'm going to ruin it -- and I always do," he added quickly, "I'm petty, arrogant, and bad with people, I know that -- I'd rather ruin it with Katie than you. I have a good thing here. We have a good thing here," he amended. "Last time I screwed up at the SGC, I was exiled to Siberia. I can't let that happen now."
After a moment's silence, he added, "I feel like Paul Van Riper. Even when I win I lose."
"Paul Van Riper?" John asked.
"Yes," Rodney said, "Millennium--"
"I know who he is," John said. "I'm just surprised you do."
"I used some of his strategies for Red Team."
"Fitting. Congratulations, by the way."
"For what?" Rodney asked. "We lost."
"Not by much," John said. Then he clarified, "So you're saying thanks but no thanks, right?"
Rodney nodded.
"Okay. So we're good, then?"
"Yes. We're fine. Well, you're cool and I'm fine."
"Nah," John said with a grin. "You're pretty cool yourself, Rodney."
Rodney gave him an incredulous look and then, after a startled moment, "Oh my god! You're flirting with me!"
"What? No!" John said, even though he was. Force of habit.
After a moment, Rodney laughed. "No, it's okay. Just -- do better, Sheppard."
--------
Things with Rodney returned to normal surprisingly quickly. He stopped avoiding John and never once seemed uncomfortable -- a fact for which John was profoundly grateful. After a week or two, he even began responding to John's habitual flirting with something like amusement.
Atlantis Challenge was a whole other bag of tricks. The scientists were so pleased with their near victory that they returned to training sessions in renewed numbers. Word spread among those who hadn't participated, no doubt aided by the rumors of various favors the military winners had been calling in, and new participation increased enough that a third group was necessary. Cadman happily took them over.
Katie's cast came off in a record three weeks, despite the comminuted fracture. In addition to discovering a potential cure for leukemia, she'd also discovered a serum that aided in bone growth and had potential for cell regeneration. John tried not to be too jealous of what he'd privately termed her Mother Theresa impression, particularly since it meant Rodney had more free time with Katie well and fully functional. And he had no qualms about spending a significant portion of that free time letting John wipe the floor with him at chess.
"Checkmate."
"What? Oh, you're cheating," Rodney protested. "That's five in a row."
"I'm just that good."
"You're just that lucky."
"Rodney, how many times have you won?"
"Twenty-one," he said tersely, resetting the board.
"And how many times have we played?"
"A lot."
"Like you don't know the exact number." John opened the game, moving his pawn to E-4.
"Fine. Ninety-two."
"You only have a twenty-two percent win rate."
"Twenty-two point eight two six," Rodney said, answering with a pawn of his own to E-5. "It's practically 23."
"Then I guess I'm just 77.17392% better than you are."
"Oh, stop showing off."
John moved his knight to F-3. "You like it."
"I find it rather irritating, actually."
"Because you like it."
Rodney paused in the middle of moving his second pawn to F-6. "You're flirting with me again, aren't you?"
"Me?" John asked, all innocence. "I'm just playing chess."
"You are a shameless hussy, Sheppard."
John's knight took Rodney's pawn. "I'm feeling a jump to 77.41936% coming on."
Rodney's second pawn took John's knight. "You really like me that much?" he asked quietly.
John moved his queen to H-5. "That's a stupid question, Rodney," he said. "And check."
--------
The average person makes over 500 decisions a day, Heightmeyer had told him once. John had calculated that with an average lifespan of 78 years, give or take 10 for military hazards, that meant approximately 12.5 million decisions over the course of his lifetime.
Watching Rodney, Katie, and Cadman part ways as they headed into the mess several weeks later, he thought he might have one more in him.
"So I've been thinking about Paul Van Riper," he said, setting his tray down next to Rodney's at the otherwise empty table.
"You have?" Rodney asked, surprised.
John nodded. "You said he couldn't win for losing, but I think it's other way around."
Rodney looked up from John's peas. "How?"
"He succeeded when he shouldn't have," John said. "He took risks that paid off. Even when the deck was stacked against him, he didn't care about the odds -- he just did what needed to be done. And he always pulled it off."
"He'd have done well on Atlantis."
John nodded. "He would have. And I think you could do worse than to keep him in mind."
"Me?" Rodney asked. "What does he have to do with me?"
"You're the one who likes to think about things. So think about it."
Rodney paused and studied John carefully. "Wait. What are you saying?"
"I'm not saying anything. Actually, I'm asking -- to trade in my win, since you wouldn't let me the first time around."
"And what do you want?" Rodney asked warily.
"Nothing now," John said, glancing at Katie. "All I'm asking is that the next time you find yourself thinking about taking a risk or going up against the odds, doing something you think you shouldn't -- remember Paul Van Riper."
Rodney's answering silence was long and drawn out. "Okay," he said finally. "I can do that."
John grinned. "Good. Hey, you want my peas?"
Rodney considered his pudding -- butterscotch, not his favorite, but high on the list -- and weighed his options. "All right," he said reluctantly. "I'll trade you my pudding."
"Nah," John said, scooping his peas onto Rodney's tray. "You can just have 'em."
Pairing: McKay/Brown, McKay/Sheppard
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 7700
Summary: There's more than one battlefield on which to play a war game.
Notes: Written for
's sickness challenge. Many thanks to miriam for the fantastic beta.
Originally Posted: February 24, 2007
Remember Paul Van Riper
Rodney was busy chasing the last three peas around on his tray when John made his pitch. For a moment it looked like Rodney might actually be considering the idea, but then John realized the last pea was just giving him trouble.
"Ha," Rodney said when it had been captured, a mix of triumph at his own success and derision at John's suggestion, "no."
"No?"
Rodney made an aborted scoop for John's peas, but they had safely taken cover behind his mashed potato fort. Rodney frowned. "No. As in, I have a better chance of landing a date with Pam Anderson than you have of getting me to authorize that. Also, give me your peas."
"Pam Anderson?" John said disapprovingly. "C'mon, Rodney. And no. They're my peas."
"You don't even like peas."
"I like these peas."
"Because they're yours or because I want them?"
"Both."
Rodney sighed dramatically, already looking for a way around the fort.
John pulled his tray closer to him, then reconsidered. "If I give you my peas, will you give me your authorization?"
"I repeat," Rodney said, "ha. No."
"It's a good idea, Rodney. You can't tell me--"
"Major, if you want to have Marine Olympics with your jarheads -- jugheads?"
"Jarheads."
"--jarheads, then by all means, feel free. But my people are scientists, and most of them never even go offworld. Requiring them to play your reindeer games would just be a useless waste of their time, something they don't have enough of as it is."
"It's in everyone's best interest to be able to defend themselves," John countered. "You can't tell me you don't feel more secure now than you did when you first started going offworld."
But Rodney refused to budge. "If you think it's such a great idea, go over my head and get Elizabeth's authorization."
Unfortunately, John knew Elizabeth would never authorize a move toward the militarization of Atlantis, no matter how minor, at least not without Rodney's support. And Rodney knew it. John had been headed off at the pass.
"Fine," he said, "but if any of your people want to participate, you don't do anything to discourage them. No insulting, no threatening, no firing. Fair enough?"
Rodney nodded, surprisingly agreeable. "Fair enough."
John narrowed his eyes. "You still can't have my peas."
"That's okay," Rodney said, and John realized the pudding cup Rodney was digging into was John's own.
--------
John had never really given up on the idea of civilian combat training, and when he formally assumed command after his promotion it was on his short list of things to do. Unfortunately, what with turning blue and bug-like, being stuck in unascended hell, and, perhaps most importantly, learning that his alter ego was an active member of the Mensa club, he had a few more important things on his mind.
After their return to the city following their unceremonious eviction, John found himself setting a few new goals for himself and for Atlantis. They required some difficult decisions, and one of the first was doing all he could to ensure his people could better defend themselves.
To that end, he made maneuvers mandatory for the Marines and highly recommended, if only in a strictly unofficial capacity, for the civilians. A fair number of them participated without encouragement, many of them women. John was unsurprised to find Cadman looking rather smug at the first session's turnout and he wondered, not for the first time, what ladies' poker night was really like.
Still, the numbers weren't as high as he would have liked. He started making the rounds, quietly issuing personal invitations to all the scientists he thought might be called on in an emergency. As an afterthought, he did the same with the medical personnel.
Word spread quickly and the armory slowly started to fill up on Thursday afternoons. Their numbers grew in fits and starts, then swelled impressively after a new wave of personnel arrived on the Daedalus. John was relieved to find Lorne with a clipboard in hand the following Thursday, silently offering his assistance.
To say they were a motley crew would be putting it kindly (and after he shared that thought with Lorne, "Same ol' situation, sir" became his standard response to John's, "Sitrep, Major?"). Basic drill was particularly problematic, with Lorne being reduced to frustrated analogies ("Cover is like hide-and-seek, only if I find you, you're dead."), but once it had been learned, other IMTs were much easier to teach.
Two months in, when even the slowest of the initial learners and the newest of the latter ones had become proficient in the basics, Lorne suggested moving them out to the mainland for a session. "Everyone likes a competition, sir," he said. "Maybe a little capture the flag? Team building, camaraderie, skills application -- couldn't hurt."
"Capture the flag, huh?"
"Yes, sir. We could even throw in some prizes -- nothing big, just whatever we have on hand. Maybe even some time off. I know Heightmeyer's been making some noise about a mandatory rest day."
John could already hear Elizabeth's effusive approval. She'd become increasingly concerned about the ease with which Atlantis' personnel overworked themselves and thought there hadn't been any problems yet, both she and John intended to keep it that way.
"I think that just might be doable, Major." John fixed Lorne with a look that was only mostly joking and asked, "You wouldn't happen to be bucking for a promotion now, would you?"
"And do your job?" Lorne said with a wry smile. "All due respect, but hell no, sir."
"Smart man," John replied. "Still, that's a damn good idea you've got there."
"My mother was a teacher, sir. I picked up a few things."
"Where'd she teach, War College?"
Lorne looked faintly embarrassed. "Kindergarten art room, sir."
"Ah," John said, thinking that the mystery of the caricatures that occasionally appeared on the city-wide notice board had been solved. "I see."
Lorne coughed. "So, capture the flag? And then maybe some weapons training?"
"It's a go, Major."
--------
"What exactly is the meaning of this?" Rodney demanded, looming in the doorway of John's office with a full-on scowl.
John pointedly pecked his way to the end of the cost code on his requisition form before he looked up at Rodney. "The meaning of what?"
"Oh, you know what," Rodney said, all narrowed eyes and righteous indignation.
John hazarded a guess. "Forty-two?"
"Cute," Rodney said. "Real cute."
John gave Rodney his most irritating smile. "I try."
"I was in the lab this morning," Rodney steamrolled on, "running simulations with Dr. Esposito--"
"The one with the really nice--?"
Rodney glared daggers. "What? The one with the really nice what?"
"Never mind," John said, although he was only going to say smile. He went back to his form.
"Anyway," Rodney continued, "she just up and left. Apparently she has the afternoon off because she won some stupid king of the hill--"
"Capture the flag."
"Whatever, king of the hill as part of your stupid Marine Olympics and she gets an afternoon off. Which -- and this is the part that really irritates me --"
"You don't say," John noted mildly.
"--nobody told me about."
"Hate to tell you, buddy," John said, pecking out P-I-C-A-T-I-N-N-Y and cursing Excel when he ended up in a different cell halfway through, "but you approved it."
"I certainly did no such thing."
John gave up and opened his email. "Last senior staff meeting. I believe your exact words were, 'Yes, fine, whatever, is this over yet?'"
"Which can in no way be construed as agreement," Rodney said, as though it were clearly evident.
"Right," John agreed, addressing his email to Lorne by replying to a message from three months ago. "Except for the 'Yes, fine' part."
Rodney huffed and threw himself into the chair opposite John's desk. "Look," John said patiently, "she was supposed to clear her time off with you before she took it. But she won it fair and square and you approved the policy, so you can't exactly revoke it now." N-E-E-D M-O-R-E, John began.
"Yes, well," Rodney said after a moment, looking slightly guilty, "she may have mentioned clearing this with me last week. Not that I'm going to take her word for it," he added quickly. "That woman's a harpy."
"She's new, Rodney," John said. P-I-C-A-T-I-N-N-Y, he continued. "She's been here what, two weeks? You can't possibly know her that well. I'm surprised you even know her name."
Rodney waved his hand dismissively. "She likes Cadman. Her kind stick together." Then, "Are you going to finish typing that or turn 40 first, Sheppard?"
"Hey," John said defensively. "I'm moving right along."
"If you're in grade three with Mavis Beacon, maybe," Rodney said, yanking the laptop toward him. "I see enough incompetence everywhere else; I don't need to see it here, too. What are you trying to -- caps, Sheppard?" he asked, disappointed. "Didn't anyone ever teach you basic netiquette?"
John would have protested both the invasion of his privacy and the insult to his person, but they didn't weigh very heavily against free typing service. "I was telling Lorne to requisition more Picatinny rails."
"What's a Picatinny rail?"
"If you came to the training sessions," John said pointedly, "you'd know."
Rodney crossed his arms. "Do you want to go back to waiting for 40?"
"Fine," John said. "They're standard mounting platforms for the lights and scopes on the P90s."
"There, was that so hard?" Rodney asked, fingers already speeding over the keys. Sheppard needs more Picatinny rails, he typed underneath John's half-completed attempt. Requisition some.
Also, I traded his Top Gun sunglasses on P6X-412. When he figures it out he'll whine, so I'd replace them before that happens. They're model no. Is That A Semi-Automatic In Your Pocket Or Are You Just Happy To See Me?.
JS:rm
P.S. Stop trying to steal Zelenka for your team. YOU CAN'T HAVE HIM. There's nothing wrong with Parrish, aside from the blatantly obvious.
He slid the laptop back to John after the email had been sent. "Here."
"Thanks," John said begrudgingly. "You know, if you came to a session, I could show you how to use a Picatinny rail."
"Right," Rodney said dismissively. "Building a ZPM and winning a Nobel prize or things that go boom? So hard to decide."
"Come on, Rodney. You've come a long way since you first started going offworld. It would do the other scientists good to see you there. You have a lot to teach them."
"Appealing to my ego? That's transparent even for you."
"Okay," John said. "You're just going to have to depend on the incompetence of others to save your life, then."
"Yes, well, I'm on your team. It's worked fine so far."
John was almost touched.
"All right, back to work," Rodney said, "since it'll take me twice as long to run those simulations now."
"I'll be sure to tell Esposito you appreciate all her hard work," John said.
Rodney huffed as he left, and John checked his sent folder.
"MCKAY!"
--------
And then Rodney died.
Only he didn't die so much as pull a Dr. Jackson, Lorne explained. "That kind of stuff happened all the time at the SGC," he said, "usually near the end of the fiscal year. Word was, General O'Neill thought Jackson was doing it just to get out of the paperwork."
John knew what Lorne was trying to do, knew that in some ways he'd been walking around like Rodney had died and hadn't come back. When he was asleep, he dreamed of bright blue skies, endless and empty and lonely. When he was awake, he couldn't look away from the notes he'd written for Rodney's eulogy. When Rodney asked me to speak, the first one read, he told me to make up a few nice things about him. I don't have to.
Something in his expression prompted Lorne to add quietly, "It tore him up every time, sir. Always made Jackson promise never to do it again."
"And the next fiscal year?"
"Like clockwork, sir," Lorne said. "But he made it back every time."
John just nodded. Lorne slid another few pages across the desk for John's signature, then gathered them up and shuffled them into order. When he reached the door, he turned and said, "If I can make a suggestion, sir?"
John waved him on.
"Maybe we just ought to give the doc less paperwork."
John sat alone in his office after Lorne left, tracing the shapes of the letters he'd written, a weak attempt at capturing Rodney's manic brilliance and heartfelt faith in words. And in much the same way John made most of his important decisions -- on the fly, from the gut, and not always the best idea ever -- he made a decision about himself.
And Rodney.
--------
Unfortunately, Rodney had made some decisions of his own.
About Katie.
"Please," Rodney was saying to Zelenka when John walked into the lab, "would you like a hydrospanner to go with that negative power coupling?"
"What's going on?" John asked as he came into the lab, leaning against the table and reaching for the schematics in question.
"Someone's been reading a little too much of their Official Star Wars Guide to Vehicles and Vessels," Rodney said scathingly.
"Essential," John corrected absently.
"What? Oh, that's -- never mind." He turned back to Zelenka. "And just where do you propose we draw the power for this from, hm?"
"We are working on an integrated hyperdrive for the jumpers," Zelenka explained to John. "Apparently, Rodney did not hear me when I said this was a rough approximation."
"Yes, of failure."
"Perfect," Zelenka snapped. "Then it will fit right in with your previous attempts."
"Oh, ha ha."
"If you're not careful, McKay," Zelenka said, yanking his schematics back from John, "I'm going to put in for a transfer."
"To where, Coruscant?" Zelenka turned on his heel and strode off. Rodney yelled after him, "We both know you've done your best work under me!"
Zelenka's response was no less offensive for being in Czech.
Rodney turned to John. "And what do you want?"
"Nice to see you, too, McKay."
Rodney just snapped his fingers in his favorite hurry-up gesture. John gave him the eyebrow. "Well," he drawled, "there's beer involved, but only for people who aren't rude."
Rodney sighed and sat down. "Fine. Good afternoon, Colonel, how are you, now what do you want?"
"Better." John leaned down, brushing his shoulder against Rodney's, and lowered his voice. "Game room, 2200. You bring the sandwiches, I'll bring the beer."
"I can't tonight. I have a date with Katie, the first since the whole Cadman debacle."
"Oh," John said, "Right. It's just that I think I discovered a mechanism for trade."
Rodney's eyes lit up and he moved closer so he could whisper. "Trade? Really?"
"Yeah. I thought maybe it was the next level now that our countries are producing surpluses."
"Huh," Rodney said consideringly. "What does the interface look like?"
"Really simple -- just asked me if I wanted to initiate trade. It gave me a list of items and quantities that wouldn't hurt our stores, but I think there's an override option."
"Hey, wait a minute," Rodney hissed suddenly. "Why were you in there alone? Were you cheating?"
John could have pointed out that cheating was more Rodney's purview, but he'd learned Rodney's preferences on discretion and valor long ago. "No," he said, wounded. "I was just thinking about giving my country a name."
"That better be all you were doing."
"It was."
"Good." Then Rodney moved away and said in a more normal tone, "I can't, though. Katie."
John put on his best brothers-in-arms expression. "Yeah, no, I understand." He stood up and added as an afterthought, "I'm sure this won't be the only chance we get. Making us wait until the next level if we don't initiate trade now would just be stupid."
Rodney paused. "That would be stupid. Wouldn't it? They wouldn't do that, right?"
"I'm sure they wouldn't," John said, and he was. But making a decision was only the first step in accomplishing a goal.
He could see the exact moment Rodney caved. "Right," he said. "They wouldn't, but just to make sure, we should trade anyway. I'll reschedule with Katie."
"Okay," John said easily. "If you're sure. Twenty-two hundred -- and don’t forget the sandwiches."
"I won't," Rodney said. Then, "Wow. Trade."
--------
Three weeks later John walked into his office and found new pair of sunglasses sitting on his desk. Beneath them were two stapled pieces of paper. The first was a drawing of Chuck, who was guarding a flag on a hill and fighting off at least 20 Marines with a P90, quite skillfully -- especially considering that a busty Cadman had wrapped herself around him in a very appreciative way.
The second was a requisition form John didn't remember signing, but that bore his signature nonetheless. On the list of items were enough NVGs, fluorescent paint pellets, and airsoft Berettas and P90s to wage a small war. Simunitions for the civilians, said a note in Lorne's handwriting. Nothing says team building like the opportunity to shoot the shit out of each other.
John thought of all the brass who'd said he'd never be a good commanding officer and laughed.
--------
And then Carson died.
Only he didn't come back. Rodney blamed himself solely and entirely and couldn't be convinced otherwise, no matter what anyone said. He was inconsolable in his own way, snapping and shouting and belittling with even less provocation than usual. He didn't take any bereavement leave when he notified Carson's family, even though Elizabeth suggested it; didn't take any until it stopped being a suggestion.
He returned a week later to an endless list of performance evaluations and seemed just as determined to keep his distance from them as from his friends. John understood; you didn't get used to losing people, especially the ones who mattered, until you'd lost too many. He never wanted Rodney to reach that point, even if it meant that quietly unshakeable grief instead.
It was Wednesday when Rodney finally set his dinner tray down next to John's for the first time since he'd returned. He seemed disinclined to talk, so John let him be. In a show of commiseration, he left his pudding pack well within reaching distance and even nudged it a little closer to Rodney, but he didn't bite. They ate in companionable silence and John was halfway through his orange when Rodney said, a propos of nothing, "So I proposed to Katie Brown."
John choked violently on his orange. "What?" he said, coughing and spluttering, half-chewed orange bits spraying unattractively across the table.
Rodney jumped back and swiped at the bits that had landed on his bare arm. "Are you trying to kill me?" he demanded shrilly.
"Sorry, sorry!" John said, still coughing, lunging across the table and blindly wiping at Rodney's arm with a napkin.
Rodney batted his hand away and said tersely, "Don't touch me. And throw it out."
John jogged for the trash can and returned a moment later with a handful of antibacterial towelettes. Rodney made a mad grab for them.
As he furiously scrubbed down his arms, he noticed they'd attracted the attention of half the mess. "What?" he barked, fixing them all with a glare, and most everyone found their trays suddenly fascinating in response.
"I'm sorry," John said again, wiping his own hands down just to be safe. "It's only dangerous if you ingest it, right?"
"If I thought your assassination attempt was a serious one," Rodney said bitingly, "I'd already be in the infirmary. As it is, I'll be lucky to escape without hives. Thank you ever so much."
"Are you sure you shouldn't get checked out?" John asked, collecting Rodney's discarded towelettes as he finished with them.
"Of course I should. And I will," he said. "Trust me, if I felt an allergic reaction coming on, you already would've known."
"Okay," John said, and made another trip to the trash to throw the towelettes away. When he returned Rodney seemed marginally less irritated, but still had that pinched look that meant he was worried. "So, you proposed to Katie?" John ventured after a moment, taking his best guess.
Rodney nodded, pushing his tray way. "By accident."
"How do you propose to someone by accident?"
"It was...before Carson," Rodney said. "We were having lunch and I mentioned something about seeing my sister with her family and how it made me think I'd like to get married and, well, accidental proposal."
"Did she say yes?"
"No," Rodney said quickly, much to John's relief, "she knew it wasn't an offer, I made that sort of clear, but now it's -- now it's out there. It's on the table. It's the giant leukemia-curing fern in the room."
"What?"
"Never mind. The thing is, I haven't talked to her since I got back. What do I do? What do you say to someone after an accidental proposal? Is there a protocol for this situation?"
"I don't know," John said. "The one time I proposed to somebody, it wasn't an accident."
"You proposed to somebody?"
"Well, yeah. It's how I got married."
"You're married?"
"Not anymore," John said quickly, redirecting his attention. "Look, let's focus on Katie. You don't really want to marry her, right?"
"No. Not that she's not nice and all, but when I was talking about marriage, I was talking in the hypothetical. You know, later. Someday. Eventually."
"Then you have to tell her that."
"And suddenly I'm not surprised you're not married anymore," Rodney said. "You can't just tell a woman you don't want to marry her, not repeatedly. At least not if you want to keep seeing her."
"But you don't."
"Want to keep seeing her? Of course I do. She likes me."
"I meant marrying her."
"Oh, no. I don't want to do that."
"Then you have to make that clear."
"Of course!" Rodney said sarcastically. "Why didn't I think of that? Thanks, Kirk, you've been such a big help."
"I'm not--" John said, and then, "Fine. Ask Teyla. Or Elizabeth, she's a diplomat. If this doesn't call for some diplomacy, I don't know what does."
Rodney gave him a withering glare. "I can't ask my boss for advice about my personal life."
"She came to see you after you got shot in the ass and were high on morphine," John pointed out. "If you're harboring any delusions of pride, they're just delusions, Rodney."
Rodney studied his empty tray like it might hold the answers. Finally he said, "I'll figure it out."
John nodded. Changing the subject, he said, "Hey, so guess what Lorne got me?"
--------
"Listen up, minions!" Rodney barked, standing beside Zelenka in front of a whiteboard that read in bold letters:
SUN TZU WAS A SISSY
(but we can learn from him)
Thick packets made their way through the assembled crowd as Rodney surveyed them all with a mix of smug excitement. "There's a new sheriff in town, namely me, and the game has changed: it's science vs. military now, Red Team vs. Blue Team, and you should all know that I expect a win."
"And what makes you qualified?" someone called from the back. "You haven't even been training. We've been doing this for months."
"For one," Rodney said imperially, "I am the boss of all of you. For two, I'm part of Gate Team 1 and I've seen more combat situations than all of you combined. I think that qualifies me to lead you raggedy lot."
"Wait a minute," a female voice said. "I thought this was about team building between science and military."
"Oh, who was that?" Rodney said, rolling his eyes. "Miko, was that you?" She shook her head and pointed at a petite blonde doctor. "Oh, you're Heightmeyer's little friend," he said disdainfully. "For one, stop spending so much time with her. For two, yes, this is all about team building, if by 'team building' you mean 'kicking their ass.' That was a stupid question. Nobody ask any more of those.
"So listen: Colonel Sheppard's been teaching you tactics, but I'll be teaching you strategy. What's going around is a list of the official rules. Learn them. If you break them, we're disqualified and you're fired. We'll meet Saturday at 0700 in the war room in the north tower to discuss our battle plan. I'm thinking the best defense is good offense, so keep that in mind. Any questions?"
"What about communications in the field?"
"We can work only with the standard range of radio frequencies," Rodney replied. "No encryption in case of an emergency, so you'll all have to choose a call sign."
"Is Dr. Z going to be Fumbles McStupid?" someone joked.
Zelenka drew himself up to his full height and puffed out his chest. "I am Max Payne," he said.
"And you, Obenhaus," Rodney said, narrowing in on the joker, "can be Fumbles McStupid."
"I was just joking!" he protested, but Rodney made a show of writing it down anyway.
"What about you, Dr. McKay?" Parrish asked.
"I'm Marty McFly," he said, and then, "What? If I called myself Einstein, that would be a little obvious, don't you think?
"Any more questions? Remember, no stupid ones."
"What about stakes?" Simpson asked. "Major Lorne said there'd prizes of some sort, but he didn't say what they were."
"Ah," Rodney said, "Colonel Sheppard and I hammered that out earlier with the official rules. Each member of the winning team gets one favor of unspecified magnitude, within reason, from one member of the losing team. But we're not playing for prizes, people, we're playing for pride.
"This is your priority for the next two weeks until game night on Thursday's full moon. If you have questions or suggestions, see Zelenka. If they're not asinine, then you can see me. Now go. And remember, your jobs are on the line."
"You know you can't really fire them," Zelenka whispered to Rodney as the crowd began to file out.
"Watch me."
--------
Monday's whiteboard read, MANAGEMENT OF THE MANY IS THE SAME AS MANAGEMENT OF THE FEW. IT IS A MATTER OF ORGANIZATION, and Simpson brought Rodney a complete list of call signs that he disseminated for immediate memorization.
THE GENERAL WHO WINS THE BATTLE MAKES MANY CALCULATIONS IN HIS TEMPLE BEFORE THE BATTLE IS FOUGHT, said Tuesday's whiteboard, and Evanston came to Rodney with specs for the adjusted hop up.
Wednesday's message was SUBTLE AND INSUBSTANTIAL, THE EXPERT LEAVES NO TRACE. THUS HE IS THE MASTER OF HIS ENEMY'S FATE and Esposito slipped Rodney a prototype for a Beretta silencer.
PRETEND INFERIORITY AND ENCOURAGE HIS ARROGANCE proclaimed the whiteboard on Thursday, and Rodney reminded them all repeatedly to give nothing away at that night's training session, their last before the next week's game.
--------
Saturday morning the science team filed into the war room room groggy and bleary. The whiteboard greeted them with:
FIRST ANNUAL ATLANTIS CHALLENGE
REMEMBER MC02!
Rodney shoved a thermos of coffee and a sheaf of papers into Evanston's hand as soon as he walked through the door. "Get to it," he said curtly. The rest of the team settled in while Evanston drew a complicated series of Xs and Os on one of the four whiteboards.
"Hey, why does he get to diagram?" Obenhaus asked, petulant at having his rest day commandeered.
"Because he has experience," Zelenka said.
"What kind of experience?"
"I was captain of my foosball team in grad school," Evanston reported proudly.
"You captained a foosball team?" Parrish asked.
"Hey, shut up and pay attention, all of you," Rodney said, and launched into a history of Paul Van Riper and MC02.
Three interminable hours later, all four whiteboards had been filled with Evanston's scribbled diagrams for Rodney and Zelenka's battle plan. It was complex and carefully scripted, and Rodney wasn't satisfied with their understanding of it until after the fourth round of pop quizzes.
"All right," he said finally. "The rest of the day is yours, at least until we reconvene at 2200 in the courtyard of the east tower for a practice run." Over their loud grumbles, he added ominously, "Your jobs. Tell no one where you're going or why." He flipped one of the white board over to reveal SECRET OPERATIONS ARE ESSENTIAL IN WAR; UPON THEM THE ARMY RELIES ITS EVERY MOVE. "And remember -- I expect a win, people."
--------
O'dark hundred Monday morning, Lorne joined John and Ronon for their daily run. "Morning sir," he said, saluting sharply and trying not to stare at John's bedhead. "Ronon."
John grumbled in response. "He means 'Good morning,'" Ronon translated. "He doesn't wake up until we're done. Maybe that's why he's so slow."
John's second grumble sounded suspiciously like, "Fuck you."
Lorne laughed. "Guess this isn't the best time to ask about ATCHAL then, is it?"
John yawned as Ronon set the pace. "What about it?"
"Do we have a plan, sir?"
"What sort of plan?"
"To avoid a goat rope?"
"Do we need one? I was thinking mostly let 'em win, only, y'know, not let 'em win."
"Ah. Brilliant plan, sir."
John gave Lorne the eyebrow, but Lorne just grinned. "I take it the Marines want a little more than that?" he asked.
"Afraid so, sir."
"Fine," John said, yawning again. "Gather 'em up at 1300. I'll have a plan by then."
--------
"So the plan," John said to the assembled Marines, "is to let 'em win. Only, y'know, not let 'em win."
John's plan was met with much grousing. "What the hell kind of plan is that?" someone called from the back.
"A zoomie plan, that's what kind," someone else heckled.
Lorne scanned the crowd. "Was that you, Martinez?"
"Zoom, zoom, zoom," Martinez sing-songed.
"I kinda like the sound of that," Lorne said. "Tell your mom that's what I want her to call me next time I come see her."
The team laughed and Martinez flipped Lorne the bird good-naturedly.
"All right," John said, reining them in, "this whole thing was an exercise in team building. It was the science team's idea to face off, but let's not lose sight of the point."
"Which is what, sir?" Cadman asked.
"The point is that nothing says team building like the chance to shoot the shit out of each other," Lorne said. "And if you want to be able to do it again next year, you're going to need the scientists to keep coming out for training. Don't fuck it up."
"That's the point," John agreed. "Be in the armory Thursday. We roll out at 2030. Dismissed."
--------
Thursday morning dawned bright and clear. Rodney barricaded himself in the war room to review his battle plan one last time. John skipped his morning run and had donuts for breakfast.
Thursday afternoon, Katie broke her arm.
She'd been on a routine mission, collecting plant specimens the Ancient database had flagged as having antitoxin effects. Dr. Bluestein had stumbled and when Katie had reached out a steadying hand, he'd tripped and taken her down with him.
It was very untimely and very unfortunate, particularly when Rodney was the first person Katie radioed when she reached the infirmary. Half an hour later, Rodney radioed John.
"I can't play tonight," he said gloomily, "I'm bowing out. Zelenka's going to take my place as commander."
"What?" John said. "Why? What happened?"
"Katie broke her arm."
"And?"
"And it's her right arm. She's right handed. It's a pretty bad break, multiple fractures, and she's going to need someone to take care of her."
John swore. "Doesn't she have any friends?"
"Of course she has friends! But I'm her boyfriend," Rodney said, "and this is my job. Plus, Cadman said so."
"What does Cadman have to do with anything?"
John heard shuffling and Rodney lowered his voice. "I asked her if I could bail on Katie. She said--"
"You're going to Cadman for advice?"
"Yes," Rodney said, as though it should have been a foregone conclusion. "How do you think I got past the accidental proposal debacle? I wasn't about to ask Teyla or Elizabeth."
"I didn't know you had," John said. "How did you?"
"Cadman said to buy her a big gift. I got her a one terabyte hard drive."
"You got her a hard drive?"
"They were on backorder at the SGC; it was a big deal. Focus, Sheppard. Look, we're still on shaky ground. If I bail on her now, it's two steps back, like I never bought the hard drive and never made up for the proposal. But if I stay, then I'm two steps forward and I'm in, Sheppard, if you know what I mean. And I really, really want to be in. It's been a long time since--"
"Okay!" John cut him off. "Okay, I get it. Just...isn't there anything else you can do?"
"Hey, I was looking forward to this, too. But if my options are spending the night freezing with Zelenka and trading in a win for a favor from a military monkey or spending the night warm with my girlfriend and trading in a win for sex, it's not really a hard decision. And there's always next year."
"Fine," John said, trying not to sound as petulant as he felt. "If you're sure."
"I'm sure. I'd like to be out there to see the look on your face when we kick your ass, but a man's got to have his priorities."
And John now knew what Rodney's were. "Okay," he said.
"Hey -- good luck."
"To Zelenka, too."
--------
The Challenge itself was mostly anticlimactic without Rodney there, though John could see his handiwork in Red Team's strategy. They struck fast and struck hard, taking out a full quarter of Blue Team before they could scramble a defense.
The Marines on Blue Team, however, were much more experienced at search-and-destroy than the scientists. Their strike team made short work of Red Team's flag guard -- at least until they walked right into an ambush.
"Great," Lorne hissed into his radio, listening to Red Team's chatter on his handheld, "I'm about to get my ass handed to me by a beaker named Schrödinger's Pussy."
"Hey," John said, taking fire from someone named Spicoli (Parrish -- he'd bet money on it), "everything's going according to plan."
"And what a brilliant plan--" Cadman started to say, but John tuned her out when he felt the cold press of a Beretta's plastic muzzle against his temple.
"Mercy."
John swore.
"Sorry, Colonel," Zelenka said, though he sounded anything but.
John trudged back to the command post, where he found half of Blue Team already huddled around a radio. "Not a word, Martinez."
"Wouldn't think of it, sir."
Red Team finally faced defeat forty minutes later, when what was left of John's strike team had neutralized all but one of Red Team's members: Zelenka. He held them off until he was almost out of ammo, then made a wild kamikaze run and took out six Marines before Cadman got a hit. Lorne clapped him on the back even as he took Red Team's flag and when Zelenka returned to the staging area, the Marines stood to shake his hand.
--------
John left Lorne and his team in the armory with orders to clean up and clear out. He headed for his quarters, then changed his mind and detoured to the eastern residential block.
He stood in front of Katie's door, thinking long about discretion and valor, and remembered how it felt when Rodney died.
And how it had felt when he came back.
He knocked on her door as quietly as he could and steeled himself.
When Rodney answered, he was sleep-fogged and disheveled. His shirt was on inside out and his hair was going seven different directions at once. John smiled.
"Hey," Rodney said rustily, letting the door slide shut behind him, "how'd the Challenge go?"
"We won," John said, "but it was close. Zelenka single-handedly held off half a dozen Marines for the better part of an hour."
Rodney smiled sleepily. "Crazy bastard."
"That's pretty much what we said."
"Well, congratulations."
"Thanks," John said, "but that's not why I'm here."
"Why are you here?" Rodney asked, scrubbing a hand through his hair. "It's got to be what, two o'clock? You can gloat tomorrow. I'll give you a whole five minutes."
John took a deep breath, then hesitated.
"Well?" Rodney prompted after a long moment.
"I'm here to trade in my win."
"What?"
"A favor of unspecified magnitude, within reason, from a member of the losing team."
"I know that," Rodney said, "but I don't--"
"Rodney," John interrupted, "I'm going to do this one thing, and then we're not going to talk about it again. That's my favor." He paused. "I just think you should know."
"Sheppard, what are you--" But the warmth of John's hand sliding around the back of Rodney's neck silenced him, drawing him into a kiss that was soft, chaste, and, like John, deceptively simple.
John pressed him closer for a moment, then two, and drew away slowly. "We're not going to talk about this," he said quietly, lips brushing against Rodney's cheek. "I just wanted you to know."
He let Rodney go then, and cleared his throat as he put a wide space between them. "You should probably get back inside before Katie wakes up," he said, and turned and left without a single look back.
He was at the end of the hallway before he heard her door open.
--------
Though John thought it had gone as well intentionally undermining someone's relationship could be expected to go, Rodney studiously avoided him for the next week. John didn't see him once: not in the labs, not in the mess, and he even begged off the weekly senior staff meeting, citing an allergic reaction to some alien flora of Katie's.
John hadn't expected better, and he'd prepared himself for worse, but it still seemed like he'd spun it in. He'd already decided to track Rodney down and ask about replacing him on the team, if only temporarily, when Rodney showed up unexpectedly at Thursday's training session.
"Hey, Doc," Lorne said. "Finally came to join us?"
"No," Rodney said stiffly. "I actually came to talk to Colonel Sheppard. Colonel, may I have a word?" He gestured toward the hall and, ignoring Lorne's questioning glance, John followed.
Once they were safely outside the armory, John jumped in first. "I'm sorry," he said, "I--"
"Shut up," Rodney interrupted.
"Hey," John said warningly, "I was only going to ask if you wanted me to find a temporary replacement for you on the team."
"What?" Rodney said. "Don't be stupid."
"Well, since you've been avoiding me--"
"I haven't been avoiding you, I've been thinking. You kind of caught me by surprise there, Kirk; I didn't exactly see it coming. I needed some time to think."
"Are you done thinking now?"
"Obviously, or I wouldn't be here."
"Okay," John said, "so are we good or not?"
"What, just like that?"
"Yeah, just like that. There's nothing to talk about: it's over, I'm sorry, and it won't happen again."
"No," Rodney said. "Trade your favor in for something else, because I want to talk."
"You always do."
Rodney gave him a lopsided smile, like he was responding to something John hadn't said. "I'm flattered," he began. "I never thought about--" he made a gesture that looked like building a sand castle "--before, but I think I could be. For you."
John could hear the surprise in his voice when he said, "That's not how it works."
"Of course that how it works. You're presented with options and you made a decision. And this is one I think I could make, but if I'm going to ruin it -- and I always do," he added quickly, "I'm petty, arrogant, and bad with people, I know that -- I'd rather ruin it with Katie than you. I have a good thing here. We have a good thing here," he amended. "Last time I screwed up at the SGC, I was exiled to Siberia. I can't let that happen now."
After a moment's silence, he added, "I feel like Paul Van Riper. Even when I win I lose."
"Paul Van Riper?" John asked.
"Yes," Rodney said, "Millennium--"
"I know who he is," John said. "I'm just surprised you do."
"I used some of his strategies for Red Team."
"Fitting. Congratulations, by the way."
"For what?" Rodney asked. "We lost."
"Not by much," John said. Then he clarified, "So you're saying thanks but no thanks, right?"
Rodney nodded.
"Okay. So we're good, then?"
"Yes. We're fine. Well, you're cool and I'm fine."
"Nah," John said with a grin. "You're pretty cool yourself, Rodney."
Rodney gave him an incredulous look and then, after a startled moment, "Oh my god! You're flirting with me!"
"What? No!" John said, even though he was. Force of habit.
After a moment, Rodney laughed. "No, it's okay. Just -- do better, Sheppard."
--------
Things with Rodney returned to normal surprisingly quickly. He stopped avoiding John and never once seemed uncomfortable -- a fact for which John was profoundly grateful. After a week or two, he even began responding to John's habitual flirting with something like amusement.
Atlantis Challenge was a whole other bag of tricks. The scientists were so pleased with their near victory that they returned to training sessions in renewed numbers. Word spread among those who hadn't participated, no doubt aided by the rumors of various favors the military winners had been calling in, and new participation increased enough that a third group was necessary. Cadman happily took them over.
Katie's cast came off in a record three weeks, despite the comminuted fracture. In addition to discovering a potential cure for leukemia, she'd also discovered a serum that aided in bone growth and had potential for cell regeneration. John tried not to be too jealous of what he'd privately termed her Mother Theresa impression, particularly since it meant Rodney had more free time with Katie well and fully functional. And he had no qualms about spending a significant portion of that free time letting John wipe the floor with him at chess.
"Checkmate."
"What? Oh, you're cheating," Rodney protested. "That's five in a row."
"I'm just that good."
"You're just that lucky."
"Rodney, how many times have you won?"
"Twenty-one," he said tersely, resetting the board.
"And how many times have we played?"
"A lot."
"Like you don't know the exact number." John opened the game, moving his pawn to E-4.
"Fine. Ninety-two."
"You only have a twenty-two percent win rate."
"Twenty-two point eight two six," Rodney said, answering with a pawn of his own to E-5. "It's practically 23."
"Then I guess I'm just 77.17392% better than you are."
"Oh, stop showing off."
John moved his knight to F-3. "You like it."
"I find it rather irritating, actually."
"Because you like it."
Rodney paused in the middle of moving his second pawn to F-6. "You're flirting with me again, aren't you?"
"Me?" John asked, all innocence. "I'm just playing chess."
"You are a shameless hussy, Sheppard."
John's knight took Rodney's pawn. "I'm feeling a jump to 77.41936% coming on."
Rodney's second pawn took John's knight. "You really like me that much?" he asked quietly.
John moved his queen to H-5. "That's a stupid question, Rodney," he said. "And check."
--------
The average person makes over 500 decisions a day, Heightmeyer had told him once. John had calculated that with an average lifespan of 78 years, give or take 10 for military hazards, that meant approximately 12.5 million decisions over the course of his lifetime.
Watching Rodney, Katie, and Cadman part ways as they headed into the mess several weeks later, he thought he might have one more in him.
"So I've been thinking about Paul Van Riper," he said, setting his tray down next to Rodney's at the otherwise empty table.
"You have?" Rodney asked, surprised.
John nodded. "You said he couldn't win for losing, but I think it's other way around."
Rodney looked up from John's peas. "How?"
"He succeeded when he shouldn't have," John said. "He took risks that paid off. Even when the deck was stacked against him, he didn't care about the odds -- he just did what needed to be done. And he always pulled it off."
"He'd have done well on Atlantis."
John nodded. "He would have. And I think you could do worse than to keep him in mind."
"Me?" Rodney asked. "What does he have to do with me?"
"You're the one who likes to think about things. So think about it."
Rodney paused and studied John carefully. "Wait. What are you saying?"
"I'm not saying anything. Actually, I'm asking -- to trade in my win, since you wouldn't let me the first time around."
"And what do you want?" Rodney asked warily.
"Nothing now," John said, glancing at Katie. "All I'm asking is that the next time you find yourself thinking about taking a risk or going up against the odds, doing something you think you shouldn't -- remember Paul Van Riper."
Rodney's answering silence was long and drawn out. "Okay," he said finally. "I can do that."
John grinned. "Good. Hey, you want my peas?"
Rodney considered his pudding -- butterscotch, not his favorite, but high on the list -- and weighed his options. "All right," he said reluctantly. "I'll trade you my pudding."
"Nah," John said, scooping his peas onto Rodney's tray. "You can just have 'em."