fic: a good solution (spygate)
auficathon ficathon: melyanna requested spygate, sheppard/weir, getting very drunk and trying to forget a messy mission.
STATUS: Complete
SUMMARY: And the man with the golden gun thinks he knows so much.
RATING: PG
CLASSIFICATIONS: John/Elizabeth, spygate
SOUNDTRACK: "Cornflake Girl" (Tori Amos)
ARCHIVING: Do not archive. Thank you.
NOTES: Late, late, so very, very late! *shamed* Latin translations in mouseover.
THANKS TO: phrenitis for the awesome betaing. *smooch*
WORDS: 3,933
DISCLAIMER: Not mine. Don't sue.
Copyright anr; August 2007.
* * * * *
A Good Solution by anr
* * * * *
They assassinated Talus Asuran on a Tuesday night, thirteen blocks from the Asuran Institute's San Francisco offices. It took a hundred cc's of felicium and just under fifteen minutes, but AI's co-founder (and head of NanoTech Research) died quietly in his own home, a quirky half-smile on his lips.
Later, John would remember wishing he knew what was so damn amusing.
*
this is not really happening (you bet your life it is)
*
The bar is a dive, a speakeasy with half its windows boarded up and most of its furniture poorly repaired. He likes to think he's seen worse over the years but that might be bias talking.
He takes a seat at the end of the bar, his back to the room, and stares at everything except his own reflection in the mirrored wall behind the bar until the bartender moves into his line of sight.
"What do you want?"
He doesn't bother with eye contact. "How about a water?"
"This isn't that kind of place."
"Right." A bottle of beer is set unceremoniously in front of him, and he swaps it for a handful of dollar bills. "Thanks."
"Whatever."
Grabbing his beer, he gets up and walks away.
*
He finds a table in the corner and nurses his beer slowly. He has a clear view of the entire room from here and he watches unobtrusively. Most of the patrons seem to be blue collar workers and happy to ignore the loner drowning his sorrows in the corner; he's careful to maintain an appropriately depressed mien.
A woman approaches, young and pretty looking. "You look like you could use some company," she says, smiling suggestively, and he hooks the opposite chair with his foot so that she can't pull it out.
"Don't believe everything you see."
He looks behind her and watches the bartender cut someone off until she turns and walks away.
*
He watches a couple break up, a couple make out, and a couple at the next table play a game of chess (white knight to D6 would win the game in two moves). A group near the door are listening to the latest game while a group at the bar are trolling. Raised voices, occasionally, but no fighting, just conversations about work, about politics and religion, the internet, sports, families and friends and, helping it all along, enough alcohol to make any publican a profit.
When one of the floor staff (male, asian, early twenties with ink stained fingertips; the other is blonde, older, and not nearly as competent) clears his table, he buys a second beer.
*
A couple minutes before closing, he heads to the men's room and locks himself in the stall. The graffiti on the back of the door is no cleaner than the rest of the place but at least it gives him something to read while he waits. He finds himself wondering if Staci-with-an-i really could give him the advertised ride of his life and memorises her number out of habit.
When he's confident enough time has passed, he leaves.
*
The bar is all but empty, the other patrons gone and only the handful of staff remaining. He ignores them and heads back to his table in the corner. From there he watches the floor staff clean the tables and the bar, the bouncer from the door helping to straighten the chairs. They all look at him curiously from time to time, but no one asks him to leave. At the end of the bar, the bartender is counting the night's takings.
He rocks back in his chair so that his head and shoulders can rest against the back wall and closes his eyes.
*
He listens to them leave, one by one, until it's just her and him and an empty bar. He opens his eyes when he hears her walking over. She's carrying two glasses and a bottle of vodka but the towel that had been slung on her shoulder and the uniform black apron are gone.
"Hello, Farmboy."
He lets gravity tip his chair forward, the legs hitting the wooden floorboards with a thud and an echo. "Sparky."
Taking the chair opposite him, she pours them both a drink.
*
He's been aware of her all night -- has even watched her with a (hopefully) absent expression as she tended to her bar -- but it's only now, with everyone else gone, that he allows himself the opportunity to really look.
Her hair is darker, longer, pulled back into a plait, and she's wearing glasses that he knows she doesn't need. He thinks he can see glimpses of his partner in her mannerisms, in her simple black tee and faded jeans and the way she holds her glass, tilting her head to the side and studying him in return.
"Wanna talk about the weather?" she asks eventually, breaking the silence.
"Sure," he says easily, slouching a little in his chair, "it's a nice night."
"Downright pleasant," she agrees. She finishes off her drink and sets the glass down carefully. "Storm clouds forming though."
He shrugs. "On the horizon, maybe."
"Getting closer by the minute," she says, and it's a warning, one he'd be a fool to ignore.
"There's still time." He's pretty sure he's always been a fool when it comes to her.
"Mmm," she says, and pours them another drink.
*
The vodka is harsher than he's used to, still burning the back of his throat even after two glasses. There's no label on the bottle; probably black market.
"I've missed you, you know," he says, tilting his glass in her direction.
She smirks. "You never were that good a shot." She picks up the bottle and tips it suggestively. "Another?"
He really shouldn't, but. He nudges his glass closer to her. "Thank you."
She tops up her own as well. "I suppose next you'll be telling me how all the family sends their love." She's not nearly as offhand as she'd probably hoped for, and he watches her quickly sink back the shot.
"I'm sure they would have," he says casually, "had they known I was coming here."
She raises an eyebrow. "Playing hooky?"
"Need to know," he says. "They didn't."
"How sad," she says, shaking her head with faux-disappointment. It's clear she doesn't believe him.
"Very," he agrees, and decides to change the subject. "So." He toasts the bar behind her with a wry expression. "Business looks good."
She rolls her eyes.
*
There are three things John holds absolute when it comes to Elizabeth Weir.
The first is her unwavering belief that there is always a non-violent resolution to any situation. Their missions usually didn't follow that belief -- too many variables and not nearly enough options -- but that never stopped her optimism.
Second is her ability to, within thirty minutes of being tasked with any mission, formulate five distinct back up plans (complete with new backgrounds, accents and costuming alterations) just in case something goes wrong. They never usually got past Plan C (which was always, couple in love eloping; John's been married six times since he met her) but the fact that there was still three more safety nets after that was always an undeniable reassurance on their missions.
And, finally, the third -- that her patience far outstrips his.
"I need your help." He tenses as he says it; knows he should have waited longer, waited for her to supply an opening.
"I'm retired," she says dryly, and the last of his patience snaps neatly in two.
"Bullshit, you're hiding." When she goes to fill his glass up again, he covers it with his palm. She doesn't seem to care and vodka trickles between his knuckles and down his fingers as she pours. His gaze flicks down to the puddle of liquid forming on table and back up again. "Stop it." She doesn't and he releases his glass to grab the bottle, forcing her to set it upright again. "Elizabeth --"
"John," she mimics.
He tightens his grip but doesn't try to take the bottle from her, doesn't make her let go. "I need you --"
"They have nine-hundred numbers for that. Internet chat rooms too, once upon a time." She laughs and it's bitter, harsh, not like what he remembers at all. He winces and lets go of the bottle.
"What happened --"
"Don't." Her hand trembles, just a little, as she picks up the bottle and refills their glasses. This time, he lets her. "That's old news, and certainly not worth rebroadcasting."
He disagrees. "That mission was a success." He watches her raise her glass and sip the vodka, her expression stony, and almost reconsiders what he's about to say. "We did the right thing."
He doesn't even try to avoid the glass she throws at him, just sits there and feels the push of air against his cheek as it passes over his shoulder and shatters on the wall behind him, vodka spraying the back of his neck. "The right thing?" she says incredulously, slamming both hands down onto the table top and unsettling the bottle of vodka. He watches it roll off the table and hit the ground with a crack. "We buried the internet, John! Set technology back sixty-odd years!"
He shakes his head. "No -- AI did that, not us."
"Because of what we did! Fuck!" The table doesn't quite slam into him as she pushes herself up and away, but it's a close call. Her chair follows the same fate as the bottle had, overturned and cast aside. "If we hadn't killed Talus they would have never released the nano-virus and you know it!"
"No, I don't," he says, forcing himself to remain calm. "The fact that they engineered it in the first place clearly shows that what happened was always part of their plan."
Her look is venomous. "Yes, I'm sure it was bullet-pointed into all their memos. Create a revolutionary piece of nano-technology, wait for the Co-operation to murder one of our own completely out of the blue, release the nano-virus under the guise of retaliation, wait for the Co-op to retaliate further by detonating a series of EMP's across the globe that will incapacitate the virus -- along with every electronic device there is or ever was -- and then congratulate ourselves on a job well done as our entire business and field of expertise becomes extinct." She swipes at a strand of hair that's come free of her plait, pushing it back behind her ear. "Great plan, John. I'm so fucking pleased we were able to help them along with it."
He crosses his arms and leans back in his chair. "You sound like you're defending them. Within two hours of the virus' introduction into the internet, they had access to the CIA and FBI's databases. Five hours later, they were controlling the world's satellites. If we made any mistakes, it was that we didn't make that first strike months earlier, when their research was still mostly theoretical."
"God!" She shakes her head, almost laughs. "I can't believe you're still pushing the party line on this."
"We were following orders! We did what we had to do and --"
"And it was wrong."
Eighteen months and they're still here, stuck on opposing sides of a debate neither of them can win. He's not surprised -- she ran away from their life, not from her beliefs -- but he is disappointed. A part of him had thought that by now, at least, they'd be able to agree to disagree.
Elizabeth's still glaring at him, her anger palpable and her breathing fast; he should probably say something.
He picks up his glass of vodka and drains it, holding the glass out when he's finished. "Got any more?"
*
He goes to the men's again, this time to actually use the facilities. Staci-with-an-i's still there; hopefully Elizabeth will be too when he's done.
When he walks back out, she's behind the bar. The broken glass and spilt vodka has been cleaned away, the chairs straightened, but he avoids the table anyway and sits down at the bar. "Oh," she says when she looks up, "you're still here."
He rolls his eyes; they both knew he wouldn't leave that easily. "You know, your people skills really suck."
"Welcome to the Hospitality Industry. Coffee?"
"Please."
*
She makes them Irish, and strong (he can barely taste the coffee in his), and he's glad, suddenly, that he got himself a motel room close by before coming here -- there's no way he'll be able to drive anywhere after tonight.
"Why a bar?" he asks, watching her methodically polish her way through a rack of glasses.
She shrugs. "Not much call for linguists these days, as it turns out. Especially ones with a history in poli-sci and counter-intelligence."
"You didn't have to leave."
"Couldn't stay." She looks up and scans the room, an almost smile on her lips. "Still, it's been good while it's lasted."
He frowns. "I wasn't lying before -- they don't know I'm here. They don't know you're here."
She shrugs again. "You found me." She doesn't add, therefore anyone can, but he hears it anyway.
"I found you three months after you left -- don't you think, if they knew that, someone would have knocked on your door long before now?"
"Three months?" she repeats sceptically, before gracing him with a condescending smile. "John, John -- didn't I teach you how to bluff better than that? You need to be convincing."
He doesn't smile back. "Atlanta," he says, tapping his finger on the bar next to his drink. "Your alias was Leah Miller. California," another finger tap, "Talia Pettori -- giving up on the anagrams was a good move, really. Made it harder to track you."
He's pretty sure he's surprised her but her expression is still amused and the glass-polishing routine doesn't falter for a moment. "Not hard enough, apparently, if you figured all of that out." Her patronising tone is irritating and he forces himself not to react. "Still, that does beg the question then, doesn't it?" She steps over so that she's standing right in front of him and leans on the bar, her face edging in close to his and her voice dropping to a whisper. "Why'd you wait until now?"
He doesn't blink, doesn't lean away. "You weren't ready," he says simply, and she flinches like he's struck her. Without a word, she steps back and returns to her rack of glasses.
He drinks his coffee.
*
"I didn't leave just because of what happened."
He nods. "I know."
He didn't for the longest time. For too long he tortured himself with what if's and if only's, thinking that if he'd only done things differently she wouldn't have left --
What if he had been more understanding of her position on the Talus mission...
If only he hadn't pushed McKay when the man hesitated before detonating the last of the EMP's...
If only he'd been the one flying that helicopter back to headquarters...
What if he'd stayed home with her through her recovery instead of agreeing to the missions he was assigned...
-- but he knows now that it wouldn't have made a difference. She'd been unhappy long before they dealt with Talus and inadvertently changed the world, before they pulled her from that wreckage, broken and bleeding and barely breathing, to recover in a world stripped of all modern medical conveniences. And it wasn't until he'd finally seen her in Atlanta, seen the empty look on her face as she did her grocery shopping, that he realised he couldn't remember when she'd last smiled like she really meant it, or what her laugh sounded like. Hell, he couldn't even remember the last time she'd kissed him, just for the fun of it.
Somewhere along the line Elizabeth Weir had become just another alias, another pretence, and it was only after three months of not seeing her at all, and then suddenly seeing her so close, that he knew he hadn't found her because she hadn't even been there to start with.
"I'm sorry," he says.
She nods. "I know."
*
She makes them another coffee, this time sans alcohol, and comes around to sit beside him at the bar. Every once in awhile, their elbows brush.
"So," she says, "what's the mission?"
He sips his coffee; watches her reflection in the mirrors. "Mission?"
She rolls her eyes. "You said you needed my help."
"Oh. Right." He hides a smile. "So I did." For a moment he considers making her wait, teasing her with only fragments, but it's late, he's pretty much drunk, and patience is her virtue, not his. Still, there is one thing he needs to ask before they go any further. "You know we're never going to agree about what happened with AI, right?"
She tenses, just enough for him to notice, and her reply is slow, no doubt carefully worded. "It wouldn't be the first time we've held opposing beliefs." She stares at him in the mirror. "Are they the mission?"
He shakes his head. "No." He holds her gaze. "But there's no guarantee they won't be next time."
She nods once, the movement quick and sharp. "Then I'm sure we'll have an interesting time crossing that bridge when it's built."
A truce. God, finally. The sensation of relief that floods him is dizzying and he takes a gulp of coffee, almost searing the roof of his mouth, before he does or says something stupid.
When he's reasonably sure he's composed himself, he asks, "how's your Latin?"
"Bonus satis."
He'll assume that's a positive. "You've heard of the Organised Religion Inceptum?"
She snorts. "All hallowed are those who follow the path of Origin?" she quotes, shaking her head. "Yeah, sure. Cult based in, I think, Oregon? Believes all religions can be traced back and coalesced into one divine faith -- according to the radio, they're currently petitioning the government to be legally recognised as a religious organisation."
He nods. "After the EMP's, the ORI took advantage of the world's plunge back into a technological dark age. They believe the Blackout was a 'sign' that the world was being given a second chance --"
"A tabula rasa," Elizabeth murmurs.
"-- to redeem itself and embrace 'the first of all faiths'. Their climb from small time to big league has been significant ever since."
She frowns. "A lot of religions tried to capitalise on the Blackout -- why is the Co-op focusing on these guys? Unless..." She blows out a long breath. "Brainwashing?"
He nods. "Not only that, there are reports that they've got technological resources beyond what the rest of the world is back up to."
She raises an eyebrow. "Please tell me you don't suspect that they were prepared for the completely unexpected EMP strike we delivered?"
"We don't know. But while most of the populace are only just getting used to being able to flick a light switch again..."
"... they're using dishwashers and reverse cycle air conditioning?"
He chuckles under his breath. "Something like that," he says.
She smiles at him. "So -- what? You need someone to go undercover?"
He finishes his coffee, shaking his head. "No, we already did that. Daniel and Vala went to Oregon a couple weeks ago --"
"Daniel and Vala?"
"-- to do some low level surveillance, maybe see if anyone would try to convert them. On Wednesday, they missed their scheduled check in."
"And you think something has happened to them."
He shrugs. "Wouldn't be the first time."
Her turn to laugh. "Okay." She raises up off her stool so that she can lean over the bar and snag the coffee pot. Sitting back down, she refills their mugs. "Tell me more."
*
"There's still one thing I don't get."
"Hmm?" They've been going over all the intel he has for almost three hours straight -- he's pretty sure he can hear, over the steady hum of her basement generator, birds outside signalling the approach of dawn -- and he can't help but hope that whatever her concern is, it's a quick and easy one. He may be mostly sober now, thanks to the coffee they've been mainlining, but a desire for sleep is definitely setting in.
"Why me?" Getting up, she collects their mugs and wanders back around the bar. "I mean, assuming McKay isn't still off destroying deserted islands, three-quarters at a time --"
"Five-sixths," he corrects automatically, "and that only happened that once."
"-- he could have probably hooked you up with a portable Latin translator. And if not him, then Carter surely -- I mean, she is your partner. I can't imagine she'd let you both go off on a mission unprepared."
"Probably," he agrees, standing as well. He starts to stretch, working out the kinks in his back and neck, only to pause as her words sink in. "Wait, what? Partner?" He drops his arms and stares at her, confused. "Carter's not my partner. Yeah, we've worked a few missions together since AI, but nothing permanent. She usually hooks up with Angler in the field."
Now it's her turn to look confused. "Jack's out of retirement? Huh." She shakes her head. "Then who --"
He collects his jacket from where he'd slung it over the end of the bar. "Turns out my partner trained me too well," he says as casually as he can. "Apparently I don't play well with others."
It only takes her a second or two to get what he's trying to say, and her equally casual reply inspires that dizzy feeling once again. "I'm sorry to hear that," she says, walking out from behind the bar, "one can accomplish a lot with the right partner."
He follows her to the exit, and watches as she flicks off the lights and unlocks the deadbolt. "My thoughts exactly."
When she tugs open the door, he catches her arm before she can walk out. At some point over the past couple of hours she'd pulled out her plait, and removed the glasses, and he thinks she's never looked more like his partner than she does in this moment. He leans in slowly, giving her plenty of time to pull away -- or pull back and sock him -- but she does neither, just tilts her face up to his.
He kisses her carefully at first, too aware of everything between them, past and present, but then her hand is on his neck, fingernails pressing into his nape, and careful becomes unrestrained. He backs her up against the door and once again memorises the taste and feel of her, the sensation of her lips moving under his, until the slick glide of her tongue against his stutters his thoughts. He's breathing harshly when he finally pulls back, his fingers trailing lightly over her cheek as they part.
"You know," she says, and he can't help take pride in the way her breath hitches unevenly, "I've been thinking."
Well, that makes one of us. Raising an eyebrow, he watches as a slow smile spreads across her lips.
"This mission?" she continues, and he nods, "I think there's a good chance we'll need to Plan C it."
"Yeah," he says, grinning and dizzy and loving it, "you'll do."
* * * * *
The End.
FEEDBACK: Always appreciated. *g*
STATUS: Complete
SUMMARY: And the man with the golden gun thinks he knows so much.
RATING: PG
CLASSIFICATIONS: John/Elizabeth, spygate
SOUNDTRACK: "Cornflake Girl" (Tori Amos)
ARCHIVING: Do not archive. Thank you.
NOTES: Late, late, so very, very late! *shamed* Latin translations in mouseover.
THANKS TO: phrenitis for the awesome betaing. *smooch*
WORDS: 3,933
DISCLAIMER: Not mine. Don't sue.
Copyright anr; August 2007.
* * * * *
A Good Solution by anr
* * * * *
They assassinated Talus Asuran on a Tuesday night, thirteen blocks from the Asuran Institute's San Francisco offices. It took a hundred cc's of felicium and just under fifteen minutes, but AI's co-founder (and head of NanoTech Research) died quietly in his own home, a quirky half-smile on his lips.
Later, John would remember wishing he knew what was so damn amusing.
*
this is not really happening (you bet your life it is)
*
The bar is a dive, a speakeasy with half its windows boarded up and most of its furniture poorly repaired. He likes to think he's seen worse over the years but that might be bias talking.
He takes a seat at the end of the bar, his back to the room, and stares at everything except his own reflection in the mirrored wall behind the bar until the bartender moves into his line of sight.
"What do you want?"
He doesn't bother with eye contact. "How about a water?"
"This isn't that kind of place."
"Right." A bottle of beer is set unceremoniously in front of him, and he swaps it for a handful of dollar bills. "Thanks."
"Whatever."
Grabbing his beer, he gets up and walks away.
*
He finds a table in the corner and nurses his beer slowly. He has a clear view of the entire room from here and he watches unobtrusively. Most of the patrons seem to be blue collar workers and happy to ignore the loner drowning his sorrows in the corner; he's careful to maintain an appropriately depressed mien.
A woman approaches, young and pretty looking. "You look like you could use some company," she says, smiling suggestively, and he hooks the opposite chair with his foot so that she can't pull it out.
"Don't believe everything you see."
He looks behind her and watches the bartender cut someone off until she turns and walks away.
*
He watches a couple break up, a couple make out, and a couple at the next table play a game of chess (white knight to D6 would win the game in two moves). A group near the door are listening to the latest game while a group at the bar are trolling. Raised voices, occasionally, but no fighting, just conversations about work, about politics and religion, the internet, sports, families and friends and, helping it all along, enough alcohol to make any publican a profit.
When one of the floor staff (male, asian, early twenties with ink stained fingertips; the other is blonde, older, and not nearly as competent) clears his table, he buys a second beer.
*
A couple minutes before closing, he heads to the men's room and locks himself in the stall. The graffiti on the back of the door is no cleaner than the rest of the place but at least it gives him something to read while he waits. He finds himself wondering if Staci-with-an-i really could give him the advertised ride of his life and memorises her number out of habit.
When he's confident enough time has passed, he leaves.
*
The bar is all but empty, the other patrons gone and only the handful of staff remaining. He ignores them and heads back to his table in the corner. From there he watches the floor staff clean the tables and the bar, the bouncer from the door helping to straighten the chairs. They all look at him curiously from time to time, but no one asks him to leave. At the end of the bar, the bartender is counting the night's takings.
He rocks back in his chair so that his head and shoulders can rest against the back wall and closes his eyes.
*
He listens to them leave, one by one, until it's just her and him and an empty bar. He opens his eyes when he hears her walking over. She's carrying two glasses and a bottle of vodka but the towel that had been slung on her shoulder and the uniform black apron are gone.
"Hello, Farmboy."
He lets gravity tip his chair forward, the legs hitting the wooden floorboards with a thud and an echo. "Sparky."
Taking the chair opposite him, she pours them both a drink.
*
He's been aware of her all night -- has even watched her with a (hopefully) absent expression as she tended to her bar -- but it's only now, with everyone else gone, that he allows himself the opportunity to really look.
Her hair is darker, longer, pulled back into a plait, and she's wearing glasses that he knows she doesn't need. He thinks he can see glimpses of his partner in her mannerisms, in her simple black tee and faded jeans and the way she holds her glass, tilting her head to the side and studying him in return.
"Wanna talk about the weather?" she asks eventually, breaking the silence.
"Sure," he says easily, slouching a little in his chair, "it's a nice night."
"Downright pleasant," she agrees. She finishes off her drink and sets the glass down carefully. "Storm clouds forming though."
He shrugs. "On the horizon, maybe."
"Getting closer by the minute," she says, and it's a warning, one he'd be a fool to ignore.
"There's still time." He's pretty sure he's always been a fool when it comes to her.
"Mmm," she says, and pours them another drink.
*
The vodka is harsher than he's used to, still burning the back of his throat even after two glasses. There's no label on the bottle; probably black market.
"I've missed you, you know," he says, tilting his glass in her direction.
She smirks. "You never were that good a shot." She picks up the bottle and tips it suggestively. "Another?"
He really shouldn't, but. He nudges his glass closer to her. "Thank you."
She tops up her own as well. "I suppose next you'll be telling me how all the family sends their love." She's not nearly as offhand as she'd probably hoped for, and he watches her quickly sink back the shot.
"I'm sure they would have," he says casually, "had they known I was coming here."
She raises an eyebrow. "Playing hooky?"
"Need to know," he says. "They didn't."
"How sad," she says, shaking her head with faux-disappointment. It's clear she doesn't believe him.
"Very," he agrees, and decides to change the subject. "So." He toasts the bar behind her with a wry expression. "Business looks good."
She rolls her eyes.
*
There are three things John holds absolute when it comes to Elizabeth Weir.
The first is her unwavering belief that there is always a non-violent resolution to any situation. Their missions usually didn't follow that belief -- too many variables and not nearly enough options -- but that never stopped her optimism.
Second is her ability to, within thirty minutes of being tasked with any mission, formulate five distinct back up plans (complete with new backgrounds, accents and costuming alterations) just in case something goes wrong. They never usually got past Plan C (which was always, couple in love eloping; John's been married six times since he met her) but the fact that there was still three more safety nets after that was always an undeniable reassurance on their missions.
And, finally, the third -- that her patience far outstrips his.
"I need your help." He tenses as he says it; knows he should have waited longer, waited for her to supply an opening.
"I'm retired," she says dryly, and the last of his patience snaps neatly in two.
"Bullshit, you're hiding." When she goes to fill his glass up again, he covers it with his palm. She doesn't seem to care and vodka trickles between his knuckles and down his fingers as she pours. His gaze flicks down to the puddle of liquid forming on table and back up again. "Stop it." She doesn't and he releases his glass to grab the bottle, forcing her to set it upright again. "Elizabeth --"
"John," she mimics.
He tightens his grip but doesn't try to take the bottle from her, doesn't make her let go. "I need you --"
"They have nine-hundred numbers for that. Internet chat rooms too, once upon a time." She laughs and it's bitter, harsh, not like what he remembers at all. He winces and lets go of the bottle.
"What happened --"
"Don't." Her hand trembles, just a little, as she picks up the bottle and refills their glasses. This time, he lets her. "That's old news, and certainly not worth rebroadcasting."
He disagrees. "That mission was a success." He watches her raise her glass and sip the vodka, her expression stony, and almost reconsiders what he's about to say. "We did the right thing."
He doesn't even try to avoid the glass she throws at him, just sits there and feels the push of air against his cheek as it passes over his shoulder and shatters on the wall behind him, vodka spraying the back of his neck. "The right thing?" she says incredulously, slamming both hands down onto the table top and unsettling the bottle of vodka. He watches it roll off the table and hit the ground with a crack. "We buried the internet, John! Set technology back sixty-odd years!"
He shakes his head. "No -- AI did that, not us."
"Because of what we did! Fuck!" The table doesn't quite slam into him as she pushes herself up and away, but it's a close call. Her chair follows the same fate as the bottle had, overturned and cast aside. "If we hadn't killed Talus they would have never released the nano-virus and you know it!"
"No, I don't," he says, forcing himself to remain calm. "The fact that they engineered it in the first place clearly shows that what happened was always part of their plan."
Her look is venomous. "Yes, I'm sure it was bullet-pointed into all their memos. Create a revolutionary piece of nano-technology, wait for the Co-operation to murder one of our own completely out of the blue, release the nano-virus under the guise of retaliation, wait for the Co-op to retaliate further by detonating a series of EMP's across the globe that will incapacitate the virus -- along with every electronic device there is or ever was -- and then congratulate ourselves on a job well done as our entire business and field of expertise becomes extinct." She swipes at a strand of hair that's come free of her plait, pushing it back behind her ear. "Great plan, John. I'm so fucking pleased we were able to help them along with it."
He crosses his arms and leans back in his chair. "You sound like you're defending them. Within two hours of the virus' introduction into the internet, they had access to the CIA and FBI's databases. Five hours later, they were controlling the world's satellites. If we made any mistakes, it was that we didn't make that first strike months earlier, when their research was still mostly theoretical."
"God!" She shakes her head, almost laughs. "I can't believe you're still pushing the party line on this."
"We were following orders! We did what we had to do and --"
"And it was wrong."
Eighteen months and they're still here, stuck on opposing sides of a debate neither of them can win. He's not surprised -- she ran away from their life, not from her beliefs -- but he is disappointed. A part of him had thought that by now, at least, they'd be able to agree to disagree.
Elizabeth's still glaring at him, her anger palpable and her breathing fast; he should probably say something.
He picks up his glass of vodka and drains it, holding the glass out when he's finished. "Got any more?"
*
He goes to the men's again, this time to actually use the facilities. Staci-with-an-i's still there; hopefully Elizabeth will be too when he's done.
When he walks back out, she's behind the bar. The broken glass and spilt vodka has been cleaned away, the chairs straightened, but he avoids the table anyway and sits down at the bar. "Oh," she says when she looks up, "you're still here."
He rolls his eyes; they both knew he wouldn't leave that easily. "You know, your people skills really suck."
"Welcome to the Hospitality Industry. Coffee?"
"Please."
*
She makes them Irish, and strong (he can barely taste the coffee in his), and he's glad, suddenly, that he got himself a motel room close by before coming here -- there's no way he'll be able to drive anywhere after tonight.
"Why a bar?" he asks, watching her methodically polish her way through a rack of glasses.
She shrugs. "Not much call for linguists these days, as it turns out. Especially ones with a history in poli-sci and counter-intelligence."
"You didn't have to leave."
"Couldn't stay." She looks up and scans the room, an almost smile on her lips. "Still, it's been good while it's lasted."
He frowns. "I wasn't lying before -- they don't know I'm here. They don't know you're here."
She shrugs again. "You found me." She doesn't add, therefore anyone can, but he hears it anyway.
"I found you three months after you left -- don't you think, if they knew that, someone would have knocked on your door long before now?"
"Three months?" she repeats sceptically, before gracing him with a condescending smile. "John, John -- didn't I teach you how to bluff better than that? You need to be convincing."
He doesn't smile back. "Atlanta," he says, tapping his finger on the bar next to his drink. "Your alias was Leah Miller. California," another finger tap, "Talia Pettori -- giving up on the anagrams was a good move, really. Made it harder to track you."
He's pretty sure he's surprised her but her expression is still amused and the glass-polishing routine doesn't falter for a moment. "Not hard enough, apparently, if you figured all of that out." Her patronising tone is irritating and he forces himself not to react. "Still, that does beg the question then, doesn't it?" She steps over so that she's standing right in front of him and leans on the bar, her face edging in close to his and her voice dropping to a whisper. "Why'd you wait until now?"
He doesn't blink, doesn't lean away. "You weren't ready," he says simply, and she flinches like he's struck her. Without a word, she steps back and returns to her rack of glasses.
He drinks his coffee.
*
"I didn't leave just because of what happened."
He nods. "I know."
He didn't for the longest time. For too long he tortured himself with what if's and if only's, thinking that if he'd only done things differently she wouldn't have left --
What if he had been more understanding of her position on the Talus mission...
If only he hadn't pushed McKay when the man hesitated before detonating the last of the EMP's...
If only he'd been the one flying that helicopter back to headquarters...
What if he'd stayed home with her through her recovery instead of agreeing to the missions he was assigned...
-- but he knows now that it wouldn't have made a difference. She'd been unhappy long before they dealt with Talus and inadvertently changed the world, before they pulled her from that wreckage, broken and bleeding and barely breathing, to recover in a world stripped of all modern medical conveniences. And it wasn't until he'd finally seen her in Atlanta, seen the empty look on her face as she did her grocery shopping, that he realised he couldn't remember when she'd last smiled like she really meant it, or what her laugh sounded like. Hell, he couldn't even remember the last time she'd kissed him, just for the fun of it.
Somewhere along the line Elizabeth Weir had become just another alias, another pretence, and it was only after three months of not seeing her at all, and then suddenly seeing her so close, that he knew he hadn't found her because she hadn't even been there to start with.
"I'm sorry," he says.
She nods. "I know."
*
She makes them another coffee, this time sans alcohol, and comes around to sit beside him at the bar. Every once in awhile, their elbows brush.
"So," she says, "what's the mission?"
He sips his coffee; watches her reflection in the mirrors. "Mission?"
She rolls her eyes. "You said you needed my help."
"Oh. Right." He hides a smile. "So I did." For a moment he considers making her wait, teasing her with only fragments, but it's late, he's pretty much drunk, and patience is her virtue, not his. Still, there is one thing he needs to ask before they go any further. "You know we're never going to agree about what happened with AI, right?"
She tenses, just enough for him to notice, and her reply is slow, no doubt carefully worded. "It wouldn't be the first time we've held opposing beliefs." She stares at him in the mirror. "Are they the mission?"
He shakes his head. "No." He holds her gaze. "But there's no guarantee they won't be next time."
She nods once, the movement quick and sharp. "Then I'm sure we'll have an interesting time crossing that bridge when it's built."
A truce. God, finally. The sensation of relief that floods him is dizzying and he takes a gulp of coffee, almost searing the roof of his mouth, before he does or says something stupid.
When he's reasonably sure he's composed himself, he asks, "how's your Latin?"
"Bonus satis."
He'll assume that's a positive. "You've heard of the Organised Religion Inceptum?"
She snorts. "All hallowed are those who follow the path of Origin?" she quotes, shaking her head. "Yeah, sure. Cult based in, I think, Oregon? Believes all religions can be traced back and coalesced into one divine faith -- according to the radio, they're currently petitioning the government to be legally recognised as a religious organisation."
He nods. "After the EMP's, the ORI took advantage of the world's plunge back into a technological dark age. They believe the Blackout was a 'sign' that the world was being given a second chance --"
"A tabula rasa," Elizabeth murmurs.
"-- to redeem itself and embrace 'the first of all faiths'. Their climb from small time to big league has been significant ever since."
She frowns. "A lot of religions tried to capitalise on the Blackout -- why is the Co-op focusing on these guys? Unless..." She blows out a long breath. "Brainwashing?"
He nods. "Not only that, there are reports that they've got technological resources beyond what the rest of the world is back up to."
She raises an eyebrow. "Please tell me you don't suspect that they were prepared for the completely unexpected EMP strike we delivered?"
"We don't know. But while most of the populace are only just getting used to being able to flick a light switch again..."
"... they're using dishwashers and reverse cycle air conditioning?"
He chuckles under his breath. "Something like that," he says.
She smiles at him. "So -- what? You need someone to go undercover?"
He finishes his coffee, shaking his head. "No, we already did that. Daniel and Vala went to Oregon a couple weeks ago --"
"Daniel and Vala?"
"-- to do some low level surveillance, maybe see if anyone would try to convert them. On Wednesday, they missed their scheduled check in."
"And you think something has happened to them."
He shrugs. "Wouldn't be the first time."
Her turn to laugh. "Okay." She raises up off her stool so that she can lean over the bar and snag the coffee pot. Sitting back down, she refills their mugs. "Tell me more."
*
"There's still one thing I don't get."
"Hmm?" They've been going over all the intel he has for almost three hours straight -- he's pretty sure he can hear, over the steady hum of her basement generator, birds outside signalling the approach of dawn -- and he can't help but hope that whatever her concern is, it's a quick and easy one. He may be mostly sober now, thanks to the coffee they've been mainlining, but a desire for sleep is definitely setting in.
"Why me?" Getting up, she collects their mugs and wanders back around the bar. "I mean, assuming McKay isn't still off destroying deserted islands, three-quarters at a time --"
"Five-sixths," he corrects automatically, "and that only happened that once."
"-- he could have probably hooked you up with a portable Latin translator. And if not him, then Carter surely -- I mean, she is your partner. I can't imagine she'd let you both go off on a mission unprepared."
"Probably," he agrees, standing as well. He starts to stretch, working out the kinks in his back and neck, only to pause as her words sink in. "Wait, what? Partner?" He drops his arms and stares at her, confused. "Carter's not my partner. Yeah, we've worked a few missions together since AI, but nothing permanent. She usually hooks up with Angler in the field."
Now it's her turn to look confused. "Jack's out of retirement? Huh." She shakes her head. "Then who --"
He collects his jacket from where he'd slung it over the end of the bar. "Turns out my partner trained me too well," he says as casually as he can. "Apparently I don't play well with others."
It only takes her a second or two to get what he's trying to say, and her equally casual reply inspires that dizzy feeling once again. "I'm sorry to hear that," she says, walking out from behind the bar, "one can accomplish a lot with the right partner."
He follows her to the exit, and watches as she flicks off the lights and unlocks the deadbolt. "My thoughts exactly."
When she tugs open the door, he catches her arm before she can walk out. At some point over the past couple of hours she'd pulled out her plait, and removed the glasses, and he thinks she's never looked more like his partner than she does in this moment. He leans in slowly, giving her plenty of time to pull away -- or pull back and sock him -- but she does neither, just tilts her face up to his.
He kisses her carefully at first, too aware of everything between them, past and present, but then her hand is on his neck, fingernails pressing into his nape, and careful becomes unrestrained. He backs her up against the door and once again memorises the taste and feel of her, the sensation of her lips moving under his, until the slick glide of her tongue against his stutters his thoughts. He's breathing harshly when he finally pulls back, his fingers trailing lightly over her cheek as they part.
"You know," she says, and he can't help take pride in the way her breath hitches unevenly, "I've been thinking."
Well, that makes one of us. Raising an eyebrow, he watches as a slow smile spreads across her lips.
"This mission?" she continues, and he nods, "I think there's a good chance we'll need to Plan C it."
"Yeah," he says, grinning and dizzy and loving it, "you'll do."
* * * * *
The End.
FEEDBACK: Always appreciated. *g*