Fic: The Days of Miracle and Wonder
Title: The Days of Miracle and Wonder
Summary: John Sheppard just wants to write something that makes somebody cry.
Fandom: Stargate Atlantis
Word Count: 4673
Rating/Contents: PG, AU
Pairing: Rodney/John, John/Nancy
Policies: Read my archiving, feedback, and warnings policies here.
A/N: I think it should be clear to everyone by this point that I am trying to get some of these hundreds of WIPs out of my various folders and subfolders. I have somebody's beta notes on this story- elementalv?- from like two and a half years ago.
When he was little, John used to watch as other boys drew airplanes and gunslingers on the backs of their notebooks.
John didn't- couldn't- absolutely failed at drawing anything. It just didn't make any sense to him; the picture in his head was perfect, too perfect for his clumsy fingers to reverse-engineer with just a pencil and a piece of manila cardboard.
Even if he could have, drawing wasn't really good enough, anyway. If he sat down and wrote about it, then he could make it real.
John was pretty young when he figured out that writing stories wasn't something that pilots or sharpshooters did. He still wasn't sure why; maybe it took too much out of your hands.
--
John Sheppard just wants to write something that makes somebody cry.
All the really good stories, all the ones John wishes he had even a prayer of emulating, they're sad and bittersweet and they make your heart swell when you even think about them. He reads and rereads anything that makes him feel like that, the kind of stories that start dismal and horrific and track steadily upwards, the kind that build up the briefest little flame of hope until it's a raging bonfire. And by the time you get to the end, you're sobbing right there in your living room, and you're so touched that you don't even care.
Just once, John wants to write something that makes someone- anyone- him- feel something.
Emotions have never really been John's thing, though, so he writes about explosions and spies and bomb plots. It pays the rent, and he supposes he can live with that.
Lately, though, it's been covering a whole lot more than just his living expenses. This series he's been messing around with, the one about this mercenary called Jack O'Neil, has really taken off. The first one's gone up two million places in Amazon's rankings from where it was a year ago, and the latest one- the next to last in the series, he's pretty sure, unless he goes back and writes those prequels- has been on the NYT Bestseller List for weeks.
And now, finally, even though the first one's been out for going on six years now, people are calling him the next Tom Clancy. It pisses Clancy off, judging from the way he always snubs John at parties; John doesn't like it either, because the guy hasn't written anything that was really compelling since The Hunt for Red October.
In fairness, though, the snubbing could just as easily be because of that time John accidentally got tipsy at a party and told Clancy just what he thought about his politics. That was back when he was with Nancy- she'd almost had to pull them off of each other- but apparently Clancy knew how to hold a grudge.
Technically speaking, he and Nancy are still married, but only because both of them have hit such levels of apathy over their relationship that they can't even be bothered to end it. And it's just easier not to rock the boat, because Nancy is, still and yet, the best editor he's ever had. She gets how he writes- she can tease out what he thinks he's saying from what he actually says. She spills gallons of red ink over his pages, and they always end up so much better for it.
If only they understood each other when his books weren't between them.
John doesn't even care anymore, just as long as she doesn't fuck anybody else in their apartment; it's not that he minds all that much, it's just that he really doesn't want to end up accidentally sleeping in some other guy's stuff.
So that's what his life looks like right now, more or less. Maybe not like he expected it to look when he turned forty, but he can't really picture it being another way.
--
When it starts, John is sitting outside of his favorite coffee shop, just minding his own business, working the Jumble and trying to figure out the best way to eat his chocolate croissant.
There's this guy standing at the little bar with the sugar and the creamers and everything; John can see him pretty clearly through the open doors. The guy is trying really hard to make it look like he's not staring at John, something that John is kind of familiar with- he doesn't know why people seem to think he might bite.
This guy is doing a particularly poor job of hiding it though, and John wonders what his deal is. He's not the right age for John's usual fans; they're almost all teenage boys or retirees. He must be one of those Wormhole X-Treme fanboys, then- those guys are rabid. He's always surprised that anybody even remembers the tie-in novels he wrote for it, back when his royalties on the O'Neil books weren't even enough to keep the lights on. But no, every year at Dragon*Con there's some guy dressed up like Grell or Danning who either wants to fawn all over him or chew him out for the part where Danning and Levant are trapped by a cave-in and have to share a sleeping bag to conserve body heat.
He doesn't even really know what to think about the girls who come up and thank him for that scene.
He goes back to his puzzle, not sure that he's had enough coffee to deal with it right now. When he looks up again, the guy is standing three feet away, clutching a gigantic cup of coffee in one hand.
"Um, hi," the guy says.
John smiles his best god-not-another-autograph smile. "Hi."
"I need to talk to you," the guy tells him, pulling out the chair across from him and plunking himself down.
"Have a seat," John drawls.
The guy puts down his coffee cup, crossing his arms over his chest. "Look, I'm not great with small talk, so I'm just going to come out and say this." He pauses for a second, as if he thinks John is going to protest or interject something; he takes a breath and goes on. "You don't know it yet, but you're very important." John feels vaguely offended; is he supposed to have low self-esteem or something? "I really need you to come and meet some people from my organization."
John rolls his eyes. "Don't think I'm not touched, really, but I don't want to join Scientology." It's kind of a shame, too; the guy definitely isn't bad looking, in an off-beat kind of a way.
The man sputters incoherently, going a little red in the face. "I can't believe-" He stands up and double-taps the earpiece that John hadn't noticed him wearing; he checks the empty tables around them, presumably not wanting to be seen. "Hermiod? I need transport for two." He looks pleased with himself for a moment, but then his eyes go wide. "What do you mean, no?" he hisses, whirling around and holding his hand to his ear. "I don't care if you got in trouble last time! They were both very important- You listen to me, you little grey twerp-"
John grabs his croissant and gets the hell out of there.
--
Nancy is home that night; she's standing in the kitchen making pasta. John walks in behind her, pouring himself a glass of wine from the bottle that's open on the counter. She tilts her face up, and he kisses her on the cheek, just like he's done hundreds of times; he's not sure of the last time he meant anything by it. He takes the knife from her, chopping the basil while she tends to the sauce.
"Smells great," John says, and Nancy makes a noise of assent, distracted by pouring the noodles into the colander.
They sit at the table; Nancy has the Sunday Book Review and John has just started on the new Glen Duncan thing. They're past the point where silence is uncomfortable; it's just silence, and it's kind of unremarkable by now.
After dinner, she leaves, and John's glad; it'll be nice to be able to stretch out over the bed by himself.
--
Somebody is knocking on John's door.
John doesn't know what time it is, but it's too damn early for anybody to be knocking- and besides, everybody he knows is sensible enough to call first. It might be the cops, though John doesn't remember having done anything particularly illegal lately; but they'll break the door down eventually and save John the trouble of getting up.
Then the doorbell rings, which is funny, because it's been broken since two weeks after he and Nancy moved in.
Okay, now John's kind of intrigued.
He doesn't bother pulling his shirt back on, just walks to the door in his faded black sleep pants. When he undoes the chain and the deadbolt and opens it, the guy from the coffee shop is standing there; he catches the door with both hands as John tries to slam it on him. "Okay, wait, I know it kind of looks like I'm stalking you-" he says.
"Yeah, it does," John replies, cutting him off. "Did you just fix my doorbell?"
"You weren't answering," he huffs. "And it was just a loose wire. Happens all the time."
"Thanks. Now get the hell out of here before I call the cops."
"It won't help," the guy says, and John pushes on the door harder. "Wow, that sounded way creepier out loud than it did in my head."
"A little bit," John agrees.
"Seriously, just let me-" The guy takes his wallet out and flips it open, passing it to John through the crack in the door.
John looks at the colorful ID in the clear plastic slot. "You're here on behalf of the X-Men?"
"What?" he snaps. "Goddammit, Madison-" he snatches it back, digging around for something. "Here," he says, showing him a laminated card with some government seal on it. He takes it away before John can catch his name.
John lets up on the door; the guy half-falls into his apartment. "Come in."
He looks daggers at John, straightening up and brushing totally imaginary dust off of his blazer. "I'm actually being really polite, here. I certainly didn't get this level of consideration the first time the CIA picked me up."
John freezes. "You're from the CIA?"
"American government, yes. CIA, no." He holds up his briefcase. "And if you'll just sign these papers and come with me, I can tell you all about it."
"It's"- John takes a look at the clock- "seven thirty in the morning," he protests. "I have a signing at three-" The guy is frowning at him, like John's being deliberately difficult. "Look, give me the papers, I'll have my lawyer look at them."
John is pretty much instantly glad that he did, because the guy suddenly lights up, looking for all the world like a kid at Christmas. "You're not going to regret this," he says, opening the briefcase and handing him a folder that weighs a solid ton. "Unless your lawyer is a two-bit hack who says you shouldn't sign. Then you should regret hiring him, and not this."
He flips the folder open, scanning the first page. "How am I supposed to contact you?"
"You can call this number," he says, giving his a business card.
"You don't look like a Samantha," John replies, reading it.
"Oh, um, no, sorry, she's-" He stops, putting his hand out. "Rodney- Doctor Rodney McKay."
He shakes it. "Pleasure to meet you."
"Yes, well." McKay says, as if he thinks John is winding him up. "Sign the papers, and you can see a lot more of me."
John smirks a little. "Is that a fact?"
McKay just looks at him. "Yes."
He sighs. "Never mind."
"Well," McKay says. "See you soon." And with that, he just walks out of John's house.
John watches him go; then he fumbles for the phone and calls his lawyer's courier service.
Oh, he's definitely intrigued.
--
"Two options," his lawyer tells him. "Option one, sign the papers, and do whatever this guy wants."
"Those may be two unrelated things," he says, and she snorts at him. "What's my second option?"
"Change your name and leave town," she sighs. "John, I'm not even sure what's going on here, but it looks really big."
"Thanks, Erin," he says, hanging up the phone. He lays down on his couch, throwing an arm over his eyes, and he can't decide if he wants a nap or a beer more. The signing was okay but really tiring; it's worse now that everybody has camera phones, because there's no excuse not to snap a picture with him. John gets really tired of smiling, something he's really not very good at anyway.
He turns, looking at the coffee table, and there it is, the card with the number on it; John's pretty sure it's taunting him, what with the way it's been stuck in the back of his mind all day.
He picks up the phone again.
--
Sixteen hours later, and John finds himself sitting next to McKay on a flight to Denver; the US government is recruiting him for something top secret and they are making him fly coach, what the fuck is that about?
The stewardess comes around, handing out tiny beverages and snacks. "Would you like anything to drink?" she asks.
"Black coffee for me," Rodney tells her, "and a ginger ale for him. Oh, and he doesn't like pretzels, so- you know what, give me his pretzels." She smiles, handing everything over and moving on with her life.
John looks at him unhappily. "How long have you guys been spying on me?"
"We haven't been- I mean, not any more than usual," McKay says, frowning. "It's just that we've met before."
John squints at him, trying to imagine McKay wearing silver paint and camouflage. "I'm sorry, I meet a lot of people."
"No, no," he says, waving a hand at him. "I met you, you didn't-" He sighs. "It's a long story."
John leans a little closer, raising an eyebrow suggestively. "I'm happy to introduce myself, if that's what you want."
McKay looks at him suspiciously. "Are- are you coming on to me?"
"Yeah," John says, a little uncomfortable now that he's been caught at it. "Is that gonna be a problem?"
"Oh, no no no," he says, waving his hands. "I just didn't know that you were-"
"Come on, it's all over my Wikipedia page." Nancy's secretary keeps going in and editing it out, saying it's bad for book sales, but people just keep putting it back.
"We don't have the internet in-" McKay stops for a long while. "Where I live."
John stares at him. "Where the hell is that? The moon?"
McKay just gives him a funny look. "Not exactly." He leans back, closing his eyes, and all John hears from him for the rest of the flight is snoring.
They pick him up in a vehicle that looks more appropriately military; it's not that long of a drive, but John spends most of it drumming his fingers against his leg anxiously. He's aware that they're headed to Colorado Springs, but then suddenly they are at Cheyenne Mountain and John suddenly realizes that he is in way, way the fuck over his head.
They take him in and past the blast doors and down and down and down, walking him through a series of corridors that look exactly the same to him. Just when he's trying to decide how lost he is, McKay leads him through another big door into this huge room with high ceilings.
The military brass is waiting to receive him, but John is totally not concerned, not when he sees what's off on one wall. It's this enormous circle, big enough for a car to drive through, and John has absolutely no idea what it is. There are arcane-looking symbols on it, interspersed with what look like big triangular lights; the whole thing is covered by a shield of interlocking metal plates.
John has never believed in conspiracy theories, never in his life, because he just doesn't trust the government that much. It's not a matter of wanting to hide things, which he's sure they do; it's just that they're not good or put-together enough to hide anything. These are people who couldn't cover up spending $500 on a toilet seat- how in the hell are they supposed to keep people from discovering something like aliens or Bigfoot or, or this?
He is seriously going to have to rethink his life.
McKay prods him towards the military contingent, and John reluctantly snaps out of it. Leading the pack is an older guy, gray hair, grinning. "Welcome to Stargate Command. I'm General Jack O'Neill," the guy says. "Two L's," he adds helpfully.
John just gapes at him for a long time.
"You haven't brought me here to tell me that the stuff I've been writing about is true, have you?" he manages to stammer.
O'Neill rolls his eyes. "Oh god, no, son, have you ever even been to a military base?"
"It's called artistic license," John says, crossing his arms.
"In your hands it's more like a license to kill."
John's just about to respond to that when alarms start going off; McKay grabs him by the elbow, pulling him quickly away towards the wall, past a marking that's painted on the floor.
"Receiving SG-9's IDC," someone says over the PA, and the metal shield that's covering the- the big circle thing just opens up like a flower. There's a noise and it spins and it lights up and something enormous and blue shoots out of it, like a vortex, like water, like nothing else John has ever seen.
It is, far and away, the coolest and most inexplicable thing that John has ever seen.
The water recedes, and the circle is filled with shimmering blue; and then people, people in military uniforms, just walk out of it, talking to each other, like it is not at all the most fucking unbelievable thing that has ever happened.
All of a sudden, the blue winks out, the metal shield swirling back into place.
John doesn't even know how long he stands there before O'Neill finally claps him on the shoulder. "It's not really fair to show you all this at once," he says, and he doesn't sound sorry at all.
"That's why he does it," the guy in civilian clothes behind O'Neill puts in.
It's not that the next few hours are full of that much information; it's just that the information that John gets is really, really huge, so much that all of it doesn't really fit into his head. McKay and Doctor Jackson and Colonel Carter keep talking over each other, and O'Neill's clearly had a lot of practice at riding herd on them, but that doesn't mean that John can follow all of it.
John just gives up, eventually, looking at the four of them over the rim of his water glass, hopefully not looking as overwhelmed as he feels.
Jackson notices first, and he gives John an apologetic sort of look. "Why don't you introduce him to the team?" he says to McKay. "It's got to be easier than this."
McKay cuts off his argument with Carter mid-sentence. "Oh," he says, looking at John. "I didn't do that already?" He waves a hand at Carter. "Shelve this- or don't, because you're wrong- and we'll pick it up later." She rolls her eyes, but she doesn't really look surprised or offended at all.
McKay takes him to another conference room, pushing the door open and shuffling him in; there are a couple people there, talking to themselves. There a youngish black guy leaning against the table, sporting a baseball cap and a set of fatigues; he stands up when John walks in, smiling widely. There's a woman standing next to him and this absolutely enormous dude with a tattoo on his neck; they're dressed in a way that kind of makes John think they're not from Earth, and how fucking weird is it that he can think things like that now?
"Lieutenant Colonel Aiden Ford," Rodney says, pointing each one of them out in turn, "Teyla Emmagan, and Ronon Dex."
Ford steps over first, sweeping him into a one-armed man hug and patting him soundly on the back. "Good to see you again, man," he says, but he stops, considering that. "I mean, not you, but-" He shakes his head. "Make McKay explain it. It's complicated."
When he lets John go, Teyla walks over; she takes him by both arms, bowing a little, and John has no idea what to do. He looks over at McKay, who makes a hand gesture that he probably thinks says everything and John can't decipher at all. He doesn't know what else to do, so he leans forward, touching his forehead to hers; the way she smiles when she pulls away says he got it right.
John looks over at Ronon, but he doesn't say anything; John's a little concerned about what he's going to do, but then he gives John a bear hug that almost lifts him off the ground.
"So," John says, kind of awkwardly; he's never gotten a reception quite like that before.
"Okay," McKay says, pressing his palm to his forehead. "This is going to be hard no matter how we do it. Here's how this works. There are multiple universes, and sometimes, through a variety of methods that we can get into later, people tend to cross between them, way more than it seems like they should."
"That's not hard, McKay," Ford says. "It doesn't seem like they ever should."
McKay waves a dismissive hand at him. "Happens all the time," he says. "And we're, the four of us- most of the time," he winces at Ford, "we're over there, in those other universes, right? But we're over there with you. And, I mean, the SGC was always watching you, because you kept writing all those smokescreen books, but-" He stops, sighing. "But it took us way too long to figure out it was you all along."
"We have known you," Teyla says, and there's something sad in her smile. "We have lost you."
"We don't feel like doing it again," Ronon says, and it sounds like a warning.
John doesn't even know what to say. He's always been difficult; people have only ever treated him like an artist, like they should keep him at arm's length for his own good. That's not what they're offering him here. They're offering to take him in, make him one of their own, and they're offering it to him sight unseen, because that's how much they trust him; that's how much he's worth.
He winds up not being able to speak at all; Ford throws an arm over his shoulders and squeezes, laughing, and it's somehow exactly what he needed.
--
They have surprisingly nice quarters for a military base; it kind of makes sense to John when he thinks about it, how they probably can't just let high-ranking visitors from other planets bed down at the Holiday Inn or whatever.
He's still not over the alien thing.
There's a knock on the door, and McKay walks in without waiting for John to answer, which John just really doesn't find surprising at all, even though he's only known the guy for like three days now.
"I just wanted to check in," McKay says; there's not a chair, so he sits awkwardly at the edge of the bed, leaning away from John, like he's a little afraid to touch him.
"Look, if I'm making you uncomfortable, you tell me," John snaps, because McKay is kind of looking at him like he's wondering if he's going to catch The Gay from John if he gets any closer. "It's not like I don't know how to keep my hands to myself."
"Believe me, It's really great, and I really have been considering how to get you into a supply closet all day long, but it's kind of weirding me out right now," McKay confesses. "All the other versions of you I've met, they've been all-" he waves a hand- "hot and everything, with the hips and the hair and whatever, but they've also been career military."
John laughs at that. "My BFA advisor talked me out of joining." Right after we fucked six ways from Sunday, he doesn't add.
"That would explain why you're not as much of a," McKay indicates John in a sweeping gesture, obviously lost for words.
"Closet case?" John tried.
"I was gonna say 'hardass', but, y'know, that too." McKay sighs. "It's late. I really just came over to ask if you had any burning questions that wouldn't wait until the morning, because I kind of know what that feels like."
There's something that's gnawing at his brain, something that's been in there all along, "So I get the stargate thing, and the aliens thing, and saving the universe and all that," he says. "But I just write books. What can I do?"
McKay holds up a finger, signaling for him to wait. He digs around in his pocket, coming up with a shiny, flat oblong. "Hold out your palm." John rolls his eyes but does what McKay asks, and McKay presses the thing into his hand, curling John's fingers around it.
If asked, he couldn't describe how it felt. It's like something tingles in the back of his brain, some switch he's never flipped comes on. He stares down at the little device in his hand; there are a whole row of lights twinkling on it like stars, and it's murmuring to him, as if to say hello.
"You can do everything," McKay says, so ardently that John can't help but believe him.
And he moves and McKay moves and they're kissing, their hands still clasped together around the device, and it doesn't feel the same way, not at all, but it still feels like he was supposed to do it all along.
--
John writes IT'S OVER in big black letters on the very first page of the very last Jack O'Neil book; the papers from his lawyer are tucked discreetly near the back.
He imagines Nancy crying all the way to the bank.
--
John doesn't have a lot of time to write, actually, what with finding his way around a new city and learning how to fly gateships- such an ugly name, by the way, and John's on a campaign to change it- and trying to figure out how to write a mission report without embellishing it, even a little.
He's working on a new novel, though, something to get the taste of Jack O'Neil out of his mouth. It's about this guy whose life looks way better from the outside than it does from the inside. And he goes along pretending to be happy and smiling at people's envy, but he's losing something inside of himself, a spark going out.
Then one day, he meets a stranger who already knows him, who tells him how the rest of his life is going to be. And there's some stuff in there about destiny and finding love where you least expect it, with less fanfare than finding a twenty in your winter coat after you haven't worn it for eight months. It's pretty bleak there at the beginning, but by the end, things are pretty much ideal.
And if it doesn't work, he can always add in some explosions later.
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Summary: John Sheppard just wants to write something that makes somebody cry.
Fandom: Stargate Atlantis
Word Count: 4673
Rating/Contents: PG, AU
Pairing: Rodney/John, John/Nancy
Policies: Read my archiving, feedback, and warnings policies here.
A/N: I think it should be clear to everyone by this point that I am trying to get some of these hundreds of WIPs out of my various folders and subfolders. I have somebody's beta notes on this story- elementalv?- from like two and a half years ago.
When he was little, John used to watch as other boys drew airplanes and gunslingers on the backs of their notebooks.
John didn't- couldn't- absolutely failed at drawing anything. It just didn't make any sense to him; the picture in his head was perfect, too perfect for his clumsy fingers to reverse-engineer with just a pencil and a piece of manila cardboard.
Even if he could have, drawing wasn't really good enough, anyway. If he sat down and wrote about it, then he could make it real.
John was pretty young when he figured out that writing stories wasn't something that pilots or sharpshooters did. He still wasn't sure why; maybe it took too much out of your hands.
--
John Sheppard just wants to write something that makes somebody cry.
All the really good stories, all the ones John wishes he had even a prayer of emulating, they're sad and bittersweet and they make your heart swell when you even think about them. He reads and rereads anything that makes him feel like that, the kind of stories that start dismal and horrific and track steadily upwards, the kind that build up the briefest little flame of hope until it's a raging bonfire. And by the time you get to the end, you're sobbing right there in your living room, and you're so touched that you don't even care.
Just once, John wants to write something that makes someone- anyone- him- feel something.
Emotions have never really been John's thing, though, so he writes about explosions and spies and bomb plots. It pays the rent, and he supposes he can live with that.
Lately, though, it's been covering a whole lot more than just his living expenses. This series he's been messing around with, the one about this mercenary called Jack O'Neil, has really taken off. The first one's gone up two million places in Amazon's rankings from where it was a year ago, and the latest one- the next to last in the series, he's pretty sure, unless he goes back and writes those prequels- has been on the NYT Bestseller List for weeks.
And now, finally, even though the first one's been out for going on six years now, people are calling him the next Tom Clancy. It pisses Clancy off, judging from the way he always snubs John at parties; John doesn't like it either, because the guy hasn't written anything that was really compelling since The Hunt for Red October.
In fairness, though, the snubbing could just as easily be because of that time John accidentally got tipsy at a party and told Clancy just what he thought about his politics. That was back when he was with Nancy- she'd almost had to pull them off of each other- but apparently Clancy knew how to hold a grudge.
Technically speaking, he and Nancy are still married, but only because both of them have hit such levels of apathy over their relationship that they can't even be bothered to end it. And it's just easier not to rock the boat, because Nancy is, still and yet, the best editor he's ever had. She gets how he writes- she can tease out what he thinks he's saying from what he actually says. She spills gallons of red ink over his pages, and they always end up so much better for it.
If only they understood each other when his books weren't between them.
John doesn't even care anymore, just as long as she doesn't fuck anybody else in their apartment; it's not that he minds all that much, it's just that he really doesn't want to end up accidentally sleeping in some other guy's stuff.
So that's what his life looks like right now, more or less. Maybe not like he expected it to look when he turned forty, but he can't really picture it being another way.
--
When it starts, John is sitting outside of his favorite coffee shop, just minding his own business, working the Jumble and trying to figure out the best way to eat his chocolate croissant.
There's this guy standing at the little bar with the sugar and the creamers and everything; John can see him pretty clearly through the open doors. The guy is trying really hard to make it look like he's not staring at John, something that John is kind of familiar with- he doesn't know why people seem to think he might bite.
This guy is doing a particularly poor job of hiding it though, and John wonders what his deal is. He's not the right age for John's usual fans; they're almost all teenage boys or retirees. He must be one of those Wormhole X-Treme fanboys, then- those guys are rabid. He's always surprised that anybody even remembers the tie-in novels he wrote for it, back when his royalties on the O'Neil books weren't even enough to keep the lights on. But no, every year at Dragon*Con there's some guy dressed up like Grell or Danning who either wants to fawn all over him or chew him out for the part where Danning and Levant are trapped by a cave-in and have to share a sleeping bag to conserve body heat.
He doesn't even really know what to think about the girls who come up and thank him for that scene.
He goes back to his puzzle, not sure that he's had enough coffee to deal with it right now. When he looks up again, the guy is standing three feet away, clutching a gigantic cup of coffee in one hand.
"Um, hi," the guy says.
John smiles his best god-not-another-autograph smile. "Hi."
"I need to talk to you," the guy tells him, pulling out the chair across from him and plunking himself down.
"Have a seat," John drawls.
The guy puts down his coffee cup, crossing his arms over his chest. "Look, I'm not great with small talk, so I'm just going to come out and say this." He pauses for a second, as if he thinks John is going to protest or interject something; he takes a breath and goes on. "You don't know it yet, but you're very important." John feels vaguely offended; is he supposed to have low self-esteem or something? "I really need you to come and meet some people from my organization."
John rolls his eyes. "Don't think I'm not touched, really, but I don't want to join Scientology." It's kind of a shame, too; the guy definitely isn't bad looking, in an off-beat kind of a way.
The man sputters incoherently, going a little red in the face. "I can't believe-" He stands up and double-taps the earpiece that John hadn't noticed him wearing; he checks the empty tables around them, presumably not wanting to be seen. "Hermiod? I need transport for two." He looks pleased with himself for a moment, but then his eyes go wide. "What do you mean, no?" he hisses, whirling around and holding his hand to his ear. "I don't care if you got in trouble last time! They were both very important- You listen to me, you little grey twerp-"
John grabs his croissant and gets the hell out of there.
--
Nancy is home that night; she's standing in the kitchen making pasta. John walks in behind her, pouring himself a glass of wine from the bottle that's open on the counter. She tilts her face up, and he kisses her on the cheek, just like he's done hundreds of times; he's not sure of the last time he meant anything by it. He takes the knife from her, chopping the basil while she tends to the sauce.
"Smells great," John says, and Nancy makes a noise of assent, distracted by pouring the noodles into the colander.
They sit at the table; Nancy has the Sunday Book Review and John has just started on the new Glen Duncan thing. They're past the point where silence is uncomfortable; it's just silence, and it's kind of unremarkable by now.
After dinner, she leaves, and John's glad; it'll be nice to be able to stretch out over the bed by himself.
--
Somebody is knocking on John's door.
John doesn't know what time it is, but it's too damn early for anybody to be knocking- and besides, everybody he knows is sensible enough to call first. It might be the cops, though John doesn't remember having done anything particularly illegal lately; but they'll break the door down eventually and save John the trouble of getting up.
Then the doorbell rings, which is funny, because it's been broken since two weeks after he and Nancy moved in.
Okay, now John's kind of intrigued.
He doesn't bother pulling his shirt back on, just walks to the door in his faded black sleep pants. When he undoes the chain and the deadbolt and opens it, the guy from the coffee shop is standing there; he catches the door with both hands as John tries to slam it on him. "Okay, wait, I know it kind of looks like I'm stalking you-" he says.
"Yeah, it does," John replies, cutting him off. "Did you just fix my doorbell?"
"You weren't answering," he huffs. "And it was just a loose wire. Happens all the time."
"Thanks. Now get the hell out of here before I call the cops."
"It won't help," the guy says, and John pushes on the door harder. "Wow, that sounded way creepier out loud than it did in my head."
"A little bit," John agrees.
"Seriously, just let me-" The guy takes his wallet out and flips it open, passing it to John through the crack in the door.
John looks at the colorful ID in the clear plastic slot. "You're here on behalf of the X-Men?"
"What?" he snaps. "Goddammit, Madison-" he snatches it back, digging around for something. "Here," he says, showing him a laminated card with some government seal on it. He takes it away before John can catch his name.
John lets up on the door; the guy half-falls into his apartment. "Come in."
He looks daggers at John, straightening up and brushing totally imaginary dust off of his blazer. "I'm actually being really polite, here. I certainly didn't get this level of consideration the first time the CIA picked me up."
John freezes. "You're from the CIA?"
"American government, yes. CIA, no." He holds up his briefcase. "And if you'll just sign these papers and come with me, I can tell you all about it."
"It's"- John takes a look at the clock- "seven thirty in the morning," he protests. "I have a signing at three-" The guy is frowning at him, like John's being deliberately difficult. "Look, give me the papers, I'll have my lawyer look at them."
John is pretty much instantly glad that he did, because the guy suddenly lights up, looking for all the world like a kid at Christmas. "You're not going to regret this," he says, opening the briefcase and handing him a folder that weighs a solid ton. "Unless your lawyer is a two-bit hack who says you shouldn't sign. Then you should regret hiring him, and not this."
He flips the folder open, scanning the first page. "How am I supposed to contact you?"
"You can call this number," he says, giving his a business card.
"You don't look like a Samantha," John replies, reading it.
"Oh, um, no, sorry, she's-" He stops, putting his hand out. "Rodney- Doctor Rodney McKay."
He shakes it. "Pleasure to meet you."
"Yes, well." McKay says, as if he thinks John is winding him up. "Sign the papers, and you can see a lot more of me."
John smirks a little. "Is that a fact?"
McKay just looks at him. "Yes."
He sighs. "Never mind."
"Well," McKay says. "See you soon." And with that, he just walks out of John's house.
John watches him go; then he fumbles for the phone and calls his lawyer's courier service.
Oh, he's definitely intrigued.
--
"Two options," his lawyer tells him. "Option one, sign the papers, and do whatever this guy wants."
"Those may be two unrelated things," he says, and she snorts at him. "What's my second option?"
"Change your name and leave town," she sighs. "John, I'm not even sure what's going on here, but it looks really big."
"Thanks, Erin," he says, hanging up the phone. He lays down on his couch, throwing an arm over his eyes, and he can't decide if he wants a nap or a beer more. The signing was okay but really tiring; it's worse now that everybody has camera phones, because there's no excuse not to snap a picture with him. John gets really tired of smiling, something he's really not very good at anyway.
He turns, looking at the coffee table, and there it is, the card with the number on it; John's pretty sure it's taunting him, what with the way it's been stuck in the back of his mind all day.
He picks up the phone again.
--
Sixteen hours later, and John finds himself sitting next to McKay on a flight to Denver; the US government is recruiting him for something top secret and they are making him fly coach, what the fuck is that about?
The stewardess comes around, handing out tiny beverages and snacks. "Would you like anything to drink?" she asks.
"Black coffee for me," Rodney tells her, "and a ginger ale for him. Oh, and he doesn't like pretzels, so- you know what, give me his pretzels." She smiles, handing everything over and moving on with her life.
John looks at him unhappily. "How long have you guys been spying on me?"
"We haven't been- I mean, not any more than usual," McKay says, frowning. "It's just that we've met before."
John squints at him, trying to imagine McKay wearing silver paint and camouflage. "I'm sorry, I meet a lot of people."
"No, no," he says, waving a hand at him. "I met you, you didn't-" He sighs. "It's a long story."
John leans a little closer, raising an eyebrow suggestively. "I'm happy to introduce myself, if that's what you want."
McKay looks at him suspiciously. "Are- are you coming on to me?"
"Yeah," John says, a little uncomfortable now that he's been caught at it. "Is that gonna be a problem?"
"Oh, no no no," he says, waving his hands. "I just didn't know that you were-"
"Come on, it's all over my Wikipedia page." Nancy's secretary keeps going in and editing it out, saying it's bad for book sales, but people just keep putting it back.
"We don't have the internet in-" McKay stops for a long while. "Where I live."
John stares at him. "Where the hell is that? The moon?"
McKay just gives him a funny look. "Not exactly." He leans back, closing his eyes, and all John hears from him for the rest of the flight is snoring.
They pick him up in a vehicle that looks more appropriately military; it's not that long of a drive, but John spends most of it drumming his fingers against his leg anxiously. He's aware that they're headed to Colorado Springs, but then suddenly they are at Cheyenne Mountain and John suddenly realizes that he is in way, way the fuck over his head.
They take him in and past the blast doors and down and down and down, walking him through a series of corridors that look exactly the same to him. Just when he's trying to decide how lost he is, McKay leads him through another big door into this huge room with high ceilings.
The military brass is waiting to receive him, but John is totally not concerned, not when he sees what's off on one wall. It's this enormous circle, big enough for a car to drive through, and John has absolutely no idea what it is. There are arcane-looking symbols on it, interspersed with what look like big triangular lights; the whole thing is covered by a shield of interlocking metal plates.
John has never believed in conspiracy theories, never in his life, because he just doesn't trust the government that much. It's not a matter of wanting to hide things, which he's sure they do; it's just that they're not good or put-together enough to hide anything. These are people who couldn't cover up spending $500 on a toilet seat- how in the hell are they supposed to keep people from discovering something like aliens or Bigfoot or, or this?
He is seriously going to have to rethink his life.
McKay prods him towards the military contingent, and John reluctantly snaps out of it. Leading the pack is an older guy, gray hair, grinning. "Welcome to Stargate Command. I'm General Jack O'Neill," the guy says. "Two L's," he adds helpfully.
John just gapes at him for a long time.
"You haven't brought me here to tell me that the stuff I've been writing about is true, have you?" he manages to stammer.
O'Neill rolls his eyes. "Oh god, no, son, have you ever even been to a military base?"
"It's called artistic license," John says, crossing his arms.
"In your hands it's more like a license to kill."
John's just about to respond to that when alarms start going off; McKay grabs him by the elbow, pulling him quickly away towards the wall, past a marking that's painted on the floor.
"Receiving SG-9's IDC," someone says over the PA, and the metal shield that's covering the- the big circle thing just opens up like a flower. There's a noise and it spins and it lights up and something enormous and blue shoots out of it, like a vortex, like water, like nothing else John has ever seen.
It is, far and away, the coolest and most inexplicable thing that John has ever seen.
The water recedes, and the circle is filled with shimmering blue; and then people, people in military uniforms, just walk out of it, talking to each other, like it is not at all the most fucking unbelievable thing that has ever happened.
All of a sudden, the blue winks out, the metal shield swirling back into place.
John doesn't even know how long he stands there before O'Neill finally claps him on the shoulder. "It's not really fair to show you all this at once," he says, and he doesn't sound sorry at all.
"That's why he does it," the guy in civilian clothes behind O'Neill puts in.
It's not that the next few hours are full of that much information; it's just that the information that John gets is really, really huge, so much that all of it doesn't really fit into his head. McKay and Doctor Jackson and Colonel Carter keep talking over each other, and O'Neill's clearly had a lot of practice at riding herd on them, but that doesn't mean that John can follow all of it.
John just gives up, eventually, looking at the four of them over the rim of his water glass, hopefully not looking as overwhelmed as he feels.
Jackson notices first, and he gives John an apologetic sort of look. "Why don't you introduce him to the team?" he says to McKay. "It's got to be easier than this."
McKay cuts off his argument with Carter mid-sentence. "Oh," he says, looking at John. "I didn't do that already?" He waves a hand at Carter. "Shelve this- or don't, because you're wrong- and we'll pick it up later." She rolls her eyes, but she doesn't really look surprised or offended at all.
McKay takes him to another conference room, pushing the door open and shuffling him in; there are a couple people there, talking to themselves. There a youngish black guy leaning against the table, sporting a baseball cap and a set of fatigues; he stands up when John walks in, smiling widely. There's a woman standing next to him and this absolutely enormous dude with a tattoo on his neck; they're dressed in a way that kind of makes John think they're not from Earth, and how fucking weird is it that he can think things like that now?
"Lieutenant Colonel Aiden Ford," Rodney says, pointing each one of them out in turn, "Teyla Emmagan, and Ronon Dex."
Ford steps over first, sweeping him into a one-armed man hug and patting him soundly on the back. "Good to see you again, man," he says, but he stops, considering that. "I mean, not you, but-" He shakes his head. "Make McKay explain it. It's complicated."
When he lets John go, Teyla walks over; she takes him by both arms, bowing a little, and John has no idea what to do. He looks over at McKay, who makes a hand gesture that he probably thinks says everything and John can't decipher at all. He doesn't know what else to do, so he leans forward, touching his forehead to hers; the way she smiles when she pulls away says he got it right.
John looks over at Ronon, but he doesn't say anything; John's a little concerned about what he's going to do, but then he gives John a bear hug that almost lifts him off the ground.
"So," John says, kind of awkwardly; he's never gotten a reception quite like that before.
"Okay," McKay says, pressing his palm to his forehead. "This is going to be hard no matter how we do it. Here's how this works. There are multiple universes, and sometimes, through a variety of methods that we can get into later, people tend to cross between them, way more than it seems like they should."
"That's not hard, McKay," Ford says. "It doesn't seem like they ever should."
McKay waves a dismissive hand at him. "Happens all the time," he says. "And we're, the four of us- most of the time," he winces at Ford, "we're over there, in those other universes, right? But we're over there with you. And, I mean, the SGC was always watching you, because you kept writing all those smokescreen books, but-" He stops, sighing. "But it took us way too long to figure out it was you all along."
"We have known you," Teyla says, and there's something sad in her smile. "We have lost you."
"We don't feel like doing it again," Ronon says, and it sounds like a warning.
John doesn't even know what to say. He's always been difficult; people have only ever treated him like an artist, like they should keep him at arm's length for his own good. That's not what they're offering him here. They're offering to take him in, make him one of their own, and they're offering it to him sight unseen, because that's how much they trust him; that's how much he's worth.
He winds up not being able to speak at all; Ford throws an arm over his shoulders and squeezes, laughing, and it's somehow exactly what he needed.
--
They have surprisingly nice quarters for a military base; it kind of makes sense to John when he thinks about it, how they probably can't just let high-ranking visitors from other planets bed down at the Holiday Inn or whatever.
He's still not over the alien thing.
There's a knock on the door, and McKay walks in without waiting for John to answer, which John just really doesn't find surprising at all, even though he's only known the guy for like three days now.
"I just wanted to check in," McKay says; there's not a chair, so he sits awkwardly at the edge of the bed, leaning away from John, like he's a little afraid to touch him.
"Look, if I'm making you uncomfortable, you tell me," John snaps, because McKay is kind of looking at him like he's wondering if he's going to catch The Gay from John if he gets any closer. "It's not like I don't know how to keep my hands to myself."
"Believe me, It's really great, and I really have been considering how to get you into a supply closet all day long, but it's kind of weirding me out right now," McKay confesses. "All the other versions of you I've met, they've been all-" he waves a hand- "hot and everything, with the hips and the hair and whatever, but they've also been career military."
John laughs at that. "My BFA advisor talked me out of joining." Right after we fucked six ways from Sunday, he doesn't add.
"That would explain why you're not as much of a," McKay indicates John in a sweeping gesture, obviously lost for words.
"Closet case?" John tried.
"I was gonna say 'hardass', but, y'know, that too." McKay sighs. "It's late. I really just came over to ask if you had any burning questions that wouldn't wait until the morning, because I kind of know what that feels like."
There's something that's gnawing at his brain, something that's been in there all along, "So I get the stargate thing, and the aliens thing, and saving the universe and all that," he says. "But I just write books. What can I do?"
McKay holds up a finger, signaling for him to wait. He digs around in his pocket, coming up with a shiny, flat oblong. "Hold out your palm." John rolls his eyes but does what McKay asks, and McKay presses the thing into his hand, curling John's fingers around it.
If asked, he couldn't describe how it felt. It's like something tingles in the back of his brain, some switch he's never flipped comes on. He stares down at the little device in his hand; there are a whole row of lights twinkling on it like stars, and it's murmuring to him, as if to say hello.
"You can do everything," McKay says, so ardently that John can't help but believe him.
And he moves and McKay moves and they're kissing, their hands still clasped together around the device, and it doesn't feel the same way, not at all, but it still feels like he was supposed to do it all along.
--
John writes IT'S OVER in big black letters on the very first page of the very last Jack O'Neil book; the papers from his lawyer are tucked discreetly near the back.
He imagines Nancy crying all the way to the bank.
--
John doesn't have a lot of time to write, actually, what with finding his way around a new city and learning how to fly gateships- such an ugly name, by the way, and John's on a campaign to change it- and trying to figure out how to write a mission report without embellishing it, even a little.
He's working on a new novel, though, something to get the taste of Jack O'Neil out of his mouth. It's about this guy whose life looks way better from the outside than it does from the inside. And he goes along pretending to be happy and smiling at people's envy, but he's losing something inside of himself, a spark going out.
Then one day, he meets a stranger who already knows him, who tells him how the rest of his life is going to be. And there's some stuff in there about destiny and finding love where you least expect it, with less fanfare than finding a twenty in your winter coat after you haven't worn it for eight months. It's pretty bleak there at the beginning, but by the end, things are pretty much ideal.
And if it doesn't work, he can always add in some explosions later.
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