(no subject)
*
When everything went to hell, it went scarily fast. One minute John was coasting along, letting himself get complacent, almost content. The next minute, he was coming home from getting his stitches taken out to find McKay packing, stuffing underwear and a T-shirt-wrapped laptop into a backpack.
"McKay?" John's voice made McKay start. He turned to face John, and he looked almost as bad as the first time they'd met, tense and wild-eyed. "McKay, what the hell?" John prodded, his stomach starting to churn.
McKay's mouth worked silently for a few seconds, his eyes desperate. "I have to go back," he whispered. "I have to go back right now."
John gaped, speechless, and McKay continued in a rush. "I don't have much time, John. Sergeant Bates is coming to get me."
Mouth open to protest, John didn't manage to get a word in before McKay continued, "John, I want...I'd like you to stay here while I'm gone. I promise to come back as soon as I can." His expression went twitchy, his mouth twisting as he talked. McKay never had learned to lie worth a damn.
"You don't think you'll be coming back," John said. "Do you?"
McKay said nothing for a moment, a grimace crossing his face. "I don't know. It's bad, John."
Fuck, fuck, fuck. This is not happening, he thought, ignoring the dry voice from the base of his brain that whispered, But it's what you deserve. "Why? Why you? Why now?"
Zipping up the backpack, McKay shot him a helpless look. "Trust me, it's important. I wouldn't do this if it weren't. There is no one else who can do this."
"It's Bates, isn't it?" John said, his voice going flat. "He pulled another guilt trip, and you fell for it. McKay, it wasn't your fault. You don't have to--"
McKay was on him, stopping the flow of words by covering John's mouth with his. It was not at all like a kiss, too brutal, with all the strength of his bulky chest and shoulders. John let out an angry, stifled sound, trying to slide out of McKay's grip. He managed to get his hands between them and shoved, pushing McKay away.
John glared over at McKay, pale except for two spots of color high on his cheeks. "What the fuck was that?" John said, exploring the inside of his lip with his tongue and tasting blood.
"You don't know." McKay was shaking his head. "You save people without even trying, and you don't know anything."
John's hands went up and into fists, and it was the closest he had ever come to punching someone he knew didn't deserve it. McKay's eyes opened wide, but he didn't back down, scrubbing his hands through his already wild hair.
"John, that's not. I'm not." McKay took a deep breath. "I used to be that person, too, someone people counted on to save their asses. Until one day I couldn't, couldn't do anything but scream and tell them what they wanted, and then I had to blow the city because I couldn't keep my damn mouth shut."
"Jesus, McKay." John reached out, fists uncurling, and his fingers brushing down the line of McKay's chin provoked a shudder. He had a moment's hesitation, and then he settled his hands on McKay's shoulders. McKay warily leaned into the grip, reminding John of the sick cat that he had dragged home when he was ten, the cat he'd fought his mom to keep but that had died a week later anyway.
"The city, I had to blow her up, god, but they found a way to fix her, make her the way she was before." McKay's words spilled out, too fast and breathless, trying to cram everything in with a clock ticking down. And John had thought they had nothing but time, and it was taking his breath away to know just how wrong he'd been.
"Only...only they needed my help, and when I refused to go back." McKay stopped, his eyes closing. "It should have been me, but they got Radek to go instead, and something's gone wrong, and if he's dead because of me--"
"Breathe, McKay," John said quietly, sobered at the thought of the scruffy Czech scientist in trouble. They were tight, closest friends kind of tight, McKay and Radek.
And now Radek needed McKay's help. John swallowed as he realized he couldn't win this one, couldn't stop McKay from leaving. He didn't think he would have wanted McKay if it had been otherwise.
He flashed on the conversation he'd overheard way back when. Far, far away, McKay had said to Bates. In another galaxy, his voice shaky and high, and John had pegged it as a geek joke or a figure of speech, but...but, but, but, and all the puzzle pieces that had been nagging at him clicked into place, the realization fully-formed.
"I shouldn't be telling you any of this," McKay added, his voice cracking.
"Because this city you're talking about isn't even on Earth," John blurted. "Is it? It's some top secret government space project." He winced: it sounded like a bad sci-fi flick, but his instincts didn't lie, crazy as it all seemed.
His knees too shaky to hold him up, he collapsed onto the corner of the bed. "That argument with Carol about non-trivial topological change to the spacetime manifold wasn't the result of any thought experiment. And the other day, when you were ripping to shreds that paper on the Krasnikov stress-energy tensor--it was really all about spacetime bridges, wormholes, whatever. Traversable wormholes."
McKay froze, staring at him with a laser focus that made John feel a little twitchy. McKay's fingers flexed, and his hands came up in a helpless shrug. "That is so fucking hot," McKay said in a breathless voice. "I just have to fall for the smart ones."
John's mouth was open, lips forming the words--Fall for?--when McKay interrupted. "You can't tell anyone. You really can't tell anyone."
John snorted. "Like anyone would believe me."
Easing close, McKay tentatively leaned into his space. John looped an arm around McKay's waist, pulling him closer. "Damn it, McKay," John said, the words muffled against McKay's chest.
"I wish--"
"Yeah," John said, cutting him off.
McKay pushed him back onto the bed, knocking a stack of clothes to the floor. They kissed and kissed some more, and he eased a hand up under McKay's shirt, tracing the scars and soothing McKay through his flinch.
It was all wet heat and tongue, movement and friction, in a futile bid to mask the fear. McKay's solid body against his wasn't enough to ease John's churning gut, and his cock barely stirred. All his muscles just got tighter and tenser, and he hissed in frustration.
"It's fine," McKay said. "This is fine." He leaned down for another kiss, and didn't stop even when a flash of noise and light came from the living room, making John start.
"It's time, McKay." It was Bates, calling from the other room. McKay pulled away reluctantly and didn't seem at all surprised by Bates' dramatic appearance in the middle of his living room.
"You guys have fucking transporter beams?" John asked, and he sounded a little hysterical even to himself.
"Cool, huh?" The words were more casual than the tone, and McKay's eyes were red and wet.
"McKay," Bates said when they made their way into the living room. He nodded at John. "Sheppard."
John's hands clenched at his sides, like they wanted to hold onto McKay and never let go.
Bates glanced at his watch. "You got everything you need, McKay? We should get going."
John was expecting smugness; the man was getting his way, after all, getting McKay. Instead, Bates sounded tired, a little reluctant, and there was something in his eyes when he met John's gaze, understanding, or god forbid, sympathy, that made John want to throw something.
McKay slung his backpack over one shoulder and moved to stand beside Bates. McKay kept his eyes locked on John's as Bates spoke into a radio.
"Take care of yourself," John said, and it wasn't at all what he really wanted to say.
McKay looked like he was halfway to crying, his mouth twisted and unhappy. He didn't wave or say good-bye, but in the split-second before he flared brilliant white and out of existence, he blurted out, "Love you."
"Fuck," John said and collapsed on the couch. He sat there, staring at the empty space they'd occupied for a long, long time, until the first hint of sunrise lit up the room once more.
*
John was numb the first few days, following his routine mechanically. He stayed at McKay's house, because McKay had asked and he couldn't bear the thought of leaving. A squeaky-clean airman descended upon him there, all nervous smiles and, "Really, sir, they weren't supposed to let you see that," and "Sign this, please," and John didn't even bother to read the damn thing before he scrawled his name as directed.
He ran on the beach in the mornings, trudging back up the cliff when he was done, sweaty and breathless, and didn't think about McKay, morning and coffee and McKay, or sex and McKay, or necking on the deck with McKay.
He went to work, where he tried not to notice Cahill shooting him looks, and was extra vigilant on tower, so he didn't have to think about anything else. He visited Hol and finished another chapter and started swimming longer and harder.
After the first week, the numbness went away, and that was even worse. He'd been careful for so long that he'd almost forgotten this place, the raw, split-open feeling that ambushed him, slammed into his gut and turned him into one of the walking wounded, someone who couldn't even change the sheets on McKay's bed.
He slept poorly, in the bed that still smelled like McKay. Dreams plagued him, dreams that faded as soon as he opened his eyes. Sometimes he awoke shivering, with a throat that felt raw, the cold bone-deep no matter how many covers he piled on. Other times morning brought arousal, aching and hard, and he'd reach for his cock.
Closing his eyes, he tried to pretend that the hands on him were McKay's, even though he pinched his nipples more viciously than McKay had ever dared. Stroking himself to completion, his sob echoed in the empty room.
At the VA hospital, Annie took one look at him and started asking questions that he couldn't answer. He could barely string a complete sentence together, and she sounded more and more worried, until her forehead scrunched up tight. "John," she said, and he let her hug him, and he was pathetic enough that her arms wrapped around him, strong and smelling like chalk and chemistry lab, made him feel a little better.
He was flipping through the papers on McKay's desk, proposals and article reprints, smiling at the notes scrawled inside: I hope you're a religious man, because this idea would require a miracle to get off the ground and The idiocy of this proof is so profound that capturing the epic scope of it is beyond the space available in this margin, when Carol Freeman turned up at the door, looking as fucked up as he felt, a bottle of scotch clutched in one nail-bitten hand.
They avoided the deck as too obnoxiously sunny for serious drinking, and John cleared a spot on the coffee table for the bottle and two glasses.
"They haven't told me a thing," she said after the first drink, and, "I'm sure they're fine." After the second drink, it was, "You know about the wormholes, right?"
Much later she said, "Radek knows what he's doing," her enunciation a little over precise after the fourth or fifth drink, John wasn't sure which, because he was feeling warm and loose and had stopped counting. "So does Rodney."
"I miss him," he blurted before he could stop himself and Carol nodded. He continued, because once he'd broken his silence he couldn't seem to stop. "That damn city of theirs better be important."
"Atlantis," Carol said, and when he looked confused, "Radek called it Atlantis. He said she was beautiful." She snorted into her glass. "He said they'd found a 'factory ship,' whatever that is, and if there was a chance to fix her, he had to do it. Almost made me jealous."
"Did anyone tell you what went wrong?"
She shook her head. "Not really. Just that they had run into trouble, and that he might not--" The control she'd kept on her expression slipped a little, her mouth twisting into a grimace.
"They're going to come back," John said, because Carol's hands were starting to shake. She set her glass down, liquor sloshing onto the table.
"Shit," she said, and then the tears were sliding down her cheeks. "Shit."
*
It got a little better after that, or at least John learned how to breathe though it.
He made a list of chores and tackled one after the other with a fierce determination, organizing McKay's garage and fixing the leaky kitchen faucet. The bubbling paint on McKay's front door was next; he sanded it down and repainted it, getting the paint store to match the old color, an ugly shit brown, because it felt wrong to think about changing it.
He decided turning down Annie's steady stream of dinner invitations was getting too rude even for him and went over to her house one night. In the end it wasn't nearly as bad as he'd feared.
Peter greeted him at the front door with a beer and a baby, and John ended up with Kate plopped into his arms as soon as he was inside. Gingerly cradling her, he was grateful that she was quiet, no crying or throwing up or other baby stuff, because he was not up to going there. She just stared up at him with solemn eyes as blue as McKay's, her face crinkled up as though she wasn't quite sure about him.
John raised a dubious eyebrow right back at her, and Annie laughed at him. He followed them into the kitchen where pots bubbled on the stove, and they tactfully avoided any questions beyond asking if he wanted wine with dinner.
Kate fell asleep in his arms just as Annie was draining the pasta, and Peter swooped in to put her down. Dinner was salad and spaghetti, and John slowly twirled his fork, letting the warmth seep into him.
His shift had left him ragged and dead tired. Combine one drunk kid on vacation with a borrowed board and some rough surf, and it was the closest he'd come to losing someone yet. Only the second time he'd actually had to use his CPR skills, it'd felt like fucking forever before the kid had gasped in a breath. There was one point he'd thought he was just going through the motions on a corpse, but he hadn't stopped. Don't stop until help arrives, the instructors had said, but John wasn't one to give up anyway.
"You okay, John?" Annie's question penetrated his thoughts, and he sensed that she had been trying to talk to him. "You look cold; we can turn the heat on."
"I'm fine," he said, shrugging. "The temperature's fine. Just tired, I guess."
She gave him a searching look, but his smile seemed to convince her. After that, he let their conversation roll over him, easy and quiet, about Peter's new students and the firebug in Annie's chemistry lab.
"I had to talk her down from reenacting the Hindenburg for her science fair project," Annie said, getting up to put coffee on.
The evening had been a total shift in gears for him, baby-holding and socializing, and John had let his guard down. "You should hear about the nuke McKay built in the sixth grade," he said, and then he remembered, and the smile slid right off his face.
Annie bit her lip, and a look passed between her and Peter. It felt like a slap in the face, that look so obviously built on years of intimacy and wordless communication. His gut tied up into knots, and he was more than a little surprised at himself. His response didn't make any sense, but John didn't feel up to trying to sort it all out. He slid his chair back and hurriedly thanked them for dinner.
"I should head out," he said, after turning down coffee and dessert.
"John," Annie said, but Peter's hand on her arm stopped her. John made his escape, and it wasn't until he was behind the wheel, headed for home, that he felt like he could breathe again.
*
The days turned into weeks, and weeks into months, and there was no word from or about McKay. John had told himself to keep calm and expect nothing, but some part of him had forgotten the first lesson he'd learned in Afghanistan. He'd been dumb enough to hope, and hope just made things worse. Time healed, so the saying claimed, and hope faded, and John had learned a long time ago that he could stand just about anything.
Summer was coming to a close, and with it John's seasonal job, and he half-heartedly began to scan the classified ads. He couldn't work up much energy for a serious job search, and the need wasn't all that pressing. He didn't have many expenses, and Annie and Peter had finally sold their old house and had started to pay him back. He'd tried to turn it down, but Peter had said something about buying back his dignity, and John had given in.
Up at Holland's, he'd finished War and Peace and started on The Fellowship of the Ring. He'd found a copy in a sidewalk bargain bin and it had brought back so many geekish high school memories that he'd bought it on the spot. He decided Russian names had nothing on those of Middle Earth and skipped the songs as too weird to read aloud.
Carol came over now and then, but they'd finally stopped talking about Atlantis or the lack of news. To John's surprise, they sat out on the deck and talked mathematics. Carol sketched in the air as she talked, the abstract made concrete by the movement of her hands.
John slouched back in his chair, shades on against the glare, and basked in the sun and set theory. Carol's math sounded kind of pretty, filled with transformations and multiple dimensions, and even though they were nowhere near on equal footing, the half that didn't fly right past him was actually interesting.
Overall he was fine; they were fine, and if sometimes Carol paused a little too long and stared off into space with a tight, lost look on her face, John was pretty damn sure there were times he himself wore looks just like it.
Carol had started hinting about John going back to school, but he kept putting her off. Half of him wanted it, but the other half knew better and refused to want anything, anything at all. He drifted, ticking off the days left at his job, and managed to ignore the classifieds for another week.
Everything changed again on a Thursday morning, when two airmen rang the doorbell, in dark and somber uniforms like the funeral he was already imagining. He felt his insides try to drop through the floor at the sight of them, and his knees went weak, the blood draining from his face.
One of the airmen moved forward, her hand sliding under his arm in support.
"It's good news, sir," she said earnestly, ignoring his attempt to pull away. "But you'll need to come with us."
*
Which was how John ended up in a top-secret base buried beneath NORAD and Cheyenne Mountain, trying not to have a freak out. There was security all over the place, and it had taken forever to even get through the front gate. The elevator carried them down into the facility, built inside a huge manmade cave, and it was too cold and dark and claustrophobic for John's taste.
Being surrounded by uniforms again was bringing back memories, not many of them good, leaving him off-balance and jumpy. Add in the uncertainty of waiting to see McKay, and the alien-looking sidearms that some of the security personnel were packing, and John felt himself retreating into that space behind his eyes, cruising on autopilot.
"Where's McKay?" he kept asking, and they put him off, going on about debriefing and medical, and finally stuck him in a room that looked somewhere between military quarters and a hotel and asked him not to leave the room.
"Nah, I think I'll wander around, try to find the Roswell ship," John drawled, because his gut wouldn't believe McKay was okay until he'd actually seen him, and after fucking months, the delay was maybe wearing on him a little.
The airman escorting him shot him a sympathetic look. "That's at Area 51, I'm afraid," she said, so deadpan John couldn't tell if she was joking at first. She left him there, her smile apologetic.
The door wouldn't open for him, and it took less than five minutes to scope out the room: boring walls, a utilitarian desk against one wall, and a surprisingly wide bed covered in a puke green blanket. He paced the length of the room for a while, and then threw himself onto the hard bed and waited, patiently at first and then less so. He had nothing to read, and the phone next to the bed was a direct line to an unhelpful military operator.
He was cursing at his cell phone, the forlorn hope that he might get a signal beneath a thousand feet of rock fading, when someone spoke.
"You going to kiss me with that mouth?"
The question out of nowhere scared the shit out of him. "Gah," he shouted, and the phone went flying, and he fell off the bed and managed to bang his head against the corner of the bedside table on the way down.
Stifled laughter was followed by, "You okay, John?"
"Gah," he repeated intelligently, clutching at his forehead. He twisted around and blinked, then scrubbed at his watering eyes with his sleeve. "McKay?" he said. He'd been primed for bad news too long; he sounded incredulous.
John pulled his hand away from his face, not taking his eyes off McKay. Dressed in faded BDUs a little too big for him, McKay looked too thin and harassed. He shifted from foot to foot, with the hyperactive energy of someone mainlining caffeine and too little sleep, but the grin on his face practically lit up the room. His blue eyes darted eagerly over John's body, settling on John's face, and his grin got even wider.
"In the flesh," McKay said. "And as nice as you look down there on your knees, maybe you could get up from there." There was uncertainty mixed in with McKay's smugness, and John felt something twist deep inside.
"McKay," John repeated, his voice close to breaking. He felt light-headed and dizzy and didn't know whether to laugh or cry or pinch himself.
His eyes were watering, and he knew it wasn't just from the knock on the head, and then he was climbing to his feet and launching himself unsteadily at McKay, pushing him back against the desk. "You're such an asshole." He wrapped his arms around McKay and squeezed the snot out of the man, and then John squeezed even tighter, to make sure he was real and solid and reassuringly warm.
McKay laughed, an unsteady sound of relief tinged with hysteria. "Did you miss me?"
"Asshole." John reached up and clamped his hands around McKay's neck, his thumb resting over the flutter of the jugular, strong and steady and quickening and the best thing John had felt in months. His fingers tightening dangerously, John spoke, in a voice he almost didn't recognize. "You were gone so long, Christ, I thought you were--"
"I'm not," McKay said, his voice rough and triumphant, and his hands came up to join John's, just touching, not trying to break John's grip. "I did it. Well, we did it, Radek and I, and can I say I'm never letting him forget that I saved his ass? We did it. I'm okay, and I'm right here." McKay's hips pressed against John's on the last word, and his hand moved up to cup John's cheek, the gesture weirdly rough and tender at the same time.
John sucked in a gulp of air, taking in the familiar contours of McKay's face, right in front of him, healthy and whole, pushy hips and eager heat. John shoved him back against the desk and tried to kiss the smug expression right off his face. McKay smelled and tasted a little off, not quite like John remembered, and he wondered if it was his memory that was wrong or if that was how McKay's trip had left its mark.
They stumbled, tripping over each other, and McKay would have fallen except that John hauled him up by the belt. John reeled him in closer and couldn't stop laughing, so happy to see McKay triumphant and home again he was almost drunk on it.
"John," McKay said, pinning him against the wall. He sounded horny and desperate, his fingers scrabbling at the buttons on John's pants, and the little sounds he was making went straight to John's cock. "Yeah," McKay said once he'd gotten John's pants open and his cock pulled out. "Missed this," he whispered, and then the soft brush of lips on John's cock was making him groan, and his head thumped back against the wall.
"Missed you." John had to push the words out past a throat so tight it hurt, because that was just one of the promises he'd made to himself if McKay ever made it back, and then McKay was sucking him down. John tried to brace himself, but his jeans trapped his legs, and he could only gasp and curse unsteadily at the boring beige of the far wall.
He ran shaky hands through McKay's hair, cupping the back of his skull. He hadn't planned it, but his touch was gentle, like handling something fragile, and McKay let out a needy sound around the cock in his mouth. McKay seemed inspired, going down like he was on a quest for pubic hair, wet lips and tongue and fingers pushing John over the edge.
John was strung-out and weak-kneed after that, and McKay had to manhandle him over onto the bed.
"Can I fuck you?" McKay whispered, and John nodded. He felt pliant and happy, and he let McKay do the work, stripping him naked. McKay kept pausing, first after John's shirt was gone and then after the jeans. John lifted a lazy eyelid after the second pause and caught McKay staring at him, his expression vulnerable, wide-eyed and staring.
John half wanted to close his eyes against the look on McKay's face, but he made himself meet McKay's stare, matching the heat and emotion there with his own.
McKay blinked, saying, "John, I--" and then he was kissing John's neck and mouth, wet and greedy.
"Like this," John said, pulling away to sprawl facedown onto the sheets. "There's stuff in my bag. Just like this."
McKay fumbled with the zipper and inside the backpack. "Come on," John said impatiently, and then slick fingers slid into him, opening him up.
"Okay?"
At John's grunt, McKay eased into him without stopping, the burn making John tense and gasp, "Don't you fucking stop."
McKay kept moving, steady and inexorable, until he was inside balls-deep and trembling, draped over John's back and arms and legs like a blanket, heavy and warm. McKay's palms pressed onto the backs of John's hands, interlacing their fingers, and it felt like a full-body hug, reassuring and safe.
John closed his eyes and concentrated on his breathing, on the feel of McKay all around him, over him and in him, McKay's warm breath on the back of his neck. Weighty and solid, McKay's body pinned him down, kept him together, all those pieces of himself that'd been drifting for years, probably. The whole time McKay was gone, John had been asleep or dreaming again and now he was finally waking up.
"How about you get on your knees?" McKay said after a while, shifting a little, and John reluctantly stirred, because yeah, this felt pretty damn good, but the position sucked for thrusting.
John managed to push up and onto his knees without McKay having to pull out. He could feel the tension in the body behind him; McKay was on the edge, more than ready.
"Go for it," John said. McKay's strong hands grabbed his hips, bracing for the first thrust, and John was suddenly dying for it, hungry for it, for McKay's cock to slam into him. "Come on," he managed to growl.
McKay didn't hold back, shoving into him until John saw stars, and pulling almost all the way out before sliding home again. John pushed his ass back, and McKay's fingers dug into his hips so tightly John could feel the bruises already. Another deep thrust hit that spot inside, lit him up and left him panting.
"Harder," he heard himself rasp, his back arching to lift his ass higher, and McKay obeyed, sliding out and pushing in again, deep and undeniable. "Again," he said, and McKay was almost sobbing with it.
"God, John," McKay said. "John."
It was life-affirming and raw, and McKay's mouth between John's shoulder blades was the only thing gentle about it. John knew he'd have trouble sitting tomorrow or probably into next week, but the thought was lost in the mind-blowing sensation of McKay's hand reaching around and wrapping around his cock.
McKay stripped him once, twice, and that was it. John was coming, on a whiteout of sensation, and McKay's cock inside him felt fucking enormous as his ass muscles clamped down around it.
The contractions tipped McKay over, and John could feel McKay's thrusts go ragged and shallow. McKay bit down hard into John's shoulder, muffling his shout as he came.
There was nothing but sweat and skin-on-skin and the ragged sound of their breathing after that, until John grimaced a little. "Could you--?"
"Sorry," McKay mumbled, pulling out, and John couldn't stop his wince.
Still panting, McKay fell back against the pillows. "God, that was good," he groaned. John mumbled his agreement into the sheets, casually reaching over to run a hand through McKay's chest hair--and then shot up to flick his ear, hard and fast.
"Ow, what was that for?" McKay glared at him, clamping a hand to the side of his head.
"You know what that was for. Asshole." John was too happy and well-fucked to sound really pissed off, but he gave it his best. He threw in a glare for good measure, until his neck started hurting and his head got too heavy, and he let his forehead drop onto McKay's chest.
McKay draped an arm over his eyes and sighed. "Maybe I do know." He stopped there, but John waited him out. "I'm not sorry I said it," McKay finally said in a rush.
"Your timing sucked."
McKay's free arm draped over John's back, the movement almost tentative. "I do, you know," McKay said easily, arranging the sheets around them, closing his eyes.
John lay there silent for a long moment and then managed a one-shouldered shrug. He hadn't missed the underlying generosity, McKay's lack of expectations, and that pissed him off a little.
Taking a breath, he rose to the challenge. "Same here," he said quietly, the words muffled against McKay's chest. He could feel his face flushing red hot, and when he looked up, McKay was smiling a smug, happy smile.
And it was only the truth, John thought as McKay's pleased silence spiraled into sleep. There was no use denying it, whether McKay was lost in another galaxy or right beside him in bed, all warmth and sweaty skin and slowing breaths, alive, alive.
*
"It'll take a day. Then we can leave. Three days, tops," McKay was saying to John the next morning at breakfast, his mouth full and a smear of syrup on one cheek, and John was manfully resisting the urge to lean over and lick it off. The mess of the top-secret base--SGC, McKay called it--served a mean Belgian waffle. "Just until we get the ship--"
"Phoenix," Radek said, from his spot next to McKay. Radek was looking scruffier than the last time John had seen him. There was something in his eyes and in his slow, deliberate movements that hinted at a deep well of fatigue lurking behind his surface alertness.
Looking happy but wary, Carol sat on Radek's other side. Her hand kept darting out to touch, a fleeting grip on Radek's forearm, his shoulder. Radek's left hand was under the table, probably resting on Carol's knee. The touching was something he'd caught himself doing with McKay, the compulsion barely held in check by their surroundings and his own aversion to public displays.
Carol had sounded disconcerted when she described how they'd whisked her out of an academic conference in Denver, and John couldn't blame her. He was feeling a little like that himself.
"We call her the Phoenix," Radek insisted.
"That's just a name you pulled out of nowhere, going all English major on me," McKay said, his tone implying an insult of the highest order. Ignoring Radek's eye roll, he waved a fork in the air. "The Ancients didn't name factory ships. You know that."
"And the Asurans called her CV-761," Radek said. "Pardon me if I'd prefer to break with their practices."
McKay stopped chewing and then swallowed, hard. "Phoenix it is," he said, his voice quiet, and John and Carol exchanged a look.
"You brought the ship back here?" Carol asked finally.
Yep." McKay sounded smug. "My idea. Towed the ship behind us, just like Triple A. That's part of what took so long."
"It's down in one of the hangars. We," Radek said, pointedly looking over at McKay, "decided to bring it back here to work on. It is not responding as we expected, even with Dr. Beckett helping out." He paused, glancing at all the uniforms around them. "And I suppose this is on the list of things we're not supposed to talk about."
McKay gulped down a mouthful of coffee and scrubbed a hand through his hair. "You mind sticking around a while?" he said, his eyes widening at John enquiringly.
"Sure." John shrugged, already a little antsy, but not wanting to put a crimp in McKay's fun. Because there was no doubt that McKay seemed to be having fun, riding high on the successful mission and the puzzle presented by the Phoenix. It was good to see McKay cocky and happy, John told himself, ignoring the vaguely unsettled feeling in his gut.
*
McKay and Radek disappeared after breakfast, heading down to work on the ship, and John tried not to feel like a fifth wheel. He went for a short run through the corridors, mostly just to see if he could, and felt a mild wave of irritation that the security escort trailing him managed to keep pace without breaking a sweat. After a shower, John spent the rest of the morning cooped up in the room, bored out of his mind. Carol dropped by for a little while, but she was headed back up to Denver to spend the afternoon at her conference.
It was closing in on lunchtime, and John was heading to the mess to meet up with McKay when sirens started sounding. Red bubblegum lights mounted up near the ceiling strobed the corridor, and the security escort who'd continued discreetly shadowing John took off at a dead run.
It's McKay, oh, shit, John thought and followed, hard on his heels. The escort shot him a chilly glance, but John raised his eyebrows in his best we're all just friends here look. The escort's radio squawked just then. "Hangar Six," John heard through the static and took advantage of the distraction to follow the escort onto the elevator. They went down and down, and John's stomach felt like it was dropping faster than they were.
"What's going on?" he asked tightly, and got only a shrug in answer.
The downward ride stopped finally, and as soon as the doors opened, they piled out of the elevator--and right into the middle of chaos.
In the midst of everything going on, John almost didn't notice the--holy shit--spaceship that rested in the middle of the vast hangar, bulky and gray, but smaller than John was expecting, and looking disappointingly nothing like the Millennium Falcon.
The scene around the ship was something out of a Dali painting. A lopsided, organic-looking tower grew into the air, like a demented two-foot-thick metallic beanstalk. Right before John's eyes, it pushed into one side of the hangar, cracking the wall with an ear-splitting shriek.
Movement throughout the entire hangar revealed the scope of the problem: the beanstalk was one of many, growing uncontrollably, most already penetrating the ceiling and walls.
A chunk of the ceiling crashed to the floor just then, provoking a chorus of screaming and a small stampede towards the elevator. John fought the tide of people, moving closer to the ship. A door gaped open on one side of the ship, a ramp extended. From the opening, he could hear raised voices, McKay arguing with someone with a Scottish accent.
"Damn it, Carson, stop it," McKay shouted. "The nanites are out of control!"
"I hadn't realized that, Rodney," was the sarcastic reply. "I'm trying here. I'm doing the best I can."
"That's not good enough, Carson."
"I'm thinking at it as hard as I can." The Scottish voice sounded frantic. "But it doesn't want to listen."
John ran up the ramp to find McKay and Radek standing over someone stretched out in a mutant Barcalounger, all glowing blue and metal and singing a dissonant, whispered song that filled John's head with possibilities.
Longing like an ache, a sense of incompleteness, and John was moving forward without a thought. "It's all wrong," he said to the man in the chair. "Get up. You've got it wrong."
"Gladly," said the man as he vacated the chair.
"John, no," McKay was saying, but John heard nothing but the chair's whispered potential. He lowered himself down into the blue metal embrace of the chair--completion, rightness--and closed his eyes, and saw...everything. Carson's beanstalk towers felt deformed and sick, the uneasy scratch of nails on a chalkboard, and he dissolved them with barely a thought.
A thousand possibilities opened up: a fleet of ships to explore the depths of space; a defense satellite, to protect his home; a city growing around them, bigger and better than the claustrophobic cave that was SGC.
He almost didn't hear McKay's words beneath the pictures inside his head. "John, listen to me. If you can't stop it outright, then you need to think of something small. We can't build a city in here."
The city. It reverberated in his head, and the stab of longing was almost painful, and John knew the feeling wasn't his own. Soft words filled his head, sweet and tempting, and John got the feeling if he just stretched a little, he could understand them.
"John. John."
Home. It was a sensation, not a word, the tug of family, safety, mine. And that was something that struck a little too close to the bone, the ache feeding seamlessly into his own.
"John." McKay's insistent, familiar voice cut through everything, and John thankfully latched onto it. McKay's hands were on him, gripping his shoulders, and that pulled him free of the chair's fog even more. "John, please. We can't build a city here. Make something small. For me."
For McKay, he thought at the chair, putting a sting in the mental words, and whatever it was that was fighting him stopped. He didn't even know where the image came from, but it was suddenly there, fully formed in his head.
Go, he thought, and when he heard gasps from all three men, he opened his eyes and sat up.
At McKay's feet lay a glowing, moving model of a solar system, tiny planets orbiting and spinning in thin air around a sun of shining metal.
"It's a toy," John said. "It was the smallest thing they had." And he wasn't even sure who they were, or how he knew what he knew, how he'd done what he'd done, but he was feeling too euphoric to care.
He looked up from the spinning planets to see all three men staring at him in amazement. Worry marred the wonder on McKay's face, and that killed John's buzz, bringing him out of the weird mental space he'd occupied.
There was still a hum just at the edge of his awareness, though, a sense that the chair beneath him was ready, no, eager, to obey his command. It made his skin crawl, and he jumped to his feet. He kept an eye on the chair, suspicious of its alien, Spider-Man-on-steroids lines.
He finally looked over at McKay's strange expression, one that John couldn't get a read on. "I did that?" he asked, gesturing at the toy at McKay's feet.
"Yeah," McKay said breathlessly, his eyes moving over John's face as though he'd never seen him before. "You have the gene."
Radek was rubbing his hands together, practically licking his chops. "It's like he has a supergene. It took Carson an entire day just to access the construction database. This is amazing."
"Yeah," John said, stretching out the word, feeling the same rush of panic as when he got volunteered for something back in the Air Force. "This can't be good."
*
Tall and thin and articulate, Dr. Elizabeth Weir cornered him in the infirmary, where he'd been trapped for what seemed like hours. She introduced herself as a diplomat, the civilian head of Atlantis, and talked about restoring the city with a gleam in her eye that even her State Department poker face couldn't hide.
Accompanying her were Bates and Lieutenant Colonel Lorne, Weir's surprisingly fresh-faced military counterpart. Compact and muscular, Lorne had tired eyes and seemed as wired as McKay. John tensed up at the sight of the uniforms and Bates' frowning face, even as Lorne gave him a genial nod.
Lorne's hand darted up to his collar, to what John assumed were brand new oak leaves, and his expression had the combined smugness and suppressed panic of the newly promoted. The movement hadn't escaped Weir's notice, and she ducked her head to hide her smile. There was a history there, based on the familiar ease between the two of them, and John found himself relaxing a little.
Lorne certainly didn't seem wound as tight as his sergeant, his smile in contrast to Bates' flat expression.
Weir's spiel was smoothly delivered, but she seemed a little intense for John's comfort as she tried to turn him on to the wonders of intergalactic discovery and exploration. "The results of your tests are extraordinary. You could be the key to rebuilding Atlantis, Mr. Sheppard."
John blinked at her. "You've seen my file, right? I doubt your military colleagues," he said, waving a lazy hand towards Bates and Lorne, "seriously want me anywhere near this project."
She narrowed her eyes at him. "I have seen your file, and in the end the only thing that matters is a restored Atlantis. But I think you might be surprised," she added, arching an eyebrow at him.
Lorne leaned forward. "Mr. Sheppard, we're used to dealing with...independent thinkers, should we say? You're a civilian now, and we'll treat you as such. We really do want to have you on board."
Bates shifted his weight at that but said nothing.
Weir gestured towards John. "I need you and Dr. McKay on my team. The question is...do you want to be on it?"
"Um, yeah, about that..." John stalled, all the details of the program she'd described flying around his head.
A flicker of something passed over the pleasant expression she wore like a mask, almost rueful, and she took a careful breath. "I'm rushing you, aren't I? I'm sorry, but you have no idea how very rare your expression of the gene is. And how much we need someone like you. Take some time," she said, and the smile looked genuine, if a little stiff. "Think about it."
Shooting him one last inscrutable look, she left and managed to leave his thoughts in a whirl as well. Alien monsters, spaceships, wormhole-traveling to another galaxy, and building shit with his mind, but John was trying not to think too hard about all that, or how McKay kept poking his head into the room, his body language agitated.
"Still okay," John said with a smile, when McKay popped in to finally spring him from Dr. Beckett's clutches, but McKay didn't smile back. They were headed down the corridor when McKay spoke up again.
"Elizabeth came to see you," McKay said, frowning a little, the words a question.
"She said she wants us on her team," John said, watching McKay's face go still. "I didn't give her an answer," he added, giving in to the urge to reach out and put a hand on McKay's shoulder. McKay sighed and leaned the tiniest amount into John's grip, but his expression didn't lighten.
Back in the room, McKay fell back onto the bed, to stare up at the ceiling.
"McKay?" John said, moving cautiously to sit at the foot of the bed.
"Atlantis was invaded," McKay blurted without preamble, and John sucked in a breath.
"McKay," John started to say, but he was cut off.
"You need to hear this," McKay said to the ceiling. "Just listen. We were down to a skeleton staff, and the Genii found out about it somehow. They wanted Atlantis, and they knew I could give it to them."
McKay sounded remote, as if it all had happened to someone else. "I can still see the knife. Big and shiny, so sharp I didn't even really feel it at first. Bates was there, yelling his head off, but when he tried to stop them they used him for a punching bag. After a while, he couldn't do anything but lie on the floor and puke."
McKay made a disgusted noise. "It was sick. I think...I think they were getting off on it, making us beg. Even after I told them what they wanted, they didn't stop, not for a long time."
John reached out to touch, pushing his hand up under McKay's pants leg until he felt the warm, hairy skin of McKay's shin.
"That's not even the worst of what Pegasus can offer up." McKay sat up, staring at John intently. "There are far worse ways to die out there, believe me. That's how command fell into Lorne's lap; our first military commander died in the first week, sucked dry by a Wraith. But on the other hand...on the other hand, it's the most beautiful place you ever saw." McKay sounded quiet, almost reverent in a way that reminded John of stargazing and flying. "There are these gateships. We didn't lose all of them when Atlantis went down, and I bet the Phoenix can make more--you'd love these things, John. You fly them with your mind."
"Cool," John said, and this time McKay matched him smile for smile. It felt good, even as it didn't help his confusion much at all. He couldn't tell which way McKay wanted him to jump on this, couldn't tell if McKay himself wanted to be back in the thick of things again. Maybe McKay didn't know.
"We go together," John said abruptly. "If you go, I go."
McKay winced. "Don't. Don't put this all on me. If it goes bad again--"
John crawled up McKay's body, pinning him down onto the sheets. He ground their hips together, making McKay arch off the bed and groan. "A week, then," he said into McKay's ear, his hand sliding between their bodies to work at McKay's belt. "A week to decide."
*
They grabbed a flight back home and didn't leave the beach house for the first two days. They had welcome home sex in every position and room they could, including the garage, McKay's bare ass against his dusty Honda Accord and John going down like a trooper. McKay ended up complaining about the gas fumes and his back, and the concrete floor scraped John's knees raw, but even so-so sex with McKay was worth losing some skin.
They made it back to McKay's bed finally. Sprawled across the sheets afterwards, his hand a warm spot in the small of John's back, McKay told the story of their clash with the Asurans--"Psychopathic robots with daddy issues," McKay said, "and sure, I'm first in line when it comes to parental issues, but I've never wanted to go back and burn down the old homestead just for spite. And did I mention how I single-handedly saved Radek's ass?"
"Maybe once or twice." John smiled, stretching in the afternoon warmth. He was fucked out and tired, his eyelids drifting shut, but he managed to poke McKay in the side with an elbow. "And 'single-handedly'?"
"Well, mostly," McKay said. "Okay, not entirely by myself. But I sure didn't have any help coding the virus that fried their creepy nanite brains."
At odd moments over the next few days, John found himself drifting, remembering the sensation of being in the chair. The memory was disjointed and strange, but powerful, and it nagged at him like an itch begging to be scratched. He daydreamed about channeling that power again, fulfilling that deep longing he'd shared, letting go, watching the city (home) heal itself, towers reaching up towards an alien sky.
McKay noticed his distraction, watching intently each time John surfaced out of the memory. "She really got to you, huh," McKay said, his voice as soft as his eyes, and John couldn't do anything but shrug.
By the third day, McKay was getting restless. He stayed on the phone, talking shop, and typing on his laptop, and John's morning runs got longer and harder, as though he could exercise to the point of forgetfulness, outrun the itch.
McKay was scrambling eggs on the morning of the fourth day when he looked over at John, who was leaning against the counter beside him. "I think I miss it." His voice sounded strange, relief mixed with fear, and John leaned over to press his mouth to McKay's nape.
"I think you do."
The kicker came later that day, with a phone call from Radek. "Carol, too?" McKay said, and almost dropped the phone. "She's giving up tenure?"
Which was how they found out that both Radek and Carol had signed on to Dr. Weir's project, and John exchanged a long, wordless look with McKay.
That night they lay on the deck shoulder-to-shoulder, stargazing in near silence. It felt like a farewell, saying goodbye to the constellations John had known his whole life. McKay inched his way down to John's midsection, pulling his sweats out of the way. The press of hands on John's skin and the damp sea air moving over his exposed cock made him shiver.
McKay sucked him in and sucked him off, slow and easy, wide mouth and strong tongue. Eyes closed, blocking out the dark sky and stars above him, John came, and when McKay's throat muscles swallowed around his cock, John's fingers clenching tightly in McKay's hair, it was the question and the answer at the same time.
*
John went up to the VA hospital, and even though it would be his last visit for a really long time, he ended up sitting there dumbly, watching Hol breathe. He searched for something to say, but kept coming up empty. No book this time, and it'd been easier when he just had to read words off a page to fill the silence.
"Sheppard."
John tried not to jump, but he wasn't entirely successful. He looked over to see Sergeant Bates standing just inside the doorway, his stiff demeanor contrasting sharply with the casual jeans and cotton sweater he was wearing.
"Colonel Lorne is already at McKay's, but I wanted to talk to you here." Bates' posture was picture perfect, his arms still at his sides.
John slumped artfully in response, and then shoved his hands down into his pockets, just to see the trace of a frown chase across the man's face.
"Bates." John nodded warily at the man, but Bates had turned his attention to Holland.
"Captain Jason Holland," Bates said, not looking away from Hol's slack face. "Went down near a Taliban stronghold in April of '03." Bates glanced over, expressionless except for a hint of gruff sympathy in the line of his mouth. "You disobeyed orders, flew in after him."
John unclenched his jaw. "Someone's been doing a little reading," he said, his tone as light as he could make it.
Bates didn't blink, his gaze assessing. "I like to know the measure of a man I'm going to work with."
"So, which are you leaning towards, 'insubordinate rogue' or 'crazy fuck-up'?" John said evenly, his arms crossing across his chest.
"Don't be stupid," Bates snapped. "Stupid gets you killed in Pegasus."
John felt his eyebrow go up. "I was quoting, actually. And stupid gets you killed in a lot of places."
Something changed in Bates' face, and it took John a second to realize the man was hiding a smile. The flicker of humor in Bates' eyes was more than a little unsettling. "So it does," Bates said. "And I don't think you're a crazy fuck-up. Here's what I think, since you seem eager to hear it: you're a contrary bastard with authority issues out to here--"
"Nothing slips by you, does it?" John deadpanned, but Bates ignored him.
"But when you see something that needs doing, you go and do it." Bates jerked his head over at Hol. "If you hadn't been that kind of man, your friend would be dead now."
John couldn't stifle the flinch, and Bates' eyes narrowed. "No, Sheppard. Don't think that. Once you start thinking that way, you'll go crazy. Believe me." Bates seemed to sink into himself for a second, a shadow chasing over his face. John looked away, giving the man a moment.
"Anyway." Bates cleared his throat. "We had to get some things straight, you and I, but I think we can work together. And as much as nobody likes to think about it, Atlantis is more than just an exploration outpost. If the Wraith ever find their way to this galaxy, Earth'll make a nice, fat smorgasbord for them. Atlantis is the first line of defense; they need us out there, they need a restored Atlantis."
Bates didn't miss John's involuntary glance over at Hol. John was starting to think the man didn't miss much at all. "He'll be in good hands," Bates said. "And if his sister needs any help, we've got it covered."
After a pause, John said stiffly, "You've been doing more than reading, I see."
Bates kept silent, shrugging a little. His eyebrows rose minutely. Your move.
John nodded and rubbed the back of his neck. "Well, then," he drawled. "I guess it's Pegasus, here we come."
*
"This is Gateship Three. Buoyancy has stabilized." The relief in Radek's voice was obvious even over the static of the radio. "The readings look good."
She's huge, John thought in surprise, taking in the blackened towers and shattered windows of Atlantis, gleaming wetly in the sun. Even in its current state, the alien architecture was spectacular. Something twisted inside him, a hollow sort of nostalgia for the city that had been, gleaming, delicate and strong. He could see it so clearly, the city whole, its spires reaching high up towards the sun.
Nothing they'd said had prepared him for this, the rush of emotion inspired by the damaged city. A part of him wondered how much of it was the ship's influence, and if he'd ever again be completely alone in his head in this galaxy.
Steady. John lightly touched Phoenix's controls until they hovered over the newly exposed surface of Atlantis' least damaged pier. Peering down through the windscreen, he could judge the size of the ruined towers, immense and skyscraper-tall.
"Phoenix, you're clear to land."
John set them down without a bump and smirked over at McKay, who was looking a little white around the eyes. "Okay?" John said.
"Yeah," McKay breathed. "It's just...memories, you know?"
John raised his eyebrows, and McKay frowned over at him. "I'm fine, fine. Let's get on with this." He sounded eager and impatient, and John stifled a smile.
"Daedalus, we're ready on this end," John said over the radio.
"You have a go, Mr. Sheppard," Dr. Weir replied from the ship orbiting high above them.
"Remember, we're yanking you out of there if anything looks the least bit weird," Lorne added. He sounded as nervous as all hell, and John remembered McKay's story of how Lorne had inherited his command, how quickly things could go wrong here.
John grimaced, and McKay waved a hand in his direction. "Acknowledged," McKay said into his headset, his eyes on John's.
"I'm moving to the chair." John twisted out of his seat, heading towards the rear of the ship and the chair. McKay turned to watch, his eyes too-bright and his breathing a little fast.
John slid into the chair and closed his eyes. It felt like a sigh, like breaking the water's surface after a long dive.
"Now, picture Atlantis," McKay said softly.
And that was the easiest part, because the city had already taken form behind his eyes, set up residence at the back of his brain. Add in the chair's potential, and it was nearly overwhelming, the feel of the ship around him, the power of millions of nanites his to command.
Home, restoration, completion--it was a rush, wind on his face, images like trapped birds flapping over his skin, exciting and scary at the same time.
John cheated a little, peeked through his eyelashes at McKay, who was white-faced and unblinking, fingers digging into his thighs as if he didn't trust himself not to reach out. McKay had the worried, possessive look of an expectant father, and John felt the smile spread over his face. He shut his eyes again, slipping deeper into the chair's embrace.
One tiny step. A word, a mere thought, and potential became reality, images turned into metal and glass. Between one breath and the next--
"Go," he said, and Atlantis was reborn.