Tis not the whole of life to live by Liondragon [Earthside]
I'm so sorry this is late. If you spot any mistakes, please let me know. This was a long time in the planning, but I never got a first draft to work till now.
The title is taken from an actual epitaph in the Brooklyn Church of Scotland Cemetery on Prince Edward Island. No disrespect is meant towards the deceased and their families; quite the opposite. Geography mistakes are entirely my own. Stargate Atlantis and the other universes do not belong to me. Unauthorized duplication or distribution prohibited.
PG for violence. Established John/Rodney. Crossover (see below). 7654 words.
Summary: A mission to uncover Carson's ancestors reshapes the future.
Tis not the whole of life to live
by Liondragon
The paved roads had given way to dusty reddish thoroughfares by the time they arrived at the coast, a short drive lengthened pleasantly by the fields of astonishing green bounded by white fences and dotted with geometrically neat farmhouses. Less pleasant was Colonel Sheppard's constant bleating out the window (the sheep didn't mind) punctuated by kicks to his seat (Dr. Rodney McKay did).
It seemed, thought Dr. Carson Beckett, that their previous visit with Rodney's sister had run both hot and cold; they were both punchy and irritable. It seemed less of a bother and more of a blessing that he'd thought of them for this last Earthside errand.
If he didn't push them off a cliff first. Alas, that might annoy Dr. Weir.
"Two rooms! I thought we had two rooms!" Rodney huffed at the motel clerk.
"It's okay, Rodney," John said. "We'll have a cot brought up." He nudged Rodney hard, and Carson rolled his eyes. It wasn't as though the cot would be used. "If that's okay with you, Carson?"
"Yes, that's fine. We'll have our own cottage to ourselves, Rodney." Carson hid a smile as John and Rodney sparred nonverbally. They'd all camped off-world together, so Carson knew they could be discreet if pressed. Still, if it was a hardship... "If it's quite all right with the two of you, that is."
John shook his head, closing the matter. "It's just overnight. We'll live."
Carson flashed a reassuring smile at the lady, who dimpled brightly at them. "We'll send someone with the cot. Very sorry for the inconvenience, gentlemen. I'll make it up to you with vouchers for dinner at the cafe. Enjoy your stay on the Island."
Rodney grabbed the vouchers and handed them to John over his shoulder. "Where's the nearest Tim Horton's?" he demanded.
*
John sighed while the clerk supplied Rodney with directions. "Did you see the telescope up on the widow's walk, Carson?"
"Oh my, yes. I wonder if they take it back inside when it storms. Someone must be a true enthusiast; from down here it seems like a 114mm aperture."
"Think we could find home?" John tipped his head to the clerk, who was finally released from Rodney's interrogation.
"Rodney can," said Carson, scooping up his bags and trying not to mind that Rodney and John flanked him. They didn't even notice they were dropping into mission stances.
"Of course I can," Rodney said. They were all oriented to the Pegasus Galaxy now.
Just then there was a loud thumping from the stairs. John and Rodney tensed. A man -- about as tall as John but broader along the shoulders -- ran down two steps at a time, and was out the door with a swirl of his trenchcoat.
"Ponytails," sniffed Rodney, dismissing the potential threat. "And yes, can we dump this stuff in our room? Let's eat early and hit the books already."
John fell behind as they exited, looking up the stairs and then back at the busy clerk. She caught his look, and called, "Mind the steps, they're slippy in the damp!"
Outside, the man was nowhere to be seen. None of the cars were gone, though there was a trail down to the beach.
When John caught up with them, Carson and Rodney were bandying the possibility of sending a radio message back home. Atlantis. "Taking into account genetic improvements, what could we possibly say that would be of any use to our descendants?" Rodney was saying.
"You saying they'd be smarter than you, Rodney?" Carson said.
Rodney glared till John bumped shoulders. "I made a time capsule once. I remember thinking my descendants would think it was cool."
Rodney's mouth twisted into a half-smile. "Of course you'd have thought that."
"C'mon, Rodney. A way to communicate with your past. Or future. It's very cool."
"Whatever happened to it, Colonel?" asked Carson.
"They pulled out the oak tree next to it, so I guess it got bulldozed. Too bad. I put in a perfectly good cheese sandwich." His lips curved mischievously. "Double bagged too."
"That's disgusting," said Carson amiably.
They settled into the cozy room with a little perfunctory fussing. John tested the beds by bouncing on them and then Rodney went ballistic over the small cache of unregistered weapons in John's kit. They hurried back outside, though, their argument muted to a debate over ATA-and-grilled-cheese civilizations. It was the sea, so close before them. The motel was perched on a rocky cliff, its jagged outcrops meandering into the surf. Here in the cradle of the Gulf of St. Lawrence, the harsher Atlantic waters which buffeted Nova Scotia and Newfoundland were far to the south and east. It was less easy to imagine its namesake city fitting into this protected bay, but familiar enough that all three sought out its soothing waves.
*
The cafe shared a parking lot with the motel; they had it to themselves. It was nearly as good as a home-cooked meal, the seafood fresh and succulent, the food hearty enough to cause Carson to issue some health advisories till Rodney scowled at him. They were soon well-satisfied and ready to hit the books as it were. While John made faces at the poutine and continued to steal it from Rodney's plate, Carson chatted up the waitress. "Do you suppose it'll storm tonight?"
"No, it'll be a fine night for a drive. If you take the road to this end, there's a better view of the wildlife. A much nicer promontory than the little one we've got here."
"It's quite nice, I assure you," Carson smiled. "We're actually here on a bit of business."
"Are you the archaeologists then?"
Rodney paused for a second, then switched to eating his vinegar and chips.
Carson cleared his throat. "Genealogy, as a matter of fact. Though it might turn into archaeology if we hit a dead end."
"Your family's from the Island, then?"
"Part of my family. A lost branch, I'm hoping."
John leaned back, posture open in a way that made Rodney roll his eyes. "So have you had an attack of archaeologists lately?"
"Oh, you know, rumors flying around. There's supposedly a Viking sword buried around here."
"You mean Vinland," said Rodney, like it was the Loch Ness Monster. Carson just raised a brow -- just because Stargate Command hadn't located a Nessie didn't mean the Ancients hadn't left one lying about, and the same went for the location of the pre-Columbus Norse settlements. That was partly why Carson had taken Dr. Jackson up on his research request. They had a different definition of 'far-fetched' after all this time.
The waitress confirmed that someone had been asking around about Vinland, but that she hadn't seen any research teams in the neighborhood. Rodney, normally oblivious to such small talk, was keyed up by John's wary curiosity, which in turn made Carson nervous.
*
The tension broke when they stepped out into the late afternoon light, and John froze in mid-step, nearly stumbling off the curb. "--usually Newfoundland or Baffin Island, not Prince Edward-- Sheppard, what's the matter?" Rodney nudged him.
John's head tilted up like a bird dog -- even his hair seemed to stand on end. It would have been more endearing if it didn't remind Rodney of moments just before off-world ambushes. "Hey!" yelled John, and he started running across the parking lot.
Carson and Rodney exchanged glances and went after him. "Great, he's accosting strange men, now..."
"Hey!" John called again. He was approaching an older gentleman who was limping towards a taxi. The guy looked up, and Rodney stopped in his tracks.
"What the hell?" the guy said, as John skidded to a halt in front of him.
John was momentarily speechless, grin plastered on his face, bouncing on his toes. "Uncle Joe! Geez, remember me?" And without waiting for an answer, he hugged him.
"My God!" The man lit up with an identical grin. His face was heavier-set and his spiky hair was all grey, but the stubbled chin and the smile were certainly family heirlooms. He pounded John's back. "Little John! Not so little anymore. What the hell are you doing here?" He got his wallet out and paid off the taxi.
"I'm on leave. Guys, this is Joe Dawson, my long-lost coolest uncle ever. Dr. Carson Beckett, Dr. Rodney McKay. Carson's the medical one, Rodney's smarter than God." Rodney almost snorted at this cheap ploy to butter him up, but it was working, so he smirked instead.
"Pleased to meet you." Dawson's handshake was warm and firm. Rodney realized that he was leaning on a cane, and that both his legs were artificial. Oh yes, definitely related to John Sheppard. "And it's actually a little more distant than 'uncle,' which is why the long-lost." He seemed vaguely apologetic. Then he noticed Sheppard's jacket. "Hey! Air Force? What's your rank, Johnny?"
Rodney caught his breath when John puffed up. "Lieutenant Colonel. Not that I deserve it."
"Bull. Bet you've sweat for every demerit. What brings you to the island?"
"One of my own errands, I'm afraid," said Carson in his heavy brogue. "We're conducting a little research into my family."
"Oh yeah?" A speculative look flashed on Dawson's face. "I was headed for the archives myself."
"You could come with us," said John eagerly.
Dawson clapped John on the shoulder, and for all the world John looked like he'd gotten a medal. "Sounds like a plan. Maybe you can tell me about those demerits."
John stiffened. Rodney noticed, and answered for him. "I'm afraid our work's classified, Mr. Dawson." The brief shadow on John's face winked out. "Though you're right about the colonel. He's earned every bit of it." Carson seconded this enthusiastically.
"Well then, I'll tell you about my demerits," said Dawson. "Don't worry. I did my time in 'Nam, I know about classified. And son, just call me Joe." Rodney got a clap on the shoulder, and John looked like he'd gotten a medal.
In no time they had piled into their rented car, John squeezing in the back with his uncle. "Scottish, are you, Dr. Beckett?"
"Aye. M'mother was disowned, you see. The Becketts were part of a rival clan, and she married against her parent's wishes." Of course he didn't mention that the ATA gene hadn't come from his father's side.
Dawson nodded gravely. "Those rival clans sure know how to hold a grudge."
"And there was property involved. Ancestral lands. Still involved, actually, which is why I'm starting here and not in Scotland. I'm betting on a side-branch that doesn't want to spit in my whisky and step on my boots, if you take my meaning. Besides, anyone who's going to trace it back that far is going to have to go into the Highlands and dig out the oral history." Carson sighed. "And this is family I never knew. Mum was one of seven. I might have lived next door to one of my relatives and not known it."
"Hence the moral support," said Sheppard. "Don't worry, Carson, we're right here to help you ah, exhume your past. Ow!" McKay had hit him again. "Quit it!"
"No more Evil Dead for you," said Rodney easily. Dawson grinned at him, amused, which surprisingly made him relax... just a little.
"What are you doing out here, Uncle Joe? You live here?"
"Nah. Same mission as you. I was in the neighborhood and I thought I'd look up some names for a friend. I'm... here and there. The last decade, it was mostly Paris."
"France, cool. You did the whole American in Paris thing, huh?"
"Better." Joe tapped the floor with his cane. "I ran a bar. Booked jazz acts."
John looked like he was going to implode. "Better than cool! Rodney, d'you hear that? A jazz club!"
"I heard. Stop rocking the car, Sheppard. You're like a puppy on speed."
Carson chuckled. "We could requisition that collar and lead the senior staff's always on about."
"With our luck, Carson, it'll still be too long," Rodney sighed.
"See," said John. "See what I have to work with."
Joe laughed. "Yeah, and with your luck, you'll be friends for life."
"With our luck," snorted Rodney. John kicked the back of his seat.
The older man kept smiling, but his eyes dimmed with some inner thought... a memory, perhaps. "Yeah, you fellows are still young. But when you get to my age, or older, you'll be surprised how much stays with you. Sometimes you've got to trust it to work out, even when it doesn't."
They fell silent as the bright countryside rolled by.
"You've a very wise uncle, Colonel," said Carson.
"Obviously the genetics are good. Did he fall off a high place when he was an infant?" Rodney smirked. "Sheppard can be short on that wisdom."
John groused. "Next time you're paying for your own pie, McKay."
"Wisdom's not what I'm known for," Joe chuckled. "But I did stop him from jumping off a high place."
A groan emanated from behind Rodney's seat.
"Do tell, Joe," said Carson. "We've not enough stories for embarrassing the Colonel."
"Could've fooled me," said John.
"Well, he was practicing his flight patterns off the back porch when his daddy hauled him off for disturbing him and his buddies. He was about four, five years old. Really little John, stringy as a bean. Anyway, I wasn't quite the black sheep I am now, and I was sitting back there when one of the flyboys told little John that he just didn't have enough height for take-off. Naturally I got suspicious when the tyke disappeared."
"What did he do?" asked Rodney in a horrified voice.
"I found him on top of a stool... on top of the kitchen counter. Between the spice rack and the knives, and damned if I didn't have a coronary on the spot. It took a little work to ground him before his mother arrived, too. My old set of legs weren't as good as these."
"And he didn't tell Mom or Dad," said John proudly.
"Yep. Successful covert operation," grinned Joe. "Next week I took him to the county fair and we rode the Ferris wheel six times in a row."
"The coolest. Ever." John slouched back. "That was one of the last times I saw you, wasn't it?"
"Yeah... the last time, I think. I got caught up in Europe, then managed to fall out with the rest of the family. I was a bad influence, see. I was a vet and I didn't give a damn about the rules."
Rodney craned back to look at them. "That legacy has most certainly lived on." John smiled back and gave him a lazy salute.
Joe ruffled John's hair. "Glad to hear it, little John."
*
By the time they got to the archives, John's enthusiasm had fizzled off into wariness; Rodney could guess that it was the frustration of not being able to open up with his beloved uncle. For himself, it was easy with Jeannie and her family. Misdirection and non-communication were staples in the McKay household. Not to mention that it was hardly his first covert project. But damn it, with all his accomplishments John ought to have bragging rights with long-lost family.
Rodney snatched Carson's list and divided it in two. Carson took the hint. "Little Johnny, go spend time with your uncle. We'll dig through the stacks."
"You sure?" John glanced at Rodney.
"Meticulous research bores you, remember? There's nothing to poke or take apart or detonate, either." Rodney went to his side. "Be serious, John. When are you getting another chance? Go ahead and... tell him stuff."
John perked. "Stuff? Stuff-stuff?"
"Yes, really. Our stuff, not--"
"Yeah, not that stuff. Our stuff. Wow. Okay." Carson cleared his throat before John could do something like kiss Rodney in the middle of city hall.
Rodney made shooing motions. "Go on, don't just stand there like an electrocuted rabbit."
"Aye, lad, we're going to need you later for the manual labor." Carson grinned.
When he'd gone to join Joe, Rodney threw up his hands. "MENSA, Carson. Unbelievable."
"We make do with what we have," said Carson mildly, donning gloves and peeling open an old tome.
The sun was sinking when Carson finally matched up the shaking handwriting on the ledgers with the cemetery map. "Found them."
"Your eyes are going to bleed out of your skull," Rodney pronounced. "Are any of these people actually in your clan? None of them are named Beckett."
"That's not how it works, Rodney," Carson said for the umpteenth time.
"The soft sciences suck."
"On that note," Carson scrambled up, stretching. "Let's collect Colonel Sheppard and do some digging."
As if on cue, Sheppard appeared. But he looked like all his silver linings had turned to clouds, and Joe Dawson was nowhere in sight.
Rodney was up like a shot. "What happened to you?"
"He gave me the slip," said John tightly. "Crazy old man. He got a phone call, we kept talking. And uh," he looked away.
Carson shook his head. This couldn't be good.
Rodney caught it too. "You told him about us."
"Yeah. We had a lot to talk about in the meantime. So I saved it till last. Damn it. Then he said he was gonna use the can, and he didn't come back."
"I'm sure it's pretty safe out there," said Carson.
John laughed sourly. "He can take care of himself, believe me."
Rodney's mouth twisted. "Look, okay, we only have another day here, if that. We've got names, the graveyard's down the road, let's get to work, get on our knees and start rubbing."
There was a pause, then John started grinning. Carson put a hand over his mouth.
"Oh shut up," growled Rodney. "You know I meant wax rubbings."
"Sure, Rodney," John said, a mite more relaxed. He still made a point of scanning the road when they came out of the building, like he was trying to pick up a scent.
*
Of course the most logical explanation, at least to Carson's mind, was that Joe Dawson had been called away by whomever had rung him. Unfortunately, before he could mention this to the Colonel, the birds started flying out of the trees.
"Bloody hell, now what," said Carson, looking up from his digital camera.
Rodney lay back on the grass between the graves, notebook open on his lap. "I don't know. The hairs on the back of my neck are prickling. John. Hey. Do you smell ozone?" He rubbed at his knees, then sat up, ready to run, already covered behind a crumbling gravestone.
John opened his mouth to say something, but then there was a crack, like a hundred-year-old tree snapping. Then the forest erupted with the sounds of metal on metal. They all recognized it from Ronon's many long-sword demonstrations. "Down!" John said unnecessarily. Carson and Rodney went flat. They were closer to the trees than John -- it was probably someone's farmland. The fighting was the distinct staccato of a duel in earnest, no play-acting here. Then it stopped.
For long minutes they didn't hear anything but a few passing cars and the click of John's safety.
"Are we through eating dirt yet?" Rodney whispered. "Because of all the dirt in all the galaxies, I'd rather not eat this."
"Gross," said John easily, his eyes on the trees. "And I'll keep that in mind. We're pretty sure that wasn't an animal, right?"
"It's all domesticated around here," said Carson.
"And I'm pretty sure I'd have heard of an animal that can fence," said Rodney, sitting up. Apologetically he patted the rectangle of the grave before propping his back against the tombstone.
John grimaced. "I don't like this. Let's go back to the car."
"What, are we assuming that if they've got swords, they have guns? Why not use the guns?"
Carson was already gathering his things. "Rodney, d'you really want to stay and find out?"
Rodney humphed. "Please tell me you didn't think it was a ghost."
"Maybe," John said impatiently, "He thought it was a psycho with a s--" He whirled, weapon up. "Who are you?"
A black shape stepped out of the shadows. "Sorry," it said in a Scottish brogue, layered with continental traces. "Good afternoon. Am I interrupting anything?"
"John, for god's sake, put the gun away," Rodney hissed.
"I don't have a gun," said the stranger. He ambled forward, legs half-hidden by a tall marker, hands open.
"Lieutenant Colonel John Sheppard. You might want to make more noise than that." John glanced down at the man's hands. After a breathless moment, he lowered his weapon.
The man's voice turned dry. "My apologies, Colonel." He held out his hand to shake. "I didn't expect a squadron down here."
"Hey!" Rodney said suddenly. "You're that guy at the hotel!"
John glared at Rodney. As good as announcing where they lived.
The stranger cast an eye on them all. He was darkly handsome, his lips tugged into an easy smile even as tension hardened his face. "Since we're doing introductions, I am Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod."
"Dr. Rodney McKay," this said with a chin-lift. Before Rodney could go on, Carson cut in.
"The Clan MacLeod! That's my mother's clan, supposedly. We were looking for her. I mean, not her, she's in Scotland," and then MacLeod started speaking Gaelic.
A full minute later, Carson was wandering around with the stranger pointing at gravestones. John and Rodney hurried after them-- Rodney to argue with Carson whenever he stopped to speak English, and John to steer Carson into a fairly safe distance from the guy. Both John and Rodney were spooked. The guy moved slowly but he moved like a panther, like Ronon and Teyla put together. The effect was only spoiled by squish, squish of his boots.
Not to mention, it was too warm for trenchcoats.
"Uh, I really think we should go now," Rodney spoke into a rare pause.
"Dr. McKay's right," said MacLeod unexpectedly. "I don't want to keep you from your holiday. Prince Edward Island's far too pleasant to miss."
"We're very pleased to have met you," burbled Carson.
"I mean right now, please? Not later, now," Rodney said, and John made their excuses and herded them back to the car. Duncan flashed a white smile, turning to shuffle away.
"That was below our usual standards of courtesy, don't you think?" said Carson, getting into the driver's seat.
"Carson," said John sharply. His command voice. "Just turn on the engine and get us out of here. Rodney? Hey, head between the knees," he paused to listen to the muttered answer. "No, your brain will not splatter on the back of the seats. You have your seatbelt."
Carson was growing more and more annoyed. "Rodney, I promise I'll have a look at you--"
"Not me, for god's sake!" Rodney raised his head, not even commenting on the warm hand he was clinging to. "This Duncan guy. Didn't you smell anything around him? No, of course not, you were too busy with your kilted Highland bonding."
"Rodney," John snapped.
"Fine, yes, but didn't you notice? You heard it though. His boots?"
"They were wet?" John said slowly. "I thought he'd stomped on a puddle."
"Bloody boots." Rodney paused. "I mean, actually bloody. Do you get me now? He was bleeding out right in front of us."
Carson slowed the car down and pulled over. He swung around to join John in staring at Rodney. "Are you serious?"
"Pardon me if I say dead serious! He was leaving bloody footprints in the grass." Rodney ground his teeth. "Probably bled down his pant leg and for it to be enough to soak through those boots of his? You were talking for fifteen minutes! Do I need to give you a flow coefficient, Carson? Or can you figure it out on your own?"
"But he looked hale and hearty to me!" Carson said, eyes wide.
"Yeah, Rodney. He seemed okay," said John.
"I'm not going to give you the difference between delusion and illusion speech. Carson, please turn this car around and bring us back there."
"But..."
"Are you scared?" sneered Rodney, his voice still shaky.
"Well yes, a wee bit."
Rodney groaned. "Great, just great. If you're afraid it's a ghost, if it really is then you wouldn't find any bloody footprints, correct?"
John nodded, in control of himself again. "And if there are bloody footprints, then it's definitely not a ghost. Just a human being with a hidden agenda. And we're fairly sure that kind can't be undead, right?"
There was a half-hearted groan from Rodney. "Can we just go and see for ourselves before you order a sawed off shotgun?"
Carson blustered, "He can't be either of those things!" though he did turn around and start the car.
"What do you mean?" John asked.
"Because he's looking for the sword!" Carson burst out. "He's the one the waitress was talking about. It's called the Sword of the Norn, and it was a 2,500 year old heirloom reforged in northern Europe and brought over with the first Norsemen settling the New World." He glanced up at Rodney's burning stare. "That's what he said!"
*
Five minutes later they were back at the graveyard. John had his gun out, his brow wrinkling. Carson dusted off the knees of his trousers and said, whey-faced, "Massive blood loss. He ought to have been unconscious."
"You mean I was right?" Rodney squeaked. "I mean, of course I'm right, but in this case..."
John cleared his throat. "Or, y'know, the obvious. It wasn't his blood."
The three of them looked around the empty graveyard.
"There's a bar behind the cafe," said John abruptly. "Let's get the hell out of here."
There were no objections to that.
*
They ended up missing out on the bar (though John did charm the keys from the bartender, who said she'd add it to the motel's bill). Rodney wanted to call the SGC, Carson wanted to write down everything MacLeod had said, and then John walked out to get a beer and ran into his uncle.
"We'll be in the cafe," John said through the half-open door.
"You need us?" Rodney asked, as though John needed cover fire.
"Nah, I'll be fine." John scratched his head. "He's a little embarrassed that he ducked out. Seems he's on-call with an egghead." It was supposed to be the usual snark, but the uncertainty was leaking through, making him look very young.
Rodney all but swallowed his bottom lip not saying anything, so Carson shooed John off for them both.
Two hours later, the day's weirdness had given through to the excitement of discovery. "That was Jackson!" Rodney said, snapping his phone shut. "The Sword of the Norn is supposed to bestow mystical powers on its wielder. Blah, blah, blah, the usual."
"The usual?" said Carson, half-turning from his laptop. "As in?"
"Ancient!" Rodney crowed. "Probably. It fits the M.O. of the time period, whatever that means."
Carson looked thoughtful. "We already confirmed he wasn't checked in at any of the area motels. D'you suppose MacLeod wasn't an archaeologist? What if he's just a treasure hunter?"
"It's possible." Rodney said. "His background check comes out clean, though the Sergeant I spoke to seemed to think they ought to run something more thorough in the morning. Not enough to merit a containment team, they said, contact the locals if he's a serial killer. But either way..."
"We have to beat them to it," said John. "All this time, and you guys put your backs to an open door?"
Rodney bristled. "We knew it was you!" Then he spied what John had in his hands. "Oh my god, beaver tails. Oh my god, coffee!" He held out both hands. "C'mon, give it here. God, I love you."
"Doesn't take much," remarked Carson.
John grinned, plucked the laptop from Rodney, and spread out the rest of their dinner. "So I'm guessing Jackson dumped a lot of data on us?"
"Aye. It's a long shot that it's here on this island, but there certainly seems to be interest."
Rodney paused between coffee slurps. "By the way, I am done with soft sciences for today. Also, save the rims, you might win something."
John raised a brow. "You're not gonna help?"
"John, even I can't put together an Ancient scanner with paper clips and motel stationery." He gulped down more coffee. "If we're going to find this lost sword in less than twelve hours, then we're going to have to do it the old-fashioned way."
"Yeah, and by 'we' you mean us," John said. "You look wiped. Get some rest, Rodney."
*
"Wha's wrong," said Rodney muzzily.
John shifted beside him, listening to Carson tapping away at his laptop on the porch. As the waitress had predicted, the weather was fine and mild, the sea a quiet lull in the distance. "Joe's lying to me," John said at last. "About something."
"We're lying to him," Rodney pointed out.
"This is something else," murmured John.
Despite himself, Rodney fell asleep soon after.
*
It was deep into the summer night, the stars alight over the sea and all the coast slumbering but for a few daring souls. The night stillness tasted the same everywhere. It was like a moment out of time, Carson thought.
Then the stillness was interrupted by a bump and a string of swear words.
"Where are you going!" Rodney scrambled out of sheets. Carson and John were nearly out the door. "I tolerate a lot of crap from you, John Sheppard, but I'm not going to stand for you taking off with my foot-warmer while you have a drink in the middle of the night!"
John rolled his eyes. "Would you put a lid on it? We're going to see if this sword thing is real."
Rodney was already out of bed. "What? What? You're going to climb down a cliff over the ocean and you weren't even going to tell me? Shall I linger on the widow's walk while we're at it?"
"I thought pseudoscience wasn't your thing..."
"We made a lot of noise, Rodney," Carson said. "We thought we'd let you sleep."
"I can't sleep while my feet are cold," said Rodney, yanking on his trousers. "And now I'm going to be wet and cold and cramp up and probably drown."
"You don't have to come with us," John said. "We're only going now because it's low tide."
"Are you joking? You've lost it, right? Because if this thing is as old as that MacLeod creep said it was, it might just be some Ancient souvenir." Rodney stormed past John, thumping his side. "As though I'd let Jackson take the credit for this one."
"That's exactly what we were thinking," said Carson conversationally to the hotel door. He locked it and hurried to catch up with the others.
They went down the wooden stairs to the pale beach. John walked along the line of flotsam, pointing out crabs and other weird moving things that Rodney swore were bloodsucking worms. The base of the sandstone promontory, now exposed by the tide, loomed ominously in the nighttime where it had jutted proudly in the day.
Later Rodney would grouse that of course it had been John's fault. He'd not gone two steps into the hollow they'd found when a light suddenly glared out. "ATA activation!" whispered Carson excitedly.
"Careful, the rocks are sharper here," said John, following the glow.
"Fat lot of good it'll do us if the cave falls on our heads," muttered Rodney.
"Relax, Rodney." John felt around the glow, and it dimmed a little. "Good, 'off' works. So we're one for one, right? One sword in the wall, check. What's this sword supposed to do, again?"
Carson shielded his eyes. "Maybe it's the Grail beacon."
"Not you too," Rodney huffed. "This is not Castle-- wait. Wait wait wait! Ancient tech planted on Earth was supposed to be non-obtrusive. Why is this glowing, then? It's being..." he squinted at the coruscating beams. "Too showy."
"It's sort of like a luxury car," said a new voice, and John slipped on the mud trying to turn and draw his weapon at the same time. "You're in a parking lot, just push a button and cheep, cheep, your car tells you where it is."
"Who are you!" Rodney demanded.
"Good question," said the figure easily. "Relative to you? I'm the owner of that sword. The original." Then all of them froze; there was the sound of metal clanging on metal, very close. "Aha, that's my cue. Take good care of her in the meantime. Don't get dead!" Then with a cheerful wave, the figure slipped away.
"What the--"
"Come back here!" John didn't dare shout at top volume. Especially if they were dealing with humans who might be a little different, and who were definitely a lot nuts.
Suddenly it was silent. Too silent. Carson pointed. "Oh my. I thought the tide was supposed to be low."
"Rodney! C'mon, farther in, higher!" John hauled them up to the back of the cave, slipping in sand and muck. No sooner had they gained a foothold when they heard another crack -- like a hundred trees, like the heavens splitting open.
"It's an electrical storm!" Rodney yelled under the noise. "And we're probably going to drown if there's a storm surge!"
John just held on to both of them, the sword blazing through the water with tendrils of light, while outside someone started screaming like the world had fallen on their shoulders.
*
"Hey," said Rodney three minutes later. "Cool."
Carson chanced a peek through shut eyes. "We're alive?"
"Better," said John, loosening his hold. "The sword makes a force field."
"We have to get this back, if this is what I think it is--!"
John's warm hand covered Rodney's mouth. "Remember, there are at least two of them out there."
"'Them'?" asked Carson.
"There's a look in their eyes," John said, though he didn't elaborate. He pulled the sword out of its earthen sheath, handed it to Rodney, then drew his gun to check out the immediate vicinity. A tense moment later, he called their names.
Rodney exchanged a glance with Carson. If John hadn't come back in, that meant he had company outside.
Sure enough, there was MacLeod, kneeling on the strand, panting and coughing. There was no sign of the new guy. But standing over MacLeod was Joe Dawson.
"Oh my God, is that--!" exclaimed Carson, spotting a form just a few feet away. A body. Without a head.
"What kind of sick game is this?" asked Rodney, wrapping the sword in his jacket.
"It's pretty simple," said John calmly, his aim never wavering. "Cut off someone's head, and you get their power. Otherwise, nothing can kill you. Well, it doesn't work with regular humans, but hey. Nothing new, huh?"
"John," said Dawson. "Look, the Game is older than any of us. You can't apply the usual human standards to this."
"Joe," coughed MacLeod. "You're just making it worse."
That slow Sheppard drawl, "Let me get this straight. You can probably cut me down with your sword before I get a shot out. But... I could shoot you, and cut off your head, and you wouldn't be able to come back."
"Colonel!" Carson yelled.
"John! Please, for God's sake." Joe opened his hand, leaning heavily on his cane.
"Hey, hey, just trying to establish the practical strategies of the situation," John said. "Meaning, it's probably a draw. In which case we should just go up to the bar and have a drink."
There was a tense silence. The waves lapped at MacLeod's legs.
Carson pushed through. "Sounds like a fine idea, Colonel. If you'll follow me, gentlemen, I might be persuaded to buy you a round."
"Best idea all night," agreed Rodney. He snapped his fingers in MacLeod's face as he tried to get up. "Uh uh, I know you want this letter opener, and I'm sure you could take me, but just. Don't."
John watched them trudge up the beach, and he put the safety on and tucked the gun in the back of his pants. "I told you they were crazy."
Joe's face softened into a crinkled smile. "Yeah, you did."
*
They drank hard liquor by the light of Rodney's laptop (open to a database of consumed drinks, so as to leave the correct change for the owner.)
"That is some fine craftsmanship, son," said Carson. "Er, sir."
MacLeod nodded. "Samurai steel, forged by the masters."
"So you're supposed to be their historian," Rodney was saying, cheeks flushed from two vodka shots.
"One of them," said Joe.
"But you don't know where they came from?"
MacLeod reached out and put a hand on Joe's shoulders. "You've already smashed your Watcher's vow several times over for me. Is this really safe?"
Joe sighed. "For me? Or for you? Dr. McKay here has already figured out a lot."
"Your nephew's military!" MacLeod said. "As much as I'd like to trust them..."
"We gotta report in," said John, legs taking over a booth. "That's right. Can't get rid of us, either. SGC would lock down the whole island." He covered his flinch by slouching down more. "See, the way I figure it, we do have something to trade here. A red hot secret for another red hot secret."
"Do you know what the governments of the world would do if they knew about Immortals?" said MacLeod.
John didn't back down. "Do you know what the civilian populations of the world would do if they knew about the Stargate Program?"
Carson looked from one to the other, holding his breath.
Then Rodney said, "It's a big, round device that opens wormholes to other devices. Across vast expanses of space. The number of times Earth's been saved from annihilation... not that we'd know. We don't even work in this galaxy."
John was gaping at him. "Rodney..."
"What? I've worked for the SGC longer than either of you. Combined. What are they gonna do, throw me out?"
Carson covered a laugh.
MacLeod shook his head. "You'll be long gone to this other galaxy while we deal with the repercussions of your Stargate Command finding out about us. What guarantee do I have that it won't turn into another Watcher coup? A massacre?"
"You could always pretend to be the only one of your kind," John said.
MacLeod looked up sharply. "Would that work? They'd notice I was still in the Game, sooner or later."
Rodney shook his head. "No no no, the best thing to do is negotiate with the SGC. Especially as it is currently, with O'Neill running things from the top. If you try to hide, the reports will leak out and the so-called watchdogs and even other countries would start to hunt you, just to prove you exist. If you're buried in classified files, though, it gets a little harder."
"They wouldn't interfere with the Game?"
"They probably don't have jurisdiction."
Carson poured himself another drink. "What I don't understand is how this Game of yours works. Are y'simply out to kill off the bad ones? Like that fellow who was trying to steal the sword?"
"Steal?" MacLeod said slowly. "There was no stealing involved. It was his sword, granted to his grandfather in a hostage exchange and reforged to his specifications. I got in his way, he challenged me. I'm sorry, Doctor. It's a brutal reality for us -- in the end, there can be only One."
John and Rodney's eyes met over Carson's stricken look; they'd talked about annihilating the Wraith so much that it had spilled into their pillow talk.
"I do have allies and friends," said MacLeod. "Many good friends over the years. Your uncle included, Colonel." He raised his glass. "But we all know how the Game is going to end. There's no escaping that fate."
Rodney sat up, drumming the bar. "So in the end, this 'One', whomever he or she is -- they're going to have the power of all the Immortals who ever lived?"
"That's the theory," said Joe.
Now Rodney was pacing. "Do you suppose the Ancients set up this Game? I mean, they seeded the human race. How could they not have known of you?"
"What're you brewing up there, Rodney?" prompted John.
"We have a lot of powerful enemies," said Rodney. "I've seen their work firsthand. And frankly if they get the upper hand? It's game over for all of us, mundanes and Immortals."
MacLeod swirled the ice in his glass. "You're suggesting an alliance? When each of us is technically a competing faction?"
"How about just intel," John said. "Rodney may not wanna admit it, but the science team can use all the help it can get. Even if it's remotely related... you never know. I've lost a lot of people because of lack of intel. We've come-- I've come real close, Joe." John's eyes flicked up, dropped back down. "You guys have been around ... since forever, so you might have a few tidbits here and there."
Joe nodded. "I could search the Watchers' database. Not any of the identities. But there's a lot in there, and you guys do know it first-hand."
"Will that be enough to buy our protection?" said MacLeod dryly.
Rodney snorted. "Please. As though we have the resources for a witch-hunt of that magnitude. You know how much taxpayer money got poured into the program just last year? No, wait, you don't want to know even if you had the clearance, which I do. Actually I was considering the possibility -- what if the Ancients did set up the Game? That One, that last person standing... maybe they're supposed to be a weapon. The SGC would make a long-term investment for even the slightest chance of a weapon."
MacLeod just stared at him. "That's insane."
"Here's to Rodney," said John, a loopy grin on his face.
"I don't know, it doesn't sound half bad," said Carson. "I mean, what are you truly 'playing' for? Survival? Power? What's the use? Even if we can't prove it, at least the Game will mean something to you all. Who's to say that's not your purpose? Perhaps you were meant to be Champion of Earth."
For the first time, MacLeod's face looked free of the weight of years. He drained his glass and poured another (Rodney keeping count), and said, "I'll drink to that."
A chorus of 'cheers'. Joe clapped John on the shoulder, smile splitting his face. MacLeod laughed, mellow with booze, and raised his glass again. "To the future. And to the past. I believe I know your ancestor, Dr. Beckett." Carson started, face gone slack with surprise. "My cousin, Oisian. Tall as the Colonel here. Good man, a craftsman. Good with his hands and his swords. Had twelve, thirteen children, all as tall and broad as you."
The whisky was passed around once more, and they settled down to listen.
*
"I haven't had any sleep, yet here I am," Rodney murmured. He set his bundles down by the trapdoor leading down from the widow's walk.
"You said we could see it before sunrise," said John.
Rodney grumbled perfunctorily through calibrating the telescope, in part because he knew John liked to hear his voice saying nothing at all, in part because he now trusted John to pick out what mattered, sometimes before he did. John was close, warm, the adrenaline of the night wearing down and wearing them both out.
So it was less than surprising that John was slow to the draw when the trapdoor popped open and the slim man who'd met them at the cave popped out -- and grabbed the sword.
"Hey!"
"Now, now," said the man, lips soft with a sly smile. "This really does belong to me. I didn't think that poor dolt would turn out to have such piss-poor descendants. Ah well. Live and learn."
"Put that down, I'm warning you," said John.
"Who are you?" Rodney asked again.
In the shadows the man's eyes were bright and piercing. Rodney's jacket fell away and the sword tip danced before John's throat. Somewhere Rodney was swearing but eventually that petered out too.
"Who are you?" John asked. He couldn't look at the sword. He could only look at the eyes.
"There are some things older than a city under the sea," said the man. "Remember that."
With that, the sword was gone, and the trapdoor shut.
John and Rodney looked at each other, shaken.
Then Rodney said, "You realize he locked the door, right?"
Fusion with Highlander: the Series.
This is Jim Byrnes, who plays Joe Dawson. The only reason this fic exists. *g*
The title is taken from an actual epitaph in the Brooklyn Church of Scotland Cemetery on Prince Edward Island. No disrespect is meant towards the deceased and their families; quite the opposite. Geography mistakes are entirely my own. Stargate Atlantis and the other universes do not belong to me. Unauthorized duplication or distribution prohibited.
PG for violence. Established John/Rodney. Crossover (see below). 7654 words.
Summary: A mission to uncover Carson's ancestors reshapes the future.
Tis not the whole of life to live
by Liondragon
The paved roads had given way to dusty reddish thoroughfares by the time they arrived at the coast, a short drive lengthened pleasantly by the fields of astonishing green bounded by white fences and dotted with geometrically neat farmhouses. Less pleasant was Colonel Sheppard's constant bleating out the window (the sheep didn't mind) punctuated by kicks to his seat (Dr. Rodney McKay did).
It seemed, thought Dr. Carson Beckett, that their previous visit with Rodney's sister had run both hot and cold; they were both punchy and irritable. It seemed less of a bother and more of a blessing that he'd thought of them for this last Earthside errand.
If he didn't push them off a cliff first. Alas, that might annoy Dr. Weir.
"Two rooms! I thought we had two rooms!" Rodney huffed at the motel clerk.
"It's okay, Rodney," John said. "We'll have a cot brought up." He nudged Rodney hard, and Carson rolled his eyes. It wasn't as though the cot would be used. "If that's okay with you, Carson?"
"Yes, that's fine. We'll have our own cottage to ourselves, Rodney." Carson hid a smile as John and Rodney sparred nonverbally. They'd all camped off-world together, so Carson knew they could be discreet if pressed. Still, if it was a hardship... "If it's quite all right with the two of you, that is."
John shook his head, closing the matter. "It's just overnight. We'll live."
Carson flashed a reassuring smile at the lady, who dimpled brightly at them. "We'll send someone with the cot. Very sorry for the inconvenience, gentlemen. I'll make it up to you with vouchers for dinner at the cafe. Enjoy your stay on the Island."
Rodney grabbed the vouchers and handed them to John over his shoulder. "Where's the nearest Tim Horton's?" he demanded.
*
John sighed while the clerk supplied Rodney with directions. "Did you see the telescope up on the widow's walk, Carson?"
"Oh my, yes. I wonder if they take it back inside when it storms. Someone must be a true enthusiast; from down here it seems like a 114mm aperture."
"Think we could find home?" John tipped his head to the clerk, who was finally released from Rodney's interrogation.
"Rodney can," said Carson, scooping up his bags and trying not to mind that Rodney and John flanked him. They didn't even notice they were dropping into mission stances.
"Of course I can," Rodney said. They were all oriented to the Pegasus Galaxy now.
Just then there was a loud thumping from the stairs. John and Rodney tensed. A man -- about as tall as John but broader along the shoulders -- ran down two steps at a time, and was out the door with a swirl of his trenchcoat.
"Ponytails," sniffed Rodney, dismissing the potential threat. "And yes, can we dump this stuff in our room? Let's eat early and hit the books already."
John fell behind as they exited, looking up the stairs and then back at the busy clerk. She caught his look, and called, "Mind the steps, they're slippy in the damp!"
Outside, the man was nowhere to be seen. None of the cars were gone, though there was a trail down to the beach.
When John caught up with them, Carson and Rodney were bandying the possibility of sending a radio message back home. Atlantis. "Taking into account genetic improvements, what could we possibly say that would be of any use to our descendants?" Rodney was saying.
"You saying they'd be smarter than you, Rodney?" Carson said.
Rodney glared till John bumped shoulders. "I made a time capsule once. I remember thinking my descendants would think it was cool."
Rodney's mouth twisted into a half-smile. "Of course you'd have thought that."
"C'mon, Rodney. A way to communicate with your past. Or future. It's very cool."
"Whatever happened to it, Colonel?" asked Carson.
"They pulled out the oak tree next to it, so I guess it got bulldozed. Too bad. I put in a perfectly good cheese sandwich." His lips curved mischievously. "Double bagged too."
"That's disgusting," said Carson amiably.
They settled into the cozy room with a little perfunctory fussing. John tested the beds by bouncing on them and then Rodney went ballistic over the small cache of unregistered weapons in John's kit. They hurried back outside, though, their argument muted to a debate over ATA-and-grilled-cheese civilizations. It was the sea, so close before them. The motel was perched on a rocky cliff, its jagged outcrops meandering into the surf. Here in the cradle of the Gulf of St. Lawrence, the harsher Atlantic waters which buffeted Nova Scotia and Newfoundland were far to the south and east. It was less easy to imagine its namesake city fitting into this protected bay, but familiar enough that all three sought out its soothing waves.
*
The cafe shared a parking lot with the motel; they had it to themselves. It was nearly as good as a home-cooked meal, the seafood fresh and succulent, the food hearty enough to cause Carson to issue some health advisories till Rodney scowled at him. They were soon well-satisfied and ready to hit the books as it were. While John made faces at the poutine and continued to steal it from Rodney's plate, Carson chatted up the waitress. "Do you suppose it'll storm tonight?"
"No, it'll be a fine night for a drive. If you take the road to this end, there's a better view of the wildlife. A much nicer promontory than the little one we've got here."
"It's quite nice, I assure you," Carson smiled. "We're actually here on a bit of business."
"Are you the archaeologists then?"
Rodney paused for a second, then switched to eating his vinegar and chips.
Carson cleared his throat. "Genealogy, as a matter of fact. Though it might turn into archaeology if we hit a dead end."
"Your family's from the Island, then?"
"Part of my family. A lost branch, I'm hoping."
John leaned back, posture open in a way that made Rodney roll his eyes. "So have you had an attack of archaeologists lately?"
"Oh, you know, rumors flying around. There's supposedly a Viking sword buried around here."
"You mean Vinland," said Rodney, like it was the Loch Ness Monster. Carson just raised a brow -- just because Stargate Command hadn't located a Nessie didn't mean the Ancients hadn't left one lying about, and the same went for the location of the pre-Columbus Norse settlements. That was partly why Carson had taken Dr. Jackson up on his research request. They had a different definition of 'far-fetched' after all this time.
The waitress confirmed that someone had been asking around about Vinland, but that she hadn't seen any research teams in the neighborhood. Rodney, normally oblivious to such small talk, was keyed up by John's wary curiosity, which in turn made Carson nervous.
*
The tension broke when they stepped out into the late afternoon light, and John froze in mid-step, nearly stumbling off the curb. "--usually Newfoundland or Baffin Island, not Prince Edward-- Sheppard, what's the matter?" Rodney nudged him.
John's head tilted up like a bird dog -- even his hair seemed to stand on end. It would have been more endearing if it didn't remind Rodney of moments just before off-world ambushes. "Hey!" yelled John, and he started running across the parking lot.
Carson and Rodney exchanged glances and went after him. "Great, he's accosting strange men, now..."
"Hey!" John called again. He was approaching an older gentleman who was limping towards a taxi. The guy looked up, and Rodney stopped in his tracks.
"What the hell?" the guy said, as John skidded to a halt in front of him.
John was momentarily speechless, grin plastered on his face, bouncing on his toes. "Uncle Joe! Geez, remember me?" And without waiting for an answer, he hugged him.
"My God!" The man lit up with an identical grin. His face was heavier-set and his spiky hair was all grey, but the stubbled chin and the smile were certainly family heirlooms. He pounded John's back. "Little John! Not so little anymore. What the hell are you doing here?" He got his wallet out and paid off the taxi.
"I'm on leave. Guys, this is Joe Dawson, my long-lost coolest uncle ever. Dr. Carson Beckett, Dr. Rodney McKay. Carson's the medical one, Rodney's smarter than God." Rodney almost snorted at this cheap ploy to butter him up, but it was working, so he smirked instead.
"Pleased to meet you." Dawson's handshake was warm and firm. Rodney realized that he was leaning on a cane, and that both his legs were artificial. Oh yes, definitely related to John Sheppard. "And it's actually a little more distant than 'uncle,' which is why the long-lost." He seemed vaguely apologetic. Then he noticed Sheppard's jacket. "Hey! Air Force? What's your rank, Johnny?"
Rodney caught his breath when John puffed up. "Lieutenant Colonel. Not that I deserve it."
"Bull. Bet you've sweat for every demerit. What brings you to the island?"
"One of my own errands, I'm afraid," said Carson in his heavy brogue. "We're conducting a little research into my family."
"Oh yeah?" A speculative look flashed on Dawson's face. "I was headed for the archives myself."
"You could come with us," said John eagerly.
Dawson clapped John on the shoulder, and for all the world John looked like he'd gotten a medal. "Sounds like a plan. Maybe you can tell me about those demerits."
John stiffened. Rodney noticed, and answered for him. "I'm afraid our work's classified, Mr. Dawson." The brief shadow on John's face winked out. "Though you're right about the colonel. He's earned every bit of it." Carson seconded this enthusiastically.
"Well then, I'll tell you about my demerits," said Dawson. "Don't worry. I did my time in 'Nam, I know about classified. And son, just call me Joe." Rodney got a clap on the shoulder, and John looked like he'd gotten a medal.
In no time they had piled into their rented car, John squeezing in the back with his uncle. "Scottish, are you, Dr. Beckett?"
"Aye. M'mother was disowned, you see. The Becketts were part of a rival clan, and she married against her parent's wishes." Of course he didn't mention that the ATA gene hadn't come from his father's side.
Dawson nodded gravely. "Those rival clans sure know how to hold a grudge."
"And there was property involved. Ancestral lands. Still involved, actually, which is why I'm starting here and not in Scotland. I'm betting on a side-branch that doesn't want to spit in my whisky and step on my boots, if you take my meaning. Besides, anyone who's going to trace it back that far is going to have to go into the Highlands and dig out the oral history." Carson sighed. "And this is family I never knew. Mum was one of seven. I might have lived next door to one of my relatives and not known it."
"Hence the moral support," said Sheppard. "Don't worry, Carson, we're right here to help you ah, exhume your past. Ow!" McKay had hit him again. "Quit it!"
"No more Evil Dead for you," said Rodney easily. Dawson grinned at him, amused, which surprisingly made him relax... just a little.
"What are you doing out here, Uncle Joe? You live here?"
"Nah. Same mission as you. I was in the neighborhood and I thought I'd look up some names for a friend. I'm... here and there. The last decade, it was mostly Paris."
"France, cool. You did the whole American in Paris thing, huh?"
"Better." Joe tapped the floor with his cane. "I ran a bar. Booked jazz acts."
John looked like he was going to implode. "Better than cool! Rodney, d'you hear that? A jazz club!"
"I heard. Stop rocking the car, Sheppard. You're like a puppy on speed."
Carson chuckled. "We could requisition that collar and lead the senior staff's always on about."
"With our luck, Carson, it'll still be too long," Rodney sighed.
"See," said John. "See what I have to work with."
Joe laughed. "Yeah, and with your luck, you'll be friends for life."
"With our luck," snorted Rodney. John kicked the back of his seat.
The older man kept smiling, but his eyes dimmed with some inner thought... a memory, perhaps. "Yeah, you fellows are still young. But when you get to my age, or older, you'll be surprised how much stays with you. Sometimes you've got to trust it to work out, even when it doesn't."
They fell silent as the bright countryside rolled by.
"You've a very wise uncle, Colonel," said Carson.
"Obviously the genetics are good. Did he fall off a high place when he was an infant?" Rodney smirked. "Sheppard can be short on that wisdom."
John groused. "Next time you're paying for your own pie, McKay."
"Wisdom's not what I'm known for," Joe chuckled. "But I did stop him from jumping off a high place."
A groan emanated from behind Rodney's seat.
"Do tell, Joe," said Carson. "We've not enough stories for embarrassing the Colonel."
"Could've fooled me," said John.
"Well, he was practicing his flight patterns off the back porch when his daddy hauled him off for disturbing him and his buddies. He was about four, five years old. Really little John, stringy as a bean. Anyway, I wasn't quite the black sheep I am now, and I was sitting back there when one of the flyboys told little John that he just didn't have enough height for take-off. Naturally I got suspicious when the tyke disappeared."
"What did he do?" asked Rodney in a horrified voice.
"I found him on top of a stool... on top of the kitchen counter. Between the spice rack and the knives, and damned if I didn't have a coronary on the spot. It took a little work to ground him before his mother arrived, too. My old set of legs weren't as good as these."
"And he didn't tell Mom or Dad," said John proudly.
"Yep. Successful covert operation," grinned Joe. "Next week I took him to the county fair and we rode the Ferris wheel six times in a row."
"The coolest. Ever." John slouched back. "That was one of the last times I saw you, wasn't it?"
"Yeah... the last time, I think. I got caught up in Europe, then managed to fall out with the rest of the family. I was a bad influence, see. I was a vet and I didn't give a damn about the rules."
Rodney craned back to look at them. "That legacy has most certainly lived on." John smiled back and gave him a lazy salute.
Joe ruffled John's hair. "Glad to hear it, little John."
*
By the time they got to the archives, John's enthusiasm had fizzled off into wariness; Rodney could guess that it was the frustration of not being able to open up with his beloved uncle. For himself, it was easy with Jeannie and her family. Misdirection and non-communication were staples in the McKay household. Not to mention that it was hardly his first covert project. But damn it, with all his accomplishments John ought to have bragging rights with long-lost family.
Rodney snatched Carson's list and divided it in two. Carson took the hint. "Little Johnny, go spend time with your uncle. We'll dig through the stacks."
"You sure?" John glanced at Rodney.
"Meticulous research bores you, remember? There's nothing to poke or take apart or detonate, either." Rodney went to his side. "Be serious, John. When are you getting another chance? Go ahead and... tell him stuff."
John perked. "Stuff? Stuff-stuff?"
"Yes, really. Our stuff, not--"
"Yeah, not that stuff. Our stuff. Wow. Okay." Carson cleared his throat before John could do something like kiss Rodney in the middle of city hall.
Rodney made shooing motions. "Go on, don't just stand there like an electrocuted rabbit."
"Aye, lad, we're going to need you later for the manual labor." Carson grinned.
When he'd gone to join Joe, Rodney threw up his hands. "MENSA, Carson. Unbelievable."
"We make do with what we have," said Carson mildly, donning gloves and peeling open an old tome.
The sun was sinking when Carson finally matched up the shaking handwriting on the ledgers with the cemetery map. "Found them."
"Your eyes are going to bleed out of your skull," Rodney pronounced. "Are any of these people actually in your clan? None of them are named Beckett."
"That's not how it works, Rodney," Carson said for the umpteenth time.
"The soft sciences suck."
"On that note," Carson scrambled up, stretching. "Let's collect Colonel Sheppard and do some digging."
As if on cue, Sheppard appeared. But he looked like all his silver linings had turned to clouds, and Joe Dawson was nowhere in sight.
Rodney was up like a shot. "What happened to you?"
"He gave me the slip," said John tightly. "Crazy old man. He got a phone call, we kept talking. And uh," he looked away.
Carson shook his head. This couldn't be good.
Rodney caught it too. "You told him about us."
"Yeah. We had a lot to talk about in the meantime. So I saved it till last. Damn it. Then he said he was gonna use the can, and he didn't come back."
"I'm sure it's pretty safe out there," said Carson.
John laughed sourly. "He can take care of himself, believe me."
Rodney's mouth twisted. "Look, okay, we only have another day here, if that. We've got names, the graveyard's down the road, let's get to work, get on our knees and start rubbing."
There was a pause, then John started grinning. Carson put a hand over his mouth.
"Oh shut up," growled Rodney. "You know I meant wax rubbings."
"Sure, Rodney," John said, a mite more relaxed. He still made a point of scanning the road when they came out of the building, like he was trying to pick up a scent.
*
Of course the most logical explanation, at least to Carson's mind, was that Joe Dawson had been called away by whomever had rung him. Unfortunately, before he could mention this to the Colonel, the birds started flying out of the trees.
"Bloody hell, now what," said Carson, looking up from his digital camera.
Rodney lay back on the grass between the graves, notebook open on his lap. "I don't know. The hairs on the back of my neck are prickling. John. Hey. Do you smell ozone?" He rubbed at his knees, then sat up, ready to run, already covered behind a crumbling gravestone.
John opened his mouth to say something, but then there was a crack, like a hundred-year-old tree snapping. Then the forest erupted with the sounds of metal on metal. They all recognized it from Ronon's many long-sword demonstrations. "Down!" John said unnecessarily. Carson and Rodney went flat. They were closer to the trees than John -- it was probably someone's farmland. The fighting was the distinct staccato of a duel in earnest, no play-acting here. Then it stopped.
For long minutes they didn't hear anything but a few passing cars and the click of John's safety.
"Are we through eating dirt yet?" Rodney whispered. "Because of all the dirt in all the galaxies, I'd rather not eat this."
"Gross," said John easily, his eyes on the trees. "And I'll keep that in mind. We're pretty sure that wasn't an animal, right?"
"It's all domesticated around here," said Carson.
"And I'm pretty sure I'd have heard of an animal that can fence," said Rodney, sitting up. Apologetically he patted the rectangle of the grave before propping his back against the tombstone.
John grimaced. "I don't like this. Let's go back to the car."
"What, are we assuming that if they've got swords, they have guns? Why not use the guns?"
Carson was already gathering his things. "Rodney, d'you really want to stay and find out?"
Rodney humphed. "Please tell me you didn't think it was a ghost."
"Maybe," John said impatiently, "He thought it was a psycho with a s--" He whirled, weapon up. "Who are you?"
A black shape stepped out of the shadows. "Sorry," it said in a Scottish brogue, layered with continental traces. "Good afternoon. Am I interrupting anything?"
"John, for god's sake, put the gun away," Rodney hissed.
"I don't have a gun," said the stranger. He ambled forward, legs half-hidden by a tall marker, hands open.
"Lieutenant Colonel John Sheppard. You might want to make more noise than that." John glanced down at the man's hands. After a breathless moment, he lowered his weapon.
The man's voice turned dry. "My apologies, Colonel." He held out his hand to shake. "I didn't expect a squadron down here."
"Hey!" Rodney said suddenly. "You're that guy at the hotel!"
John glared at Rodney. As good as announcing where they lived.
The stranger cast an eye on them all. He was darkly handsome, his lips tugged into an easy smile even as tension hardened his face. "Since we're doing introductions, I am Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod."
"Dr. Rodney McKay," this said with a chin-lift. Before Rodney could go on, Carson cut in.
"The Clan MacLeod! That's my mother's clan, supposedly. We were looking for her. I mean, not her, she's in Scotland," and then MacLeod started speaking Gaelic.
A full minute later, Carson was wandering around with the stranger pointing at gravestones. John and Rodney hurried after them-- Rodney to argue with Carson whenever he stopped to speak English, and John to steer Carson into a fairly safe distance from the guy. Both John and Rodney were spooked. The guy moved slowly but he moved like a panther, like Ronon and Teyla put together. The effect was only spoiled by squish, squish of his boots.
Not to mention, it was too warm for trenchcoats.
"Uh, I really think we should go now," Rodney spoke into a rare pause.
"Dr. McKay's right," said MacLeod unexpectedly. "I don't want to keep you from your holiday. Prince Edward Island's far too pleasant to miss."
"We're very pleased to have met you," burbled Carson.
"I mean right now, please? Not later, now," Rodney said, and John made their excuses and herded them back to the car. Duncan flashed a white smile, turning to shuffle away.
"That was below our usual standards of courtesy, don't you think?" said Carson, getting into the driver's seat.
"Carson," said John sharply. His command voice. "Just turn on the engine and get us out of here. Rodney? Hey, head between the knees," he paused to listen to the muttered answer. "No, your brain will not splatter on the back of the seats. You have your seatbelt."
Carson was growing more and more annoyed. "Rodney, I promise I'll have a look at you--"
"Not me, for god's sake!" Rodney raised his head, not even commenting on the warm hand he was clinging to. "This Duncan guy. Didn't you smell anything around him? No, of course not, you were too busy with your kilted Highland bonding."
"Rodney," John snapped.
"Fine, yes, but didn't you notice? You heard it though. His boots?"
"They were wet?" John said slowly. "I thought he'd stomped on a puddle."
"Bloody boots." Rodney paused. "I mean, actually bloody. Do you get me now? He was bleeding out right in front of us."
Carson slowed the car down and pulled over. He swung around to join John in staring at Rodney. "Are you serious?"
"Pardon me if I say dead serious! He was leaving bloody footprints in the grass." Rodney ground his teeth. "Probably bled down his pant leg and for it to be enough to soak through those boots of his? You were talking for fifteen minutes! Do I need to give you a flow coefficient, Carson? Or can you figure it out on your own?"
"But he looked hale and hearty to me!" Carson said, eyes wide.
"Yeah, Rodney. He seemed okay," said John.
"I'm not going to give you the difference between delusion and illusion speech. Carson, please turn this car around and bring us back there."
"But..."
"Are you scared?" sneered Rodney, his voice still shaky.
"Well yes, a wee bit."
Rodney groaned. "Great, just great. If you're afraid it's a ghost, if it really is then you wouldn't find any bloody footprints, correct?"
John nodded, in control of himself again. "And if there are bloody footprints, then it's definitely not a ghost. Just a human being with a hidden agenda. And we're fairly sure that kind can't be undead, right?"
There was a half-hearted groan from Rodney. "Can we just go and see for ourselves before you order a sawed off shotgun?"
Carson blustered, "He can't be either of those things!" though he did turn around and start the car.
"What do you mean?" John asked.
"Because he's looking for the sword!" Carson burst out. "He's the one the waitress was talking about. It's called the Sword of the Norn, and it was a 2,500 year old heirloom reforged in northern Europe and brought over with the first Norsemen settling the New World." He glanced up at Rodney's burning stare. "That's what he said!"
*
Five minutes later they were back at the graveyard. John had his gun out, his brow wrinkling. Carson dusted off the knees of his trousers and said, whey-faced, "Massive blood loss. He ought to have been unconscious."
"You mean I was right?" Rodney squeaked. "I mean, of course I'm right, but in this case..."
John cleared his throat. "Or, y'know, the obvious. It wasn't his blood."
The three of them looked around the empty graveyard.
"There's a bar behind the cafe," said John abruptly. "Let's get the hell out of here."
There were no objections to that.
*
They ended up missing out on the bar (though John did charm the keys from the bartender, who said she'd add it to the motel's bill). Rodney wanted to call the SGC, Carson wanted to write down everything MacLeod had said, and then John walked out to get a beer and ran into his uncle.
"We'll be in the cafe," John said through the half-open door.
"You need us?" Rodney asked, as though John needed cover fire.
"Nah, I'll be fine." John scratched his head. "He's a little embarrassed that he ducked out. Seems he's on-call with an egghead." It was supposed to be the usual snark, but the uncertainty was leaking through, making him look very young.
Rodney all but swallowed his bottom lip not saying anything, so Carson shooed John off for them both.
Two hours later, the day's weirdness had given through to the excitement of discovery. "That was Jackson!" Rodney said, snapping his phone shut. "The Sword of the Norn is supposed to bestow mystical powers on its wielder. Blah, blah, blah, the usual."
"The usual?" said Carson, half-turning from his laptop. "As in?"
"Ancient!" Rodney crowed. "Probably. It fits the M.O. of the time period, whatever that means."
Carson looked thoughtful. "We already confirmed he wasn't checked in at any of the area motels. D'you suppose MacLeod wasn't an archaeologist? What if he's just a treasure hunter?"
"It's possible." Rodney said. "His background check comes out clean, though the Sergeant I spoke to seemed to think they ought to run something more thorough in the morning. Not enough to merit a containment team, they said, contact the locals if he's a serial killer. But either way..."
"We have to beat them to it," said John. "All this time, and you guys put your backs to an open door?"
Rodney bristled. "We knew it was you!" Then he spied what John had in his hands. "Oh my god, beaver tails. Oh my god, coffee!" He held out both hands. "C'mon, give it here. God, I love you."
"Doesn't take much," remarked Carson.
John grinned, plucked the laptop from Rodney, and spread out the rest of their dinner. "So I'm guessing Jackson dumped a lot of data on us?"
"Aye. It's a long shot that it's here on this island, but there certainly seems to be interest."
Rodney paused between coffee slurps. "By the way, I am done with soft sciences for today. Also, save the rims, you might win something."
John raised a brow. "You're not gonna help?"
"John, even I can't put together an Ancient scanner with paper clips and motel stationery." He gulped down more coffee. "If we're going to find this lost sword in less than twelve hours, then we're going to have to do it the old-fashioned way."
"Yeah, and by 'we' you mean us," John said. "You look wiped. Get some rest, Rodney."
*
"Wha's wrong," said Rodney muzzily.
John shifted beside him, listening to Carson tapping away at his laptop on the porch. As the waitress had predicted, the weather was fine and mild, the sea a quiet lull in the distance. "Joe's lying to me," John said at last. "About something."
"We're lying to him," Rodney pointed out.
"This is something else," murmured John.
Despite himself, Rodney fell asleep soon after.
*
It was deep into the summer night, the stars alight over the sea and all the coast slumbering but for a few daring souls. The night stillness tasted the same everywhere. It was like a moment out of time, Carson thought.
Then the stillness was interrupted by a bump and a string of swear words.
"Where are you going!" Rodney scrambled out of sheets. Carson and John were nearly out the door. "I tolerate a lot of crap from you, John Sheppard, but I'm not going to stand for you taking off with my foot-warmer while you have a drink in the middle of the night!"
John rolled his eyes. "Would you put a lid on it? We're going to see if this sword thing is real."
Rodney was already out of bed. "What? What? You're going to climb down a cliff over the ocean and you weren't even going to tell me? Shall I linger on the widow's walk while we're at it?"
"I thought pseudoscience wasn't your thing..."
"We made a lot of noise, Rodney," Carson said. "We thought we'd let you sleep."
"I can't sleep while my feet are cold," said Rodney, yanking on his trousers. "And now I'm going to be wet and cold and cramp up and probably drown."
"You don't have to come with us," John said. "We're only going now because it's low tide."
"Are you joking? You've lost it, right? Because if this thing is as old as that MacLeod creep said it was, it might just be some Ancient souvenir." Rodney stormed past John, thumping his side. "As though I'd let Jackson take the credit for this one."
"That's exactly what we were thinking," said Carson conversationally to the hotel door. He locked it and hurried to catch up with the others.
They went down the wooden stairs to the pale beach. John walked along the line of flotsam, pointing out crabs and other weird moving things that Rodney swore were bloodsucking worms. The base of the sandstone promontory, now exposed by the tide, loomed ominously in the nighttime where it had jutted proudly in the day.
Later Rodney would grouse that of course it had been John's fault. He'd not gone two steps into the hollow they'd found when a light suddenly glared out. "ATA activation!" whispered Carson excitedly.
"Careful, the rocks are sharper here," said John, following the glow.
"Fat lot of good it'll do us if the cave falls on our heads," muttered Rodney.
"Relax, Rodney." John felt around the glow, and it dimmed a little. "Good, 'off' works. So we're one for one, right? One sword in the wall, check. What's this sword supposed to do, again?"
Carson shielded his eyes. "Maybe it's the Grail beacon."
"Not you too," Rodney huffed. "This is not Castle-- wait. Wait wait wait! Ancient tech planted on Earth was supposed to be non-obtrusive. Why is this glowing, then? It's being..." he squinted at the coruscating beams. "Too showy."
"It's sort of like a luxury car," said a new voice, and John slipped on the mud trying to turn and draw his weapon at the same time. "You're in a parking lot, just push a button and cheep, cheep, your car tells you where it is."
"Who are you!" Rodney demanded.
"Good question," said the figure easily. "Relative to you? I'm the owner of that sword. The original." Then all of them froze; there was the sound of metal clanging on metal, very close. "Aha, that's my cue. Take good care of her in the meantime. Don't get dead!" Then with a cheerful wave, the figure slipped away.
"What the--"
"Come back here!" John didn't dare shout at top volume. Especially if they were dealing with humans who might be a little different, and who were definitely a lot nuts.
Suddenly it was silent. Too silent. Carson pointed. "Oh my. I thought the tide was supposed to be low."
"Rodney! C'mon, farther in, higher!" John hauled them up to the back of the cave, slipping in sand and muck. No sooner had they gained a foothold when they heard another crack -- like a hundred trees, like the heavens splitting open.
"It's an electrical storm!" Rodney yelled under the noise. "And we're probably going to drown if there's a storm surge!"
John just held on to both of them, the sword blazing through the water with tendrils of light, while outside someone started screaming like the world had fallen on their shoulders.
*
"Hey," said Rodney three minutes later. "Cool."
Carson chanced a peek through shut eyes. "We're alive?"
"Better," said John, loosening his hold. "The sword makes a force field."
"We have to get this back, if this is what I think it is--!"
John's warm hand covered Rodney's mouth. "Remember, there are at least two of them out there."
"'Them'?" asked Carson.
"There's a look in their eyes," John said, though he didn't elaborate. He pulled the sword out of its earthen sheath, handed it to Rodney, then drew his gun to check out the immediate vicinity. A tense moment later, he called their names.
Rodney exchanged a glance with Carson. If John hadn't come back in, that meant he had company outside.
Sure enough, there was MacLeod, kneeling on the strand, panting and coughing. There was no sign of the new guy. But standing over MacLeod was Joe Dawson.
"Oh my God, is that--!" exclaimed Carson, spotting a form just a few feet away. A body. Without a head.
"What kind of sick game is this?" asked Rodney, wrapping the sword in his jacket.
"It's pretty simple," said John calmly, his aim never wavering. "Cut off someone's head, and you get their power. Otherwise, nothing can kill you. Well, it doesn't work with regular humans, but hey. Nothing new, huh?"
"John," said Dawson. "Look, the Game is older than any of us. You can't apply the usual human standards to this."
"Joe," coughed MacLeod. "You're just making it worse."
That slow Sheppard drawl, "Let me get this straight. You can probably cut me down with your sword before I get a shot out. But... I could shoot you, and cut off your head, and you wouldn't be able to come back."
"Colonel!" Carson yelled.
"John! Please, for God's sake." Joe opened his hand, leaning heavily on his cane.
"Hey, hey, just trying to establish the practical strategies of the situation," John said. "Meaning, it's probably a draw. In which case we should just go up to the bar and have a drink."
There was a tense silence. The waves lapped at MacLeod's legs.
Carson pushed through. "Sounds like a fine idea, Colonel. If you'll follow me, gentlemen, I might be persuaded to buy you a round."
"Best idea all night," agreed Rodney. He snapped his fingers in MacLeod's face as he tried to get up. "Uh uh, I know you want this letter opener, and I'm sure you could take me, but just. Don't."
John watched them trudge up the beach, and he put the safety on and tucked the gun in the back of his pants. "I told you they were crazy."
Joe's face softened into a crinkled smile. "Yeah, you did."
*
They drank hard liquor by the light of Rodney's laptop (open to a database of consumed drinks, so as to leave the correct change for the owner.)
"That is some fine craftsmanship, son," said Carson. "Er, sir."
MacLeod nodded. "Samurai steel, forged by the masters."
"So you're supposed to be their historian," Rodney was saying, cheeks flushed from two vodka shots.
"One of them," said Joe.
"But you don't know where they came from?"
MacLeod reached out and put a hand on Joe's shoulders. "You've already smashed your Watcher's vow several times over for me. Is this really safe?"
Joe sighed. "For me? Or for you? Dr. McKay here has already figured out a lot."
"Your nephew's military!" MacLeod said. "As much as I'd like to trust them..."
"We gotta report in," said John, legs taking over a booth. "That's right. Can't get rid of us, either. SGC would lock down the whole island." He covered his flinch by slouching down more. "See, the way I figure it, we do have something to trade here. A red hot secret for another red hot secret."
"Do you know what the governments of the world would do if they knew about Immortals?" said MacLeod.
John didn't back down. "Do you know what the civilian populations of the world would do if they knew about the Stargate Program?"
Carson looked from one to the other, holding his breath.
Then Rodney said, "It's a big, round device that opens wormholes to other devices. Across vast expanses of space. The number of times Earth's been saved from annihilation... not that we'd know. We don't even work in this galaxy."
John was gaping at him. "Rodney..."
"What? I've worked for the SGC longer than either of you. Combined. What are they gonna do, throw me out?"
Carson covered a laugh.
MacLeod shook his head. "You'll be long gone to this other galaxy while we deal with the repercussions of your Stargate Command finding out about us. What guarantee do I have that it won't turn into another Watcher coup? A massacre?"
"You could always pretend to be the only one of your kind," John said.
MacLeod looked up sharply. "Would that work? They'd notice I was still in the Game, sooner or later."
Rodney shook his head. "No no no, the best thing to do is negotiate with the SGC. Especially as it is currently, with O'Neill running things from the top. If you try to hide, the reports will leak out and the so-called watchdogs and even other countries would start to hunt you, just to prove you exist. If you're buried in classified files, though, it gets a little harder."
"They wouldn't interfere with the Game?"
"They probably don't have jurisdiction."
Carson poured himself another drink. "What I don't understand is how this Game of yours works. Are y'simply out to kill off the bad ones? Like that fellow who was trying to steal the sword?"
"Steal?" MacLeod said slowly. "There was no stealing involved. It was his sword, granted to his grandfather in a hostage exchange and reforged to his specifications. I got in his way, he challenged me. I'm sorry, Doctor. It's a brutal reality for us -- in the end, there can be only One."
John and Rodney's eyes met over Carson's stricken look; they'd talked about annihilating the Wraith so much that it had spilled into their pillow talk.
"I do have allies and friends," said MacLeod. "Many good friends over the years. Your uncle included, Colonel." He raised his glass. "But we all know how the Game is going to end. There's no escaping that fate."
Rodney sat up, drumming the bar. "So in the end, this 'One', whomever he or she is -- they're going to have the power of all the Immortals who ever lived?"
"That's the theory," said Joe.
Now Rodney was pacing. "Do you suppose the Ancients set up this Game? I mean, they seeded the human race. How could they not have known of you?"
"What're you brewing up there, Rodney?" prompted John.
"We have a lot of powerful enemies," said Rodney. "I've seen their work firsthand. And frankly if they get the upper hand? It's game over for all of us, mundanes and Immortals."
MacLeod swirled the ice in his glass. "You're suggesting an alliance? When each of us is technically a competing faction?"
"How about just intel," John said. "Rodney may not wanna admit it, but the science team can use all the help it can get. Even if it's remotely related... you never know. I've lost a lot of people because of lack of intel. We've come-- I've come real close, Joe." John's eyes flicked up, dropped back down. "You guys have been around ... since forever, so you might have a few tidbits here and there."
Joe nodded. "I could search the Watchers' database. Not any of the identities. But there's a lot in there, and you guys do know it first-hand."
"Will that be enough to buy our protection?" said MacLeod dryly.
Rodney snorted. "Please. As though we have the resources for a witch-hunt of that magnitude. You know how much taxpayer money got poured into the program just last year? No, wait, you don't want to know even if you had the clearance, which I do. Actually I was considering the possibility -- what if the Ancients did set up the Game? That One, that last person standing... maybe they're supposed to be a weapon. The SGC would make a long-term investment for even the slightest chance of a weapon."
MacLeod just stared at him. "That's insane."
"Here's to Rodney," said John, a loopy grin on his face.
"I don't know, it doesn't sound half bad," said Carson. "I mean, what are you truly 'playing' for? Survival? Power? What's the use? Even if we can't prove it, at least the Game will mean something to you all. Who's to say that's not your purpose? Perhaps you were meant to be Champion of Earth."
For the first time, MacLeod's face looked free of the weight of years. He drained his glass and poured another (Rodney keeping count), and said, "I'll drink to that."
A chorus of 'cheers'. Joe clapped John on the shoulder, smile splitting his face. MacLeod laughed, mellow with booze, and raised his glass again. "To the future. And to the past. I believe I know your ancestor, Dr. Beckett." Carson started, face gone slack with surprise. "My cousin, Oisian. Tall as the Colonel here. Good man, a craftsman. Good with his hands and his swords. Had twelve, thirteen children, all as tall and broad as you."
The whisky was passed around once more, and they settled down to listen.
*
"I haven't had any sleep, yet here I am," Rodney murmured. He set his bundles down by the trapdoor leading down from the widow's walk.
"You said we could see it before sunrise," said John.
Rodney grumbled perfunctorily through calibrating the telescope, in part because he knew John liked to hear his voice saying nothing at all, in part because he now trusted John to pick out what mattered, sometimes before he did. John was close, warm, the adrenaline of the night wearing down and wearing them both out.
So it was less than surprising that John was slow to the draw when the trapdoor popped open and the slim man who'd met them at the cave popped out -- and grabbed the sword.
"Hey!"
"Now, now," said the man, lips soft with a sly smile. "This really does belong to me. I didn't think that poor dolt would turn out to have such piss-poor descendants. Ah well. Live and learn."
"Put that down, I'm warning you," said John.
"Who are you?" Rodney asked again.
In the shadows the man's eyes were bright and piercing. Rodney's jacket fell away and the sword tip danced before John's throat. Somewhere Rodney was swearing but eventually that petered out too.
"Who are you?" John asked. He couldn't look at the sword. He could only look at the eyes.
"There are some things older than a city under the sea," said the man. "Remember that."
With that, the sword was gone, and the trapdoor shut.
John and Rodney looked at each other, shaken.
Then Rodney said, "You realize he locked the door, right?"
Fusion with Highlander: the Series.
This is Jim Byrnes, who plays Joe Dawson. The only reason this fic exists. *g*
