SGA/28 Weeks Later fic: When the World Ends (Lorne/Doyle; R)
Title: When the World Ends
Fandoms: Stargate: Atlantis/28 Weeks Later
Pairing: Lorne/Doyle
Rating: R
Words: About 2900
Spoilers: For 28 Weeks Later, and SGA episodes 'Sunday' through to the s3 finale.
Summary: In his room, late at night, Evan searches the lists of the dead for names he knows. He finds one. AU.
Notes: Story weaves through two timelines - post-Infection and pre-Infection. To make the timing work, I had to mess with the years a little - assuming that the first wave of Rage Virus infection happened in 2006 (SGA s3), rather than 2003. Title from the Dave Matthews' song. Many thanks to dessert_first for beta and excellent questions/suggestions that made me think some things through in more detail!
He watches the recording, not for the first time.
"There are carriers," General Landry says. He looks exhausted; his collar is undone. He runs his hand through his hair as he speaks, over and over. Evan doesn't remember this mannerism, this tick. "By now we think some of them might even know that they're carriers. It might be deliberate." He glances down, as though checking notes. "They show no outward symptoms, but their blood, saliva, tears - "
He trails off for a moment, and then shakes his head. "Contact with the fluids will cause immediate infection. You've seen the recordings."
By now he has. Most of them have.
"Elizabeth. It's here. Jumped the Atlantic. Don't let anyone from Earth come through the 'gate. The Daedalus is enroute, and we can't reach them. They left before we knew the extent of the situation. About the carriers." He hesitates before he says it. "We just - we can't. No one's sure. Don't let them land."
Evan knows what underscores that comment. Shoot them down, if you have to. He wonders if Dr. Weir picked up on it too.
Probably. If she didn't, Sheppard would have.
Landry sighs. "They'll starve, eventually." The first time he'd said it, Evan wondered if he'd meant the people on the Daedalus.
Instead, he'd continued, "The infected. It happened in Britain. I just don't know how many of us will be left."
Cheyenne Mountain is built for a siege. Evan knows it must have been locked down since the first spread of the virus across Europe.
The infected are mindless, ravenous. They won't be able to negotiate the seals, the defences.
But there are carriers.
*
There are two kinds of military personnel who get assigned to the Stargate program. Most of them are lifers - once they're in, they don't leave. Not by choice. Evan knows he's one of those guys. He'll stick around until the program closes, or until he's taken out feet first.
Then there are the one-offs. They're rare, but occasionally personnel get temporarily transferred, stick around just long enough to see some action, and then get reassigned. Evan doesn't see the point - seems a waste of resources to break in a few new people, then ship them back out again. Maybe the brass figure it's training - send them in to see what it's like off-world, and maybe any other mission on Earth seems straightforward, easy.
It still doesn't make much sense, especially with the cost of shunting people out to the Pegasus Galaxy. But then again, maybe there's a reason he's not the brass.
*
Infection. The reports are explicit. Infection means blood, hunger, running, a relentless epidemic. Infection means lockdowns and people lost, and numbers skyrocketing.
On Earth, infection is terror and chaos and collapse.
On Atlantis, infection means lists.
There are new protocols, enumerated in neat bullet points. Some come from Dr. Weir, some from the last few databursts sent by the SGC. Some are from the medical personnel, basic pieces of information everyone has to know and memorise. There are answers to questions that people don't ask, but wish they could.
Evan writes some of the new protocols himself, holed up with Sheppard. Shoot on sight and containment protocols. McKay, Zelenka and Keller set up new quarantine procedures that are instantaneous and precise. Evan and Sheppard integrate them into their own plans.
There are other lists - revised operating procedures, based on the reality that Atlantis might hold the last of their kind. Fraternization rules are formally weakened. Supply lists are created, checked and rechecked, and new wishlists are drawn up. Resupply missions take priority, and off-world missions are scheduled more tightly, more carefully.
There are the lists of the dead. Sparse and incomplete, yes, but Landry had sent as much as he could - numbers, names, details of dying in the line of duty - before the databursts had ended, before the Earth 'gate had been taken offline. Just in case.
Alone in his room, glow of the laptop screen highlighting his hands, he searches those lists, looking for names he knows.
He finds one.
*
As soon as he sees Doyle, Evan can tell he's a one-off. It doesn't matter that Evan's seen the new personnel files, or that he knows Doyle's only here for three months. It's still obvious that Doyle doesn't care about alien technology or alien worlds. Evan's learned to read even the most professional personnel, even the hardest marines. He's learned to tell when someone has been asking for this kind of posting, when he or she is barely masking eager expectation below careful professionalism.
It's something about they way people hold themselves, carefully contained; it's about how they glance around the room out of the corners of their eyes. It's even more obvious when they naturally have the gene, when they're starting to feel the city as more than just walls around them.
There are no furtive, interested, or eager glances from Doyle. He reports for duty, and his eyes don't leave Evan's face. "Sir."
"Sergeant. Welcome to Atlantis. Colonel Sheppard is off-world, so I'll be showing you around."
Doyle hefts his bag over his shoulder, nodding.
*
Perversely, Atlantis casualty numbers decrease. People stop taking chances.
"No new transfers," Sheppard says, one night. There's no need to vocalise it - everyone knows. They've all known from the day that the Daedalus arrived and tried to land.
"We're fine," Caldwell had said. "You know we can't go back."
"I'm sorry, Steven." Weir had sounded sorry. Sorry and regretful and determined. Evan had been at her side. Sheppard had been in the control chair. "I'm under orders."
They're the same orders Caldwell should have received, but he'd claimed long-range communication glitches.
Convenient.
On screen, his mouth had twisted. "You've broken orders before, for god's sake you can't just -"
But they could. They did - refused to let the Daedalus land, threatened to launch drones if they tried. The Daedalus crew is now quarantined on a gateless, dead world in a hostile galaxy. They're waiting, like the rest of them; waiting and isolated and maybe carrying the virus.
Evan shakes his head, looks at Sheppard. "Yeah," he says, thinking back to welcoming new faces, watching them for awe or interest or indifference. He remembers.
*
Evan's read the file, so he knows Doyle's skills. Grinning, he asks, "Sniper, huh?"
Doyle nods.
They haven't needed to specifically use a sniper in any missions yet. They never seem to get into situations where they can set things up beforehand, where they need long-range targeting. But Evan figures it isn't fair to mention that. And there's more to Doyle's file anyway. "Your quarters are this way. They're good - get a lot of light in the afternoon."
Doyle's eyebrow quirks slightly, and Evan feels like someone trying to make a sale.
They walk down the hall, Evan giving an overview of the area. Doyle looks and nods, probably memorizes the way to the control room, the 'gate room, the mess hall, ammo storage. He doesn't ask questions.
Sometimes the one-off transfers ask to come back to the Stargate program, or even back to Atlantis. It's rare, but rarely a surprise. Evan can tell Doyle won't be making that request. This guy is rooted on Earth.
*
In the early days, during the first phase of infection, when was just mainland Britain, there had been rumours.
Ori, and the first wave of a final strike.
Anubis, back again.
Maybe it was an accident, some speculated - Asgard cloning technology coming into contact with something, mutating, starting a disaster. Everyone knows the Asgard had fucked themselves over, so why not Earth too?
Or maybe it was something that came back with an SG team, clinging to fibres and hair and skin, and burrowing into a new, fertile home.
The stories faded, but they flare up again after the infection crosses the Channel. Small stories, but they grow, became panic-laden, or heavy with conspiracy and resentment and fear.
It doesn't help that the medical personnel don't have a vaccine and can't make one. No blood samples had been sent to Atlantis, no material other than images of infected blood and methods of transmission. Evan can understand the SGC's reasoning, but reason doesn't stop fear and rumours.
"Idiots," McKay says to a group of marines, just once. His voice is calm, almost absent. Evan had been leaning against the wall, just listening to the bullshit and making mental notes about new memos he and Sheppard would have to write up for the military personnel.
"Your conspiracy theories make no sense. Listen to yourselves."
He should be yelling, Evan thinks. He's heard McKay yell for lesser reasons, for trivialities. He should be yelling now, his voice echoing slightly, carrying down the hall. He should be drawing a crowd.
Instead, he's quietly listing off reasons the stories are wrong, reasons why the marines shouldn't pretend they have any kind of authority in anything except being cannon fodder.
"Is it so hard to believe," he asks at the end, when the marines' faces are tense and angry and maybe a little desperate, "that we did this to ourselves?"
It is. It shouldn't be.
*
He doesn't see Doyle around too much for the first couple of weeks. Then he starts showing up here and there - sparring sessions with Teyla and Ronon; on watch at the 'gate when Evan runs through it, dragging Markham behind him; sometimes at lunch.
They're off-world together once, an easy dull mission that leaves them under a hot sun with too much time on their hands. Doyle doesn't say much, but he grins at the local kids, kicks around a lop-sided, half-deflated ball with them. Sucker for kids, Evan thinks, even on some baked-out excuse for a planet.
One day he finds Doyle tucked into a corner outside, sitting on his haunches and looking up at the sky.
"Hey," he says.
"Major," Doyle says, not looking at him.
"Nice day." It is - blue skies and warm sun with just enough breeze to keep things comfortable.
"Do you realise," Doyle says, straightening, "how easy it would be for a sniper to take out so many of your key areas?" He shakes out his legs, rolls his neck.
The question startles a laugh out of Evan. Doyle hadn't been starting at the sky. He'd been surveying the skyline. "This is what you do on your free time?"
Doyle's mouth quirks. "Technically I'm on duty." He gestures around him. "Seriously, look at this place. All glass, open vistas. Places to hide and shoot. How did they ever think this was defensible?"
*
He'd been at the meeting when Dr. Weir had broken the news about the first wave of infection, and the quarantine of mainland Britain.
"I never thought," McKay had said, staring at a point behind Weir's shoulder, "that I'd be glad Carson was already dead. He wouldn't have - his family -"
The room had been mostly silent for a few moments; Sheppard had cleared his throat awkwardly. Zelenka had tapped absently at the side of the table, a muted, solid sound.
Finally, Dr. Heightmeyer had coughed lightly. "Nevertheless," she'd said, "there are British personnel that will have to be told."
"Yes." Weir's mouth had been tense. "We'll need to offer the appropriate support resources. Many of them may wish to return to Earth as soon as possible, although I think we should make it clear that they won't be able to return home for some time. I think we need to expedite the process to get back to Earth -"
Evan had listened to the discussion, making suggestions when appropriate or when someone looked at him expectantly. He'd taken notes, nodded his head, and hadn't thought about Beckett.
No one had talked about the possibility of a second phase of infection, though Evan would bet they'd been thinking about it.
*
It becomes a regular meeting. No set times, and sometimes Evan goes days without having a chance to wander out to that same spot, quiet and sheltered and offering a great view of the city. But he's never surprised to go out there and find Doyle, or have Doyle find him.
There's one afternoon - after a stretch of quiet, easy missions and no emergencies - when he takes his supplies outside. The sun is harsh on the blank canvas, but Evan can already imagine what he's going to paint, the way the colours are going to flow and merge, soft gradients with just the hint of hard lines.
He paints for hours; Doyle shows up when the afternoon light is changing, white and bright to softer, honeyed tones.
"You paint?"
Evan shrugs. "Yep." He half expects flak for it, but Doyle just grins. His cheeks are pink, and his nose is peeling. Too much time out here, where the sunlight just reflects off everything. "I paint pictures of Atlantis; you think about shooting it up. Everyone's got a way to relax.
Maybe it comes out harder than he means it to, because Doyle looks away. "It's not the city I'm thinking of shooting. Just being prepared."
*
"Bloodshot eyes," Sheppard says, two weeks after the databursts stop. "You ever find yourself looking for them?"
Sometimes, Landry had said, the carriers have bloodshot eyes, bursts of red staining what should be white. Evan doesn't know - Landry's eyes had been bloodshot in the recording, and he'd been rubbing them almost constantly. He'd be willing to bet half the SGC had looked like that.
"No," he says, not thinking about P4X-308, the planet of infections and reddish eyes. He'd felt the way his team had tensed up around him, as soon as they'd all really looked at the locals. They'd been careful - keeping their hands to themselves, keeping a grip on their weapons.
The locals had just had eye infections - easily curable, probably - and they'd had grains to trade, grains, some kind of flour and soft, soft cloth. Evan's team had been escorted back to the 'gate, locals eager and friendly. Evan had smiled the entire time, easy and sincere, talking about returning to negotiate a trade. He'd stepped through the 'gate backwards, never turning his back, monitoring the edges of the crowd.
They'd never gone back.
Sheppard cracks a grin. It's brittle around the edges. "McKay does. You should hear him when he gets really worked up."
He can imagine it. He doesn't need to hear it.
*
Once - just the once - Doyle slides into his space, and pushes him back, out of the sunlight. He steers Evan around corners, hands heavy against Evan's biceps. They end up under an overhang, shielded from the sun.
"Perfect for sniper cover," Doyle murmurs, mouth almost too close to Evan's ear.
Almost too close, but far enough that Evan could pretend he doesn't get it. He could brush it off. He could pretend they're here so Doyle can talk up strategy in the event of a siege or a take-over; that he doesn't have the tact to remember not to steer a superior officer around.
"Yeah," he starts to say, already thinking about how to put it, how to make sure Doyle doesn't think he's screwed for trying this kind of stunt.
But Doyle grins at him, lopsided and a little awkward; his hair is a little on the long side, bordering on something Sheppard might pull. "Limited field of vision in," he says. "Excellent sightlines out."
There's something - Evan can't quite figure it out. Something that makes him think, what the hell. "You scouting the city again?" he asks, barely leaning closer.
Doyle gets the hint, his grin widening. "On and off-duty."
"Good thing," Evan says, already working at Doyle's pants, "that you're off-duty now."
They're careful, quiet, but it's good - Doyle's fingers against his skin, his mouth on Evan's throat, warm and insistent. It's been too long since Evan's had good, broad hands on his hips, too long since he's felt the press of stubble against his mouth.
"You ever fly a chopper?" Doyle asks, as he pushes his hand up Evan's shirt.
"X-302," Evan says, and Doyle's fingers clench, just enough to draw a gasp. Weird question, but he's not asking, he doesn't care, he just wants those fingers - calloused and blunt - on his cock.
In the shadows, surrounded by the city, he gets it. Gets more. It's perfect.
Doyle ships out a week later. "Good luck," Evan says, shaking his hand before he leaves.
"You too." He's grinning, wide and happy.
Some personnel are just like that when they go home.
*
From day one on Atlantis - even with the reports he'd read, even with the stories he'd heard - he hadn't wanted to go back to Earth. Not for a long time. Given the choice, he'd stay, surrounded by a city that responded to him in a way nothing on Earth could. He'd stay, even with the Wraith, even with the power failures and the emergencies and fucked up missions.
He just hadn't thought he'd lose that choice. Not like this.
"They'll bring the Stargate back on line once it's safe," Elizabeth had announced at a city-wide meeting, back when it started. "We'll re-establish contact as soon as possible."
Evan waits.
End.
Fandoms: Stargate: Atlantis/28 Weeks Later
Pairing: Lorne/Doyle
Rating: R
Words: About 2900
Spoilers: For 28 Weeks Later, and SGA episodes 'Sunday' through to the s3 finale.
Summary: In his room, late at night, Evan searches the lists of the dead for names he knows. He finds one. AU.
Notes: Story weaves through two timelines - post-Infection and pre-Infection. To make the timing work, I had to mess with the years a little - assuming that the first wave of Rage Virus infection happened in 2006 (SGA s3), rather than 2003. Title from the Dave Matthews' song. Many thanks to dessert_first for beta and excellent questions/suggestions that made me think some things through in more detail!
He watches the recording, not for the first time.
"There are carriers," General Landry says. He looks exhausted; his collar is undone. He runs his hand through his hair as he speaks, over and over. Evan doesn't remember this mannerism, this tick. "By now we think some of them might even know that they're carriers. It might be deliberate." He glances down, as though checking notes. "They show no outward symptoms, but their blood, saliva, tears - "
He trails off for a moment, and then shakes his head. "Contact with the fluids will cause immediate infection. You've seen the recordings."
By now he has. Most of them have.
"Elizabeth. It's here. Jumped the Atlantic. Don't let anyone from Earth come through the 'gate. The Daedalus is enroute, and we can't reach them. They left before we knew the extent of the situation. About the carriers." He hesitates before he says it. "We just - we can't. No one's sure. Don't let them land."
Evan knows what underscores that comment. Shoot them down, if you have to. He wonders if Dr. Weir picked up on it too.
Probably. If she didn't, Sheppard would have.
Landry sighs. "They'll starve, eventually." The first time he'd said it, Evan wondered if he'd meant the people on the Daedalus.
Instead, he'd continued, "The infected. It happened in Britain. I just don't know how many of us will be left."
Cheyenne Mountain is built for a siege. Evan knows it must have been locked down since the first spread of the virus across Europe.
The infected are mindless, ravenous. They won't be able to negotiate the seals, the defences.
But there are carriers.
*
There are two kinds of military personnel who get assigned to the Stargate program. Most of them are lifers - once they're in, they don't leave. Not by choice. Evan knows he's one of those guys. He'll stick around until the program closes, or until he's taken out feet first.
Then there are the one-offs. They're rare, but occasionally personnel get temporarily transferred, stick around just long enough to see some action, and then get reassigned. Evan doesn't see the point - seems a waste of resources to break in a few new people, then ship them back out again. Maybe the brass figure it's training - send them in to see what it's like off-world, and maybe any other mission on Earth seems straightforward, easy.
It still doesn't make much sense, especially with the cost of shunting people out to the Pegasus Galaxy. But then again, maybe there's a reason he's not the brass.
*
Infection. The reports are explicit. Infection means blood, hunger, running, a relentless epidemic. Infection means lockdowns and people lost, and numbers skyrocketing.
On Earth, infection is terror and chaos and collapse.
On Atlantis, infection means lists.
There are new protocols, enumerated in neat bullet points. Some come from Dr. Weir, some from the last few databursts sent by the SGC. Some are from the medical personnel, basic pieces of information everyone has to know and memorise. There are answers to questions that people don't ask, but wish they could.
Evan writes some of the new protocols himself, holed up with Sheppard. Shoot on sight and containment protocols. McKay, Zelenka and Keller set up new quarantine procedures that are instantaneous and precise. Evan and Sheppard integrate them into their own plans.
There are other lists - revised operating procedures, based on the reality that Atlantis might hold the last of their kind. Fraternization rules are formally weakened. Supply lists are created, checked and rechecked, and new wishlists are drawn up. Resupply missions take priority, and off-world missions are scheduled more tightly, more carefully.
There are the lists of the dead. Sparse and incomplete, yes, but Landry had sent as much as he could - numbers, names, details of dying in the line of duty - before the databursts had ended, before the Earth 'gate had been taken offline. Just in case.
Alone in his room, glow of the laptop screen highlighting his hands, he searches those lists, looking for names he knows.
He finds one.
*
As soon as he sees Doyle, Evan can tell he's a one-off. It doesn't matter that Evan's seen the new personnel files, or that he knows Doyle's only here for three months. It's still obvious that Doyle doesn't care about alien technology or alien worlds. Evan's learned to read even the most professional personnel, even the hardest marines. He's learned to tell when someone has been asking for this kind of posting, when he or she is barely masking eager expectation below careful professionalism.
It's something about they way people hold themselves, carefully contained; it's about how they glance around the room out of the corners of their eyes. It's even more obvious when they naturally have the gene, when they're starting to feel the city as more than just walls around them.
There are no furtive, interested, or eager glances from Doyle. He reports for duty, and his eyes don't leave Evan's face. "Sir."
"Sergeant. Welcome to Atlantis. Colonel Sheppard is off-world, so I'll be showing you around."
Doyle hefts his bag over his shoulder, nodding.
*
Perversely, Atlantis casualty numbers decrease. People stop taking chances.
"No new transfers," Sheppard says, one night. There's no need to vocalise it - everyone knows. They've all known from the day that the Daedalus arrived and tried to land.
"We're fine," Caldwell had said. "You know we can't go back."
"I'm sorry, Steven." Weir had sounded sorry. Sorry and regretful and determined. Evan had been at her side. Sheppard had been in the control chair. "I'm under orders."
They're the same orders Caldwell should have received, but he'd claimed long-range communication glitches.
Convenient.
On screen, his mouth had twisted. "You've broken orders before, for god's sake you can't just -"
But they could. They did - refused to let the Daedalus land, threatened to launch drones if they tried. The Daedalus crew is now quarantined on a gateless, dead world in a hostile galaxy. They're waiting, like the rest of them; waiting and isolated and maybe carrying the virus.
Evan shakes his head, looks at Sheppard. "Yeah," he says, thinking back to welcoming new faces, watching them for awe or interest or indifference. He remembers.
*
Evan's read the file, so he knows Doyle's skills. Grinning, he asks, "Sniper, huh?"
Doyle nods.
They haven't needed to specifically use a sniper in any missions yet. They never seem to get into situations where they can set things up beforehand, where they need long-range targeting. But Evan figures it isn't fair to mention that. And there's more to Doyle's file anyway. "Your quarters are this way. They're good - get a lot of light in the afternoon."
Doyle's eyebrow quirks slightly, and Evan feels like someone trying to make a sale.
They walk down the hall, Evan giving an overview of the area. Doyle looks and nods, probably memorizes the way to the control room, the 'gate room, the mess hall, ammo storage. He doesn't ask questions.
Sometimes the one-off transfers ask to come back to the Stargate program, or even back to Atlantis. It's rare, but rarely a surprise. Evan can tell Doyle won't be making that request. This guy is rooted on Earth.
*
In the early days, during the first phase of infection, when was just mainland Britain, there had been rumours.
Ori, and the first wave of a final strike.
Anubis, back again.
Maybe it was an accident, some speculated - Asgard cloning technology coming into contact with something, mutating, starting a disaster. Everyone knows the Asgard had fucked themselves over, so why not Earth too?
Or maybe it was something that came back with an SG team, clinging to fibres and hair and skin, and burrowing into a new, fertile home.
The stories faded, but they flare up again after the infection crosses the Channel. Small stories, but they grow, became panic-laden, or heavy with conspiracy and resentment and fear.
It doesn't help that the medical personnel don't have a vaccine and can't make one. No blood samples had been sent to Atlantis, no material other than images of infected blood and methods of transmission. Evan can understand the SGC's reasoning, but reason doesn't stop fear and rumours.
"Idiots," McKay says to a group of marines, just once. His voice is calm, almost absent. Evan had been leaning against the wall, just listening to the bullshit and making mental notes about new memos he and Sheppard would have to write up for the military personnel.
"Your conspiracy theories make no sense. Listen to yourselves."
He should be yelling, Evan thinks. He's heard McKay yell for lesser reasons, for trivialities. He should be yelling now, his voice echoing slightly, carrying down the hall. He should be drawing a crowd.
Instead, he's quietly listing off reasons the stories are wrong, reasons why the marines shouldn't pretend they have any kind of authority in anything except being cannon fodder.
"Is it so hard to believe," he asks at the end, when the marines' faces are tense and angry and maybe a little desperate, "that we did this to ourselves?"
It is. It shouldn't be.
*
He doesn't see Doyle around too much for the first couple of weeks. Then he starts showing up here and there - sparring sessions with Teyla and Ronon; on watch at the 'gate when Evan runs through it, dragging Markham behind him; sometimes at lunch.
They're off-world together once, an easy dull mission that leaves them under a hot sun with too much time on their hands. Doyle doesn't say much, but he grins at the local kids, kicks around a lop-sided, half-deflated ball with them. Sucker for kids, Evan thinks, even on some baked-out excuse for a planet.
One day he finds Doyle tucked into a corner outside, sitting on his haunches and looking up at the sky.
"Hey," he says.
"Major," Doyle says, not looking at him.
"Nice day." It is - blue skies and warm sun with just enough breeze to keep things comfortable.
"Do you realise," Doyle says, straightening, "how easy it would be for a sniper to take out so many of your key areas?" He shakes out his legs, rolls his neck.
The question startles a laugh out of Evan. Doyle hadn't been starting at the sky. He'd been surveying the skyline. "This is what you do on your free time?"
Doyle's mouth quirks. "Technically I'm on duty." He gestures around him. "Seriously, look at this place. All glass, open vistas. Places to hide and shoot. How did they ever think this was defensible?"
*
He'd been at the meeting when Dr. Weir had broken the news about the first wave of infection, and the quarantine of mainland Britain.
"I never thought," McKay had said, staring at a point behind Weir's shoulder, "that I'd be glad Carson was already dead. He wouldn't have - his family -"
The room had been mostly silent for a few moments; Sheppard had cleared his throat awkwardly. Zelenka had tapped absently at the side of the table, a muted, solid sound.
Finally, Dr. Heightmeyer had coughed lightly. "Nevertheless," she'd said, "there are British personnel that will have to be told."
"Yes." Weir's mouth had been tense. "We'll need to offer the appropriate support resources. Many of them may wish to return to Earth as soon as possible, although I think we should make it clear that they won't be able to return home for some time. I think we need to expedite the process to get back to Earth -"
Evan had listened to the discussion, making suggestions when appropriate or when someone looked at him expectantly. He'd taken notes, nodded his head, and hadn't thought about Beckett.
No one had talked about the possibility of a second phase of infection, though Evan would bet they'd been thinking about it.
*
It becomes a regular meeting. No set times, and sometimes Evan goes days without having a chance to wander out to that same spot, quiet and sheltered and offering a great view of the city. But he's never surprised to go out there and find Doyle, or have Doyle find him.
There's one afternoon - after a stretch of quiet, easy missions and no emergencies - when he takes his supplies outside. The sun is harsh on the blank canvas, but Evan can already imagine what he's going to paint, the way the colours are going to flow and merge, soft gradients with just the hint of hard lines.
He paints for hours; Doyle shows up when the afternoon light is changing, white and bright to softer, honeyed tones.
"You paint?"
Evan shrugs. "Yep." He half expects flak for it, but Doyle just grins. His cheeks are pink, and his nose is peeling. Too much time out here, where the sunlight just reflects off everything. "I paint pictures of Atlantis; you think about shooting it up. Everyone's got a way to relax.
Maybe it comes out harder than he means it to, because Doyle looks away. "It's not the city I'm thinking of shooting. Just being prepared."
*
"Bloodshot eyes," Sheppard says, two weeks after the databursts stop. "You ever find yourself looking for them?"
Sometimes, Landry had said, the carriers have bloodshot eyes, bursts of red staining what should be white. Evan doesn't know - Landry's eyes had been bloodshot in the recording, and he'd been rubbing them almost constantly. He'd be willing to bet half the SGC had looked like that.
"No," he says, not thinking about P4X-308, the planet of infections and reddish eyes. He'd felt the way his team had tensed up around him, as soon as they'd all really looked at the locals. They'd been careful - keeping their hands to themselves, keeping a grip on their weapons.
The locals had just had eye infections - easily curable, probably - and they'd had grains to trade, grains, some kind of flour and soft, soft cloth. Evan's team had been escorted back to the 'gate, locals eager and friendly. Evan had smiled the entire time, easy and sincere, talking about returning to negotiate a trade. He'd stepped through the 'gate backwards, never turning his back, monitoring the edges of the crowd.
They'd never gone back.
Sheppard cracks a grin. It's brittle around the edges. "McKay does. You should hear him when he gets really worked up."
He can imagine it. He doesn't need to hear it.
*
Once - just the once - Doyle slides into his space, and pushes him back, out of the sunlight. He steers Evan around corners, hands heavy against Evan's biceps. They end up under an overhang, shielded from the sun.
"Perfect for sniper cover," Doyle murmurs, mouth almost too close to Evan's ear.
Almost too close, but far enough that Evan could pretend he doesn't get it. He could brush it off. He could pretend they're here so Doyle can talk up strategy in the event of a siege or a take-over; that he doesn't have the tact to remember not to steer a superior officer around.
"Yeah," he starts to say, already thinking about how to put it, how to make sure Doyle doesn't think he's screwed for trying this kind of stunt.
But Doyle grins at him, lopsided and a little awkward; his hair is a little on the long side, bordering on something Sheppard might pull. "Limited field of vision in," he says. "Excellent sightlines out."
There's something - Evan can't quite figure it out. Something that makes him think, what the hell. "You scouting the city again?" he asks, barely leaning closer.
Doyle gets the hint, his grin widening. "On and off-duty."
"Good thing," Evan says, already working at Doyle's pants, "that you're off-duty now."
They're careful, quiet, but it's good - Doyle's fingers against his skin, his mouth on Evan's throat, warm and insistent. It's been too long since Evan's had good, broad hands on his hips, too long since he's felt the press of stubble against his mouth.
"You ever fly a chopper?" Doyle asks, as he pushes his hand up Evan's shirt.
"X-302," Evan says, and Doyle's fingers clench, just enough to draw a gasp. Weird question, but he's not asking, he doesn't care, he just wants those fingers - calloused and blunt - on his cock.
In the shadows, surrounded by the city, he gets it. Gets more. It's perfect.
Doyle ships out a week later. "Good luck," Evan says, shaking his hand before he leaves.
"You too." He's grinning, wide and happy.
Some personnel are just like that when they go home.
*
From day one on Atlantis - even with the reports he'd read, even with the stories he'd heard - he hadn't wanted to go back to Earth. Not for a long time. Given the choice, he'd stay, surrounded by a city that responded to him in a way nothing on Earth could. He'd stay, even with the Wraith, even with the power failures and the emergencies and fucked up missions.
He just hadn't thought he'd lose that choice. Not like this.
"They'll bring the Stargate back on line once it's safe," Elizabeth had announced at a city-wide meeting, back when it started. "We'll re-establish contact as soon as possible."
Evan waits.
End.