SGA Fic: A Pocket Full of Posies, Part 1
Pairing: McKay/Sheppard
Spoilers: S1/S2 and Outcast
Rating: R
Word Count: ~14,000
Summary: There were two reasons John was reassigned to Antarctica: one was splashed all over his service record, the other, as per regulations, arrived in a sealed envelope from his previous CO to his new CO marked "To Be Opened By Addressee Only."
Author's Note: This story is dedicated to cathexys, who helped me plot it out sitting by the pool last June and is remarkably tolerant of both my completely irrational pet peeves and my sudden beta requests eight months later: thank you for everything. Thanks also to ms_manna for biological sciences wrangling and jack_pride for the helpful comments and suggestions.
A Pocket Full of Posies
There were two reasons John was reassigned to Antarctica: one was splashed all over his service record, the other, as per regulations, arrived in a sealed envelope from his previous CO to his new CO marked "To Be Opened By Addressee Only." He was still able to fly though, and on clear days, the wide open skies above Antarctica were bluer than those above the other six continents, so he liked Antarctica, after a fashion, even if very few of the officers he ferried around chose to believe him.
And now there was this general asking him to believe in mutant genes, alien missiles, wormholes to other worlds, and expeditions to other galaxies, and John thought he had a right to freak out just a little bit. After all, the forms promising piloting in exchange for possible deployment to war zones had been completely silent on the subject of deployment outside the Milky Way.
"Now if you can't give me a 'yes' by the time we reach McMurdo, I don't even want you," O'Neill finished bluntly, as though he'd been asking John to do a supply run to Christchurch.
At a complete loss for words, John took off. After a few minutes' uncomfortable silence, he said, "You know it doesn't matter either way. The Air Force would never approve the posting."
"Hello, sitting right here," O'Neill replied, and John was almost entirely sure he was being sarcastic. "I know McMurdo is the backend of the world, but do these stars mean anything to you?"
"Yes, sir, but--"
"I've seen your record, and so has Weir," O'Neill interrupted him. "If this is about that business in Afghanistan, Weir doesn't care."
And it was probably because O'Neill had been rubbing him up the wrong way for the past twenty minutes, that John replied without thinking, "You haven't seen all the records and there are reasons other than Afghanistan why they posted me to, as you so delicately put it, the backend of the world," before he managed to bite down on his tongue.
O'Neill quirked an eyebrow. "Medical?"
"With all due respect, sir, that's none of your business," John said, his teeth clenching.
"I could just request them, you know," O'Neill pointed out, completely unconcerned. "Not that that's really the point. Look. We need you. You can make the ancient thingamajigs light up without shooting down friendly aircraft. It's the most sought-after quality we can think of at the moment."
"They wouldn't let me go, even if I said yes," John insisted.
O'Neill reached over and patted his shoulder. "You'd care to wager some money on that?"
With the benefit of hindsight, John was glad he hadn't accepted the bet, because three days later, he received an e-mail from O'Neill. "So I was nosy," O'Neill had typed, all in lower case letters. "I make that clinical latency since at least the mid-90s. Very clever of you to completely avoid getting screened, despite regulations, for years. How did you do it? More importantly, how come you weren't grounded? Never mind. I don't really want to know, do I? Pack and get your ass on a transport to Lackland for clearance from your treating physician; reassignment orders are on their way."
John blinked at his screen for a total of ten minutes, trying to figure out whether O'Neill was joking, or crazy, or possibly both, before he was interrupted by some kid summoning him to his CO's office.
Once in San Antonio, while waiting for all the test results to come back, he flipped a coin. "Well, wouldn't you know it, Jess," he said when the coin came down heads, "I'm going to another galaxy." And maybe it was just the breeze, but he thought he could hear Jess whispering, "That'd be because you flipped the one-faced coin again, John."
***
When John arrived in Colorado Springs two days later, still slightly shell-shocked, he barely had time to sign in and report for duty before a harrassed-looking spry man in a white lab coat scurried up to him and treated him to an accusatory glare. "What took you so long?" the man wailed. "McKay, he has been insufferable."
John blinked. "I'm sorry?"
"Yes, yes, and you should be," the man said. "Hurry up, now. McKay isn't very nice when he has to wait."
John took a deep breath and tried again. "I'm sorry, but who are you? And who is McKay?"
"Ah, Zelenka, Radek Zelenka," the man sad, stretching out a hand. When John took it, he used it to pull John along the corridor, and for such a wiry man, Zelenka sure had a lot of pull, John thought.
"Where are we going?" John asked. "And shouldn't I go see General O'Neill--"
"Not unless you enjoy seeing little Japanese scientist cry, no," Zelenka interrupted him.
"But--"
Zelenka paused long enough to push John into an elevator and said, "Look, general is very sensible man. He only shoots people. McKay on the other hand. Well." At that point he broke into a stream of words in another language entirely. John managed to pick up about every tenth word. Whatever language Zelenka was speaking bore some similarity to Serbo-Croatian and he was doing quite well on some of the verbs as he had heard them frequently with reference to minefields and war crimes. John shuddered.
"Oh, is not that bad," Zelenka reassured him, switching to English again. "Now that you are here, he will be in better mood."
John was just starting to wonder whether he could still change his mind and return to Antarctica, when the elevator came to a halt and Zelenka gave him a shove. "First door on right," he said by way of explanation.
Zelenka pushed open the door, and to his horror, John found that there really was a petite Japanese woman standing sniffling in the center of the room, while the guy who had asked him to think of where he was in the universe--McKay, his brain helpfully supplied--was pacing the room.
"Rodney, is fine now, I brought you light switch," Zelenka said, inserting himself between McKay and the Japanese woman to whom he said, "You go now." She smiled at him gratefully and scurried from the room.
McKay's eyes lit up when he spotted John (who was trying to become invisible through sheer force of will). "Ah, yes, Major," McKay said. "So good of you to join us at last. We have less than two weeks before we're leaving for another galaxy, but don't let me impress on you a false sense of urgency." He picked up a piece of equipment from a lab bench seemingly at random and strode across the room to John. "Here, turn this one?"
"How?" John asked.
McKay gave him a look of withering scorn. "How should I know? The same way you activated the chair in Antarctica, I would think."
John looked at the small black box and thought, On.
To this surprise, the box lit up.
"Well," McKay said, satisfaction evident in his voice. "That was interesting."
"But what is it?" John asked, perplexed.
"Don't know yet," McKay replied. "But I'm sure we'll find out. Have a seat, Major." He gestured to a lab stool.
And that was that, apparently. John found himself spending a lot of time touching stuff or thinking random bit of junk on. As soon as each piece of equipment started to glow or whir or otherwise indicate its active status, he was left to play solitaire for hours or otherwise amuse himself so long as he remained in close proximity to the action, while Zelenka and McKay twittered excitedly. At random intervals, they magnanimously permitted him to leave the lab for food or sleep. It was, all things considered, not exactly an onerous task, and as the days passed, he more often than not found himself foregoing the solitaire games in favor of watching the two scientist at work.
They complemented each other perfectly, even while screaming insults at each other across a lab bench, which made them fascinating to observe. He noticed that Zelenka would claim something was impossible quite frequently, only to push McKay into proving that it was, theoretically, quite possible if looked at from the right angle, and then McKay in turn would berate Zelenka until he would transform the theoretical possibility into practical fact.
It mesmerized John because despite the arrogance and the sniping and the completely out-of-this-world ego, there was no denying that McKay was smart, and that wasn't a term John used lightly. He might have washed out of Stanford with a Master's instead of a PhD because his life had been turning to shit, but he could still recognize genius on the rare occasions he saw it, and he'd always had a bit of a boner for staggering intellect. That was why he had fallen for Jess and later Nancy, and McKay was no exception to the rule.
Okay, so getting a crush on one of the guys going on a possible one-way mission to another galaxy with him was stupid. Especially considering that he'd agreed to go on that one-way mission without any consideration for the medical care he could expect on the other side. (That was more or less the reason he'd flipped the coin back in San Antonio and consulted the specter of Jess. He could have called Nancy, their divorce had been amicable enough, but he had an idea that what Ms. PhD Microbiology would have told him if he had, was to check himself into the nearest psychiatric hospital on a 72-hour suicide watch.)
John shook himself out of his latest daydream and looked up to find McKay staring at him strangely. Right. Upgrade that from stupid to suicidal. If any of the marines had wandered into the lab at that point and put two and two together correctly, or perhaps incorrectly, arriving at four, John wouldn't even make it to that other galaxy before his court martial. Time to pull himself together and clamp down on it. Make it less obvious. Crushes were good, crushes were healthy (for one thing they went some way toward disproving what various counselors had said about his emotional state), as long as he kept them in check. Time to spend a bit more time on his Free Cell high score, and a little less time oggling the scientists. John turned to the laptop he had been given with determination and cracked his knuckles.
***
On the eve of their last night on Earth, with most of the lab's contents carefully packed up and crated, McKay looked up from what he had been doing and said, "Thank you, Major."
"You're welcome," John replied. "Anything else you want me to touch before we leave?"
McKay shook his head. "I'm sure you have things you would want to do on your last night on Earth," he said magnanimously. "Feel free to leave any time you want."
John grinned. "I could do with one last beer," he said. "Care to join me? Unless, of course, you already have plans."
McKay perked up. "Good beer? None of that cheap American swill."
"Of course not," John said.
McKay thought about it for a moment. "Hmm. Yes, that would be nice," he said. He pushed down the lid of his laptop.
"I'll just have to stop by my quarters, change into civvies," John said as they were leaving the lab. "You're welcome to hang out and wait."
McKay waved vaguely in the general direction of the elevators. "Lead the way, Major."
Once in his quarters, John picked out a pair of black UFO pants and a black t-shirt, gestured at McKay to sit down, and ambled into the adjoining bathroom to get changed and shave. He left the door open just a crack. "Said all your goodbyes?" he called to McKay as he lathered up.
"My neighbor agreed to take care of my cat," McKay replied. "Other than that, I didn't have many goodbyes to say. You?"
"Nah. Single, no children that I'm aware of, not really on speaking terms with my family... I'm ideal for this mission as far as the Air Force is concerned," John replied. And I'm thoroughly expendable at this point too, he thought, but had the good sense not to add.
McKay didn't respond to that, so John quickly finished shaving and changing and stepped back into the room.
"Oh my," McKay said, rising, "You do clean up rather well."
John grinned and couldn't resist winking at McKay.
"Not that I'm trying to say anything inappropriate," McKay quickly corrected himself. "It's just that I've never seen you in civilian clothing before, and it is rather a pleasant surp--I mean, you look good."
John could see the tips of McKay's ears turn red. "Relax, McKay, I get it," he said easily.
"You do?" McKay asked, doubtful.
"Of course," John lied. "You're worried I'll ditch you for the first available girl for that last fling before shipping out."
"Um. Yes. Yes, that was what I was thinking exactly," McKay agreed, visibly relieved.
John grabbed his jacket and opened the door. "Well, you have nothing to worry about. I'll be sharing a cab back to base with you at the end of the evening. Scout's honor. Shall we?"
"Yes, yes, of course," McKay replied scrambling to his feet.
John took McKay to a bar he remembered from a previous visit to the area as both quiet and in possession of an above-average beer selection and opened a tab before steering McKay to a corner table. "To the mission," he said once he had sat down opposite McKay, raising his bottle in salute.
"To us," McKay replied, then added, "The expedition, I mean."
John was starting to enjoy himself. McKay, while having the social skills of an affectionate skunk, was oddly endearing in his flailing. "So if this works," he said to put McKay at ease, "if we really find the city of the Ancients, what's the first thing you'll do?"
"Ask them how to recharge a ZedPM," McKay replied at once. "You?"
John shrugged. "Not sure," which wasn't entirely a lie. He'd have a hard time deciding between 'can I fly your spaceships' and 'do you have a cure.'
"Oh, come on, Major, there must be something you'd like to know more than anything in the world," McKay pressed on.
John smiled. "I'm sure it will come to me at the right time," he said.
The two bottles in front of them turned into four and then six, and by that time John was clandestinely switching his and McKay's whenever McKay was nearing the bottom of his bottle.
"Wha'da you do to get sent to Antarctica," McKay asked when the next set of bottles appeared in front of them. "Get caught with your pants down?"
"Figuratively speaking," John agreed.
"You were lucky. They sent me to Siberia," McKay said morosely.
"What did you do?"
"Made a mistake," McKay said. "One tiny mistake and they sent me into exile!" He motioned to the barman again. John caught the man's eye and slightly shook his head; the barman nodded in return.
McKay held up his empty bottle and squinted at John through the tinted glass. "Is this a date, Major?" he blurted.
John quirked an eyebrow. "It's a beer bottle, Doctor," he replied, deliberately misunderstanding.
"Right, yes, of course," McKay agreed. "Not that I would be offended. I'm Canadian, you know."
John didn't actually know what that had to do with anything, but it offered an opportunity to change the subject. "So you like hockey, McKay?" he asked.
"Love it. Hockey is the pinnacle of sportmanship," McKay said with the conviction of the truly drunk and John wasn't going to argue with that.
"Come one, McKay, I think it's time to leave," John said instead, rising. "You wouldn't want to arrive where we're going with a hangover." He pulled the pliant scientist off his stool and went to the bar to settle their tab.
***
Twelve hours later they walked through the gate and things got a little chaotic for a while.
Turned out though that after certain death by drowning had been averted and Atlantis had risen from the ocean, the scientists got down to taking care of the second most important aspect of setting up a foothold in a new galaxy: creating a city-wide LAN and mail server--based on Linux, of course--while he was off shooting Sumner (mercy killing) and waking the Wraith (why had nobody warned him about blood-thirsty hibernating alien races prior to his departure?). So that, when he returned rather unexpectedly as ranking military officer of Atlantis, he found, much to his surprise, that he had an inbox full of unread messages requiring his immediate attention.
He narrowly avoided a slow, torturous death from administrivia by virtue of a few more crises, and McKay knocking on his door a day later, bouncing on the balls of his feet, babbling something about personal shields, and dragging him off for some "empirical scientific research." Two bruised fists, a bent knife, and a completely deformed bullet later, John was prepared to agree with McKay that the personal shield was really very cool just in time for McKay to discover some of the drawbacks of the gadget.
That evening, after Teyla had bid them goodnight--without a full understanding of a Hail Mary, John thought, but there was ample time to explain the intricacies of that later--John turned to McKay and said, "Well, that was the most fun I've had since we arrived here. Thanks."
"You're welcome, I'm sure," McKay replied. "Try to enjoy it while it lasts; after all, I'm not going to be around much longer."
John rolled his eyes. "You're not dead yet, McKay."
"Just give it another day or two and I will be," McKay's tone was starting to edge toward hysterical.
"I'm sure Dr. Beckett will think of something before then," John said, trying to reassure the man. When that didn't seem to calm him, he sighed and pushed the half-empty bowl of popcorn across at McKay. "Look, have some of that, it'll calm your nerves."
McKay shot up and gaped at him. "You--you tactless grunt!" he yelped when the power of speech was restored to him. "You know full well that--"
John threw up his hands. "Sorry, sorry, I thought maybe... anyway, sit back down and try to relax a little. Today's been the first day we've been here that hasn't involved a crisis."
"Well, when you put it like that," McKay sniffed, which John was sure was an act. There was no way the personal shield would block food and drink and not block allergens. "Yes, I'd be glad to keep you company for a little while."
John picked up the popcorn and ate another handful. "Are you sure you won't be able to--"
"Yes," McKay snapped. "I'm quite certain."
John nodded thoughtfully. "Well, at least it's completely indiscriminate in its identification of foreign objects," he said, pointing at the device still glowing on McKay's chest. "I mean, it could be much, much worse."
"No, it couldn't," McKay complained.
"Ah, but just think, what if it would allow you to eat and drink as usual, but wouldn't allow anyone to touch you?" John pointed out.
The thought evidently hadn't crossed McKay's mind because he paled considerably. "You mean I could live for another thirty or forty years and never--" he stopped, presumably because the entire situation was too terrible to contemplate.
John shrugged. "Who knows? It's a pretty safe bet though, and personally, I'd rather have it the other way."
McKay agreed rather vehemently, then backpedaled, "Not that there's anyone here that I would want to--I mean, what with Dr. Carter being back on Earth and--oh my God, I've just had a terrible thought."
John raised an eyebrow. He was starting to enjoy himself. "Which is?" he prompted McKay.
"Do you think I can still--I mean, would I be able to--" McKay was starting to turn an alarming shade of red.
"I think," John said slowly once he'd figured out exactly what McKay was asking, "I think that question warrants some more empirical scientific research." Seeing McKay's confused expression, he quickly added, "By yourself. In your quarters."
"Yes, yes, of course," McKay replied, already rising. "Thank you for this truly enlightening conversation, Major." He turned in the hallway and said, "And let's please pretend it never happened."
John managed to wait a whole ten seconds after McKay had left before he doubled over laughing.
Of course, about an hour later, everything was back to normal as more chaos ensued.
***
They had barely rid themselves of the alien entity without any casualties, when what should have been a routine hop through the stargate the following Wednesday turned sour, and John found himself unexpectedly dying. By the time he came around in the infirmary to Ford's profuse apologies and McKay's disparaging remarks concerning the bruise on his neck, he was more concerned with the terrible choice he'd apparently made in San Antonio than the fact that he still hadn't so much as looked at what kind of paper pushing was required from the military leader of the expedition.
He would have been more than happy to forget that the scientists had ever cobbled together a mail server in the first place, but Beckett had other plans. Once he'd shooed everyone out of the infirmary, he pulled up a chair besides John's cot and said accusingly, "You didn't reply to any of the e-mails I sent you."
John sighed. "I probably haven't gotten to them yet."
"Well, then, I asked you to check in with me to run some tests and fill in some questions I have regarding your medical records," Beckett replied. "And since you're going to be here for a few days at least, I'm sure it's not going to be a problem."
"I'm starting to feel very tired, all of a sudden," John tried half-heartedly before taking in Beckett's glare and thinking better of it. "On the other hand, I suppose I could answer a few questions."
"Your records are...interesting," Beckett began. "Tell me, I know they finally figured it out when you were injured in Afghanistan, but when did you find out? Based on the fact that you avoided screening for years, I'm thinking you've known for a while."
John shut his eyes. "1988," he mumbled.
"And you've never shown any symptoms?" Beckett asked. "I couldn't find any record of illness since you joined up. Not even a common cold."
"Can't remember ever being sick, not since I had the chickenpox when I was five," John said.
Beckett nodded. "I'm not going to ask how--"
"Good, because I'm not telling," John interrupted him.
"I'm not trying to harm you, lad," Beckett said, holding up his hands in a non-threatening gesture. "I'm a civilian. But I'm sure you can understand that as a geneticist, I'm a little intrigued by the files that were forwarded from Wilford Hall, sketchy as they are. I would like to run some tests here, just to confirm--"
"No," John cut him off.
"I really think it would be for the best, Major," Beckett began. "As your treating physician I should--"
"As my treating physician you should take all necessary precautions as warranted and treat my symptoms if and when they occur," John interrupted again.
Beckett sighed. "You're asymptomatic, lad."
"I know," John said coldly. "You'll just have to sit back and wait with the rest of the vultures."
"Och, I wouldn't say that," Beckett tried again after a pause.
"Yeah, but I would," John said. "Look," he added because Beckett looked like he was taking the whole thing personally, "It's probably not going to be a very long wait. I'm already blowing the curve."
Beckett looked like he wanted to argue, but instead he just nodded, checked John's pulse and walked away, and John was kind of glad he did, because he really wasn't feeling up to arguing any longer. Dying took a lot out of you.
Of course, by noon the next day he was climbing the walls and only stopped short of clawing his own eyes out because Beckett finally relented and rescinded his earlier restrictions on visitors, and then around midafternoon Zelenka, god amongst men, sheepishly loaned him a travel chess set. There followed an amusing hour during which he taught Teyla the basics and another during which he soundly trashed Ford a few times. Just before dinner McKay elbowed his way into the infirmary, took one look at the board, said, "I make that checkmate in three moves," to Ford, and then didn't even have the decency to wait for John to defeat Ford in two moves before pushing Ford out of the way and settling into his chair.
Bright and early the next morning, Beckett discharged him. Though possibly only because he wanted to rid himself of McKay, who was still occupying the chair next to John's bed, trying to negotiate a "best out of 27" round.
***
Things got pretty normal for a while after that; or at least as normal as they could get in a different galaxy full of life-sucking alien vampires. They went on missions searching for allies to trade with (semi-successful), tried to avoid the Wraith (not so much), and incidentally managed to alienate the one ally they could more or less trust--the Athosians--through perfectly normal Earth behavior (complete, utter fucking disaster), though that did net them a Wraith prisoner, so John was willing to upgrade the entire thing to "fair to middling disaster" status. And in the evenings, he and McKay were embroiled in a to-the-death best-of-101 chess contest, which made the entire expedition worthwhile (also, the score was currently 27 to 25 in John's favor).
And then they stumbled upon Hoff.
The problem was this: John had never been very good at being confronted with mortality, which was ironic considering his career choice. Except, he'd always known that the statistical likelihood of dying in a plane crash paled in comparison to that of dying in a fiery car wreck, even if you factored in combat missions, and the same just couldn't be said for a vaccine with a 50% mortality rate--that was just plain genocidal, even if self-inflicted. Actually, the real problem was this: John had had his fill of experimental treatments, however tangentially, sixteen years earlier, and it was only the simmering rage that consumed him during those final hours on Hoff that kept him from falling apart.
It was that same rage that got him through the post-mission briefing and allowed him to walk back to his quarters on more or less steady feet. It faded--evaporated--as soon as the door slid shut behind him, and he hardly had time to think Lock, before his entire body started shaking and his lunch tried to work its way back up his esophagus.
When the insistent knocking on his door started, he didn't notice at first, thought it was the throbbing in his temples reverberating in his eardrums amongst the dry heaves that had long since replaced the vomit. It took him several painful seconds to make it up from the bathroom floor and stagger back into the main room. Once there, he could hear McKay's muffled voice, insistently urging him to unlock the door. And knowing McKay, he wouldn't just go away either. He would keep on standing in the hallway making a scene until John answered, and as far as John was concerned, public scenes were on the list of things he truly hated. So he thought the door open.
"What do you want?" he asked, voice rough.
McKay stepped in holding up the chess set.
"I'm really not in the mood, McKay," John said as the door swished shut behind him.
"Fine, yes. I understand." McKay said, but made no move to leave.
John closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "Was there anything else you wanted, because I really--"
And then, very suddenly, McKay was in his personal space, his face looking pretty much like John felt, his arms half raised, and was he--no, that couldn't possibly be. John drew himself up and tried to summon whatever reserves of sarcasm he possessed (failing miserably, he suspected). "Please don't tell me you're here for--"
"No!" McKay yelped. "Well, maybe?"
"You need to leave," John ground out before McKay could say any more. "I can't--" And then, to John's horror, McKay's arms closed around him and the man was trying to, no, actually embracing him. It only lasted a split second before John brought his arms up sharply and shook McKay off. "What the fuck?" he asked.
"I..." McKay said and took another step forward, backing John up against the wall, and then his lips closed over John's and for a terrible moment John was so taken aback, he actually kissed back.
Once he came to his senses, he pushed McKay back rather violently. "What the fuck, McKay?"
"I'm sorry, I..." McKay said before uncharacteristically running out of words and just staring at his shoes.
"Look," John said tiredly. "I get it, okay? I get inappropriate responses to trauma, really, but I can't--"
"You want to," McKay said, looking up defiantly.
John pushed past McKay and slumped down on the bed. "It doesn't matter what I do or do not want," he said. "What matters is that you really should be knocking on Dr. Heightmeyer's door."
"I don't need a shrink," McKay said quietly.
John laughed hoarsely. "We all need a shrink in this galaxy." He paused. "Look, I'm not--I can't--"
"You know that I know you've been watching me," McKay said. "I'm not entirely clueless."
John hadn't actually known that. He thought he'd been more than discreet since that moment in the lab back at Stargate Command. "I'm sorry," he said feebly.
"If this is about your military's asinine regulations, you know that I can keep a secret. I mean, you don't have a career working on top-secret projects for the US government, unless--"
McKay had to draw a breath at this point and John took the opportunity to interrupt him. "It has nothing to do with that, McKay," he said. "If that were--Look. I can't be your comfort...thing."
"Who said anything about a comfort thing?" McKay asked.
John raised an eyebrow.
"Okay, yes, it's been a shitty week," McKay said, "And yes, maybe that sort of precipitated my sudden arrival here, but for all intents and purposes, we've been dating since--"
"We've been what?" Sheppard said, his voice sounding a little shrill even to his own ears.
"Seeing each other," McKay said unabashed. "We've been working together, eating together, spending our free time together, the only thing we haven't done is sleep together."
"We live in a closed society!" Sheppard protested. "Of course we do all of those things, but how in God's name does that translate into 'dating'?"
"You were the one who asked me out that last night on Earth," McKay insisted.
John took a deep breath and tried to sound utterly reasonable. "I asked you to come for a drink. As colleagues."
"Then why were you flirting with me? Why did you--"
John threw up his hands. "I'm not discussing this, McKay," he said wearily.
"That's not an answer." McKay persevered. John stayed silent, even when McKay started tapping his foot. "I'm not leaving until you tell me why you are watching me if you're not interested, Major."
Of all the pig-headed... John smiled, or bared his teeth, he wasn't sure which. "It's not you, it's me," he ground out. "Now, if you'll excuse me," he said, standing up, "I've got to go see Dr. Beckett. Do see yourself out." And with that, he escaped.
He found Beckett in the storage cupboard he was using for an office. The doctor looked tired, with dark circles under his eyes, still wearing the clothes he had worn on Hoff. "Yes, Major?" he said wearily.
"The tests," John said. "You can run them."
Beckett smiled faintly, but it didn't reach his eyes. Still, he got up from his desk and guided John out into the main infirmary. "I'll just get a few blood samples from you for now," he said conversationally while pulling on a pair of surgical gloves.
John nodded and looked away while Beckett fastened the tourniquet around his arm. "It's not because of--" he said as the needle slid into his arm. "I don't want you to think that it's because of what happened on that planet."
"Of course not, lad," Beckett said, filling the first ampoule.
"Because I've seen experimental treatments, FDA trials, that didn't--my ex-wife, she's with the Office of Health Affairs at Homeland Security now, but--look, I can't ever do that, do you understand? I'll let you run your tests, but I won't be your science experiment."
Beckett nodded and pulled the needle out of John arm, pressing a cotton ball to the wound. "Apply pressure for a couple of minutes," he said. "Then you're good to go."
John was halfway out the door already, when he suddenly turned and asked, "Do you need to know what really happened? The version that won't be in any of the files?"
This time Beckett's smile was genuine. "That might be useful, yes," he said, holding the door to his office open for John, who took a deep breath, and walked through.
***
The next couple of days were surprisingly uneventful. Nothing blew up, nobody died, and John was so bored by day two, he very briefly toyed with the idea of dealing with those administrative details he'd been avoiding--after lunch perhaps.
He had finished his meal and dragged that last cup of coffee out as long as it could possibly last, when McKay walked into the mess hall and slid into the chair opposite him, making John wish he'd gone to tackle his inbox a few minutes earlier.
"I owe you an apology," McKay began. "I went to see Dr. Heightmeyer like you suggested."
"Oh?"
McKay nodded. "It never occurred to me how socially stultifying the repression of your homosexuality could be before--"
"Repression of what?" John interrupted.
"Homosexuality," McKay said, enunciating each syllable slowly.
"For crying out loud, will you keep your voice down?" John said. "I'm not repressing anything and besides, you are in no position to comment on my social skills."
McKay nodded. "I admit, I may not be the most socially adept person, but at least I've never repressed my attraction to people based on something as arbitrary and unimportant as gender assignation and--"
"McKay," John interrupted again. "Shut up."
"Come on, Major," McKay sighed. "I can understand the repressing on account of the hostile work environment you find yourself in, but really, I think you might be crossing the border to denial if you're going to claim that you haven't been watching my ass since you first laid eyes on it a the SGC."
"For the last time, McKay, I am not repressing and I am certainly not in denial, and while I find your ass about as enticing as I find the effluence from your mouth annoying, I cannot get involved with you for personal reasons that have nothing to do with whether or not I'm attracted to men," John said, stood up, and stalked out of the mess, right to Heighmeyer's office.
"Why the hell would you tell McKay I'm a socially stultified repressed homosexual?" he asked as soon as the door closed behind him.
Heightmeyer looked up from her notes and said, "I didn't."
"Then why would he say you did?"
"I couldn't begin to guess, and even if I could, you know that I wouldn't discuss another patient's session with you," Heightmeyer said. "Is there anything I can help you, personally, with?"
"Do you think I'm socially stultified?" John asked, pacing across the room to the window.
Heightmeyer pursed her lips. "Hmmm. Possibly a slight cluster A."
"What the hell does that even mean?" John asked.
"You have few if any close friends or confidants, you have trouble forming emotional attachments, you lack interest in sexual relationships, and you appear indifferent to the praise or criticism of others," Heightmeyer replied. "In short, you meet the diagnostic criteria."
"It's not that I'm not theoretically interested in a relationship, sexual or otherwise," John said, beginning to pace up and down in front of Heightmeyer's couch. "It's just, the risk is--"
"Manageable," Heightmeyer said. "And isn't that a discussion you should have with Dr. McKay?"
"Who said anything about McKay?" John asked, stopping briefly.
"I inferred it," Heightmeyer said. "My apologies."
"Anyway," John said, sitting down on the couch. "McKay's got it into his head that I am repressed, or in denial, or something."
"And are you?" she asked.
"No!" John replied.
"Then why are you here?" Heightmeyer asked.
"Fucked if I know," John sighed. When Heightmeyer didn't reply to that, he added, "You have seen my medical files, haven't you?" She inclined her head minutely in acknowledgement. "And you don't think that is a reason to avoid getting involved with Dr. McKay?"
"Do you?" Heightmeyer asked, scribbling something on her pad.
"What did you just write down?" John asked. "And do you have any idea how irritating it is when you answer each question with another question?"
"Professional prerogative, I'm afraid," she replied. "So, if I understand you correctly, you are comfortable with being attracted to another man and you are interested in pursuing a relationship with Dr. McKay, but you won't, because you are in denial about your condition."
"Now, why would you think that?" John asked.
"Because you persistently fail to refer to it in anything but a circuitous manner," Heightmeyer replied, and John couldn't think of anything to say to that.
***
John missed his follow-up appointment with Heightmeyer when he was unexpectedly delayed stealing a data device from a Wraith ship, and the rescheduled follow-up because he was hallucinating a trip back home passed out on M5S-224. When she didn't contact him after that, John had been prepared to let the whole thing slide and forget anything had ever necessitated his visit to her in the first place, if the damn Genii hadn't decided to take McKay hostage, because that John took personally, the rage burning much, much brighter than it had after Hoff.
So that by the time he was finished with the Genii, he was pretty sure Heightmeyer would be adding a few more criteria to her diagnosis. He also suspected that the fact that Kolya touching McKay had turned him into a homicidal maniac indicated that perhaps thing between them weren't quite as resolved as he'd made himself believe, and after everyone had been patched up and the city had bedded down for the night, he found himself knocking on McKay's door.
"Oh, it's you."
"Can I come in?" John asked.
McKay slightly raised the arm with the sling around it and winced. "Not like I can fight you off like this."
"I'll go away if you want me to," John offered.
"No, no, please, come in," McKay said, stepping aside to let him pass.
He heard the door shut behind himself and turned, almost colliding with McKay. Then he slowly leaned further into McKay's personal space and kissed him.
"Wha--" McKay said when he drew back for breath.
"Just. Just run with me here," John said. "I thought Kolya was going to--I thought... Just don't say anything."
And for the first time since John had met McKay, he did what he was told.
They somehow made it to the bed, still kissing slowly, making out like teenager, and that... well, that kind of was a problem. Because McKay--Rodney--was letting John lead, and wasn't pushing, which meant that John's brain was still kind of functional and noticing things. Or rather, the complete absence of things. Fuck. Or not, as the case might be.
Not that he was particularly surprised. If he couldn't bring himself to say it in front of Beckett or Heightmeyer, who knew already, then why on earth would he ever have thought he could tell Rodney, which he would have to, in about five minutes' time, if they continued down this road.
He managed to finish the making out session more or less naturally. Managed to draw back with a few small pecks to Rodney's lips and the semblance of deliberate action. "I'm sorry," he breathed against Rodney's mouth, "I really can't do this."
"What? But why?" Rodney asked, his voice full of righteous indignation.
"Rodney..." John said, rising, waving his hand in the general direction of his waist.
Rodney stared uncomprehendingly for a few moments before the penny dropped. "Oh. But you came to me."
John could feel the blush creeping up his throat. "I know, I'm sorry," he ground out.
"What the hell is your problem?" Rodney asked, still indignant.
John could think of any number of excuses--tiredness, stress, the constant threat of death by Wraith--but was pretty sure that Rodney would recognize all of them for what they were. He shrugged and went for the easy lie. "Don't know."
"No, seriously, I really want to know," Rodney continued in full rant-mode now. "You claim you're not in denial, you claim you're not repressing, yet every time this," he gesticulated wildly between them, "happens, you claim you can't do whatever the hell we're doing--and it looks like you really can't actually, but that's a minor detail right now--and run off like I'm diseased or something."
John blanched. "It's not you, Rodney, it's me," he said, and stormed out of the room at speed.
***
Part 2.
Spoilers: S1/S2 and Outcast
Rating: R
Word Count: ~14,000
Summary: There were two reasons John was reassigned to Antarctica: one was splashed all over his service record, the other, as per regulations, arrived in a sealed envelope from his previous CO to his new CO marked "To Be Opened By Addressee Only."
Author's Note: This story is dedicated to cathexys, who helped me plot it out sitting by the pool last June and is remarkably tolerant of both my completely irrational pet peeves and my sudden beta requests eight months later: thank you for everything. Thanks also to ms_manna for biological sciences wrangling and jack_pride for the helpful comments and suggestions.
A Pocket Full of Posies
There were two reasons John was reassigned to Antarctica: one was splashed all over his service record, the other, as per regulations, arrived in a sealed envelope from his previous CO to his new CO marked "To Be Opened By Addressee Only." He was still able to fly though, and on clear days, the wide open skies above Antarctica were bluer than those above the other six continents, so he liked Antarctica, after a fashion, even if very few of the officers he ferried around chose to believe him.
And now there was this general asking him to believe in mutant genes, alien missiles, wormholes to other worlds, and expeditions to other galaxies, and John thought he had a right to freak out just a little bit. After all, the forms promising piloting in exchange for possible deployment to war zones had been completely silent on the subject of deployment outside the Milky Way.
"Now if you can't give me a 'yes' by the time we reach McMurdo, I don't even want you," O'Neill finished bluntly, as though he'd been asking John to do a supply run to Christchurch.
At a complete loss for words, John took off. After a few minutes' uncomfortable silence, he said, "You know it doesn't matter either way. The Air Force would never approve the posting."
"Hello, sitting right here," O'Neill replied, and John was almost entirely sure he was being sarcastic. "I know McMurdo is the backend of the world, but do these stars mean anything to you?"
"Yes, sir, but--"
"I've seen your record, and so has Weir," O'Neill interrupted him. "If this is about that business in Afghanistan, Weir doesn't care."
And it was probably because O'Neill had been rubbing him up the wrong way for the past twenty minutes, that John replied without thinking, "You haven't seen all the records and there are reasons other than Afghanistan why they posted me to, as you so delicately put it, the backend of the world," before he managed to bite down on his tongue.
O'Neill quirked an eyebrow. "Medical?"
"With all due respect, sir, that's none of your business," John said, his teeth clenching.
"I could just request them, you know," O'Neill pointed out, completely unconcerned. "Not that that's really the point. Look. We need you. You can make the ancient thingamajigs light up without shooting down friendly aircraft. It's the most sought-after quality we can think of at the moment."
"They wouldn't let me go, even if I said yes," John insisted.
O'Neill reached over and patted his shoulder. "You'd care to wager some money on that?"
With the benefit of hindsight, John was glad he hadn't accepted the bet, because three days later, he received an e-mail from O'Neill. "So I was nosy," O'Neill had typed, all in lower case letters. "I make that clinical latency since at least the mid-90s. Very clever of you to completely avoid getting screened, despite regulations, for years. How did you do it? More importantly, how come you weren't grounded? Never mind. I don't really want to know, do I? Pack and get your ass on a transport to Lackland for clearance from your treating physician; reassignment orders are on their way."
John blinked at his screen for a total of ten minutes, trying to figure out whether O'Neill was joking, or crazy, or possibly both, before he was interrupted by some kid summoning him to his CO's office.
Once in San Antonio, while waiting for all the test results to come back, he flipped a coin. "Well, wouldn't you know it, Jess," he said when the coin came down heads, "I'm going to another galaxy." And maybe it was just the breeze, but he thought he could hear Jess whispering, "That'd be because you flipped the one-faced coin again, John."
***
When John arrived in Colorado Springs two days later, still slightly shell-shocked, he barely had time to sign in and report for duty before a harrassed-looking spry man in a white lab coat scurried up to him and treated him to an accusatory glare. "What took you so long?" the man wailed. "McKay, he has been insufferable."
John blinked. "I'm sorry?"
"Yes, yes, and you should be," the man said. "Hurry up, now. McKay isn't very nice when he has to wait."
John took a deep breath and tried again. "I'm sorry, but who are you? And who is McKay?"
"Ah, Zelenka, Radek Zelenka," the man sad, stretching out a hand. When John took it, he used it to pull John along the corridor, and for such a wiry man, Zelenka sure had a lot of pull, John thought.
"Where are we going?" John asked. "And shouldn't I go see General O'Neill--"
"Not unless you enjoy seeing little Japanese scientist cry, no," Zelenka interrupted him.
"But--"
Zelenka paused long enough to push John into an elevator and said, "Look, general is very sensible man. He only shoots people. McKay on the other hand. Well." At that point he broke into a stream of words in another language entirely. John managed to pick up about every tenth word. Whatever language Zelenka was speaking bore some similarity to Serbo-Croatian and he was doing quite well on some of the verbs as he had heard them frequently with reference to minefields and war crimes. John shuddered.
"Oh, is not that bad," Zelenka reassured him, switching to English again. "Now that you are here, he will be in better mood."
John was just starting to wonder whether he could still change his mind and return to Antarctica, when the elevator came to a halt and Zelenka gave him a shove. "First door on right," he said by way of explanation.
Zelenka pushed open the door, and to his horror, John found that there really was a petite Japanese woman standing sniffling in the center of the room, while the guy who had asked him to think of where he was in the universe--McKay, his brain helpfully supplied--was pacing the room.
"Rodney, is fine now, I brought you light switch," Zelenka said, inserting himself between McKay and the Japanese woman to whom he said, "You go now." She smiled at him gratefully and scurried from the room.
McKay's eyes lit up when he spotted John (who was trying to become invisible through sheer force of will). "Ah, yes, Major," McKay said. "So good of you to join us at last. We have less than two weeks before we're leaving for another galaxy, but don't let me impress on you a false sense of urgency." He picked up a piece of equipment from a lab bench seemingly at random and strode across the room to John. "Here, turn this one?"
"How?" John asked.
McKay gave him a look of withering scorn. "How should I know? The same way you activated the chair in Antarctica, I would think."
John looked at the small black box and thought, On.
To this surprise, the box lit up.
"Well," McKay said, satisfaction evident in his voice. "That was interesting."
"But what is it?" John asked, perplexed.
"Don't know yet," McKay replied. "But I'm sure we'll find out. Have a seat, Major." He gestured to a lab stool.
And that was that, apparently. John found himself spending a lot of time touching stuff or thinking random bit of junk on. As soon as each piece of equipment started to glow or whir or otherwise indicate its active status, he was left to play solitaire for hours or otherwise amuse himself so long as he remained in close proximity to the action, while Zelenka and McKay twittered excitedly. At random intervals, they magnanimously permitted him to leave the lab for food or sleep. It was, all things considered, not exactly an onerous task, and as the days passed, he more often than not found himself foregoing the solitaire games in favor of watching the two scientist at work.
They complemented each other perfectly, even while screaming insults at each other across a lab bench, which made them fascinating to observe. He noticed that Zelenka would claim something was impossible quite frequently, only to push McKay into proving that it was, theoretically, quite possible if looked at from the right angle, and then McKay in turn would berate Zelenka until he would transform the theoretical possibility into practical fact.
It mesmerized John because despite the arrogance and the sniping and the completely out-of-this-world ego, there was no denying that McKay was smart, and that wasn't a term John used lightly. He might have washed out of Stanford with a Master's instead of a PhD because his life had been turning to shit, but he could still recognize genius on the rare occasions he saw it, and he'd always had a bit of a boner for staggering intellect. That was why he had fallen for Jess and later Nancy, and McKay was no exception to the rule.
Okay, so getting a crush on one of the guys going on a possible one-way mission to another galaxy with him was stupid. Especially considering that he'd agreed to go on that one-way mission without any consideration for the medical care he could expect on the other side. (That was more or less the reason he'd flipped the coin back in San Antonio and consulted the specter of Jess. He could have called Nancy, their divorce had been amicable enough, but he had an idea that what Ms. PhD Microbiology would have told him if he had, was to check himself into the nearest psychiatric hospital on a 72-hour suicide watch.)
John shook himself out of his latest daydream and looked up to find McKay staring at him strangely. Right. Upgrade that from stupid to suicidal. If any of the marines had wandered into the lab at that point and put two and two together correctly, or perhaps incorrectly, arriving at four, John wouldn't even make it to that other galaxy before his court martial. Time to pull himself together and clamp down on it. Make it less obvious. Crushes were good, crushes were healthy (for one thing they went some way toward disproving what various counselors had said about his emotional state), as long as he kept them in check. Time to spend a bit more time on his Free Cell high score, and a little less time oggling the scientists. John turned to the laptop he had been given with determination and cracked his knuckles.
***
On the eve of their last night on Earth, with most of the lab's contents carefully packed up and crated, McKay looked up from what he had been doing and said, "Thank you, Major."
"You're welcome," John replied. "Anything else you want me to touch before we leave?"
McKay shook his head. "I'm sure you have things you would want to do on your last night on Earth," he said magnanimously. "Feel free to leave any time you want."
John grinned. "I could do with one last beer," he said. "Care to join me? Unless, of course, you already have plans."
McKay perked up. "Good beer? None of that cheap American swill."
"Of course not," John said.
McKay thought about it for a moment. "Hmm. Yes, that would be nice," he said. He pushed down the lid of his laptop.
"I'll just have to stop by my quarters, change into civvies," John said as they were leaving the lab. "You're welcome to hang out and wait."
McKay waved vaguely in the general direction of the elevators. "Lead the way, Major."
Once in his quarters, John picked out a pair of black UFO pants and a black t-shirt, gestured at McKay to sit down, and ambled into the adjoining bathroom to get changed and shave. He left the door open just a crack. "Said all your goodbyes?" he called to McKay as he lathered up.
"My neighbor agreed to take care of my cat," McKay replied. "Other than that, I didn't have many goodbyes to say. You?"
"Nah. Single, no children that I'm aware of, not really on speaking terms with my family... I'm ideal for this mission as far as the Air Force is concerned," John replied. And I'm thoroughly expendable at this point too, he thought, but had the good sense not to add.
McKay didn't respond to that, so John quickly finished shaving and changing and stepped back into the room.
"Oh my," McKay said, rising, "You do clean up rather well."
John grinned and couldn't resist winking at McKay.
"Not that I'm trying to say anything inappropriate," McKay quickly corrected himself. "It's just that I've never seen you in civilian clothing before, and it is rather a pleasant surp--I mean, you look good."
John could see the tips of McKay's ears turn red. "Relax, McKay, I get it," he said easily.
"You do?" McKay asked, doubtful.
"Of course," John lied. "You're worried I'll ditch you for the first available girl for that last fling before shipping out."
"Um. Yes. Yes, that was what I was thinking exactly," McKay agreed, visibly relieved.
John grabbed his jacket and opened the door. "Well, you have nothing to worry about. I'll be sharing a cab back to base with you at the end of the evening. Scout's honor. Shall we?"
"Yes, yes, of course," McKay replied scrambling to his feet.
John took McKay to a bar he remembered from a previous visit to the area as both quiet and in possession of an above-average beer selection and opened a tab before steering McKay to a corner table. "To the mission," he said once he had sat down opposite McKay, raising his bottle in salute.
"To us," McKay replied, then added, "The expedition, I mean."
John was starting to enjoy himself. McKay, while having the social skills of an affectionate skunk, was oddly endearing in his flailing. "So if this works," he said to put McKay at ease, "if we really find the city of the Ancients, what's the first thing you'll do?"
"Ask them how to recharge a ZedPM," McKay replied at once. "You?"
John shrugged. "Not sure," which wasn't entirely a lie. He'd have a hard time deciding between 'can I fly your spaceships' and 'do you have a cure.'
"Oh, come on, Major, there must be something you'd like to know more than anything in the world," McKay pressed on.
John smiled. "I'm sure it will come to me at the right time," he said.
The two bottles in front of them turned into four and then six, and by that time John was clandestinely switching his and McKay's whenever McKay was nearing the bottom of his bottle.
"Wha'da you do to get sent to Antarctica," McKay asked when the next set of bottles appeared in front of them. "Get caught with your pants down?"
"Figuratively speaking," John agreed.
"You were lucky. They sent me to Siberia," McKay said morosely.
"What did you do?"
"Made a mistake," McKay said. "One tiny mistake and they sent me into exile!" He motioned to the barman again. John caught the man's eye and slightly shook his head; the barman nodded in return.
McKay held up his empty bottle and squinted at John through the tinted glass. "Is this a date, Major?" he blurted.
John quirked an eyebrow. "It's a beer bottle, Doctor," he replied, deliberately misunderstanding.
"Right, yes, of course," McKay agreed. "Not that I would be offended. I'm Canadian, you know."
John didn't actually know what that had to do with anything, but it offered an opportunity to change the subject. "So you like hockey, McKay?" he asked.
"Love it. Hockey is the pinnacle of sportmanship," McKay said with the conviction of the truly drunk and John wasn't going to argue with that.
"Come one, McKay, I think it's time to leave," John said instead, rising. "You wouldn't want to arrive where we're going with a hangover." He pulled the pliant scientist off his stool and went to the bar to settle their tab.
***
Twelve hours later they walked through the gate and things got a little chaotic for a while.
Turned out though that after certain death by drowning had been averted and Atlantis had risen from the ocean, the scientists got down to taking care of the second most important aspect of setting up a foothold in a new galaxy: creating a city-wide LAN and mail server--based on Linux, of course--while he was off shooting Sumner (mercy killing) and waking the Wraith (why had nobody warned him about blood-thirsty hibernating alien races prior to his departure?). So that, when he returned rather unexpectedly as ranking military officer of Atlantis, he found, much to his surprise, that he had an inbox full of unread messages requiring his immediate attention.
He narrowly avoided a slow, torturous death from administrivia by virtue of a few more crises, and McKay knocking on his door a day later, bouncing on the balls of his feet, babbling something about personal shields, and dragging him off for some "empirical scientific research." Two bruised fists, a bent knife, and a completely deformed bullet later, John was prepared to agree with McKay that the personal shield was really very cool just in time for McKay to discover some of the drawbacks of the gadget.
That evening, after Teyla had bid them goodnight--without a full understanding of a Hail Mary, John thought, but there was ample time to explain the intricacies of that later--John turned to McKay and said, "Well, that was the most fun I've had since we arrived here. Thanks."
"You're welcome, I'm sure," McKay replied. "Try to enjoy it while it lasts; after all, I'm not going to be around much longer."
John rolled his eyes. "You're not dead yet, McKay."
"Just give it another day or two and I will be," McKay's tone was starting to edge toward hysterical.
"I'm sure Dr. Beckett will think of something before then," John said, trying to reassure the man. When that didn't seem to calm him, he sighed and pushed the half-empty bowl of popcorn across at McKay. "Look, have some of that, it'll calm your nerves."
McKay shot up and gaped at him. "You--you tactless grunt!" he yelped when the power of speech was restored to him. "You know full well that--"
John threw up his hands. "Sorry, sorry, I thought maybe... anyway, sit back down and try to relax a little. Today's been the first day we've been here that hasn't involved a crisis."
"Well, when you put it like that," McKay sniffed, which John was sure was an act. There was no way the personal shield would block food and drink and not block allergens. "Yes, I'd be glad to keep you company for a little while."
John picked up the popcorn and ate another handful. "Are you sure you won't be able to--"
"Yes," McKay snapped. "I'm quite certain."
John nodded thoughtfully. "Well, at least it's completely indiscriminate in its identification of foreign objects," he said, pointing at the device still glowing on McKay's chest. "I mean, it could be much, much worse."
"No, it couldn't," McKay complained.
"Ah, but just think, what if it would allow you to eat and drink as usual, but wouldn't allow anyone to touch you?" John pointed out.
The thought evidently hadn't crossed McKay's mind because he paled considerably. "You mean I could live for another thirty or forty years and never--" he stopped, presumably because the entire situation was too terrible to contemplate.
John shrugged. "Who knows? It's a pretty safe bet though, and personally, I'd rather have it the other way."
McKay agreed rather vehemently, then backpedaled, "Not that there's anyone here that I would want to--I mean, what with Dr. Carter being back on Earth and--oh my God, I've just had a terrible thought."
John raised an eyebrow. He was starting to enjoy himself. "Which is?" he prompted McKay.
"Do you think I can still--I mean, would I be able to--" McKay was starting to turn an alarming shade of red.
"I think," John said slowly once he'd figured out exactly what McKay was asking, "I think that question warrants some more empirical scientific research." Seeing McKay's confused expression, he quickly added, "By yourself. In your quarters."
"Yes, yes, of course," McKay replied, already rising. "Thank you for this truly enlightening conversation, Major." He turned in the hallway and said, "And let's please pretend it never happened."
John managed to wait a whole ten seconds after McKay had left before he doubled over laughing.
Of course, about an hour later, everything was back to normal as more chaos ensued.
***
They had barely rid themselves of the alien entity without any casualties, when what should have been a routine hop through the stargate the following Wednesday turned sour, and John found himself unexpectedly dying. By the time he came around in the infirmary to Ford's profuse apologies and McKay's disparaging remarks concerning the bruise on his neck, he was more concerned with the terrible choice he'd apparently made in San Antonio than the fact that he still hadn't so much as looked at what kind of paper pushing was required from the military leader of the expedition.
He would have been more than happy to forget that the scientists had ever cobbled together a mail server in the first place, but Beckett had other plans. Once he'd shooed everyone out of the infirmary, he pulled up a chair besides John's cot and said accusingly, "You didn't reply to any of the e-mails I sent you."
John sighed. "I probably haven't gotten to them yet."
"Well, then, I asked you to check in with me to run some tests and fill in some questions I have regarding your medical records," Beckett replied. "And since you're going to be here for a few days at least, I'm sure it's not going to be a problem."
"I'm starting to feel very tired, all of a sudden," John tried half-heartedly before taking in Beckett's glare and thinking better of it. "On the other hand, I suppose I could answer a few questions."
"Your records are...interesting," Beckett began. "Tell me, I know they finally figured it out when you were injured in Afghanistan, but when did you find out? Based on the fact that you avoided screening for years, I'm thinking you've known for a while."
John shut his eyes. "1988," he mumbled.
"And you've never shown any symptoms?" Beckett asked. "I couldn't find any record of illness since you joined up. Not even a common cold."
"Can't remember ever being sick, not since I had the chickenpox when I was five," John said.
Beckett nodded. "I'm not going to ask how--"
"Good, because I'm not telling," John interrupted him.
"I'm not trying to harm you, lad," Beckett said, holding up his hands in a non-threatening gesture. "I'm a civilian. But I'm sure you can understand that as a geneticist, I'm a little intrigued by the files that were forwarded from Wilford Hall, sketchy as they are. I would like to run some tests here, just to confirm--"
"No," John cut him off.
"I really think it would be for the best, Major," Beckett began. "As your treating physician I should--"
"As my treating physician you should take all necessary precautions as warranted and treat my symptoms if and when they occur," John interrupted again.
Beckett sighed. "You're asymptomatic, lad."
"I know," John said coldly. "You'll just have to sit back and wait with the rest of the vultures."
"Och, I wouldn't say that," Beckett tried again after a pause.
"Yeah, but I would," John said. "Look," he added because Beckett looked like he was taking the whole thing personally, "It's probably not going to be a very long wait. I'm already blowing the curve."
Beckett looked like he wanted to argue, but instead he just nodded, checked John's pulse and walked away, and John was kind of glad he did, because he really wasn't feeling up to arguing any longer. Dying took a lot out of you.
Of course, by noon the next day he was climbing the walls and only stopped short of clawing his own eyes out because Beckett finally relented and rescinded his earlier restrictions on visitors, and then around midafternoon Zelenka, god amongst men, sheepishly loaned him a travel chess set. There followed an amusing hour during which he taught Teyla the basics and another during which he soundly trashed Ford a few times. Just before dinner McKay elbowed his way into the infirmary, took one look at the board, said, "I make that checkmate in three moves," to Ford, and then didn't even have the decency to wait for John to defeat Ford in two moves before pushing Ford out of the way and settling into his chair.
Bright and early the next morning, Beckett discharged him. Though possibly only because he wanted to rid himself of McKay, who was still occupying the chair next to John's bed, trying to negotiate a "best out of 27" round.
***
Things got pretty normal for a while after that; or at least as normal as they could get in a different galaxy full of life-sucking alien vampires. They went on missions searching for allies to trade with (semi-successful), tried to avoid the Wraith (not so much), and incidentally managed to alienate the one ally they could more or less trust--the Athosians--through perfectly normal Earth behavior (complete, utter fucking disaster), though that did net them a Wraith prisoner, so John was willing to upgrade the entire thing to "fair to middling disaster" status. And in the evenings, he and McKay were embroiled in a to-the-death best-of-101 chess contest, which made the entire expedition worthwhile (also, the score was currently 27 to 25 in John's favor).
And then they stumbled upon Hoff.
The problem was this: John had never been very good at being confronted with mortality, which was ironic considering his career choice. Except, he'd always known that the statistical likelihood of dying in a plane crash paled in comparison to that of dying in a fiery car wreck, even if you factored in combat missions, and the same just couldn't be said for a vaccine with a 50% mortality rate--that was just plain genocidal, even if self-inflicted. Actually, the real problem was this: John had had his fill of experimental treatments, however tangentially, sixteen years earlier, and it was only the simmering rage that consumed him during those final hours on Hoff that kept him from falling apart.
It was that same rage that got him through the post-mission briefing and allowed him to walk back to his quarters on more or less steady feet. It faded--evaporated--as soon as the door slid shut behind him, and he hardly had time to think Lock, before his entire body started shaking and his lunch tried to work its way back up his esophagus.
When the insistent knocking on his door started, he didn't notice at first, thought it was the throbbing in his temples reverberating in his eardrums amongst the dry heaves that had long since replaced the vomit. It took him several painful seconds to make it up from the bathroom floor and stagger back into the main room. Once there, he could hear McKay's muffled voice, insistently urging him to unlock the door. And knowing McKay, he wouldn't just go away either. He would keep on standing in the hallway making a scene until John answered, and as far as John was concerned, public scenes were on the list of things he truly hated. So he thought the door open.
"What do you want?" he asked, voice rough.
McKay stepped in holding up the chess set.
"I'm really not in the mood, McKay," John said as the door swished shut behind him.
"Fine, yes. I understand." McKay said, but made no move to leave.
John closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "Was there anything else you wanted, because I really--"
And then, very suddenly, McKay was in his personal space, his face looking pretty much like John felt, his arms half raised, and was he--no, that couldn't possibly be. John drew himself up and tried to summon whatever reserves of sarcasm he possessed (failing miserably, he suspected). "Please don't tell me you're here for--"
"No!" McKay yelped. "Well, maybe?"
"You need to leave," John ground out before McKay could say any more. "I can't--" And then, to John's horror, McKay's arms closed around him and the man was trying to, no, actually embracing him. It only lasted a split second before John brought his arms up sharply and shook McKay off. "What the fuck?" he asked.
"I..." McKay said and took another step forward, backing John up against the wall, and then his lips closed over John's and for a terrible moment John was so taken aback, he actually kissed back.
Once he came to his senses, he pushed McKay back rather violently. "What the fuck, McKay?"
"I'm sorry, I..." McKay said before uncharacteristically running out of words and just staring at his shoes.
"Look," John said tiredly. "I get it, okay? I get inappropriate responses to trauma, really, but I can't--"
"You want to," McKay said, looking up defiantly.
John pushed past McKay and slumped down on the bed. "It doesn't matter what I do or do not want," he said. "What matters is that you really should be knocking on Dr. Heightmeyer's door."
"I don't need a shrink," McKay said quietly.
John laughed hoarsely. "We all need a shrink in this galaxy." He paused. "Look, I'm not--I can't--"
"You know that I know you've been watching me," McKay said. "I'm not entirely clueless."
John hadn't actually known that. He thought he'd been more than discreet since that moment in the lab back at Stargate Command. "I'm sorry," he said feebly.
"If this is about your military's asinine regulations, you know that I can keep a secret. I mean, you don't have a career working on top-secret projects for the US government, unless--"
McKay had to draw a breath at this point and John took the opportunity to interrupt him. "It has nothing to do with that, McKay," he said. "If that were--Look. I can't be your comfort...thing."
"Who said anything about a comfort thing?" McKay asked.
John raised an eyebrow.
"Okay, yes, it's been a shitty week," McKay said, "And yes, maybe that sort of precipitated my sudden arrival here, but for all intents and purposes, we've been dating since--"
"We've been what?" Sheppard said, his voice sounding a little shrill even to his own ears.
"Seeing each other," McKay said unabashed. "We've been working together, eating together, spending our free time together, the only thing we haven't done is sleep together."
"We live in a closed society!" Sheppard protested. "Of course we do all of those things, but how in God's name does that translate into 'dating'?"
"You were the one who asked me out that last night on Earth," McKay insisted.
John took a deep breath and tried to sound utterly reasonable. "I asked you to come for a drink. As colleagues."
"Then why were you flirting with me? Why did you--"
John threw up his hands. "I'm not discussing this, McKay," he said wearily.
"That's not an answer." McKay persevered. John stayed silent, even when McKay started tapping his foot. "I'm not leaving until you tell me why you are watching me if you're not interested, Major."
Of all the pig-headed... John smiled, or bared his teeth, he wasn't sure which. "It's not you, it's me," he ground out. "Now, if you'll excuse me," he said, standing up, "I've got to go see Dr. Beckett. Do see yourself out." And with that, he escaped.
He found Beckett in the storage cupboard he was using for an office. The doctor looked tired, with dark circles under his eyes, still wearing the clothes he had worn on Hoff. "Yes, Major?" he said wearily.
"The tests," John said. "You can run them."
Beckett smiled faintly, but it didn't reach his eyes. Still, he got up from his desk and guided John out into the main infirmary. "I'll just get a few blood samples from you for now," he said conversationally while pulling on a pair of surgical gloves.
John nodded and looked away while Beckett fastened the tourniquet around his arm. "It's not because of--" he said as the needle slid into his arm. "I don't want you to think that it's because of what happened on that planet."
"Of course not, lad," Beckett said, filling the first ampoule.
"Because I've seen experimental treatments, FDA trials, that didn't--my ex-wife, she's with the Office of Health Affairs at Homeland Security now, but--look, I can't ever do that, do you understand? I'll let you run your tests, but I won't be your science experiment."
Beckett nodded and pulled the needle out of John arm, pressing a cotton ball to the wound. "Apply pressure for a couple of minutes," he said. "Then you're good to go."
John was halfway out the door already, when he suddenly turned and asked, "Do you need to know what really happened? The version that won't be in any of the files?"
This time Beckett's smile was genuine. "That might be useful, yes," he said, holding the door to his office open for John, who took a deep breath, and walked through.
***
The next couple of days were surprisingly uneventful. Nothing blew up, nobody died, and John was so bored by day two, he very briefly toyed with the idea of dealing with those administrative details he'd been avoiding--after lunch perhaps.
He had finished his meal and dragged that last cup of coffee out as long as it could possibly last, when McKay walked into the mess hall and slid into the chair opposite him, making John wish he'd gone to tackle his inbox a few minutes earlier.
"I owe you an apology," McKay began. "I went to see Dr. Heightmeyer like you suggested."
"Oh?"
McKay nodded. "It never occurred to me how socially stultifying the repression of your homosexuality could be before--"
"Repression of what?" John interrupted.
"Homosexuality," McKay said, enunciating each syllable slowly.
"For crying out loud, will you keep your voice down?" John said. "I'm not repressing anything and besides, you are in no position to comment on my social skills."
McKay nodded. "I admit, I may not be the most socially adept person, but at least I've never repressed my attraction to people based on something as arbitrary and unimportant as gender assignation and--"
"McKay," John interrupted again. "Shut up."
"Come on, Major," McKay sighed. "I can understand the repressing on account of the hostile work environment you find yourself in, but really, I think you might be crossing the border to denial if you're going to claim that you haven't been watching my ass since you first laid eyes on it a the SGC."
"For the last time, McKay, I am not repressing and I am certainly not in denial, and while I find your ass about as enticing as I find the effluence from your mouth annoying, I cannot get involved with you for personal reasons that have nothing to do with whether or not I'm attracted to men," John said, stood up, and stalked out of the mess, right to Heighmeyer's office.
"Why the hell would you tell McKay I'm a socially stultified repressed homosexual?" he asked as soon as the door closed behind him.
Heightmeyer looked up from her notes and said, "I didn't."
"Then why would he say you did?"
"I couldn't begin to guess, and even if I could, you know that I wouldn't discuss another patient's session with you," Heightmeyer said. "Is there anything I can help you, personally, with?"
"Do you think I'm socially stultified?" John asked, pacing across the room to the window.
Heightmeyer pursed her lips. "Hmmm. Possibly a slight cluster A."
"What the hell does that even mean?" John asked.
"You have few if any close friends or confidants, you have trouble forming emotional attachments, you lack interest in sexual relationships, and you appear indifferent to the praise or criticism of others," Heightmeyer replied. "In short, you meet the diagnostic criteria."
"It's not that I'm not theoretically interested in a relationship, sexual or otherwise," John said, beginning to pace up and down in front of Heightmeyer's couch. "It's just, the risk is--"
"Manageable," Heightmeyer said. "And isn't that a discussion you should have with Dr. McKay?"
"Who said anything about McKay?" John asked, stopping briefly.
"I inferred it," Heightmeyer said. "My apologies."
"Anyway," John said, sitting down on the couch. "McKay's got it into his head that I am repressed, or in denial, or something."
"And are you?" she asked.
"No!" John replied.
"Then why are you here?" Heightmeyer asked.
"Fucked if I know," John sighed. When Heightmeyer didn't reply to that, he added, "You have seen my medical files, haven't you?" She inclined her head minutely in acknowledgement. "And you don't think that is a reason to avoid getting involved with Dr. McKay?"
"Do you?" Heightmeyer asked, scribbling something on her pad.
"What did you just write down?" John asked. "And do you have any idea how irritating it is when you answer each question with another question?"
"Professional prerogative, I'm afraid," she replied. "So, if I understand you correctly, you are comfortable with being attracted to another man and you are interested in pursuing a relationship with Dr. McKay, but you won't, because you are in denial about your condition."
"Now, why would you think that?" John asked.
"Because you persistently fail to refer to it in anything but a circuitous manner," Heightmeyer replied, and John couldn't think of anything to say to that.
***
John missed his follow-up appointment with Heightmeyer when he was unexpectedly delayed stealing a data device from a Wraith ship, and the rescheduled follow-up because he was hallucinating a trip back home passed out on M5S-224. When she didn't contact him after that, John had been prepared to let the whole thing slide and forget anything had ever necessitated his visit to her in the first place, if the damn Genii hadn't decided to take McKay hostage, because that John took personally, the rage burning much, much brighter than it had after Hoff.
So that by the time he was finished with the Genii, he was pretty sure Heightmeyer would be adding a few more criteria to her diagnosis. He also suspected that the fact that Kolya touching McKay had turned him into a homicidal maniac indicated that perhaps thing between them weren't quite as resolved as he'd made himself believe, and after everyone had been patched up and the city had bedded down for the night, he found himself knocking on McKay's door.
"Oh, it's you."
"Can I come in?" John asked.
McKay slightly raised the arm with the sling around it and winced. "Not like I can fight you off like this."
"I'll go away if you want me to," John offered.
"No, no, please, come in," McKay said, stepping aside to let him pass.
He heard the door shut behind himself and turned, almost colliding with McKay. Then he slowly leaned further into McKay's personal space and kissed him.
"Wha--" McKay said when he drew back for breath.
"Just. Just run with me here," John said. "I thought Kolya was going to--I thought... Just don't say anything."
And for the first time since John had met McKay, he did what he was told.
They somehow made it to the bed, still kissing slowly, making out like teenager, and that... well, that kind of was a problem. Because McKay--Rodney--was letting John lead, and wasn't pushing, which meant that John's brain was still kind of functional and noticing things. Or rather, the complete absence of things. Fuck. Or not, as the case might be.
Not that he was particularly surprised. If he couldn't bring himself to say it in front of Beckett or Heightmeyer, who knew already, then why on earth would he ever have thought he could tell Rodney, which he would have to, in about five minutes' time, if they continued down this road.
He managed to finish the making out session more or less naturally. Managed to draw back with a few small pecks to Rodney's lips and the semblance of deliberate action. "I'm sorry," he breathed against Rodney's mouth, "I really can't do this."
"What? But why?" Rodney asked, his voice full of righteous indignation.
"Rodney..." John said, rising, waving his hand in the general direction of his waist.
Rodney stared uncomprehendingly for a few moments before the penny dropped. "Oh. But you came to me."
John could feel the blush creeping up his throat. "I know, I'm sorry," he ground out.
"What the hell is your problem?" Rodney asked, still indignant.
John could think of any number of excuses--tiredness, stress, the constant threat of death by Wraith--but was pretty sure that Rodney would recognize all of them for what they were. He shrugged and went for the easy lie. "Don't know."
"No, seriously, I really want to know," Rodney continued in full rant-mode now. "You claim you're not in denial, you claim you're not repressing, yet every time this," he gesticulated wildly between them, "happens, you claim you can't do whatever the hell we're doing--and it looks like you really can't actually, but that's a minor detail right now--and run off like I'm diseased or something."
John blanched. "It's not you, Rodney, it's me," he said, and stormed out of the room at speed.
***
Part 2.