Six Variations on a Theme, by minnow1212, for Harlequin challenge
Author: minnow1212
Pairings: Various, het and slash
Summary: At some point early this week, I had a wee passing thought along the lines of, "Oh, someone should totally write the wrongfully-accused escaped convict falls in love with their hostage story." And then, lickety-split, ideas were popping into my brain for titles! Excerpts! Horribly cheesy back cover copy! And more romance-novel cliches than you can shake a stick at!
So, Six variations on the fugitive theme: Titles, back cover blurbs, and excerpts.
Taking Flight
After getting burned by his ex-wife and his experiences in the military, pilot John Sheppard kept to himself, content to haul cargo across the country. Then Teyla Emmagan demanded to stow away in his plane, and John's interest in the world was rekindled. With Teyla, John felt alive like he hadn't felt in a long time--but some of the people tracking Teyla down wanted them both dead, and they couldn't stay in the sky forever.
FBI agent Teyla Emmagan never expected to be on the run, forced to lie and evade and commandeer a plane by force. She never expected to meet a man like John Sheppard, either. Together, they can soar--if Teyla's enemies and their own doubts don't bring them down to earth.
He bundled her into the passenger seat of the car, feeling that red rage rise up again at the limpness of her body, her closed eyes and lax hands. He couldn't risk taking her to a hospital, and probably it was just a conk on the head, but what if it wasn't? He strapped her in, dropped the backpack on the floor at her feet, slid into the driver's side seat, and drove off like a bat out of hell.
The road was straight and clear; he kept the speedometer up at 80--which wasn't fast enough, but he couldn't risk a speeding ticket in a stolen car--and glanced over every minute or so to check her out. Between the fifth check and the sixth, although he didn't hear her stir, she was conscious and sitting up, her hair swinging forward to veil her face, body hunched over itself. "Teyla?" he asked. "You okay?"
"I am fine," she murmured, but her voice sounded clogged and unsteady. She cleared her throat and asked. "I am fine, thank you. Where are we going?"
"You tell me," he said grimly. "Figured I'd wait for you to wake up before I decided on a destination. They left right after they knocked you out and I was able to grab you, so you've only been out for about ten minutes." When he glanced back again, she was shaking her head, and he still couldn't see her face. He wanted to pull over to the side of the road, tilt her head back and check her pupils, run his hands along her body to feel the restored strength in it, coddle her and baby her and say things about kissing it to make it better. But that was all a luxury now. "C'mon, Teyla, don't wimp out on me now," he goaded. "You know these people better than I do. Where're they likely to look for us next? Where are we gonna be safe from them?"
She straightened in her seat and tilted her head and pushed her hair back. Silent, but thinking it through. When she said "Albuquerque," her voice sounded normal again.
He nodded. "Map's still in the backpack. Plot us a course."
For a while the only sounds were the small sounds of the snap on the backpack, the rustling of the map unfolding. "Keep straight on this road," she said finally. "Another ten miles or so until we come to the Interstate. Then south." Then she fell silent again.
"Think there's a bottle of Tylenol in there somewhere, too," he offered after another mile or so. "'Cause I know you've got a hard head, but I still bet it's hurting from that thump he gave you." When he glanced over, she was searching through the backpack again, and then he heard the snap of the cap and the rattle of pills. When he glanced over again, she was tilting back her head to dry swallow them. "You gonna hold up okay?" he asked.
"Yes. Don't worry about me," she said, and then looked over at him for the first time. The grief in her face tore at him. Heightmeyer had been her mentor; the thought that the other woman could do what she had done must be tearing at Teyla. But then Teyla said, "John. I am so sorry about the plane."
He hadn't expected that, and it threw him. He shook his head, quick and instinctive. "We got out of there. The rest doesn't matter."
"Yes, it does," she insisted. "I know what it meant to you."
He shook his head again. Sometime, when they had time, he was going to be furious and hurt at the loss of his baby, remember the time he'd spent on her and the peace he'd found in her, and then he'd punch a few things in anger because of her callous destruction. But that was a long ways off. "It meant something. Our lives mean more, and we got out. I'll worry about it later."
"This was my job, not yours," she murmured, turning away to look out the window. "It was a mistake to involve you."
Fear and anger and adrenaline had been simmering under the surface, and now they boiled over. He slammed on the brakes and pulled over to the shoulder and got out, slamming the door behind him. He stepped away from the car, gravel crunching beneath his feet, hearing the passenger side door open behind him. "John?" she asked, her voice sharp and concerned.
He spun around and bit out, "If I hadn't been involved today, you would be back there, waiting for Heightmeyer to come back and question and kill you, so maybe not so much of a mistake." It had made him a little crazy to see her lying there unconscious, hurt, and him not able to do anything except bite his lip and still his instinctive movements to run to help her until they went away and he could go in and retrieve her.
She raised her chin, regarding him steadily over the hood of the car. "If they haven't figured out your involvement before, they have now. Before they would have killed you if you were in their way to get me--now they're going to hunt you down, even if we split up."
He shook his head impatiently. "They would have had to anyway. I was way too big a loose end."
"Yes," she snapped, and he could tell that her own temper was rising behind her composure. "And I brought that on you, danger and the loss of your livelihood, and more than just your livelihood. You told me that flying's everything to you."
He smacked his head against the hood of the car, watching her face tighten in response. Probably she still had a headache. It didn't stop him from yelling, "Some things mean more. *You* mean more. *You* mean every--" he stopped abruptly and looked away, feeling the sustaining anger bleed away, leaving him cold and hollow and a little sick. Christ, he wanted yesterday back again, tenderness and laughter and his sense of wonder, that this thing existed in the world, that joy wasn't some ephemeral feeling to be chased in the sky but as solid as her body wrapped around him. When he looked back, her shoulders were straight and her head up, bearing his anger and her own pain and exhaustion without complaint.
"Not to mention," he added after a moment, "That I took an oath to serve and protect. I may have been kicked out, but…what the hell, Teyla? You think that even if I weren't in love with you I'd be able to walk away from this, now that I know the stakes? You think you're the only one here who cares about duty and loyalty and honor?"
"No," she said, meeting his eyes steadily. "I'm well aware that I'm not."
"Well--all right, then," he said stiffly, and felt the remains of his anger collapse at the weary, strained expression on her face. "Let's go save the country." He got back in the car feeling faintly stupid, like he'd been throwing a temper tantrum. Which he had been, and they didn't have time for it.
Her hand came to rest on his when he turned the keys in the ignition. "What you said outside," she said. "About what you felt. You mean--that it, it is the same for me."
He felt a bit of warmth come back to him, and smiled tentatively at her, and she smiled her grave smile back, and when he started the car and pulled back on the highway, her hand rested strong and warm on his thigh.
***
In Pursuit
All his cleverness couldn't save genius Rodney McKay from some things. As a result of a research project went awry, he found himself on the run, accused of a crime he didn't commit. His only ally was his striking, passionate defense attorney, but soon gratitude for her trust turned into something more.
DA Elizabeth Weir believed in going the extra mile for her clients, but that didn't usually include helping them jump bail! Now she and her client were being chased by the police, the military, and the Russian mafia. Elizabeth will need all her intelligence and determination to keep them safe from the enemies pursuing them--and to pursue her own desires.
"You're not smart enough to make a perfect plan, Kolya," Rodney taunted. "And believe me when I say you made some mistakes and overlooked some things."
Kolya huffed out a laugh. "You're bluffing, McKay. You're sweating, you're scared, and you're bluffing to buy time."
Rodney tilted his chin up, and Elizabeth could see that Kolya was right, Rodney was scared. Not just for himself, but for her, because if Rodney didn’t keep Kolya distracted and talking, Kolya would continue his search of the building for the vial and find her hiding place before the police arrived. "Scared, sure," Rodney said. "You've got a gun pointed at me, normal reaction is to be scared. That doesn't change the fact that I'm also, as I am 99 percent of the time, right."
Kolya stepped closer to Rodney, trailing the barrel of the gun along Rodney's cheek and jaw. "Feel free to tell me what I've overlooked, then. You've got, oh, about five seconds before I shoot you." He stepped back and aimed the gun, and the sound the hammer made as it cocked was loud in the silence. "Five, four, three--" Rodney closed his eyes, and Elizabeth knew him, had somehow in only one week gotten to know him well enough to know that one of the reasons he closed his eyes was so that he wouldn't look in her direction and give her away.
The police were still, at best, three minutes off.
"Not what you've overlooked," Elizabeth said, making her voice carry as clear and loud as she could, as if she were in a courtroom, attempting to persuade with words and facts and her demeanor. And this, she reminded herself grimly, would be another sort of trial. Rodney looked shocked, despairing, and Elizabeth saw him mouth the word "no" as Kolya spun around.
"Who's there?" Kolya said, and then bared his teeth in his grimace that passed for a smile. "I could search for you, I suppose, or I could just threaten to blow McKay's brains out if you don't show yourself in two seconds. Given the timing of your interruption, I’m going to guess you don’t want that to happen."
Elizabeth stepped out of her hiding place, came into Kolya's view. She couldn't bear to look at Rodney, which made it easier to keep her eyes steadily on Kolya's. "Not what you've overlooked," she said crisply, proud of the calmness in her voice. "Who. And the answer is, me."
***
The High-Maintenance Hostage
Busy and brilliant astrophysicist Rodney McKay never had any extra time in his schedule--especially not for being taken hostage! Rodney’s carefully constructed life was jolted when convict Ronon Dex decided he need to take Rodney along to ensure his headlong escape from prison. Ronon was huge, dangerous, and rough, and Rodney knew he should put his formidable brain to the task of getting free. But there was something about Ronon that intrigued him more than any scientific theory…
His time in prison had hardened Ronon Dex. He never expected to care about one mouthy and reluctant hostage. But Dr. Rodney McKay’s intelligence and pluckiness drew Ronon closer, and soon he was fighting to keep both of them safe from their pursuers, and to capture Rodney’s heart.
"I have…there are people who need me!" Rodney squeaked, glancing over from the driver’s side seat to where his captor sat glowering at him, all long dreadlocked hair and gleaming eyes and big warm muscled arms that Rodney would have admired more if they weren’t holding a gun that was pointed steadily at him. Rodney jerked his eyes back to the road. "You say you don’t want to hurt anyone, so--you’re hurting people by doing this! You’re depriving them of me!"
There was a stirring noise as his captor shifted. "You got kids?" the big lunkhead said, his voice a deep low rumble.
"I…" He almost blurted out that he did, but he was such a bad, bad liar. It would never work. "The people at my lab are very childish sometimes?" he said, and heard a snort of amusement in response. "And I have a cat!" he exclaimed. "Living, breathing, needs food, relies on me."
"Cat’ll survive," said the big, hulking obstacle who stood between him and freedom. "Not gonna keel over from a day without food, will it? Besides, you look like the kind of guy who works late a lot--bet you always leave extra food out."
Which he did, but… "Oh, god, I’m going to die," he muttered.
"No one’s gonna die," his captor said. "Not even your cat."
"No, no, this situation will surely work out splendidly for all of us," Rodney sniped. "Because situations of this sort tend to." He risked a glance at the oversized oaf who'd taken him hostage. "My next-door neighbor’s a US Marshal, and so I know these things, I hear stories, and it’d really be better for you to turn yourself in. Really!"
There was another shift from the passenger seat, and then, "You always talk so much?"
"Yes," Rodney said. "In fact, I do. Especially when I'm nervous, and I don't see myself becoming less nervous anytime soon, or at least until that gun isn't pointed at me and probably not until you're in custody again. And it was probably stupid to wish for your renewed captivity in front of you, but, you see, babble. It annoys almost everyone, and so you should probably drop me off and acquire a new hostage, because you strike me as the strong, silent type, and believe me when I say I will only get on your nerves." He nodded for emphasis, and risked another sidelong glance.
But his captor was only looking at him, and his mouth was actually quirked up in a smile. "Not annoyed yet," he said. "Kind of entertained."
"Oh, well, then, fine as long as I’m amusing you!" Rodney cried, and then winced, because wow, that had gotten kind of shrill.
His captor leaned forward, oh god, oh god, oh god, into Rodney’s space. He smelled like institutional soap and sweat, and he was a huge presence, all strength and muscles and quiet focus. Rodney’s breath was coming a little faster, and something was assuredly wrong with him, because it wasn’t quite because of fear. At least, not only fear. "Talk as much as you want," his captor murmured, "long as you keep driving while you’re doing it."
He probably should talk, because he wanted his captor to see him as human, didn’t he? Wasn’t that what he was supposed to do? Except generally after people talked to him they saw him as less human, and talking had just brought his captor into his personal space in a way that didn’t bring Rodney any peace of mind or body, and this was all very bad.
Rodney managed to clam up for the next mile or two, before he blurted out, "I’ve mentioned I’m hypoglycemic, right? I need food at regular intervals or else I'll pass out and you'll have to lug me around, which, all right, you could probably do easily with those biceps. But still, that'll be really inconvenient for you, and another reason you should trade me in for a better hostage."
"We’ll get some food," his captor said. When Rodney glanced over, he was grinning a shark’s grin. "Seven years in prison, I've gotten pretty damn hungry."
Oh. God. Rodney was doomed.
***
A Formula for Love
U.S. Marshal John Sheppard always got his man, at least professionally. But when he was assigned to track down the biggest challenge of his career, the wily genius Dr. Radek Zelenka, he found himself involved on a personal level. All the evidence suggested that Radek was guilty of murder, espionage, and treason, but John’s instincts were screaming at him that the rumpled, absent-minded professor was only guilty of one thing--stealing John’s heart.
Researcher Radek Zelenka was brilliant, resourceful, and on the lam. If he could escape pursuit, he could exonerate himself, but the man tracking him down was one of the best. For Radek, it was going to be a race against time in order to find proof of his innocence, a stolen formula, and a way into the soul of the man who might be the only match for Radek’s mind, and his heart.
When John stomped to the door to answer the knock, he wasn’t in the mood for company. "What?" he snapped, too tired to put on a polite face. Politeness was usually wasted on his next-door neighbor, Rodney McKay, anyway.
"Hi, me, I just came to see if I could borrow--" Rodney McKay stopped to stare at him. His recent marriage hadn’t mellowed the brusque astrophysicist a whole lot, but it had made him a little more observant. "Are you all right?"
"Yeah, fine, what did you want to borrow?" John said.
"A wrench," Rodney said, and trailed John as he headed for the toolbox. "Seriously, are you all right? And why do you smell like…paint?"
"Because I got paint splashed on me," John said through gritted teeth. He smacked the wrench in Rodney’s hand with a thwack and bared his teeth in a grin. "Watch the evening news. I’m sure they'll be happy to explain, with visual aids."
"The evening…oh," Rodney had the good grace to wince in sympathy. "One of Zelenka's traps again?"
"I don’t want to talk about it," John said. He really didn’t, not least because he suspected that if he got over being foiled again, he might start to laugh. It’d been insanely clever on Zelenka’s part, and the look on Emmagan’s face...
"Right, right," Rodney said, backing towards the door with his hands raised in sympathy. "I’ll just leave you to your heroic brooding, then." Marriage had given him consideration, maybe, but not much more tact.
"Oh, shut up," John said, and then, as Rodney was reaching for the door. "Hey, McKay?"
"Yeah?"
"When you, I mean--" John rubbed his eyes. This was stupid. He shouldn’t even ask this. If it got around--Teyla was usually willing to follow his more insane hunches, but the higher ups would just tell him to bring Zelenka in and let the justice system sort it out.
"What is it?" Rodney said, and then, "John, if Ronon and I can do anything, you know we owe you--" John had helped them out when Rodney’s husband Ronon, desperate and wrongfully accused of murder, had been forced into taking Rodney hostage in order to exonerate himself.
"How’d you decide that Ronon was innocent?" John blurted out, and then wished he could take back the words as Rodney’s eyes went big.
"Zelenka’s innocent?" Rodney said, and John almost winced.
"Jumping to conclusions, there, doc," he drawled to cover. "Zelenka isn't my only open case."
"Oh, please," Rodney replied with an eye roll, and leaned back against the door thoughtfully. "Are there gaps in the evidence?"
John rubbed the back of his neck and looked down. "Can’t talk about an open case, you know that." It was mostly just a hunch on his part anyway, that and wishful thinking, and a niggling feeling that some of the pieces didn’t slot together quite right, or maybe that they slotted together too neatly. "But hey, that wasn’t what I--you knew it wasn’t Ronon even when the evidence pointed that way. How?"
Rodney shrugged one-shouldered and said, "How he behaved, how he acted, what he looked like when he claimed he was innocent."
"Well…great. If I could find Zelenka, I might be able to ask him and see his response," John said.
"Yes, sorry, not helpful. Plus," Rodney sent a wry glance over towards the shared wall of their duplex. "By the time I got around to asking about guilt or innocence, I have to admit I was already half in love with him, so-- " His eyes went huge, and John shut his, leaned against a wall, and banged his head back a few times. "No!" Rodney said in disbelief. "Did you inhale the paint fumes? You’ve fallen in love with him?"
"Of course not! I haven’t even met him!" John shouted.
"Hey! No need to yell at me," Rodney said. "I’m not the one who’s developed inappropriate feelings for an escaped convict--"
"This time," John muttered.
"--and also, frankly, I’m a little surprised because he’s not your usual type, which is good, because, pffft, tall, gorgeous, and shallow as a teaspoon only goes so far." Rodney waved a dismissive hand and then mused, "If it weren’t for the whole criminal mastermind thing, actually, I’d be impressed by your taste."
John rolled his eyes and deadpanned, "What can I say, I’ve always secretly been a sucker for intelligence." That was a truer statement than he wanted it to be. Rodney and Ronon belonged together, and John didn’t need any special insight to spot that; Rodney had never looked happier and he was plainly head over heels in love with Ronon. So John had packed his regret that he had never made his move before the kidnapping into a mental box of quiet losses.
"I was surprised when I heard about it, you know," Rodney offered after a moment. "I mean, I’ve only met him at a few conferences but I’ve seen his work and I’ve heard him speak. The murder thing, fine, it’s always the quiet ones who surprise you, but I wouldn’t have expected him to compromise his professional integrity that way."
"Really? You thought at the time that it might have been a frame job?" John said hopefully, and then frowned, because he was grasping at straws. "Christ," he said, huffing in frustration. "Never mind."
"I don’t know," Rodney said, intrigued and thoughtful. "I really don’t. Maybe it’s just that, I mean, I wish you luck in catching him and justice and all that, but it’s such a waste if he did do it. A waste of intelligence."
"Yeah," John agreed. "I think that’s what's bugging me most." It left a bad taste in his mouth to think of Zelenka cooped up in a prison cell. Even desperate, the man was creative and funny, the pranks he played to stall them wry and without malice, and--god, this was pathetic. He was going to turn into a cautionary tale, the Marshal who captured a fugitive and then went to court him in prison every week, bringing obscure scientific journals as tokens of his affection.
"Anyway," Rodney said. "Good luck with…getting whatever the best scenario would be." He waved the wrench. "I need to get back and put together some toys together for the kids."
"Kids?" John said, and, as if on cue, a happy squeal came from outside. When Rodney opened the door, John could see kids through the screen door, three of them hanging off Ronon, who was play-wrestling with them on the front lawn. "Why are there kids on the front lawn? I didn’t miss you and Ronon adopting or something, did I?"
Rodney gave him a look of pure horror. "Bite your tongue," he said, aggrieved. "My sister’s kids," he explained. "They’re monsters," he added with the strength of conviction. "As are most kids." Then his eyes fell on Ronon and went soft. (John might have some lingering regrets for missed chances, but he always derived some amusement from the absolutely dopey look that Rodney had when he looked at Ronon. You could see his IQ points drop.) "He’s surprisingly good with them, though," Rodney said absently, and John waved him out before he could start to wax rhapsodic about Ronon, because there were limits.
He couldn’t hang on to the burst of optimism that Rodney’s words had given him; McKay was a surprisingly good judge of character when he wasn’t self-absorbed, but his few meetings with Zelenka weren’t anything balanced against the cold hard evidence. He kept turning the evidence over in his head, and he couldn't find a way to explain it away, couldn't find any loophole that would justify Zelenka's actions.
It took him a long time to fall asleep, and he thought he'd sleep restlessly and dream odd things, about thoughtful eyes he’d only seen in pictures and an accented voice he’d only heard on tape. But he didn't dream, and when he woke up, he knew down to his bones where Zelenka was going to go next, and that Zelenka wasn’t expecting them to find him there.
***
Runner
Single mother Teyla Emmagan wished for a little excitement in her life--but she didn’t expect it to come in the form of former cop turned escaped convict Ronon Dex bursting through her front door. Now the modern warrior was tempting her into adventure with the strength, his passion, and his protestations of innocence.
Policeman Ronon Dex never had a problem with taking risks--but only with his body, not his heart. Now he was running for his life, to save himself and prove his innocence. Teyla and her stepson Jinto were never supposed to be more than a stop along the way, but Ronon found himself wanting to take the biggest risk of all--running towards love.
He cornered her, but she let him, meeting his eyes without fear as he trapped her wrists above her head and held them there loosely. He leaned inward and watched the flush spread across her face, down her neck. Her breathing quickened a little, and then a little more when he held her wrists in one hand and moved the other to cup her breast. Her nipple hardened beneath his fingers. Her eyes were still serene, almost amused. He valued that calm control, even as he wanted to see shatter beneath his mouth, his hands.
He leaned in closer and growled, "We’ll be good together. I’ll be good to you." He couldn’t give her permanence, but at least he could give her the desire and heat that had been lacking in her life. "I can show you…"
She blinked lazily, and her mouth quirked into a smile. Her back was against the wall and he towered over her, but he suddenly felt powerless before that smile, full of some secretive knowledge. "Show me?" she asked, and her voice was as lazily amused as her heavy-lidded eyes.
"What he should’ve--" his voice trailed off. His mouth was dry. From what she’d said of her marriage to Halling, he’d envisioned dullness, sedateness. He'd imagined that she was unawakened to the power of her body’s reactions. Had fantasized that he could be the one to teach her, see the control slip and the wonder spread across her face as her body arched underneath his.
Except she’d never, from the beginning, been what he expected, and the look in her eyes was aware and confident and frankly predatory.
A twist, and her wrists were free; one gentle push and a not-entirely gentle trip later and he was sprawling to the floor on his back. He could have kept his balance, could have fought free, but why would he want to, when she was straddling him, hands resting flat on his chest, eyes gleaming? "I know I told you that my sexual relationship with Halling was…unsatisfying. But have you seriously been imagining," she said, almost gently, "that I am some innocent who has never had an orgasm in her life?"
"I--" he said, gasping as her firm, lithe body pressed down against his, his hips bucking up involuntarily and all his careful plans scattering. Maybe it wouldn’t be him who broke her control. She might break his instead. He couldn't afford that, hadn't survived on the run by giving in to softer feelings. He took a deep breath and leashed all the things that he couldn’t afford to say and feel, and then settled his hands on her hips. It would be better this way, frank lust instead of the slow seduction he’d been dreaming. He’d never been all that good at soft words and polite touches anyway. "Fine," he ground out, "you show me."
***
Evasive Maneuvers
As a teenager from the wrong side of the tracks, John Sheppard wanted two things: Rodney McKay, and a chance to fly. Rodney broke his heart, but he pursued his goal tenaciously and became a test pilot. Now, twenty years later, international skullduggery and an accusation of murder put that dream, his freedom, and his very life into jeopardy. John finds himself fleeing to safety--right into Rodney’s arms.
Twenty years ago, Rodney McKay’s wealthy grandmother threatened to ruin his bad boy lover if he didn’t break off the relationship. Rodney’s always regretted that lost chance. Now John was back in his life, but dangerous people are trailing after him. Will Rodney have the courage to save them both, body and soul?
John saw clearly, in that instant, that it was over, because he couldn't do it. Of course he couldn’t hurt Rodney, couldn’t bear to even think of it. He could try to bluff, but Rodney would push and goad, wouldn't know how to do otherwise. There was no way that John could sustain the pretense for as long as it would take for the storm to blow over and the roads to be passable again.
That was if Rodney even believed in any hypothetical threat for more than a second or two in the first place, because Rodney had always been able to blow past John's chameleon defenses like they'd never existed, had always responded to what John was really thinking like he hadn't even spotted the diversionary tactics.
John lowered his arm, watched Rodney's shoulders sag with relief when the gun wasn't pointed at him. John set the safety, reached out, and put the gun on the table, sliding it a little to the middle of the table. Then he stepped backwards, until his back hit the edge of the counter, and he and Rodney simply stared at each other. Rodney's face was sheet white, John noted absently, and then it really hit him. This was it. End of the line. Even if the snowstorm and the blocked roads provided a reprieve of a day or two, Rodney would call the cops as soon as he could, and the cops would call the feds, and once he was in the feds' hands the others would find a way to get to him. He was going to be dead before the week was up.
He'd gotten to fly, he thought with an odd clarity produced by exhaustion, fear, and the burning pain in his shoulder. He couldn't think beyond that, felt strangely numb, wrapped in wool, as he stood in the kitchen of this isolated mountain cabin and waited for Rodney to move, to start the train of events that would close the trap around him.
He'd gotten to fly, at least, and that was probably enough. It would have to be.
"Did you do it?" Rodney asked abruptly, and that accusation penetrated through the numbness. He didn't know why it hurt so much. Of course Rodney had no reason to believe otherwise, especially not when John had just been waving a gun in his face, but hearing it straight out like that…Christ, even if he'd hated his boss like the newspaper reports claimed, there'd been fifteen other people in the building when the bomb had exploded, and Rodney had known him once, known him better than anyone.
"Don't look like that, please don't look like that, I'm sorry, but I have to ask!" Rodney said, and he sounded almost pleading, desperate. "Maybe I should just be able to tell without asking, but I'm a scientist, we ask questions even when we think we know the answers because the answers can always surprise you, and I can't, I can't imagine--but I've seen things in the past few years that I never would have imagined, and, John, just give me something to work with here." Rodney hadn't stepped any closer, but he was leaning forward intently, eyes focused on John.
The sense of Rodney's words filtered in slowly: Rodney wanted to believe him innocent, at least. "No," he said, and the word sounded light and hollow and insubstantial. He licked his lips and tried again. "No, I didn't. I--" He faltered to a stop, because he didn't have real proof, didn't have anything to offer except that bare assertion. He raised his hand and scrubbed at his face, because he was so, so tired. "I didn't," he repeated. He stared at the gun, at the table, at his feet, and waited. He should meet Rodney's eyes, that would be more convincing, but he couldn't, couldn't stand to see disbelief written large on the other man's face.
Then there were footsteps, and Rodney was standing next to him, which was both strange and familiar. Rodney was broader and bulkier than he'd been at seventeen, but the inquisitive blue eyes and the curve of his eyebrows were the same, and the concerned frown on his face. "Okay, so--okay," Rodney said. "Then why did you run?" He didn’t ask the question as if he were attempting to poke holes in John's statement. He asked as if he were putting together puzzle pieces and wanted more information, as if he was simply curious, and trying to make sense of John's actions. John had forgotten that, forgotten how Rodney would just, boom, up and ask a question, never mind tact or privacy, if he wanted to make sense of something.
Christ. Rodney believed him.
"I mean, that was obviously very stupid unless you had a good reason," Rodney was going on, as if John wasn't standing there gaping at him, overwhelmed and relieved and still sort of numb and shocky, "because of course now the police believe you're guilty, and they might not look at the evidence as closely as they would have if they were keeping their options open, so, what, did you just freak out? Please tell me you had a good reason and not just a lapse in common sense." By the end of that speech, he almost sounded peevish, in the way he always had when he thought someone was being willfully stupid, and the weird familiarity of it was making all sorts of things in John break loose and tumble around, memories he thought he'd boxed away neatly.
"I had an excellent reason," he said after a moment, and he felt seventeen again, as if he was falling back into the rhythm of their back-and-forth interactions then, him trying to be cool and casual but wanting underneath to prove that he was smart enough to be worth Rodney's time, smart enough that Rodney didn't have to class John with The Grand Majority of Illogical Idiots.
Rodney made an impatient, interrogative noise when he didn't go on, and, god, so familiar. Twenty years and he'd never quite forgotten the little moans and gasps Rodney had made when they were pressed against each other in John's narrow twin bed, but he'd forgotten so much else, and it was all rushing back.
"I--" Except they weren't seventeen, and this wasn't some casual conversation about time travel or superheroes or school. This was all such a mess. John made a frustrated noise and scrubbed his face with his hand again. Where did he even start?
"All right, wait, I can tell this is going to be a long story, and we should eat something. Low blood sugar never makes anything better. Sit down and you can tell me about it and we can figure out how to fix it, because you're doing a horrible job on your own. You always did need a keeper," Rodney said, his voice practical and grounding and a little brusque, and apparently sometime in the last twenty years he'd learned a little bit of patience. John felt a shameful sense of relief, because he shouldn't involve Rodney in this but he was going to, needed to lay it all out for someone. Rodney could help him untangle it, was smart enough to tell him if he'd missed some obvious solution.
"Okay," he agreed, and then there was a hand on his shoulder, attempting to steer him to the table, and John gasped and swayed in place.
"John?" Rodney's voice had gone nervous again, while John bit his lip to stop the sound that wanted to come out. "What was--are you hurt? You're hurt. You just went green, is your shoulder--are you hurt?"
"Um," John managed. "Kind of, yeah."
"The newspapers didn't say you got wounded in the explosion," Rodney said, his hands fluttering around John's body, not landing, his face all huge eyes and concern.
"Happened later," John gasped. "I, um, the people who set me up, they were after me, and they, I mean, I'm mostly fine, no need to overreact, but they did manage to shoot me a little."
The pain had receded a bit by the time he finished his sentence, and so the sound that Rodney made in response to that, a stifled almost-squeak as if he was cutting off worried exclamations (and probably an exasperated rant that John hadn't mentioned this before), was actually almost funny.
Bits and pieces of the rant escaped during the next few minutes, during which Rodney chivvied John to the bedroom, made him strip off his shirt, and directed him to lay face down on the bed so Rodney could check out the wound and rebandage it. John was strung out and relieved and at the end of his endurance; embarrassingly enough, the way this was all affecting him was to make him want to giggle. He kept having to fight down snickers as he listened to Rodney indignantly tear a strip off both him ("I realize you're a fugitive, but you couldn't have kept this cleaner? Dying from an infection brought on by poor hygiene would just be embarrassing" and "Overreact, hmph, bullets were involved!") and his pursuers ("what fucking assholes, shooting you in the back").
His voice was scathing but his hands were patient and gentle and surprisingly efficient. At one point it occurred to John that this was basically the one fantasy he'd had that long, sun-drenched summer that hadn't been fulfilled, to be in Rodney's bed with Rodney's hands on him and without fear of interruption. Then he did start laughing helplessly into the pillow. Rodney's hands and voice paused, and he said, in tones of pure exasperation, "Apparently some kind of pain endorphins are kicking in, hurray."
"Private joke," John managed through snorts of laughter. "Not all that funny."
"Your sense of humor was always skewed," Rodney muttered, and the disdain in his voice made John laugh again. The bed shifted as Rodney got off it and stood up, saying something about finding Tylenol. John listened to him move to the bathroom, heard the sounds of rustling and medicine cabinets opening, and let his eyes drift shut. It would have been better if the cabin had been empty as he'd thought it would be, but he couldn’t quite regret that he'd found Rodney here, even if now he'd have to try to leave tomorrow. He couldn't risk them following him here, couldn't risk Rodney's life as well as his own. But tonight, at least, with the snow blocking the roads, they would be safe.
By the time Rodney came back with a glass of water and some Tylenol, John was drifting towards sleep. He roused himself enough to swallow the pills before flopping back against the pillow, and Rodney's voice turned as gentle and soft as his hands. "You get some sleep. We'll work things out in the morning. I'm going to leave the glass here on the bedside table if you get thirsty, all right?"
"'Kay," John mumbled into the pillow, and felt the bed shift as Rodney prepared to get up again. "Hey," he said muzzily, reaching out to catch one of Rodney's wrists. "Hey, thanks," he said, blinking up at Rodney. He couldn't quite express what it meant to him, to be warm and safe and still and believed, to have someone in his corner. "I really--thank you."
"Of course," Rodney said simply. He disentangled his wrist from John's grasp. "Get some sleep, John, we'll sort it out in the morning."
John closed his eyes. "I've missed you," he mumbled, or thought he mumbled; he hadn't intended to say that, and maybe it hadn't slipped out. He thought he felt the ghost of a touch on his hair as he tumbled into sleep.
END
Pairings: Various, het and slash
Summary: At some point early this week, I had a wee passing thought along the lines of, "Oh, someone should totally write the wrongfully-accused escaped convict falls in love with their hostage story." And then, lickety-split, ideas were popping into my brain for titles! Excerpts! Horribly cheesy back cover copy! And more romance-novel cliches than you can shake a stick at!
So, Six variations on the fugitive theme: Titles, back cover blurbs, and excerpts.
Taking Flight
After getting burned by his ex-wife and his experiences in the military, pilot John Sheppard kept to himself, content to haul cargo across the country. Then Teyla Emmagan demanded to stow away in his plane, and John's interest in the world was rekindled. With Teyla, John felt alive like he hadn't felt in a long time--but some of the people tracking Teyla down wanted them both dead, and they couldn't stay in the sky forever.
FBI agent Teyla Emmagan never expected to be on the run, forced to lie and evade and commandeer a plane by force. She never expected to meet a man like John Sheppard, either. Together, they can soar--if Teyla's enemies and their own doubts don't bring them down to earth.
He bundled her into the passenger seat of the car, feeling that red rage rise up again at the limpness of her body, her closed eyes and lax hands. He couldn't risk taking her to a hospital, and probably it was just a conk on the head, but what if it wasn't? He strapped her in, dropped the backpack on the floor at her feet, slid into the driver's side seat, and drove off like a bat out of hell.
The road was straight and clear; he kept the speedometer up at 80--which wasn't fast enough, but he couldn't risk a speeding ticket in a stolen car--and glanced over every minute or so to check her out. Between the fifth check and the sixth, although he didn't hear her stir, she was conscious and sitting up, her hair swinging forward to veil her face, body hunched over itself. "Teyla?" he asked. "You okay?"
"I am fine," she murmured, but her voice sounded clogged and unsteady. She cleared her throat and asked. "I am fine, thank you. Where are we going?"
"You tell me," he said grimly. "Figured I'd wait for you to wake up before I decided on a destination. They left right after they knocked you out and I was able to grab you, so you've only been out for about ten minutes." When he glanced back again, she was shaking her head, and he still couldn't see her face. He wanted to pull over to the side of the road, tilt her head back and check her pupils, run his hands along her body to feel the restored strength in it, coddle her and baby her and say things about kissing it to make it better. But that was all a luxury now. "C'mon, Teyla, don't wimp out on me now," he goaded. "You know these people better than I do. Where're they likely to look for us next? Where are we gonna be safe from them?"
She straightened in her seat and tilted her head and pushed her hair back. Silent, but thinking it through. When she said "Albuquerque," her voice sounded normal again.
He nodded. "Map's still in the backpack. Plot us a course."
For a while the only sounds were the small sounds of the snap on the backpack, the rustling of the map unfolding. "Keep straight on this road," she said finally. "Another ten miles or so until we come to the Interstate. Then south." Then she fell silent again.
"Think there's a bottle of Tylenol in there somewhere, too," he offered after another mile or so. "'Cause I know you've got a hard head, but I still bet it's hurting from that thump he gave you." When he glanced over, she was searching through the backpack again, and then he heard the snap of the cap and the rattle of pills. When he glanced over again, she was tilting back her head to dry swallow them. "You gonna hold up okay?" he asked.
"Yes. Don't worry about me," she said, and then looked over at him for the first time. The grief in her face tore at him. Heightmeyer had been her mentor; the thought that the other woman could do what she had done must be tearing at Teyla. But then Teyla said, "John. I am so sorry about the plane."
He hadn't expected that, and it threw him. He shook his head, quick and instinctive. "We got out of there. The rest doesn't matter."
"Yes, it does," she insisted. "I know what it meant to you."
He shook his head again. Sometime, when they had time, he was going to be furious and hurt at the loss of his baby, remember the time he'd spent on her and the peace he'd found in her, and then he'd punch a few things in anger because of her callous destruction. But that was a long ways off. "It meant something. Our lives mean more, and we got out. I'll worry about it later."
"This was my job, not yours," she murmured, turning away to look out the window. "It was a mistake to involve you."
Fear and anger and adrenaline had been simmering under the surface, and now they boiled over. He slammed on the brakes and pulled over to the shoulder and got out, slamming the door behind him. He stepped away from the car, gravel crunching beneath his feet, hearing the passenger side door open behind him. "John?" she asked, her voice sharp and concerned.
He spun around and bit out, "If I hadn't been involved today, you would be back there, waiting for Heightmeyer to come back and question and kill you, so maybe not so much of a mistake." It had made him a little crazy to see her lying there unconscious, hurt, and him not able to do anything except bite his lip and still his instinctive movements to run to help her until they went away and he could go in and retrieve her.
She raised her chin, regarding him steadily over the hood of the car. "If they haven't figured out your involvement before, they have now. Before they would have killed you if you were in their way to get me--now they're going to hunt you down, even if we split up."
He shook his head impatiently. "They would have had to anyway. I was way too big a loose end."
"Yes," she snapped, and he could tell that her own temper was rising behind her composure. "And I brought that on you, danger and the loss of your livelihood, and more than just your livelihood. You told me that flying's everything to you."
He smacked his head against the hood of the car, watching her face tighten in response. Probably she still had a headache. It didn't stop him from yelling, "Some things mean more. *You* mean more. *You* mean every--" he stopped abruptly and looked away, feeling the sustaining anger bleed away, leaving him cold and hollow and a little sick. Christ, he wanted yesterday back again, tenderness and laughter and his sense of wonder, that this thing existed in the world, that joy wasn't some ephemeral feeling to be chased in the sky but as solid as her body wrapped around him. When he looked back, her shoulders were straight and her head up, bearing his anger and her own pain and exhaustion without complaint.
"Not to mention," he added after a moment, "That I took an oath to serve and protect. I may have been kicked out, but…what the hell, Teyla? You think that even if I weren't in love with you I'd be able to walk away from this, now that I know the stakes? You think you're the only one here who cares about duty and loyalty and honor?"
"No," she said, meeting his eyes steadily. "I'm well aware that I'm not."
"Well--all right, then," he said stiffly, and felt the remains of his anger collapse at the weary, strained expression on her face. "Let's go save the country." He got back in the car feeling faintly stupid, like he'd been throwing a temper tantrum. Which he had been, and they didn't have time for it.
Her hand came to rest on his when he turned the keys in the ignition. "What you said outside," she said. "About what you felt. You mean--that it, it is the same for me."
He felt a bit of warmth come back to him, and smiled tentatively at her, and she smiled her grave smile back, and when he started the car and pulled back on the highway, her hand rested strong and warm on his thigh.
***
In Pursuit
All his cleverness couldn't save genius Rodney McKay from some things. As a result of a research project went awry, he found himself on the run, accused of a crime he didn't commit. His only ally was his striking, passionate defense attorney, but soon gratitude for her trust turned into something more.
DA Elizabeth Weir believed in going the extra mile for her clients, but that didn't usually include helping them jump bail! Now she and her client were being chased by the police, the military, and the Russian mafia. Elizabeth will need all her intelligence and determination to keep them safe from the enemies pursuing them--and to pursue her own desires.
"You're not smart enough to make a perfect plan, Kolya," Rodney taunted. "And believe me when I say you made some mistakes and overlooked some things."
Kolya huffed out a laugh. "You're bluffing, McKay. You're sweating, you're scared, and you're bluffing to buy time."
Rodney tilted his chin up, and Elizabeth could see that Kolya was right, Rodney was scared. Not just for himself, but for her, because if Rodney didn’t keep Kolya distracted and talking, Kolya would continue his search of the building for the vial and find her hiding place before the police arrived. "Scared, sure," Rodney said. "You've got a gun pointed at me, normal reaction is to be scared. That doesn't change the fact that I'm also, as I am 99 percent of the time, right."
Kolya stepped closer to Rodney, trailing the barrel of the gun along Rodney's cheek and jaw. "Feel free to tell me what I've overlooked, then. You've got, oh, about five seconds before I shoot you." He stepped back and aimed the gun, and the sound the hammer made as it cocked was loud in the silence. "Five, four, three--" Rodney closed his eyes, and Elizabeth knew him, had somehow in only one week gotten to know him well enough to know that one of the reasons he closed his eyes was so that he wouldn't look in her direction and give her away.
The police were still, at best, three minutes off.
"Not what you've overlooked," Elizabeth said, making her voice carry as clear and loud as she could, as if she were in a courtroom, attempting to persuade with words and facts and her demeanor. And this, she reminded herself grimly, would be another sort of trial. Rodney looked shocked, despairing, and Elizabeth saw him mouth the word "no" as Kolya spun around.
"Who's there?" Kolya said, and then bared his teeth in his grimace that passed for a smile. "I could search for you, I suppose, or I could just threaten to blow McKay's brains out if you don't show yourself in two seconds. Given the timing of your interruption, I’m going to guess you don’t want that to happen."
Elizabeth stepped out of her hiding place, came into Kolya's view. She couldn't bear to look at Rodney, which made it easier to keep her eyes steadily on Kolya's. "Not what you've overlooked," she said crisply, proud of the calmness in her voice. "Who. And the answer is, me."
***
The High-Maintenance Hostage
Busy and brilliant astrophysicist Rodney McKay never had any extra time in his schedule--especially not for being taken hostage! Rodney’s carefully constructed life was jolted when convict Ronon Dex decided he need to take Rodney along to ensure his headlong escape from prison. Ronon was huge, dangerous, and rough, and Rodney knew he should put his formidable brain to the task of getting free. But there was something about Ronon that intrigued him more than any scientific theory…
His time in prison had hardened Ronon Dex. He never expected to care about one mouthy and reluctant hostage. But Dr. Rodney McKay’s intelligence and pluckiness drew Ronon closer, and soon he was fighting to keep both of them safe from their pursuers, and to capture Rodney’s heart.
"I have…there are people who need me!" Rodney squeaked, glancing over from the driver’s side seat to where his captor sat glowering at him, all long dreadlocked hair and gleaming eyes and big warm muscled arms that Rodney would have admired more if they weren’t holding a gun that was pointed steadily at him. Rodney jerked his eyes back to the road. "You say you don’t want to hurt anyone, so--you’re hurting people by doing this! You’re depriving them of me!"
There was a stirring noise as his captor shifted. "You got kids?" the big lunkhead said, his voice a deep low rumble.
"I…" He almost blurted out that he did, but he was such a bad, bad liar. It would never work. "The people at my lab are very childish sometimes?" he said, and heard a snort of amusement in response. "And I have a cat!" he exclaimed. "Living, breathing, needs food, relies on me."
"Cat’ll survive," said the big, hulking obstacle who stood between him and freedom. "Not gonna keel over from a day without food, will it? Besides, you look like the kind of guy who works late a lot--bet you always leave extra food out."
Which he did, but… "Oh, god, I’m going to die," he muttered.
"No one’s gonna die," his captor said. "Not even your cat."
"No, no, this situation will surely work out splendidly for all of us," Rodney sniped. "Because situations of this sort tend to." He risked a glance at the oversized oaf who'd taken him hostage. "My next-door neighbor’s a US Marshal, and so I know these things, I hear stories, and it’d really be better for you to turn yourself in. Really!"
There was another shift from the passenger seat, and then, "You always talk so much?"
"Yes," Rodney said. "In fact, I do. Especially when I'm nervous, and I don't see myself becoming less nervous anytime soon, or at least until that gun isn't pointed at me and probably not until you're in custody again. And it was probably stupid to wish for your renewed captivity in front of you, but, you see, babble. It annoys almost everyone, and so you should probably drop me off and acquire a new hostage, because you strike me as the strong, silent type, and believe me when I say I will only get on your nerves." He nodded for emphasis, and risked another sidelong glance.
But his captor was only looking at him, and his mouth was actually quirked up in a smile. "Not annoyed yet," he said. "Kind of entertained."
"Oh, well, then, fine as long as I’m amusing you!" Rodney cried, and then winced, because wow, that had gotten kind of shrill.
His captor leaned forward, oh god, oh god, oh god, into Rodney’s space. He smelled like institutional soap and sweat, and he was a huge presence, all strength and muscles and quiet focus. Rodney’s breath was coming a little faster, and something was assuredly wrong with him, because it wasn’t quite because of fear. At least, not only fear. "Talk as much as you want," his captor murmured, "long as you keep driving while you’re doing it."
He probably should talk, because he wanted his captor to see him as human, didn’t he? Wasn’t that what he was supposed to do? Except generally after people talked to him they saw him as less human, and talking had just brought his captor into his personal space in a way that didn’t bring Rodney any peace of mind or body, and this was all very bad.
Rodney managed to clam up for the next mile or two, before he blurted out, "I’ve mentioned I’m hypoglycemic, right? I need food at regular intervals or else I'll pass out and you'll have to lug me around, which, all right, you could probably do easily with those biceps. But still, that'll be really inconvenient for you, and another reason you should trade me in for a better hostage."
"We’ll get some food," his captor said. When Rodney glanced over, he was grinning a shark’s grin. "Seven years in prison, I've gotten pretty damn hungry."
Oh. God. Rodney was doomed.
***
A Formula for Love
U.S. Marshal John Sheppard always got his man, at least professionally. But when he was assigned to track down the biggest challenge of his career, the wily genius Dr. Radek Zelenka, he found himself involved on a personal level. All the evidence suggested that Radek was guilty of murder, espionage, and treason, but John’s instincts were screaming at him that the rumpled, absent-minded professor was only guilty of one thing--stealing John’s heart.
Researcher Radek Zelenka was brilliant, resourceful, and on the lam. If he could escape pursuit, he could exonerate himself, but the man tracking him down was one of the best. For Radek, it was going to be a race against time in order to find proof of his innocence, a stolen formula, and a way into the soul of the man who might be the only match for Radek’s mind, and his heart.
When John stomped to the door to answer the knock, he wasn’t in the mood for company. "What?" he snapped, too tired to put on a polite face. Politeness was usually wasted on his next-door neighbor, Rodney McKay, anyway.
"Hi, me, I just came to see if I could borrow--" Rodney McKay stopped to stare at him. His recent marriage hadn’t mellowed the brusque astrophysicist a whole lot, but it had made him a little more observant. "Are you all right?"
"Yeah, fine, what did you want to borrow?" John said.
"A wrench," Rodney said, and trailed John as he headed for the toolbox. "Seriously, are you all right? And why do you smell like…paint?"
"Because I got paint splashed on me," John said through gritted teeth. He smacked the wrench in Rodney’s hand with a thwack and bared his teeth in a grin. "Watch the evening news. I’m sure they'll be happy to explain, with visual aids."
"The evening…oh," Rodney had the good grace to wince in sympathy. "One of Zelenka's traps again?"
"I don’t want to talk about it," John said. He really didn’t, not least because he suspected that if he got over being foiled again, he might start to laugh. It’d been insanely clever on Zelenka’s part, and the look on Emmagan’s face...
"Right, right," Rodney said, backing towards the door with his hands raised in sympathy. "I’ll just leave you to your heroic brooding, then." Marriage had given him consideration, maybe, but not much more tact.
"Oh, shut up," John said, and then, as Rodney was reaching for the door. "Hey, McKay?"
"Yeah?"
"When you, I mean--" John rubbed his eyes. This was stupid. He shouldn’t even ask this. If it got around--Teyla was usually willing to follow his more insane hunches, but the higher ups would just tell him to bring Zelenka in and let the justice system sort it out.
"What is it?" Rodney said, and then, "John, if Ronon and I can do anything, you know we owe you--" John had helped them out when Rodney’s husband Ronon, desperate and wrongfully accused of murder, had been forced into taking Rodney hostage in order to exonerate himself.
"How’d you decide that Ronon was innocent?" John blurted out, and then wished he could take back the words as Rodney’s eyes went big.
"Zelenka’s innocent?" Rodney said, and John almost winced.
"Jumping to conclusions, there, doc," he drawled to cover. "Zelenka isn't my only open case."
"Oh, please," Rodney replied with an eye roll, and leaned back against the door thoughtfully. "Are there gaps in the evidence?"
John rubbed the back of his neck and looked down. "Can’t talk about an open case, you know that." It was mostly just a hunch on his part anyway, that and wishful thinking, and a niggling feeling that some of the pieces didn’t slot together quite right, or maybe that they slotted together too neatly. "But hey, that wasn’t what I--you knew it wasn’t Ronon even when the evidence pointed that way. How?"
Rodney shrugged one-shouldered and said, "How he behaved, how he acted, what he looked like when he claimed he was innocent."
"Well…great. If I could find Zelenka, I might be able to ask him and see his response," John said.
"Yes, sorry, not helpful. Plus," Rodney sent a wry glance over towards the shared wall of their duplex. "By the time I got around to asking about guilt or innocence, I have to admit I was already half in love with him, so-- " His eyes went huge, and John shut his, leaned against a wall, and banged his head back a few times. "No!" Rodney said in disbelief. "Did you inhale the paint fumes? You’ve fallen in love with him?"
"Of course not! I haven’t even met him!" John shouted.
"Hey! No need to yell at me," Rodney said. "I’m not the one who’s developed inappropriate feelings for an escaped convict--"
"This time," John muttered.
"--and also, frankly, I’m a little surprised because he’s not your usual type, which is good, because, pffft, tall, gorgeous, and shallow as a teaspoon only goes so far." Rodney waved a dismissive hand and then mused, "If it weren’t for the whole criminal mastermind thing, actually, I’d be impressed by your taste."
John rolled his eyes and deadpanned, "What can I say, I’ve always secretly been a sucker for intelligence." That was a truer statement than he wanted it to be. Rodney and Ronon belonged together, and John didn’t need any special insight to spot that; Rodney had never looked happier and he was plainly head over heels in love with Ronon. So John had packed his regret that he had never made his move before the kidnapping into a mental box of quiet losses.
"I was surprised when I heard about it, you know," Rodney offered after a moment. "I mean, I’ve only met him at a few conferences but I’ve seen his work and I’ve heard him speak. The murder thing, fine, it’s always the quiet ones who surprise you, but I wouldn’t have expected him to compromise his professional integrity that way."
"Really? You thought at the time that it might have been a frame job?" John said hopefully, and then frowned, because he was grasping at straws. "Christ," he said, huffing in frustration. "Never mind."
"I don’t know," Rodney said, intrigued and thoughtful. "I really don’t. Maybe it’s just that, I mean, I wish you luck in catching him and justice and all that, but it’s such a waste if he did do it. A waste of intelligence."
"Yeah," John agreed. "I think that’s what's bugging me most." It left a bad taste in his mouth to think of Zelenka cooped up in a prison cell. Even desperate, the man was creative and funny, the pranks he played to stall them wry and without malice, and--god, this was pathetic. He was going to turn into a cautionary tale, the Marshal who captured a fugitive and then went to court him in prison every week, bringing obscure scientific journals as tokens of his affection.
"Anyway," Rodney said. "Good luck with…getting whatever the best scenario would be." He waved the wrench. "I need to get back and put together some toys together for the kids."
"Kids?" John said, and, as if on cue, a happy squeal came from outside. When Rodney opened the door, John could see kids through the screen door, three of them hanging off Ronon, who was play-wrestling with them on the front lawn. "Why are there kids on the front lawn? I didn’t miss you and Ronon adopting or something, did I?"
Rodney gave him a look of pure horror. "Bite your tongue," he said, aggrieved. "My sister’s kids," he explained. "They’re monsters," he added with the strength of conviction. "As are most kids." Then his eyes fell on Ronon and went soft. (John might have some lingering regrets for missed chances, but he always derived some amusement from the absolutely dopey look that Rodney had when he looked at Ronon. You could see his IQ points drop.) "He’s surprisingly good with them, though," Rodney said absently, and John waved him out before he could start to wax rhapsodic about Ronon, because there were limits.
He couldn’t hang on to the burst of optimism that Rodney’s words had given him; McKay was a surprisingly good judge of character when he wasn’t self-absorbed, but his few meetings with Zelenka weren’t anything balanced against the cold hard evidence. He kept turning the evidence over in his head, and he couldn't find a way to explain it away, couldn't find any loophole that would justify Zelenka's actions.
It took him a long time to fall asleep, and he thought he'd sleep restlessly and dream odd things, about thoughtful eyes he’d only seen in pictures and an accented voice he’d only heard on tape. But he didn't dream, and when he woke up, he knew down to his bones where Zelenka was going to go next, and that Zelenka wasn’t expecting them to find him there.
***
Runner
Single mother Teyla Emmagan wished for a little excitement in her life--but she didn’t expect it to come in the form of former cop turned escaped convict Ronon Dex bursting through her front door. Now the modern warrior was tempting her into adventure with the strength, his passion, and his protestations of innocence.
Policeman Ronon Dex never had a problem with taking risks--but only with his body, not his heart. Now he was running for his life, to save himself and prove his innocence. Teyla and her stepson Jinto were never supposed to be more than a stop along the way, but Ronon found himself wanting to take the biggest risk of all--running towards love.
He cornered her, but she let him, meeting his eyes without fear as he trapped her wrists above her head and held them there loosely. He leaned inward and watched the flush spread across her face, down her neck. Her breathing quickened a little, and then a little more when he held her wrists in one hand and moved the other to cup her breast. Her nipple hardened beneath his fingers. Her eyes were still serene, almost amused. He valued that calm control, even as he wanted to see shatter beneath his mouth, his hands.
He leaned in closer and growled, "We’ll be good together. I’ll be good to you." He couldn’t give her permanence, but at least he could give her the desire and heat that had been lacking in her life. "I can show you…"
She blinked lazily, and her mouth quirked into a smile. Her back was against the wall and he towered over her, but he suddenly felt powerless before that smile, full of some secretive knowledge. "Show me?" she asked, and her voice was as lazily amused as her heavy-lidded eyes.
"What he should’ve--" his voice trailed off. His mouth was dry. From what she’d said of her marriage to Halling, he’d envisioned dullness, sedateness. He'd imagined that she was unawakened to the power of her body’s reactions. Had fantasized that he could be the one to teach her, see the control slip and the wonder spread across her face as her body arched underneath his.
Except she’d never, from the beginning, been what he expected, and the look in her eyes was aware and confident and frankly predatory.
A twist, and her wrists were free; one gentle push and a not-entirely gentle trip later and he was sprawling to the floor on his back. He could have kept his balance, could have fought free, but why would he want to, when she was straddling him, hands resting flat on his chest, eyes gleaming? "I know I told you that my sexual relationship with Halling was…unsatisfying. But have you seriously been imagining," she said, almost gently, "that I am some innocent who has never had an orgasm in her life?"
"I--" he said, gasping as her firm, lithe body pressed down against his, his hips bucking up involuntarily and all his careful plans scattering. Maybe it wouldn’t be him who broke her control. She might break his instead. He couldn't afford that, hadn't survived on the run by giving in to softer feelings. He took a deep breath and leashed all the things that he couldn’t afford to say and feel, and then settled his hands on her hips. It would be better this way, frank lust instead of the slow seduction he’d been dreaming. He’d never been all that good at soft words and polite touches anyway. "Fine," he ground out, "you show me."
***
Evasive Maneuvers
As a teenager from the wrong side of the tracks, John Sheppard wanted two things: Rodney McKay, and a chance to fly. Rodney broke his heart, but he pursued his goal tenaciously and became a test pilot. Now, twenty years later, international skullduggery and an accusation of murder put that dream, his freedom, and his very life into jeopardy. John finds himself fleeing to safety--right into Rodney’s arms.
Twenty years ago, Rodney McKay’s wealthy grandmother threatened to ruin his bad boy lover if he didn’t break off the relationship. Rodney’s always regretted that lost chance. Now John was back in his life, but dangerous people are trailing after him. Will Rodney have the courage to save them both, body and soul?
John saw clearly, in that instant, that it was over, because he couldn't do it. Of course he couldn’t hurt Rodney, couldn’t bear to even think of it. He could try to bluff, but Rodney would push and goad, wouldn't know how to do otherwise. There was no way that John could sustain the pretense for as long as it would take for the storm to blow over and the roads to be passable again.
That was if Rodney even believed in any hypothetical threat for more than a second or two in the first place, because Rodney had always been able to blow past John's chameleon defenses like they'd never existed, had always responded to what John was really thinking like he hadn't even spotted the diversionary tactics.
John lowered his arm, watched Rodney's shoulders sag with relief when the gun wasn't pointed at him. John set the safety, reached out, and put the gun on the table, sliding it a little to the middle of the table. Then he stepped backwards, until his back hit the edge of the counter, and he and Rodney simply stared at each other. Rodney's face was sheet white, John noted absently, and then it really hit him. This was it. End of the line. Even if the snowstorm and the blocked roads provided a reprieve of a day or two, Rodney would call the cops as soon as he could, and the cops would call the feds, and once he was in the feds' hands the others would find a way to get to him. He was going to be dead before the week was up.
He'd gotten to fly, he thought with an odd clarity produced by exhaustion, fear, and the burning pain in his shoulder. He couldn't think beyond that, felt strangely numb, wrapped in wool, as he stood in the kitchen of this isolated mountain cabin and waited for Rodney to move, to start the train of events that would close the trap around him.
He'd gotten to fly, at least, and that was probably enough. It would have to be.
"Did you do it?" Rodney asked abruptly, and that accusation penetrated through the numbness. He didn't know why it hurt so much. Of course Rodney had no reason to believe otherwise, especially not when John had just been waving a gun in his face, but hearing it straight out like that…Christ, even if he'd hated his boss like the newspaper reports claimed, there'd been fifteen other people in the building when the bomb had exploded, and Rodney had known him once, known him better than anyone.
"Don't look like that, please don't look like that, I'm sorry, but I have to ask!" Rodney said, and he sounded almost pleading, desperate. "Maybe I should just be able to tell without asking, but I'm a scientist, we ask questions even when we think we know the answers because the answers can always surprise you, and I can't, I can't imagine--but I've seen things in the past few years that I never would have imagined, and, John, just give me something to work with here." Rodney hadn't stepped any closer, but he was leaning forward intently, eyes focused on John.
The sense of Rodney's words filtered in slowly: Rodney wanted to believe him innocent, at least. "No," he said, and the word sounded light and hollow and insubstantial. He licked his lips and tried again. "No, I didn't. I--" He faltered to a stop, because he didn't have real proof, didn't have anything to offer except that bare assertion. He raised his hand and scrubbed at his face, because he was so, so tired. "I didn't," he repeated. He stared at the gun, at the table, at his feet, and waited. He should meet Rodney's eyes, that would be more convincing, but he couldn't, couldn't stand to see disbelief written large on the other man's face.
Then there were footsteps, and Rodney was standing next to him, which was both strange and familiar. Rodney was broader and bulkier than he'd been at seventeen, but the inquisitive blue eyes and the curve of his eyebrows were the same, and the concerned frown on his face. "Okay, so--okay," Rodney said. "Then why did you run?" He didn’t ask the question as if he were attempting to poke holes in John's statement. He asked as if he were putting together puzzle pieces and wanted more information, as if he was simply curious, and trying to make sense of John's actions. John had forgotten that, forgotten how Rodney would just, boom, up and ask a question, never mind tact or privacy, if he wanted to make sense of something.
Christ. Rodney believed him.
"I mean, that was obviously very stupid unless you had a good reason," Rodney was going on, as if John wasn't standing there gaping at him, overwhelmed and relieved and still sort of numb and shocky, "because of course now the police believe you're guilty, and they might not look at the evidence as closely as they would have if they were keeping their options open, so, what, did you just freak out? Please tell me you had a good reason and not just a lapse in common sense." By the end of that speech, he almost sounded peevish, in the way he always had when he thought someone was being willfully stupid, and the weird familiarity of it was making all sorts of things in John break loose and tumble around, memories he thought he'd boxed away neatly.
"I had an excellent reason," he said after a moment, and he felt seventeen again, as if he was falling back into the rhythm of their back-and-forth interactions then, him trying to be cool and casual but wanting underneath to prove that he was smart enough to be worth Rodney's time, smart enough that Rodney didn't have to class John with The Grand Majority of Illogical Idiots.
Rodney made an impatient, interrogative noise when he didn't go on, and, god, so familiar. Twenty years and he'd never quite forgotten the little moans and gasps Rodney had made when they were pressed against each other in John's narrow twin bed, but he'd forgotten so much else, and it was all rushing back.
"I--" Except they weren't seventeen, and this wasn't some casual conversation about time travel or superheroes or school. This was all such a mess. John made a frustrated noise and scrubbed his face with his hand again. Where did he even start?
"All right, wait, I can tell this is going to be a long story, and we should eat something. Low blood sugar never makes anything better. Sit down and you can tell me about it and we can figure out how to fix it, because you're doing a horrible job on your own. You always did need a keeper," Rodney said, his voice practical and grounding and a little brusque, and apparently sometime in the last twenty years he'd learned a little bit of patience. John felt a shameful sense of relief, because he shouldn't involve Rodney in this but he was going to, needed to lay it all out for someone. Rodney could help him untangle it, was smart enough to tell him if he'd missed some obvious solution.
"Okay," he agreed, and then there was a hand on his shoulder, attempting to steer him to the table, and John gasped and swayed in place.
"John?" Rodney's voice had gone nervous again, while John bit his lip to stop the sound that wanted to come out. "What was--are you hurt? You're hurt. You just went green, is your shoulder--are you hurt?"
"Um," John managed. "Kind of, yeah."
"The newspapers didn't say you got wounded in the explosion," Rodney said, his hands fluttering around John's body, not landing, his face all huge eyes and concern.
"Happened later," John gasped. "I, um, the people who set me up, they were after me, and they, I mean, I'm mostly fine, no need to overreact, but they did manage to shoot me a little."
The pain had receded a bit by the time he finished his sentence, and so the sound that Rodney made in response to that, a stifled almost-squeak as if he was cutting off worried exclamations (and probably an exasperated rant that John hadn't mentioned this before), was actually almost funny.
Bits and pieces of the rant escaped during the next few minutes, during which Rodney chivvied John to the bedroom, made him strip off his shirt, and directed him to lay face down on the bed so Rodney could check out the wound and rebandage it. John was strung out and relieved and at the end of his endurance; embarrassingly enough, the way this was all affecting him was to make him want to giggle. He kept having to fight down snickers as he listened to Rodney indignantly tear a strip off both him ("I realize you're a fugitive, but you couldn't have kept this cleaner? Dying from an infection brought on by poor hygiene would just be embarrassing" and "Overreact, hmph, bullets were involved!") and his pursuers ("what fucking assholes, shooting you in the back").
His voice was scathing but his hands were patient and gentle and surprisingly efficient. At one point it occurred to John that this was basically the one fantasy he'd had that long, sun-drenched summer that hadn't been fulfilled, to be in Rodney's bed with Rodney's hands on him and without fear of interruption. Then he did start laughing helplessly into the pillow. Rodney's hands and voice paused, and he said, in tones of pure exasperation, "Apparently some kind of pain endorphins are kicking in, hurray."
"Private joke," John managed through snorts of laughter. "Not all that funny."
"Your sense of humor was always skewed," Rodney muttered, and the disdain in his voice made John laugh again. The bed shifted as Rodney got off it and stood up, saying something about finding Tylenol. John listened to him move to the bathroom, heard the sounds of rustling and medicine cabinets opening, and let his eyes drift shut. It would have been better if the cabin had been empty as he'd thought it would be, but he couldn’t quite regret that he'd found Rodney here, even if now he'd have to try to leave tomorrow. He couldn't risk them following him here, couldn't risk Rodney's life as well as his own. But tonight, at least, with the snow blocking the roads, they would be safe.
By the time Rodney came back with a glass of water and some Tylenol, John was drifting towards sleep. He roused himself enough to swallow the pills before flopping back against the pillow, and Rodney's voice turned as gentle and soft as his hands. "You get some sleep. We'll work things out in the morning. I'm going to leave the glass here on the bedside table if you get thirsty, all right?"
"'Kay," John mumbled into the pillow, and felt the bed shift as Rodney prepared to get up again. "Hey," he said muzzily, reaching out to catch one of Rodney's wrists. "Hey, thanks," he said, blinking up at Rodney. He couldn't quite express what it meant to him, to be warm and safe and still and believed, to have someone in his corner. "I really--thank you."
"Of course," Rodney said simply. He disentangled his wrist from John's grasp. "Get some sleep, John, we'll sort it out in the morning."
John closed his eyes. "I've missed you," he mumbled, or thought he mumbled; he hadn't intended to say that, and maybe it hadn't slipped out. He thought he felt the ghost of a touch on his hair as he tumbled into sleep.
END