SGA: Honor and Country (John/Rodney) 3/3
Part 1
Part 2
The clerk hands him a note when he checks into his hotel, eyes gritty with exhaustion from a day of pacing and impotent worry, followed by a late flight. There’s nothing in the note except an address, but he recognizes Ronon’s handwriting, which is all the explanation he needs.
He’d thought he’d crash for a few hours before going to find Ronon and Teyla with a clearer head, but with the address in his hand, he forgets all about that, doesn’t even bother going up to his room, just buys a large coffee to drink as he takes a cab to the general area of the address. He won’t say the coffee exactly helps, but he does feel fractionally more human, and he has a feeling he’s going to need every fraction he can get. Weir’s phoned a couple of times to say there’s no change with Rodney and John’s holding onto that, but he’s not looking forward to the moment when it isn’t enough.
The address turns out to be a run-down apartment block in a street of similarly run-down apartment blocks. It’s not dissimilar to the safe house they used the first go round, the street having enough people and cars for them not to attract too much attention, but in the kind of neighborhood where anything suspicious will be written off as involvement in something mildly illegal rather than government sanctioned.
The front door swings open when John tries it, all his instincts on high alert, wishing for a weapon he wasn’t allowed to carry on a commercial flight, but there’s no-one there. It’s entirely possible the place is empty apart from - he hopes - his team.
Most people wouldn’t hear the rustle behind the door when he knocks, except that it’s familiar the way his weapon is, Ronon getting into cover position while Teyla moves to open the door, because most people expecting a Special Forces team hesitate for a moment when they get a woman, and that’s all the advantage they need.
The lock clicks as Teyla turns it, then the door’s open and her wary look is dropping away into relief. “John,” she says warmly. “It is a relief to see you here.”
John’s not at all sure it’s a relief to be there, but it’s definitely a relief to see her and Ronon, armed even in their street clothes, to see the familiar table of electronics and papers set up in the middle of the otherwise empty room, curtains half-drawn across the windows and a phone line already up and running. He assumes they got a military transport out while he was kicking around the airport, but he’s still impressed by how fast they’ve got this operation going.
Ronon’s waiting patiently when John gets done prowling round the room, checking it out. He doesn’t say anything, just holds out the holster John uses when he’s under cover, complete with his sidearm. John fixes it to his belt with shaking hands, feeling better as soon as he’s done it, and doesn’t ask where, or how, Ronon got his hands on that. There are some things he’s better off not knowing.
“So, where’s this CIA agent, then?” he asks.
*
Agent Lorne, when he gets back from a meeting with his superiors, turns out to be nothing like the other agents John knows, making up for not having their unnatural genius by being unflappable and calm to rival Teyla, accepting John’s ragged, exhausted, suspended appearance in the middle of his investigation with a nod and an offer to go over his files with John. John wouldn’t say he likes him immediately, but he doesn’t meet many people he *does* like immediately; he thinks they can work with Lorne, and he’s ninety percent sure Lorne’s not involved with whatever Oberoth’s got going on back in Washington. Maybe eighty percent, actually, but John’s aware that he’s always less trusting when he’s tired.
“We got access to the non-classified parts of your files,” Lorne says, when they’re all settled round the table, laptops shoved out of the way. It’s too hot for coffee, but John’s not going to stay upright without chemical assistance, so he’s got a can of Coke going warm in his hand. “I guess they didn’t cover the best parts, but that was some nice work.” Lorne grins, a little impressed, and it shouldn’t make John feel good, but it does, knowing someone thinks they did good, even if he doesn’t.
“Not that nice if Kolya’s still running around,” Ronon says, low and dark. He’s not fingering his knives - Teyla’s probably warned him not to freak out the nice agent - but he looks like he wants to be.
Lorne makes a face, conceding. “There have been rumors about the Genii for months,” he says. ”They were crushed when you guys were down here, but everyone says they’re coming back, moving into trafficking people across the border.” He slides a couple of files over to John and sighs. “We couldn’t figure out who was doing it, though. None of the Genii who were still around had that kind of experience, or power. If Kolya really is still alive, that would answer a lot of questions.”
“Yeah,” John agrees. And raise a whole lot more. “You guys have the photos from the border?” he asks, and Teyla nods, already looking through the papers to find them. “You got anyone inside the Genii?” he asks Lorne.
“Kind of,” Lorne says. “She’s been with them since they re-emerged, started feeding us intel a few months back.”
“Great. Can you set it up for us to meet with her? Not here,” John adds, getting himself a mild glare of how-stupid-do-you-think-I-am from Lorne, then a nod. “Great,” John says again, almost meaning it. He can feel all this coming together, feel the end in sight, the shape of his weapon in his hand and the kick of recoil when he fires the bullet that’s going to kill Kolya, for good this time.
*
Lorne arranges to meet with his contact in the Genii the next morning, and they spend the rest of the day and most of the evening poring over each other’s files, until John’s seeing double and Lorne says, “All right, I’m going home before my head explodes from too much information. You need a ride to your hotel, Major?”
“Um,” John says. His bag’s still by the door where he dropped it when he came in, and he thinks he’s forgotten the name of the hotel anyway.
“Major Sheppard will stay here with us,” Teyla says firmly, which solves that problem.
Once Lorne’s gone, Ronon breaks out his mother hen act, which has always freaked John out slightly: Ronon cooks dinner, though it’s not up to his usual standards, and makes them both eat; refuses to allow John any more coffee, which is probably not a bad thing considering how jittery he feels; and declares that eleven thirty is a perfectly reasonable time to go to bed when they’ve got an early meeting. John doesn’t have the energy to argue, not even when Ronon points him towards one of the two bedrooms, which means he’s evicting someone else for a night on the couch. Unless Ronon and Teyla are going to share.
He’s been up for two days straight at this point, and it feels fantastic just to lie down and close his eyes. It’s not the most comfortable bed he’s ever slept on, but he doesn’t care, sure that exhaustion will pull him under in seconds.
It doesn’t. He can’t stop thinking: the meeting tomorrow, Oberoth and Zelenka, the original mission, Rodney. Every time he starts to slip into sleep, something catches at him and pulls him awake again, until the darkness is filled with shadows he can’t quite see and he feels like he’s caught Rodney’s claustrophobia.
There’s nothing for it but to get up. He didn’t pack War and Peace, which is a shame since it’s been his cure for insomnia since college, but maybe there’s something in the apartment that will put him to sleep, and if not, he can always read the files again.
He’s not really surprised when he finds Teyla sitting serenely on the couch in her workout clothes, her sticks across her knees, waiting for him.
“How did you fit those in your bag?” he asks, because he’s seen the duffel Teyla travels with, and there’s no way it’s big enough.
She turns the stick in her hands, separating it into two smaller halves. “They are not as good as my own, but they suffice.” She pulls another set from her bag and starts screwing them together.
“What about Ronon?” John asks. He feels half a beat behind what’s happening, but he knows Teyla has the right idea, exhausting his body until he *has* to sleep.
“Ronon will be fine,” Teyla says, and John’s not sure if she means fine listening to them or fine sleeping through it. He’s not sure it matters.
She hands over his sticks. They feel different from those he’s used to train with her before, balanced slightly differently, still new rather than worn from years of handling.
“Ready?” she asks, and comes at him almost before he’s got himself balanced to block her.
John’s done this with Teyla so many times that he can recognize within a minute which version of her he’s got: trainer, expert, show off, practice partner. This is none of these, and all of them, relentlessly coming at John again and again, but pulling every hit in deference to his slowed reaction time, so he gets taps instead of bruises, swings so close he can feel the air move rather than actual blows when he’s not fast enough to dodge or block. Of course, none of that can compensate for the way his balance abandons him when he’s not concentrating, making it easy for Teyla to trip him to the floor, again and again and again, grateful for the rug under him, even if it does scratch unpleasantly at his over-heated skin. Teyla waits, every time, for him to pull himself up, rather than offering a hand - testing whether he’s fit to carry on, and he does it, even when every muscle aches and he just wants to close his eyes.
Teyla, though, has a better sense of his limits than he does - she waits until he goes down hard enough to knock the breath out of him, then leans in close over him, one stick just touching his throat, not pressing hard enough to hinder his breathing. “That is enough,” she says quietly, then offers her hand and pulls him to his feet.
They sit quietly against the wall, sipping from water bottles. The world seems glass sharp, fragile, even in the dim lamp light, and John thinks he might actually sleep once the adrenaline of sparring wears off.
“How’s Ronon doing?” he asks eventually, then, when Teyla raises and eyebrow at him, adds, “After the, you know -" and waves his hand vaguely at his own stomach to indicate ‘major wound that nearly killed him’.
“He is well,” Teyla says patiently. “Or he would not have joined us.”
“Right,” John says. He knew that, kind of, but he feels better hearing Teyla say it. They fall into silence again, but he can feel the words crawling up his throat, and he can’t keep them in. “I’m sorry you were -" he starts, then swallows and tries again. “I’m sorry I wasn’t… I should have been there.”
“To do what?” Teyla asks, sounding genuinely curious, a sure sign that she already knows the answer. “Step in front of the bullet for him?”
“No,” John says, though he knows he would have, if he could. “It’s just - you guys are, you know, my oldest friends. And I wouldn’t… it’s my job to protect you.”
“We are quite capable of protecting ourselves,” Teyla says sternly, but she rests her hand on his briefly, and John thinks she understands. ”What happened to Ronon is not your fault. No more than what happened to Mark.”
John takes a long drink of water, even though it’s suddenly hard to swallow. He still dreams about finding Holland after the explosion, can’t imagine ever not.
“Perhaps,” says Teyla, very quietly, “Being reassigned is not the punishment you think it is.”
“I don’t think it’s a punishment,” John says automatically. He’s been waiting to deny this accusation that no-one’s ever made since he got there.
“Perhaps,” Teyla says again, humoring him. “But consider that maybe someone was doing as you would do, and protecting you.”
John doesn’t have anything to say to that. He barely remembers the weeks between losing Holland and coming back, a haze of anger and grief and complete helplessness, shot through with much clearer memories of various people yelling at him and looking at him with disappointment. He wants to ask Teyla what she remembers, what it was like for her and Ronon while he was wrecking his career and, now he thinks about it, probably doing a pretty crappy job of protecting them.
After a while, Teyla pats his arm and leaves him alone. He sits there for a long time before getting up and going to bed, feeling even more confused than he did before.
*
“You didn’t say you were bringing someone,” a young woman says, dropping into the free chair at John and Lorne’s table in the crowded coffee shop. She smoothes her skirt and tosses her hair out of her face. “I would have brought my boyfriend as well.”
Lorne rolls his eyes good naturedly. “This is Sora,” he says, though John’s already guessed. “Sora, this is John Richardson, he’s a colleague of mine, from the States.”
They agreed on the half-lie before they came out - if she presses, John will say that he’s with the CIA, but he’s hoping it won’t come to that, that she’ll just assume. He’s having enough trouble keeping his real identity and his cover straight, without adding any more details to a cover for his cover.
Sora’s eyes are wary, but she shakes his hand. “Not his boyfriend, then. Shame, he could use someone to -“
“Okay,” Lorne says quickly, cutting her off. “I don’t think either of us wants you discussing my sex life.”
“Or lack thereof,” Sora mutters, and John can see why Lorne likes her.
Lorne glares at her again, then something changes in his face, sliding into seriousness. “We need to meet with your boss,” he says quietly, and Sora shakes her head immediately.
“You can’t,” she says. “Do you know what he’ll do to me if he finds out?”
This is the tricky part, the part that’s going to be hardest to sell because it’s the biggest lie. Even Lorne doesn’t know for certain why they’re here, though he must suspect. It’s probably why he hasn’t asked.
“He won’t ever find out who we really are,” Lorne says. “I won’t be there, it’ll just be John, maybe a couple of people he knows.” One of whom is reading a paper on the other side of the coffee shop, keeping an eye on what’s happening, the other of whom is out in Lorne’s car, listening in through John’s wire, because Teyla’s actually met Sora before. “You’ll tell him they’ve come from America, that they’re interested in working with him when his people get across the border. He’ll never know they aren’t who they say they are.”
This is the part of the lie that’s true, though it’s a very carefully phrased truth: Kolya will never know because they themselves will never say they’re anyone but who they are, who Kolya will recognize them as the moment he sets eyes on them. The lie comes in who Sora will say they are, but John’s counting on her not realizing this.
Her wary expression intensifies. “How can you be sure?”
“Trust me,” Lorne says, looking so open and honest that *John* half-believes him, even after helping to script the conversation.
It obviously works on Sora as well - either that or she’s the most trusting spy John’s ever met, because she stares at Lorne for a drawn out moment, then nods. “I want - if he does find out, you have to promise to help me,” she says.
“I promise,” Lorne says, and John realizes there is a difference after all between trust-me-I’m-harmless and genuine you-can-really-trust-me on his face, because he’s seeing the latter now; if it comes to it, Lorne really will do his best to protect her.
“All right,” Sora says finally. “Let me go make a call.”
John waits for the door to close behind her, then says, “Teyla?” quietly into his comm.
“One moment,” Teyla says. She leaves the line open so John can hear her equipment running. Across from him, Lorne drinks his coffee, affecting a pretty convincing casual pose. “Dialing,” Teyla says in his ear. “Okay, coming through clearly.”
“Great,” John says. It’s not that he doesn’t trust Lorne’s contact - well, partly it is - but he feels better knowing that they’ll be able to hear any calls she makes from now on. At least this way he’ll know if they’re being set up, even if they end up having to walk into the trap anyway.
*
They’re on their way back to the apartment, meeting with Kolya set for that evening, when Teyla, who’s still wearing one ear piece, starts and says, “Sora is making another call.”
“Yeah?” John twists round in the front seat, which has the added advantage of meaning he doesn’t have to watch the way Ronon drives, like a car is alien technology to him. “Who’s she calling?”
There’s a moment of silence while Teyla listens, then she says, “We may have a problem.”
“She’s calling Kolya back?” John asks.
Teyla shakes her head. “Director Oberoth.”
“What?” Ronon says, half-turning from the road.
“That’s not good,” John adds. Not good, and yet, it makes sense. Or it makes other things make sense.
Teyla hushes them all, and they ride in strained silence as she listens. Finally, she turns the recorder off with a disgusted sigh. “It would appear,” she says darkly, “That Kolya’s continued existence will not be the surprise to the Director that it was to the rest of us.”
“He’s working with Kolya?” John asks, kind of stunned to hear it confirmed even after assuming it was true for the last couple of days. “How did he even know Kolya’s still alive?”
“Oddly, Sora did not mention this,” Teyla says. “Still, perhaps we should inform Colonel O’Neill of this.”
“Yeah,” John says. “And get some extra ammo.” He thinks about it for a minute, then asks, “What was she calling Oberoth about? Us?”
Teyla shakes her head. “It did not seem so. They were discussing plans for a lorry to go across the border in a few days’ time.”
“So, wait,” John says, trying to think. It’s too hot, and his headache is back. “You’re saying that she’s working with Kolya, who’s working with Oberoth, both of whom know about us and Rodney, but that they don’t know we’re here because Sora doesn’t know who we are.”
Everyone’s quiet briefly, making sense of that. It seems almost too good to be true, that they’ve managed to get into the country, are right under Kolya’s nose, and yet neither he nor Oberoth have realized. He wonders where Oberoth thinks they’ve gone, since he must have noticed that the three of them have disappeared. Unless O’Neill’s cover for their presence on this mission includes saying that they’re gone somewhere else.
“Yeah,” Ronon says finally. “That sounds about right.”
*
By the time they get back to the apartment, John’s got a working theory for everything that’s happened. Well, apart from the part where Kolya and Oberoth somehow managed to find each other, but no theory’s perfect. He’s sure O’Neill and Weir will be able to work that part out between them.
“Rodney must have known he was doing something wrong,” he explains to O’Neill. “Maybe Zelenka as well.” He doesn’t know how they would have figured it out, but Zelenka will be able to fill that gap. It wouldn’t have taken much, not for two of the CIA’s leading intelligence analysts. “I think Oberoth already suspected something was going on between me and McKay and used that to try and get him to leave it alone.”
“Clearly, he didn’t know Dr McKay very well,” O’Neill says dryly.
“No sir. And suspended Dr Zelenka for the same reason.” He’s less sure about that argument, whether it was to deter Rodney or get rid of Zelenka or both.
“And when that didn’t work, he had Kolya come down here and shoot Dr McKay.”
“Yes, sir. Kolya would’ve leapt at the chance, he never liked Rodney. Probably liked him even less once he realized who Rodney really was.”
“On the bright side, assuming the Director was behind the accusation against you, this should make it a lot easier to quash,” O’Neill says, and John realizes that he’s pretty much forgotten about that while he’s been in Mexico.
“Yes, sir. I suppose.”
“Mm.” O’Neill hesitates, then says, “Look, Major, I’m not going to tell you what you should or shouldn’t do, and I understand wanting to - even the balance - after what happened to your friend, but -“
“But now we know he knows who we really are, maybe this isn’t such a good idea?” John finishes. ”Don’t worry about it, sir, we’re pretty sure he doesn’t know who he’s really meeting with this evening. We don’t think Lorne’s contact with the Genii knows who we really are.”
“That’s a big ‘if’, Major, especially if you’re wrong. I don’t know if Dr Weir’s managed to contact you already today, but the hospital’s saying that McKay looks to be improving. They’re cautiously optimistic.”
“That’s good to hear, sir,” John says. He already knows from Weir’s voicemail message, but O’Neill’s not really telling him that. He’s trying to tell John not to do anything stupid, that there are things in Washington waiting for him, and John hears that loud and clear.
*
Lorne hangs around, despite John’s repeated suggestions that he must have other things to do, and Teyla eventually says quietly to John that Lorne probably feels badly for trusting Sora and allowing them to put themselves in more danger, even if Sora hasn’t actually contributed meaningfully to their danger level. John thinks that’s pretty stupid, but he also knows he’d feel the same way in Lorne’s place, and stops trying to persuade him to leave. He does take him aside, though, and explain in small words that Lorne can’t come with them, for a whole host of reasons, not least of which is that it’s really not a good idea for a CIA agent to be involved in what amounts to an illegal operation.
John gets more and more keyed up as the day ticks away. He wants to go out and run, but he can’t take the risk that someone’s tailing them. He can’t settle to anything on TV, and reading through the files is starting to destroy his will to live. Teyla offers to spar with him again, then rescinds the offer ten minutes in, declaring that he’s too distracted and will end up hurting both of them. Ronon just laughs at him when he suggests they go a round of hand to hand, and John’s not quite desperate enough to ask Lorne.
He takes himself off to the bedroom in the end, closes the curtains and lies still on his back with his eyes closed, trying to relax, maybe even fall asleep.
*
Rodney caught his arm after yet another in a seemingly endless line of debriefs, a week after they got back, when John was starting to feel like his entire life outside the mission was ceasing to exist. “Have dinner with me,” he said and John agreed quickly. Caldwell was looking at Rodney’s hand on his arm, and John liked his job.
They went to a bar Rodney knew, tucked away in a booth in the back corner, and John didn’t give in to the temptation to drink, because he wanted whatever happened to happen because he was sober and decided, not because he was drunk and stupid.
“Look, Sheppard,” Rodney said finally. “I understand if you don’t…I mean, things happen, spur of the moment, adrenaline, bonds of intense experiences, et cetera, and it doesn’t have to mean anything. That is, you’re in the army, and you’re away a lot, and I wouldn’t ask - I’m not asking - for, you know, exclusivity or, or a commitment.” John opened his mouth to say something, he wasn’t entirely sure what, but Rodney plowed over him. “But that was an amazing kiss, and I can’t stop thinking about it, and I’m going through a traumatic experience, as if being there when you shot a man wasn’t bad enough, now I have to waste my time with all these bureaucrats… Really, Sheppard, I deserve sex.” He said the last bit a little louder than John was entirely comfortable with, but the bar was pretty noisy, so he could convince himself that no-one had heard. At least Rodney wasn’t using his rank.
“I can keep a secret,” Rodney said, lowering his voice again when John didn’t say anything. “And I really, really -“
“Okay,” John said quickly. Who had he been trying to kid anyway, when he’d been jerking off thinking about that kiss since they got back, like a horny teenager. “Okay, what the hell. Your place or mine?”
They went to Rodney’s apartment, figuring the chances of getting caught were lower, and that they could always come up with an excuse about watching a video if anyone said anything.
“Do you, um, do you want a drink?” Rodney asked when they got inside, toeing off his shoes and fiddling with his keys.
“I’m good,” John said. He felt slightly breathless with nerves, doing this in a premeditated way with someone he cared for, which he hadn’t done for a while, but it was clear that Rodney wasn’t going to make the first move. Decisive action, he thought, and pushed Rodney back to sit on the sofa so John could straddle him and kiss him.
Rodney got with the program surprisingly quickly, kissing back, wrapping his arms round John to hold him there, and they made out for what seemed like forever, until they were both hard and gasping.
“We should - I have a bed,” Rodney offered. He looked debauched, mouth red from kissing, hair mussed, shirt open and hanging from one arm after John had lost patience with the buttons on his cuffs.
“Here’s good,” John said. They were pressed a bit too close to reach easily between their bodies, but he managed it, yanking down Rodney’s zipper and shoving his hand into Rodney’s boxers to wrap round his cock.
“Oh,” Rodney said, his eyes going wide when John slid his hand down his length. “Oh, that’s really good.”
John couldn’t get a good rhythm going at that angle, and his wrist didn’t really want to bend that way, but in the end it didn’t matter, Rodney thrusting up into John’s hand a half dozen times before coming with a low groan, pressing his mouth to John’s throat.
“Wow,” he said after a while. ”You know, for a soldier, you’re really very good at that.”
“Thanks,” John said dryly. Just what he needed, a reminder that if anyone found out about this, his career could be over. Particularly helpful when he was pretty sure Rodney had got come on his pants. “And, you know, any time you feel like returning the favor…”
“Right. Of course.” Rodney lifted his head to kiss John again, and John was too caught up in the kiss to realize what was going to happen until Rodney, showing previously unevidenced strength and coordination, shifted him round and dropped him flat on his back on the couch, before crawling down to give John quite possibly the best blow job of his life.
John, like Rodney had said, was away a lot, and neither of them were the long-distance pining and celibacy types, but they gravitated towards each other every time they were close enough, and John, at least, noticed a definite drop in the number of people-other-than-Rodney who he was having sex with over the years. He wasn’t at all surprised, really, when Rodney offered to put him up while he looked for somewhere to live in Washington, or that the subject of him actually finding somewhere never came up again.
*
“John?” Teyla says quietly, outlined in the doorway by the bright light from the main room. “It is time to go.”
“Right.” John sits up and rubs his eyes, not sure if he was dreaming or just remembering. “Coming.”
*
Sora has set up the meeting in a small public park, though ‘park’ turns out to be a bit of a misnomer, since it’s basically a path, a couple of benches and some grass, enclosed on three sides by brick walls and the fourth by metal railings and a gate. It has the advantage of meaning they’re unlikely to be spotted and reported to the police, but the disadvantage of meaning they can’t get anyone into place for concealed surveillance, plus, well, ‘public’ is never good when it’s a black op. They’ve dealt with bigger problems, though, and at least the place is deserted. John’s visions of shooting round civilians recede into the background.
They’re early enough to watch Kolya’s car pull up and Kolya step out of the back. He hasn’t changed much since the last time John saw him, and John wonders for one mad moment if maybe they never shot him at all. He still doesn’t know if Rodney really thought he was dead, or if he couldn’t go through with allowing John to kill a man, in the end. He suspects he’ll never know - he can’t ask Rodney and he won’t ask Kolya.
“You two get the drivers,” John says, and both Teyla and Ronon nod. They’re not happy about him going up against Kolya alone, but they seem to understand why he has to.
John gives Kolya a couple of minutes to get inside, then checks his weapon and reaches for the door handle.
“Good luck,” Ronon says, clapping him on the shoulder.
“Be careful,” Teyla adds, and John hears, don’t do anything stupid.
“Of course,” he says, and climbs out of the car.
Kolya’s standing in the middle of the path, his back to John, shadowed by the gathering dusk, for all the world like he really is meeting with another trafficker, someone he thinks he can trust. John doesn’t think he makes any noise going in, but Kolya turns anyway when he’s halfway down the path.
It’s only because John’s expecting it that he sees Kolya’s tiny flinch, the moment of realization across his features that gives John a hard, sharp feeling of satisfaction. Yeah, he wants to say. Bet you weren’t expecting me, were you? Turns out you don’t know everything that’s going on over the border. He doesn’t though, just waits, still like the army, like Teyla and Ronon taught him, for Kolya to make his move.
“Mr. Richardson,” he says eventually. He has to be carrying some kind of weapon, has to know what’s going to happen next, but John can’t see a gun, and Kolya’s not moving to draw one. He thinks of a set-up, of walking into a trap after all, but that’s for Teyla and Ronon to deal with. John’s whole world has narrowed down to him and Kolya and the faint scent of honeysuckle in the air, his gun in his hand and the bitter certainty that he won’t hesitate. “Or should I be calling you Major Sheppard? It is major now, isn’t it, or have they already removed your rank?”
“Not yet,” John says easily. His hand aches from how tightly he’s clenching his gun, and he forces himself to loosen his grip. “Richardson’s fine. Worked for us last time.” He lifts his weapon a fraction, aiming for Kolya’s general direction, waiting for something. For Kolya to reveal whatever back up plan he has. “I’d call you a ghost, but somehow that just doesn’t seem a strong enough expression of my feelings.”
“I suppose not,” Kolya agrees, and John realizes he’s been so busy watching Kolya’s gun-hand that he stopped watching Kolya’s other hand, which is sliding into his coat pocket. He’s not ready to die, especially not by this guy’s hands, and John doesn’t even think about it. His gun comes up, his finger curled round the trigger, and John fires twice, the double crack splintering the quiet, blood blooming on Kolya’s coat as he goes back and down. No-one comes running.
Kolya’s not moving when John steps up to him, but he’s not making the same mistake twice. He aims again and shoots Kolya between the eyes, once, then again, just to be sure. He can’t quite bring himself to bend down and feel for a pulse, but Kolya, when he looks, is definitely dead.
He leaves the gun beside Kolya, wiping it clean even though he’s wearing gloves. When the report’s called in, Lorne will find it, run it through the system, and come back with no hits. He won’t be able to close out the case - no evidence, no suspects - but it should be enough to shut the Genii down for good, and at least he’ll be able to arrest Sora for her part in it.
Ronon and Teyla are covering the gate, waiting for him, and John’s got nothing he wants to say to Kolya. He just wants to get the hell out of here and go home, because he thought he’d feel better when he did this, and instead he thinks that nothing’s changed. None of the important stuff.
He leaves the gun behind, and goes to join his team.
It’s over.
*
Epilogue:
There’s a message from Jeannie when John turns his cell on, back on American soil, and his heart seizes up with horror when he hears her crying. It’s not until she starts laughing through her tears that he can breathe again, her voice in his ear saying, “He’s awake, he’s all right, John, he’s okay, he’s asking for you,” and he has to lean against the wall in the arrivals hall, weak-kneed with relief, and glad Teyla and Ronon are still in Mexico, picking up intelligence for the mission they’re officially on. It’s not often he gets to not be seen doing something that will undermine his tough-commander impression.
He's still suspended, as far as he's aware, and even O'Neill probably can't swing a ride for a suspended army Major, so John gets a cab to the hospital. There's something to be said, possibly, for stopping by the apartment to drop his bags, shower, maybe even pick up some of Rodney's things, but John needs to see with his own eyes - if he's learned anything from this it's that he can't rely on other people seeing things right.
The nurse on the desk stops him when he makes to walk past. “Yes, sir, can I help you?”
“Major Sheppard, to see Rodney McKay.”
She looks him up and down dubiously, which is fair comment, he supposes: he hasn't shaved in a couple of days and his clothes are crumpled from the plane ride. He hasn't looked in a mirror since he caught his reflection in one at the airport, but he can't imagine the flight's done much for the dark circles he saw under his eyes, and he knows it hasn't helped the mild lack-of-caffeine-and-sleep tremor that he's developed in his hands.
“It's okay,” a male voice says, and John looks up to see Agent Mitchell leaving a side room, another man stepping up to watch the door as it closes. Protection detail, though it's a bit late. “It's okay,” Mitchell says again. “Let him in.”
The nurse still doesn't look convinced, but she nods for John to go past. “Thanks,” he tells Mitchell, who wraps a hand round his wrist and leads him further down the corridor, past the guard and the door with MR McKay scrawled under the occupant label. John digs his heels in. “You know, I'm already being investigated for violations of the UCMJ, so if you're hoping to have your wicked way with me, this probably isn't the best week.”
Mitchell grins, but stops. “Actually, it probably *is* the best week, get all the suspicion out of the way at once.” John glares at him and he shrugs. “Fine. Jackson would probably object anyway.”
John blinks, but he's not actually all that surprised that Mitchell's apparently seeing a man (or a woman who doesn't object to being called by her last name). “So glad we had this little chat,” he tells Mitchell. “But I was actually hoping to see McKay.”
“I've been talking to your CO,” Mitchell says, like John didn't say anything. “And a CIA agent in Mexico. Who've apparently solved my case for me.”
“That's nice,” John says, wondering if the man's deliberately trying to be annoying.
“Isn't it,” Mitchell says. “Though they don't seem to like my chances of actually bringing the perpetrator to justice, which is a downside, especially when they think it's either a Mexican trafficker or the director of the CIA.” He smiles slightly, then drops the act. “Look, I used to be in the Air Force, I'm not blind. I know where you've been.” John wonders for one horrifying moment if he's going to be arrested by this guy. “So we'll call this one a win, and say no more about it,” Mitchell adds, to John's relief. “Also, Colonel O'Neill asked me to pass on a message if I happened to run into you here.”
John waits, then raises an eyebrow when nothing is forthcoming.
“He said to tell you, 0500 Monday morning, and don't be late,” Mitchell says, and he doesn't even know John, but he looks really happy to be saying this. Almost as happy as John feels, like a weight he was mostly managing to ignore has suddenly gone, and he thinks he'd float away if the corridor ceiling wasn't so low.
“Thanks,” he says, and makes a mental note to call up Dr Weir and say... something. Or maybe do something to say thank you, which he's always found easier than actually saying the words.
“No sweat,” Mitchell says easily. He tilts his head to Rodney's room. “We're leaving the protection detail there for a few days, just to be on the safe side, but it's just a precaution.”
“Great,” John says. “Look, I don't mean to be rude, but -”
Mitchell makes a weird shooing gesture. “Go,” he says, and John doesn't need telling twice.
He's not sure what he was expecting - tubes, unconsciousness, evidence of a very recent near-death experience, maybe - but not this, Rodney, eyes closed, half-sitting up in bed, a single IV line in the back of his hand and an oxygen canula in his nose. He doesn't exactly look wide awake and ready to go for a run (though in fairness, John's never seen him looking ready to go for a run in all the years they've known each other), but he looks like Rodney. He looks like he's going to be okay.
John has to lean against the closed door for a second, till he feels like he can walk across the room without his legs giving out. He makes it, just, collapsing in the chair by Rodney's bedside. There's a physics journal and a child's coloring book on the cupboard by the bed, so Jeannie must be around somewhere, but John's pretty sure he'll hear her coming. He reaches out and puts his hand over Rodney's, careful not to squeeze, not wanting to wake Rodney yet.
He's got the covers pulled up to his chin, so John can't see the bandages that must be under them, which John is definitely more than okay with. He'll have enough nightmares, he's sure, from the scars, without adding to them quite yet.
“It's over,” he tells Rodney quietly, trying to believe it. Kolya's dead, John's suspension's been lifted, Rodney's safe, and, he assumes Oberoth will shortly be trading his corner office for a jail cell, which means Zelenka should be reinstated. It's over.
He still doesn't quite believe it, wishes he still had his gun.
Rodney stirs, makes a weird snuffling nose, and opens his eyes. He's facing the wrong direction, but he turns his head slowly and finally looks at John.
“Oh,” he says quietly, his voice a little rusty. The corners of his mouth lift in a slight smile. “Hey. Where've you been?”
John squeezes his hand a little harder, because he can't help himself, because he feels light-headed with relief and he just spent three days thinking he'd never get to do this again. “It's a long story,” he says.
Part 2
The clerk hands him a note when he checks into his hotel, eyes gritty with exhaustion from a day of pacing and impotent worry, followed by a late flight. There’s nothing in the note except an address, but he recognizes Ronon’s handwriting, which is all the explanation he needs.
He’d thought he’d crash for a few hours before going to find Ronon and Teyla with a clearer head, but with the address in his hand, he forgets all about that, doesn’t even bother going up to his room, just buys a large coffee to drink as he takes a cab to the general area of the address. He won’t say the coffee exactly helps, but he does feel fractionally more human, and he has a feeling he’s going to need every fraction he can get. Weir’s phoned a couple of times to say there’s no change with Rodney and John’s holding onto that, but he’s not looking forward to the moment when it isn’t enough.
The address turns out to be a run-down apartment block in a street of similarly run-down apartment blocks. It’s not dissimilar to the safe house they used the first go round, the street having enough people and cars for them not to attract too much attention, but in the kind of neighborhood where anything suspicious will be written off as involvement in something mildly illegal rather than government sanctioned.
The front door swings open when John tries it, all his instincts on high alert, wishing for a weapon he wasn’t allowed to carry on a commercial flight, but there’s no-one there. It’s entirely possible the place is empty apart from - he hopes - his team.
Most people wouldn’t hear the rustle behind the door when he knocks, except that it’s familiar the way his weapon is, Ronon getting into cover position while Teyla moves to open the door, because most people expecting a Special Forces team hesitate for a moment when they get a woman, and that’s all the advantage they need.
The lock clicks as Teyla turns it, then the door’s open and her wary look is dropping away into relief. “John,” she says warmly. “It is a relief to see you here.”
John’s not at all sure it’s a relief to be there, but it’s definitely a relief to see her and Ronon, armed even in their street clothes, to see the familiar table of electronics and papers set up in the middle of the otherwise empty room, curtains half-drawn across the windows and a phone line already up and running. He assumes they got a military transport out while he was kicking around the airport, but he’s still impressed by how fast they’ve got this operation going.
Ronon’s waiting patiently when John gets done prowling round the room, checking it out. He doesn’t say anything, just holds out the holster John uses when he’s under cover, complete with his sidearm. John fixes it to his belt with shaking hands, feeling better as soon as he’s done it, and doesn’t ask where, or how, Ronon got his hands on that. There are some things he’s better off not knowing.
“So, where’s this CIA agent, then?” he asks.
*
Agent Lorne, when he gets back from a meeting with his superiors, turns out to be nothing like the other agents John knows, making up for not having their unnatural genius by being unflappable and calm to rival Teyla, accepting John’s ragged, exhausted, suspended appearance in the middle of his investigation with a nod and an offer to go over his files with John. John wouldn’t say he likes him immediately, but he doesn’t meet many people he *does* like immediately; he thinks they can work with Lorne, and he’s ninety percent sure Lorne’s not involved with whatever Oberoth’s got going on back in Washington. Maybe eighty percent, actually, but John’s aware that he’s always less trusting when he’s tired.
“We got access to the non-classified parts of your files,” Lorne says, when they’re all settled round the table, laptops shoved out of the way. It’s too hot for coffee, but John’s not going to stay upright without chemical assistance, so he’s got a can of Coke going warm in his hand. “I guess they didn’t cover the best parts, but that was some nice work.” Lorne grins, a little impressed, and it shouldn’t make John feel good, but it does, knowing someone thinks they did good, even if he doesn’t.
“Not that nice if Kolya’s still running around,” Ronon says, low and dark. He’s not fingering his knives - Teyla’s probably warned him not to freak out the nice agent - but he looks like he wants to be.
Lorne makes a face, conceding. “There have been rumors about the Genii for months,” he says. ”They were crushed when you guys were down here, but everyone says they’re coming back, moving into trafficking people across the border.” He slides a couple of files over to John and sighs. “We couldn’t figure out who was doing it, though. None of the Genii who were still around had that kind of experience, or power. If Kolya really is still alive, that would answer a lot of questions.”
“Yeah,” John agrees. And raise a whole lot more. “You guys have the photos from the border?” he asks, and Teyla nods, already looking through the papers to find them. “You got anyone inside the Genii?” he asks Lorne.
“Kind of,” Lorne says. “She’s been with them since they re-emerged, started feeding us intel a few months back.”
“Great. Can you set it up for us to meet with her? Not here,” John adds, getting himself a mild glare of how-stupid-do-you-think-I-am from Lorne, then a nod. “Great,” John says again, almost meaning it. He can feel all this coming together, feel the end in sight, the shape of his weapon in his hand and the kick of recoil when he fires the bullet that’s going to kill Kolya, for good this time.
*
Lorne arranges to meet with his contact in the Genii the next morning, and they spend the rest of the day and most of the evening poring over each other’s files, until John’s seeing double and Lorne says, “All right, I’m going home before my head explodes from too much information. You need a ride to your hotel, Major?”
“Um,” John says. His bag’s still by the door where he dropped it when he came in, and he thinks he’s forgotten the name of the hotel anyway.
“Major Sheppard will stay here with us,” Teyla says firmly, which solves that problem.
Once Lorne’s gone, Ronon breaks out his mother hen act, which has always freaked John out slightly: Ronon cooks dinner, though it’s not up to his usual standards, and makes them both eat; refuses to allow John any more coffee, which is probably not a bad thing considering how jittery he feels; and declares that eleven thirty is a perfectly reasonable time to go to bed when they’ve got an early meeting. John doesn’t have the energy to argue, not even when Ronon points him towards one of the two bedrooms, which means he’s evicting someone else for a night on the couch. Unless Ronon and Teyla are going to share.
He’s been up for two days straight at this point, and it feels fantastic just to lie down and close his eyes. It’s not the most comfortable bed he’s ever slept on, but he doesn’t care, sure that exhaustion will pull him under in seconds.
It doesn’t. He can’t stop thinking: the meeting tomorrow, Oberoth and Zelenka, the original mission, Rodney. Every time he starts to slip into sleep, something catches at him and pulls him awake again, until the darkness is filled with shadows he can’t quite see and he feels like he’s caught Rodney’s claustrophobia.
There’s nothing for it but to get up. He didn’t pack War and Peace, which is a shame since it’s been his cure for insomnia since college, but maybe there’s something in the apartment that will put him to sleep, and if not, he can always read the files again.
He’s not really surprised when he finds Teyla sitting serenely on the couch in her workout clothes, her sticks across her knees, waiting for him.
“How did you fit those in your bag?” he asks, because he’s seen the duffel Teyla travels with, and there’s no way it’s big enough.
She turns the stick in her hands, separating it into two smaller halves. “They are not as good as my own, but they suffice.” She pulls another set from her bag and starts screwing them together.
“What about Ronon?” John asks. He feels half a beat behind what’s happening, but he knows Teyla has the right idea, exhausting his body until he *has* to sleep.
“Ronon will be fine,” Teyla says, and John’s not sure if she means fine listening to them or fine sleeping through it. He’s not sure it matters.
She hands over his sticks. They feel different from those he’s used to train with her before, balanced slightly differently, still new rather than worn from years of handling.
“Ready?” she asks, and comes at him almost before he’s got himself balanced to block her.
John’s done this with Teyla so many times that he can recognize within a minute which version of her he’s got: trainer, expert, show off, practice partner. This is none of these, and all of them, relentlessly coming at John again and again, but pulling every hit in deference to his slowed reaction time, so he gets taps instead of bruises, swings so close he can feel the air move rather than actual blows when he’s not fast enough to dodge or block. Of course, none of that can compensate for the way his balance abandons him when he’s not concentrating, making it easy for Teyla to trip him to the floor, again and again and again, grateful for the rug under him, even if it does scratch unpleasantly at his over-heated skin. Teyla waits, every time, for him to pull himself up, rather than offering a hand - testing whether he’s fit to carry on, and he does it, even when every muscle aches and he just wants to close his eyes.
Teyla, though, has a better sense of his limits than he does - she waits until he goes down hard enough to knock the breath out of him, then leans in close over him, one stick just touching his throat, not pressing hard enough to hinder his breathing. “That is enough,” she says quietly, then offers her hand and pulls him to his feet.
They sit quietly against the wall, sipping from water bottles. The world seems glass sharp, fragile, even in the dim lamp light, and John thinks he might actually sleep once the adrenaline of sparring wears off.
“How’s Ronon doing?” he asks eventually, then, when Teyla raises and eyebrow at him, adds, “After the, you know -" and waves his hand vaguely at his own stomach to indicate ‘major wound that nearly killed him’.
“He is well,” Teyla says patiently. “Or he would not have joined us.”
“Right,” John says. He knew that, kind of, but he feels better hearing Teyla say it. They fall into silence again, but he can feel the words crawling up his throat, and he can’t keep them in. “I’m sorry you were -" he starts, then swallows and tries again. “I’m sorry I wasn’t… I should have been there.”
“To do what?” Teyla asks, sounding genuinely curious, a sure sign that she already knows the answer. “Step in front of the bullet for him?”
“No,” John says, though he knows he would have, if he could. “It’s just - you guys are, you know, my oldest friends. And I wouldn’t… it’s my job to protect you.”
“We are quite capable of protecting ourselves,” Teyla says sternly, but she rests her hand on his briefly, and John thinks she understands. ”What happened to Ronon is not your fault. No more than what happened to Mark.”
John takes a long drink of water, even though it’s suddenly hard to swallow. He still dreams about finding Holland after the explosion, can’t imagine ever not.
“Perhaps,” says Teyla, very quietly, “Being reassigned is not the punishment you think it is.”
“I don’t think it’s a punishment,” John says automatically. He’s been waiting to deny this accusation that no-one’s ever made since he got there.
“Perhaps,” Teyla says again, humoring him. “But consider that maybe someone was doing as you would do, and protecting you.”
John doesn’t have anything to say to that. He barely remembers the weeks between losing Holland and coming back, a haze of anger and grief and complete helplessness, shot through with much clearer memories of various people yelling at him and looking at him with disappointment. He wants to ask Teyla what she remembers, what it was like for her and Ronon while he was wrecking his career and, now he thinks about it, probably doing a pretty crappy job of protecting them.
After a while, Teyla pats his arm and leaves him alone. He sits there for a long time before getting up and going to bed, feeling even more confused than he did before.
*
“You didn’t say you were bringing someone,” a young woman says, dropping into the free chair at John and Lorne’s table in the crowded coffee shop. She smoothes her skirt and tosses her hair out of her face. “I would have brought my boyfriend as well.”
Lorne rolls his eyes good naturedly. “This is Sora,” he says, though John’s already guessed. “Sora, this is John Richardson, he’s a colleague of mine, from the States.”
They agreed on the half-lie before they came out - if she presses, John will say that he’s with the CIA, but he’s hoping it won’t come to that, that she’ll just assume. He’s having enough trouble keeping his real identity and his cover straight, without adding any more details to a cover for his cover.
Sora’s eyes are wary, but she shakes his hand. “Not his boyfriend, then. Shame, he could use someone to -“
“Okay,” Lorne says quickly, cutting her off. “I don’t think either of us wants you discussing my sex life.”
“Or lack thereof,” Sora mutters, and John can see why Lorne likes her.
Lorne glares at her again, then something changes in his face, sliding into seriousness. “We need to meet with your boss,” he says quietly, and Sora shakes her head immediately.
“You can’t,” she says. “Do you know what he’ll do to me if he finds out?”
This is the tricky part, the part that’s going to be hardest to sell because it’s the biggest lie. Even Lorne doesn’t know for certain why they’re here, though he must suspect. It’s probably why he hasn’t asked.
“He won’t ever find out who we really are,” Lorne says. “I won’t be there, it’ll just be John, maybe a couple of people he knows.” One of whom is reading a paper on the other side of the coffee shop, keeping an eye on what’s happening, the other of whom is out in Lorne’s car, listening in through John’s wire, because Teyla’s actually met Sora before. “You’ll tell him they’ve come from America, that they’re interested in working with him when his people get across the border. He’ll never know they aren’t who they say they are.”
This is the part of the lie that’s true, though it’s a very carefully phrased truth: Kolya will never know because they themselves will never say they’re anyone but who they are, who Kolya will recognize them as the moment he sets eyes on them. The lie comes in who Sora will say they are, but John’s counting on her not realizing this.
Her wary expression intensifies. “How can you be sure?”
“Trust me,” Lorne says, looking so open and honest that *John* half-believes him, even after helping to script the conversation.
It obviously works on Sora as well - either that or she’s the most trusting spy John’s ever met, because she stares at Lorne for a drawn out moment, then nods. “I want - if he does find out, you have to promise to help me,” she says.
“I promise,” Lorne says, and John realizes there is a difference after all between trust-me-I’m-harmless and genuine you-can-really-trust-me on his face, because he’s seeing the latter now; if it comes to it, Lorne really will do his best to protect her.
“All right,” Sora says finally. “Let me go make a call.”
John waits for the door to close behind her, then says, “Teyla?” quietly into his comm.
“One moment,” Teyla says. She leaves the line open so John can hear her equipment running. Across from him, Lorne drinks his coffee, affecting a pretty convincing casual pose. “Dialing,” Teyla says in his ear. “Okay, coming through clearly.”
“Great,” John says. It’s not that he doesn’t trust Lorne’s contact - well, partly it is - but he feels better knowing that they’ll be able to hear any calls she makes from now on. At least this way he’ll know if they’re being set up, even if they end up having to walk into the trap anyway.
*
They’re on their way back to the apartment, meeting with Kolya set for that evening, when Teyla, who’s still wearing one ear piece, starts and says, “Sora is making another call.”
“Yeah?” John twists round in the front seat, which has the added advantage of meaning he doesn’t have to watch the way Ronon drives, like a car is alien technology to him. “Who’s she calling?”
There’s a moment of silence while Teyla listens, then she says, “We may have a problem.”
“She’s calling Kolya back?” John asks.
Teyla shakes her head. “Director Oberoth.”
“What?” Ronon says, half-turning from the road.
“That’s not good,” John adds. Not good, and yet, it makes sense. Or it makes other things make sense.
Teyla hushes them all, and they ride in strained silence as she listens. Finally, she turns the recorder off with a disgusted sigh. “It would appear,” she says darkly, “That Kolya’s continued existence will not be the surprise to the Director that it was to the rest of us.”
“He’s working with Kolya?” John asks, kind of stunned to hear it confirmed even after assuming it was true for the last couple of days. “How did he even know Kolya’s still alive?”
“Oddly, Sora did not mention this,” Teyla says. “Still, perhaps we should inform Colonel O’Neill of this.”
“Yeah,” John says. “And get some extra ammo.” He thinks about it for a minute, then asks, “What was she calling Oberoth about? Us?”
Teyla shakes her head. “It did not seem so. They were discussing plans for a lorry to go across the border in a few days’ time.”
“So, wait,” John says, trying to think. It’s too hot, and his headache is back. “You’re saying that she’s working with Kolya, who’s working with Oberoth, both of whom know about us and Rodney, but that they don’t know we’re here because Sora doesn’t know who we are.”
Everyone’s quiet briefly, making sense of that. It seems almost too good to be true, that they’ve managed to get into the country, are right under Kolya’s nose, and yet neither he nor Oberoth have realized. He wonders where Oberoth thinks they’ve gone, since he must have noticed that the three of them have disappeared. Unless O’Neill’s cover for their presence on this mission includes saying that they’re gone somewhere else.
“Yeah,” Ronon says finally. “That sounds about right.”
*
By the time they get back to the apartment, John’s got a working theory for everything that’s happened. Well, apart from the part where Kolya and Oberoth somehow managed to find each other, but no theory’s perfect. He’s sure O’Neill and Weir will be able to work that part out between them.
“Rodney must have known he was doing something wrong,” he explains to O’Neill. “Maybe Zelenka as well.” He doesn’t know how they would have figured it out, but Zelenka will be able to fill that gap. It wouldn’t have taken much, not for two of the CIA’s leading intelligence analysts. “I think Oberoth already suspected something was going on between me and McKay and used that to try and get him to leave it alone.”
“Clearly, he didn’t know Dr McKay very well,” O’Neill says dryly.
“No sir. And suspended Dr Zelenka for the same reason.” He’s less sure about that argument, whether it was to deter Rodney or get rid of Zelenka or both.
“And when that didn’t work, he had Kolya come down here and shoot Dr McKay.”
“Yes, sir. Kolya would’ve leapt at the chance, he never liked Rodney. Probably liked him even less once he realized who Rodney really was.”
“On the bright side, assuming the Director was behind the accusation against you, this should make it a lot easier to quash,” O’Neill says, and John realizes that he’s pretty much forgotten about that while he’s been in Mexico.
“Yes, sir. I suppose.”
“Mm.” O’Neill hesitates, then says, “Look, Major, I’m not going to tell you what you should or shouldn’t do, and I understand wanting to - even the balance - after what happened to your friend, but -“
“But now we know he knows who we really are, maybe this isn’t such a good idea?” John finishes. ”Don’t worry about it, sir, we’re pretty sure he doesn’t know who he’s really meeting with this evening. We don’t think Lorne’s contact with the Genii knows who we really are.”
“That’s a big ‘if’, Major, especially if you’re wrong. I don’t know if Dr Weir’s managed to contact you already today, but the hospital’s saying that McKay looks to be improving. They’re cautiously optimistic.”
“That’s good to hear, sir,” John says. He already knows from Weir’s voicemail message, but O’Neill’s not really telling him that. He’s trying to tell John not to do anything stupid, that there are things in Washington waiting for him, and John hears that loud and clear.
*
Lorne hangs around, despite John’s repeated suggestions that he must have other things to do, and Teyla eventually says quietly to John that Lorne probably feels badly for trusting Sora and allowing them to put themselves in more danger, even if Sora hasn’t actually contributed meaningfully to their danger level. John thinks that’s pretty stupid, but he also knows he’d feel the same way in Lorne’s place, and stops trying to persuade him to leave. He does take him aside, though, and explain in small words that Lorne can’t come with them, for a whole host of reasons, not least of which is that it’s really not a good idea for a CIA agent to be involved in what amounts to an illegal operation.
John gets more and more keyed up as the day ticks away. He wants to go out and run, but he can’t take the risk that someone’s tailing them. He can’t settle to anything on TV, and reading through the files is starting to destroy his will to live. Teyla offers to spar with him again, then rescinds the offer ten minutes in, declaring that he’s too distracted and will end up hurting both of them. Ronon just laughs at him when he suggests they go a round of hand to hand, and John’s not quite desperate enough to ask Lorne.
He takes himself off to the bedroom in the end, closes the curtains and lies still on his back with his eyes closed, trying to relax, maybe even fall asleep.
*
Rodney caught his arm after yet another in a seemingly endless line of debriefs, a week after they got back, when John was starting to feel like his entire life outside the mission was ceasing to exist. “Have dinner with me,” he said and John agreed quickly. Caldwell was looking at Rodney’s hand on his arm, and John liked his job.
They went to a bar Rodney knew, tucked away in a booth in the back corner, and John didn’t give in to the temptation to drink, because he wanted whatever happened to happen because he was sober and decided, not because he was drunk and stupid.
“Look, Sheppard,” Rodney said finally. “I understand if you don’t…I mean, things happen, spur of the moment, adrenaline, bonds of intense experiences, et cetera, and it doesn’t have to mean anything. That is, you’re in the army, and you’re away a lot, and I wouldn’t ask - I’m not asking - for, you know, exclusivity or, or a commitment.” John opened his mouth to say something, he wasn’t entirely sure what, but Rodney plowed over him. “But that was an amazing kiss, and I can’t stop thinking about it, and I’m going through a traumatic experience, as if being there when you shot a man wasn’t bad enough, now I have to waste my time with all these bureaucrats… Really, Sheppard, I deserve sex.” He said the last bit a little louder than John was entirely comfortable with, but the bar was pretty noisy, so he could convince himself that no-one had heard. At least Rodney wasn’t using his rank.
“I can keep a secret,” Rodney said, lowering his voice again when John didn’t say anything. “And I really, really -“
“Okay,” John said quickly. Who had he been trying to kid anyway, when he’d been jerking off thinking about that kiss since they got back, like a horny teenager. “Okay, what the hell. Your place or mine?”
They went to Rodney’s apartment, figuring the chances of getting caught were lower, and that they could always come up with an excuse about watching a video if anyone said anything.
“Do you, um, do you want a drink?” Rodney asked when they got inside, toeing off his shoes and fiddling with his keys.
“I’m good,” John said. He felt slightly breathless with nerves, doing this in a premeditated way with someone he cared for, which he hadn’t done for a while, but it was clear that Rodney wasn’t going to make the first move. Decisive action, he thought, and pushed Rodney back to sit on the sofa so John could straddle him and kiss him.
Rodney got with the program surprisingly quickly, kissing back, wrapping his arms round John to hold him there, and they made out for what seemed like forever, until they were both hard and gasping.
“We should - I have a bed,” Rodney offered. He looked debauched, mouth red from kissing, hair mussed, shirt open and hanging from one arm after John had lost patience with the buttons on his cuffs.
“Here’s good,” John said. They were pressed a bit too close to reach easily between their bodies, but he managed it, yanking down Rodney’s zipper and shoving his hand into Rodney’s boxers to wrap round his cock.
“Oh,” Rodney said, his eyes going wide when John slid his hand down his length. “Oh, that’s really good.”
John couldn’t get a good rhythm going at that angle, and his wrist didn’t really want to bend that way, but in the end it didn’t matter, Rodney thrusting up into John’s hand a half dozen times before coming with a low groan, pressing his mouth to John’s throat.
“Wow,” he said after a while. ”You know, for a soldier, you’re really very good at that.”
“Thanks,” John said dryly. Just what he needed, a reminder that if anyone found out about this, his career could be over. Particularly helpful when he was pretty sure Rodney had got come on his pants. “And, you know, any time you feel like returning the favor…”
“Right. Of course.” Rodney lifted his head to kiss John again, and John was too caught up in the kiss to realize what was going to happen until Rodney, showing previously unevidenced strength and coordination, shifted him round and dropped him flat on his back on the couch, before crawling down to give John quite possibly the best blow job of his life.
John, like Rodney had said, was away a lot, and neither of them were the long-distance pining and celibacy types, but they gravitated towards each other every time they were close enough, and John, at least, noticed a definite drop in the number of people-other-than-Rodney who he was having sex with over the years. He wasn’t at all surprised, really, when Rodney offered to put him up while he looked for somewhere to live in Washington, or that the subject of him actually finding somewhere never came up again.
*
“John?” Teyla says quietly, outlined in the doorway by the bright light from the main room. “It is time to go.”
“Right.” John sits up and rubs his eyes, not sure if he was dreaming or just remembering. “Coming.”
*
Sora has set up the meeting in a small public park, though ‘park’ turns out to be a bit of a misnomer, since it’s basically a path, a couple of benches and some grass, enclosed on three sides by brick walls and the fourth by metal railings and a gate. It has the advantage of meaning they’re unlikely to be spotted and reported to the police, but the disadvantage of meaning they can’t get anyone into place for concealed surveillance, plus, well, ‘public’ is never good when it’s a black op. They’ve dealt with bigger problems, though, and at least the place is deserted. John’s visions of shooting round civilians recede into the background.
They’re early enough to watch Kolya’s car pull up and Kolya step out of the back. He hasn’t changed much since the last time John saw him, and John wonders for one mad moment if maybe they never shot him at all. He still doesn’t know if Rodney really thought he was dead, or if he couldn’t go through with allowing John to kill a man, in the end. He suspects he’ll never know - he can’t ask Rodney and he won’t ask Kolya.
“You two get the drivers,” John says, and both Teyla and Ronon nod. They’re not happy about him going up against Kolya alone, but they seem to understand why he has to.
John gives Kolya a couple of minutes to get inside, then checks his weapon and reaches for the door handle.
“Good luck,” Ronon says, clapping him on the shoulder.
“Be careful,” Teyla adds, and John hears, don’t do anything stupid.
“Of course,” he says, and climbs out of the car.
Kolya’s standing in the middle of the path, his back to John, shadowed by the gathering dusk, for all the world like he really is meeting with another trafficker, someone he thinks he can trust. John doesn’t think he makes any noise going in, but Kolya turns anyway when he’s halfway down the path.
It’s only because John’s expecting it that he sees Kolya’s tiny flinch, the moment of realization across his features that gives John a hard, sharp feeling of satisfaction. Yeah, he wants to say. Bet you weren’t expecting me, were you? Turns out you don’t know everything that’s going on over the border. He doesn’t though, just waits, still like the army, like Teyla and Ronon taught him, for Kolya to make his move.
“Mr. Richardson,” he says eventually. He has to be carrying some kind of weapon, has to know what’s going to happen next, but John can’t see a gun, and Kolya’s not moving to draw one. He thinks of a set-up, of walking into a trap after all, but that’s for Teyla and Ronon to deal with. John’s whole world has narrowed down to him and Kolya and the faint scent of honeysuckle in the air, his gun in his hand and the bitter certainty that he won’t hesitate. “Or should I be calling you Major Sheppard? It is major now, isn’t it, or have they already removed your rank?”
“Not yet,” John says easily. His hand aches from how tightly he’s clenching his gun, and he forces himself to loosen his grip. “Richardson’s fine. Worked for us last time.” He lifts his weapon a fraction, aiming for Kolya’s general direction, waiting for something. For Kolya to reveal whatever back up plan he has. “I’d call you a ghost, but somehow that just doesn’t seem a strong enough expression of my feelings.”
“I suppose not,” Kolya agrees, and John realizes he’s been so busy watching Kolya’s gun-hand that he stopped watching Kolya’s other hand, which is sliding into his coat pocket. He’s not ready to die, especially not by this guy’s hands, and John doesn’t even think about it. His gun comes up, his finger curled round the trigger, and John fires twice, the double crack splintering the quiet, blood blooming on Kolya’s coat as he goes back and down. No-one comes running.
Kolya’s not moving when John steps up to him, but he’s not making the same mistake twice. He aims again and shoots Kolya between the eyes, once, then again, just to be sure. He can’t quite bring himself to bend down and feel for a pulse, but Kolya, when he looks, is definitely dead.
He leaves the gun beside Kolya, wiping it clean even though he’s wearing gloves. When the report’s called in, Lorne will find it, run it through the system, and come back with no hits. He won’t be able to close out the case - no evidence, no suspects - but it should be enough to shut the Genii down for good, and at least he’ll be able to arrest Sora for her part in it.
Ronon and Teyla are covering the gate, waiting for him, and John’s got nothing he wants to say to Kolya. He just wants to get the hell out of here and go home, because he thought he’d feel better when he did this, and instead he thinks that nothing’s changed. None of the important stuff.
He leaves the gun behind, and goes to join his team.
It’s over.
*
Epilogue:
There’s a message from Jeannie when John turns his cell on, back on American soil, and his heart seizes up with horror when he hears her crying. It’s not until she starts laughing through her tears that he can breathe again, her voice in his ear saying, “He’s awake, he’s all right, John, he’s okay, he’s asking for you,” and he has to lean against the wall in the arrivals hall, weak-kneed with relief, and glad Teyla and Ronon are still in Mexico, picking up intelligence for the mission they’re officially on. It’s not often he gets to not be seen doing something that will undermine his tough-commander impression.
He's still suspended, as far as he's aware, and even O'Neill probably can't swing a ride for a suspended army Major, so John gets a cab to the hospital. There's something to be said, possibly, for stopping by the apartment to drop his bags, shower, maybe even pick up some of Rodney's things, but John needs to see with his own eyes - if he's learned anything from this it's that he can't rely on other people seeing things right.
The nurse on the desk stops him when he makes to walk past. “Yes, sir, can I help you?”
“Major Sheppard, to see Rodney McKay.”
She looks him up and down dubiously, which is fair comment, he supposes: he hasn't shaved in a couple of days and his clothes are crumpled from the plane ride. He hasn't looked in a mirror since he caught his reflection in one at the airport, but he can't imagine the flight's done much for the dark circles he saw under his eyes, and he knows it hasn't helped the mild lack-of-caffeine-and-sleep tremor that he's developed in his hands.
“It's okay,” a male voice says, and John looks up to see Agent Mitchell leaving a side room, another man stepping up to watch the door as it closes. Protection detail, though it's a bit late. “It's okay,” Mitchell says again. “Let him in.”
The nurse still doesn't look convinced, but she nods for John to go past. “Thanks,” he tells Mitchell, who wraps a hand round his wrist and leads him further down the corridor, past the guard and the door with MR McKay scrawled under the occupant label. John digs his heels in. “You know, I'm already being investigated for violations of the UCMJ, so if you're hoping to have your wicked way with me, this probably isn't the best week.”
Mitchell grins, but stops. “Actually, it probably *is* the best week, get all the suspicion out of the way at once.” John glares at him and he shrugs. “Fine. Jackson would probably object anyway.”
John blinks, but he's not actually all that surprised that Mitchell's apparently seeing a man (or a woman who doesn't object to being called by her last name). “So glad we had this little chat,” he tells Mitchell. “But I was actually hoping to see McKay.”
“I've been talking to your CO,” Mitchell says, like John didn't say anything. “And a CIA agent in Mexico. Who've apparently solved my case for me.”
“That's nice,” John says, wondering if the man's deliberately trying to be annoying.
“Isn't it,” Mitchell says. “Though they don't seem to like my chances of actually bringing the perpetrator to justice, which is a downside, especially when they think it's either a Mexican trafficker or the director of the CIA.” He smiles slightly, then drops the act. “Look, I used to be in the Air Force, I'm not blind. I know where you've been.” John wonders for one horrifying moment if he's going to be arrested by this guy. “So we'll call this one a win, and say no more about it,” Mitchell adds, to John's relief. “Also, Colonel O'Neill asked me to pass on a message if I happened to run into you here.”
John waits, then raises an eyebrow when nothing is forthcoming.
“He said to tell you, 0500 Monday morning, and don't be late,” Mitchell says, and he doesn't even know John, but he looks really happy to be saying this. Almost as happy as John feels, like a weight he was mostly managing to ignore has suddenly gone, and he thinks he'd float away if the corridor ceiling wasn't so low.
“Thanks,” he says, and makes a mental note to call up Dr Weir and say... something. Or maybe do something to say thank you, which he's always found easier than actually saying the words.
“No sweat,” Mitchell says easily. He tilts his head to Rodney's room. “We're leaving the protection detail there for a few days, just to be on the safe side, but it's just a precaution.”
“Great,” John says. “Look, I don't mean to be rude, but -”
Mitchell makes a weird shooing gesture. “Go,” he says, and John doesn't need telling twice.
He's not sure what he was expecting - tubes, unconsciousness, evidence of a very recent near-death experience, maybe - but not this, Rodney, eyes closed, half-sitting up in bed, a single IV line in the back of his hand and an oxygen canula in his nose. He doesn't exactly look wide awake and ready to go for a run (though in fairness, John's never seen him looking ready to go for a run in all the years they've known each other), but he looks like Rodney. He looks like he's going to be okay.
John has to lean against the closed door for a second, till he feels like he can walk across the room without his legs giving out. He makes it, just, collapsing in the chair by Rodney's bedside. There's a physics journal and a child's coloring book on the cupboard by the bed, so Jeannie must be around somewhere, but John's pretty sure he'll hear her coming. He reaches out and puts his hand over Rodney's, careful not to squeeze, not wanting to wake Rodney yet.
He's got the covers pulled up to his chin, so John can't see the bandages that must be under them, which John is definitely more than okay with. He'll have enough nightmares, he's sure, from the scars, without adding to them quite yet.
“It's over,” he tells Rodney quietly, trying to believe it. Kolya's dead, John's suspension's been lifted, Rodney's safe, and, he assumes Oberoth will shortly be trading his corner office for a jail cell, which means Zelenka should be reinstated. It's over.
He still doesn't quite believe it, wishes he still had his gun.
Rodney stirs, makes a weird snuffling nose, and opens his eyes. He's facing the wrong direction, but he turns his head slowly and finally looks at John.
“Oh,” he says quietly, his voice a little rusty. The corners of his mouth lift in a slight smile. “Hey. Where've you been?”
John squeezes his hand a little harder, because he can't help himself, because he feels light-headed with relief and he just spent three days thinking he'd never get to do this again. “It's a long story,” he says.