SGA Fic - Safe house
Title: Safe house
Rating: PG+ for short scenes of minor violence and language, Gen
Characters: Sheppard, McKay, Ronon, some Teyla
Warnings: Mentions of non-con but no actual non-con.
Disclaimer: Don't own Stargate Atlantis.
Summary: FBI agents McKay and Dex are put in charge of looking after a not-quite-so-important witness. Police/Agency AU. Sheppard/McKay friendship. Many hugs to my beta wildcat88 for putting up with all the fics I keep sending her even though I know she's uber busy ;).
A/N: Cliches are eating my brain. I know cop/agent AUs are all over the place, but the idea made the muses dance and sing and they refused to have their fun spoiled.
Safe House
“FBI! F - B - I! Drop your weapons and get down on the floor!” Ronon's voice was thunder in the resonating warehouse. It vibrated even the concrete floor, and those who weren't spooked into a semblance of deer-in-the-headlights were spooked like sheep tripping over each other in their rush to get away. They were quickly, and efficiently, intercepted by men in black and kevlar. Bags of heroin and cocaine fell, exploding in a cloud that settled like powdered sugar all over the floor.
Surprise attacks always had a fifty/fifty turnout that could be very black or very white - ending either in a lot of blood or as a thing of beauty. Today had been poetry, with not a shot fired, and suspects and drug-mules hustled with their hands on their heads against the walls.
Rodney, having entered on the heels of all the chaos, stood off to one side out of the way. He wasn't good at the round up. The twitchy mules in desperate need of a fix made him nervous and the dealers - experienced, trusted, right hand to some very nasty people in a very nasty crime syndicate - could be slick and quick when they wanted. They never got far when they gave Rodney the slip, but the black eyes and disapproving glares of the other agents had gotten old a long time ago.
He was better at delegating, demanding, and by the time all suspects were against the walls, the drugs had been bagged, tagged and piled back on the tables from where they fell. He then updated himself on the perimeter check, getting call-backs from Stackhouse, Markham, Everton...
But not Bates. Lovely.
Calling Markham and Stackhouse for back-up, Rodney rushed off to Bates’ last known location: out back, heading toward some office building across the empty parking lot. It wasn't a large building, more a module house in desperate need of repair, the windows covered in decaying plastic and panels of siding hanging on by a thread.
Rodney could hear something - voices and the thump and thud of struggling. Rodney couldn't wait for back-up, not if that was Bates doing the struggling. He raised his gun made slick by clammy hands, kicked the door open and screamed, “FBI! Nobody move!”
Nobody did move because they were all frozen in mid-struggle: three guys in tight shirts showing off a lot of muscle, man-handling one hell of a skinny bastard with ridiculous dark hair, shirtless and panting like an animal. One guy had Skinny's arms and the other two had his legs, trying to lift him onto a rusty fold-out table, behind which stood a fourth guy in a white smock and brandishing a syringe.
Bates was crumpled in a heap in the corner on the other side of the table, unconscious... hopefully unconscious but Rodney didn't see any weapons on any of the men.
“Behind you!” Skinny cried.
Rodney whipped around, letting off a shot. It hit right in the shoulder of a fifth man about to swing a raised bat. A thud and a grunt pulled Rodney back to the table and the three men advancing.
Two men, actually, with the third face down on the floor, his legs tangled in Skinny's arms. When the two upright thugs saw the gun pointed their way, they froze and stepped back.
Stackhouse and Markham arrived, relieving one hell of a burden from Rodney that almost had him sagging from relief. Now he could get back to delegating, which he preferred.
------------------------
Skinny's name was John Sheppard - formerly Major John Sheppard of the Air Force before being dishonorably discharged for disobeying orders. There were a lot of “dises” in his file. What wasn't in his file was any history of drug use, drug trafficking or drug anything other than what was sanctioned by doctors and surgeons in the medical portion of his record.
Beckett, hesitantly loyal physician to the FBI, had declared John not a tweeker, and his intestines empty of any drug-filled balloons. The theory was that the thugs were in the process of loading Sheppard up, Sheppard was having none of it and Rodney had busted in just in time.
Carson's second verdict was that Sheppard was beat-up and in desperate need of a vitamin regime and a hot meal.
No duh. Rodney could have made the diagnosis from where he stood on the other side of the observation window. Sheppard's right eye was swollen almost shut, and the rest of his upper body, currently uncovered, was an abstract mess of bruises. And it didn't matter how Sheppard sat or breathed out, there was no hiding his ribs.
“Homeless vet.”
Rodney jumped. Three years of working with Ronon wasn't enough to gain any kind of tolerance for the man's low, intimidating voice. Ronon positioned himself next to Rodney, towering above him, thick arms folded over his even thicker chest.
“What?” Rodney snapped.
Ronon tilted his pointed chin toward Sheppard. “His last known address is currently occupied by someone else. So I'm guessing motel resident or homeless. You gonna talk to him?”
Rodney balked. “What? Me? Are you serious? Hello, this is me we're talking about. I don't do the interview thing, not unless it's the ‘whole good cop/bad cop’ deal.” Which he wasn't all that great at, either. Most of the time, he just pissed the suspects off, and not always to the FBI's advantage unless Ronon manipulated the situation that way. The rest of the time, Ronon handled the interviews himself, being more intimidating and all, and Rodney sat there mute, unintimidating and absolutely no help to the suspects, forcing the suspects to open up or endure six-foot and then some of scary alpha-male verbal smack-down.
Everyone knew the Bureau only kept Rodney around for his impossible intellect and delegating skills.
“He's your find, McKay,” Ronon said. Before Rodney could protest, Ronon clapped him on the shoulder then walked away.
Huffing a long-suffering sigh, and since the sooner he got this over with, the sooner he could move on to delegating, he straightened his spine and walked into the room.
Beckett was just finishing up, writing on his chart as he instructed Sheppard to press the button by his bed if he needed anything. When he looked up from said chart to Rodney, he frowned.
“I was just about to tell the lad to get some rest. He's exhausted.” Translation: get the bloody hell out.
Rodney raised his hands. “Just need to ask him a few questions and make him, uh, aware of a few things.”
Carson's eyebrow curved high up his head. “Is that so?” Translation: You upset him, I'm sticking a needle in your arse - which Carson had once, in all sincerity, threatened. His patient at the time had been just a kid, no more than ten, and Rodney had made him cry, so it was understandable.
Rodney swallowed. “I won't. Scout’s honor.”
“Doubt you were ever a scout,” Carson muttered darkly. He walked - more like stomped - out of the room, leaving Rodney with a tired, yet very wary, Sheppard.
“Hey,” Rodney said with a small wave.
“Hey,” Sheppard croaked back, clenching the edge of his blanket in a white-knuckled grip. Rodney's questioning skills may have been the stuff of annoyance for other agents, but it was a job requirement to know people, to read them: facial expressions, posture, eyes.
Right now, what Rodney was seeing was a man on the precipice of fight. Definitely not a tweeker, who might wear a thin shroud of violence that quickly dissolved at the slightest provocation.
There was nothing fake about what Rodney was seeing, even if Sheppard's tension was a nervous tension.
“Agent Rodney McKay,” Rodney said. “FBI.”
“Obviously,” Sheppard said.
Rodney blinked. “Huh?”
“It's what you shouted when you stopped those guys from cutting me open.” Sheppard's aura screamed hostile; his voice betrayed that exhaustion Carson had been talking about.
“Oh,” Rodney said, feeling a little more at ease. A tired, malnourished man wasn't exactly a threat, even if he was a former soldier. Still, Rodney kept his distance; he was a genius, after all, and an agent. He knew what people were capable of - even when sick, even when ten years old but with a mean right-kick to any vulnerable shins. “Yes, well... I need to ask you a few questions, and the quicker you can answer them, the quicker you can nap. To start, we know your name is John Sheppard and that you were formerly of the US Air Force.”
Sheppard's blink was languid, as was his crooked smile. “That wasn't a question.”
“But this is. So how does a man go from defending his country to trafficking drugs? Unless you're just that pissed off at our country.”
Maybe Sheppard was weary to the point of collapse, or maybe just didn't give a damn. He shook his head slowly like a man correcting his buddy on a question from a late-night game show, rather than a soldier bristling over his loyalty being questioned.
“Not pissed,” Sheppard said.
“What, then?”
Sheppard lifted a bony shoulder. “Needed the money.”
“So you were going to let a bunch of guys cut your belly open and stuff you full of heroin balloons for cash?”
“No,” Sheppard snapped, glowering. “I was going to unload some crap from a truck for five bucks an hour. Instead, I got locked in a truck with barely any friggin' air then herded off into some damn room with no damn windows when it's one hundred friggin' degrees outside. They offered us a better job, with our choice of drugs or money if we smuggled a bunch of drugs out of the country over into Europe. Those of us who said no were left in the room without food and only a cup of water a day. Each day we said no was another day in the room. I was the last guy, so they decided to use my dead body instead.”
Rodney furrowed his brow. “Why didn't they kill you first?”
“They were going to induce a heart attack or something, then you came in. Stopped them.” He winced. “Thanks for that, by the way.”
It was Rodney's turn to shrug. “You warned me about the other guy. We're even.”
“Cool,” Sheppard said as though for the sake of saying something. His good eyelid slid shut then opened with a flutter. The guy wasn't going to last much longer.
“We need you to testify,” Rodney said. This was normally the part where the suspect-turned-turncoat, or in John's case, complete innocent, launched into one heck of a bitch-fest on how they weren't having anything more to do with the bad guys. The turncoats didn't have a choice. The innocents - sometimes they did, sometimes they didn't, but they still bitched their little innocent hearts out.
John just lifted that same bony shoulder and said, “Sure,” as though he had nothing better to do.
“We'll set you up in a safe house, just until the trial's over.” Not necessarily for protection purposes - Sheppard was a mule, a supposed-to-be-dead mule with very limited knowledge of the guys who were supposed to make him dead. That put him on the bottom of the snitch totem pole, about five heads down from the three mules and two turncoats who knew a hell of a lot more. Putting him in a safe house was just about keeping him around.
But it still meant babysitting duty, which Rodney also sucked at, because he hated it. Even the most terrified witness could turn incredibly uncooperative when stuck in a tiny house with agents who didn't give a damn about them beyond who they could help put away.
“Cool,” John said. Then the eyelid slid shut and his breathing evened.
Rodney's mouth twisted uncertainly. It was probably all those legal drugs making Sheppard so agreeable. If that was the case, then the bitch-fest was little more than postponed.
It was also possible this guy thought he had absolutely nothing left to lose.
Good. It would make him easier to babysit.
-----------------------
They set John up in a small, cheap townhouse apartment, sparsely furnished except for the necessities of beds, a table, a few chairs, a microwave, a fridge full of food and a combination TV and DVD player, because basic cable sucked and the Bureau wasn't going to throw money away (their words) on actual cable. But a little extra was spent on clothes, toiletries and a few books and comics for Sheppard. The guy literally had had nothing but the clothes on his back. Then, after Beckett and his lackeys got hold of him, it had become no clothes at all.
The former major was the easiest babysitting job Rodney had ever endured. With him freshly out of the hospital, all he did was sleep, eat, sleep some more and watch movies. Food consisted of TV dinners and sandwiches since they would be easier on Sheppard than take-out according to Carson. On day one, when Ronon placed a mountain of a turkey sandwich in front of Sheppard, Sheppard's mouth slicked itself with salivation and he dug in with animal abandon.
He did it again - salivated and wolfed - at dinner. It was disgusting, watching bits of lettuce or gravy or whatever he was eating at the time fall from his mouth. Rodney had to leave the room to eat his own stuff.
Ronon joined Rodney in the living room, dropping into the foldable padded chair that groaned under his weight - poor chair.
“What ya watching?” he asked, no doubt to irritate. Even a back-water wild-man with no TV would know Star Trek when he saw it. Rodney refused to dignify the question with an answer.
Ronon grinned. Then he stopped grinning. “Don't try to take anything off of Sheppard's plate.”
“Because it's rude to steal from a starving man?”
“Yeah. And he almost stabbed my hand with his fork when I tried to take the brownie from his tray. People don't normally eat TV dinner brownies.”
Rodney frowned at that. What was not to like about TV dinner brownies?
“The guy's pretty messed up,” said Ronon.
“Probably has PTSD or whatever,” Rodney said. He wished he hadn't. The possibility was going to freak him out all night.
Because it was Ronon's first watch, Rodney turned in, but not before checking in on Sheppard and making sure he was still there. The guy was in bed, on the side that didn't have cracked ribs, and sans a shirt with the nights hot and the air conditioning subpar. Even asleep, Sheppard looked like crap.
The next day, Sheppard salivated over breakfast, even though it was just oatmeal and toast. After licking both plate and bowl clean, instead of going back to bed, he took a shower, dressed in a blue T-shirt and black sweat pants, and parked himself in front of the TV next to Rodney who was flipping channels. When he landed on that poor excuse for science fiction, Back to the Future, Sheppard perked up.
“Hey, leave it; I love this show.”
Rodney flipped.
John sagged, scowling. “I thought you guys were supposed to be nice to me.”
“We're supposed to protect you. Nice is an option.”
“Change it back or I won't testify.”
“Don't testify and I have no reason to protect your skinny ass.”
John slumped lower, folding his arms like a petulant child. “You suck, McKay.”
McKay smirked and continued flipping. When it became obvious that there was absolutely nothing on, however, the smirk slipped, but he continued to flip out of spite until Ronon stepped from the kitchen and grabbed the control.
“Hey, Back to the Future. I love this show.” Ronon, all smiles, parked himself on Rodney's other side.
Much to Rodney's chagrin that was growing into agony, it was a Back to the Future marathon. As soon as the torment was over and it was obvious that still nothing was on, Sheppard started to whine.
“I'm bored.”
“Go take a nap,” Rodney said, flipping through a newspaper just as boring as the TV.
Sheppard rubbed shadow-rimmed eyes. “All I do is sleep. It's turning my brain to slush--”
“No arguments there,” Rodney muttered.
“I need mental stimulation.”
“Then read.”
“That will put me to sleep,” snapped Sheppard.
Sighing, Rodney folded the newspaper and slapped it on the floor - there being no coffee table, which was just wrong. “Fine. How about a game? We've got, I think, Sorry, chess, and Monopoly and that's it.”
Ronon lifted a finger. “You have that PSP--”
“No, I don't.”
To Rodney's amazement, Sheppard said, “I like chess.” And sounded like he meant it. Rodney set up the board in the kitchen. He sat at the white end, having yet to lose with white.
Sheppard, the bastard, won twice. It was not acceptable. Rodney set the board up for game three.
Game three was no better but Rodney refused to give up. He glared at Sheppard as he set up the board.
“You're one of those Good Will Hunting types - the homeless super genius,” Rodney said.
“I went to college,” Sheppard said, matter-of-fact. “It wasn't Harvard like my dad wanted, but it was college.”
Rodney fumbled with the king. It fell, rolled, knocking over a pawn. “Harvard?” He narrowed his eyes. “Are you making fun of me?”
It was Sheppard who righted the pieces. “How is that making fun of you? You strike me more as an MIT guy.”
“Something like that. Seriously, you could have gone to Harvard? What, is your dad rich or something?”
Sheppard didn't answer, which was answer enough. Rodney could feel his blood pressure rise. “Your dad's rich and you're living on the streets. Okay, no, you are making fun of me. You're being sarcastic. Your dad's some drunk or dead or... are you serious?”
There was a shift in the air; it felt like - a sudden tension, like being in a crowd that had suddenly gone quiet because Rodney had said something stupid and loud. Sheppard sat with his chin resting on his fist, the picture of nonchalance except for a flicker of something dark in his eyes and twitching muscles in his jaw.
“We haven't talked,” was all he said, then he moved his pawn, though it wasn't his turn.
Rodney didn't need more. He could do the math; he'd been a number in that particular equation, so knew a falling out when he saw... heard... whatever... one. He also knew that, yes, it wasn't something to be talked about. Still...
“M-maybe you should.”
Dark, hazel eyes lifted, locking onto Rodney like a missile targeting system. Rodney lifted his hands.
“Hey, don't look at me like that. I'm just saying: if I got kidnapped by drug dealers who tried to kill me and stuff me full of heroin, home would start looking a lot less like the hellhole I thought it was.”
Sheppard lowered his eyes back to the board. He continued to say nothing, so Rodney had no idea if he was digesting that bit of insight or mentally cursing Rodney to go to hell. Sheppard lost the fourth game, which sadly didn't count since he'd been distracted. After that, he went to bed. Ronon had to wake him for lunch, yet half-asleep and groggy he still scarfed the soup and sandwich as if he hadn't eaten for days.
The third day, when Sheppard spied Rodney's Star Trek collection poking out of his suitcase, they had a Star Trek marathon, much to Ronon's annoyance. The following day was a pain in the ass. Keller dropped by - Beckett's right-hand fellow physician who made house-calls when the FBI had unhealthy informants. She was actually trained to do so, disguising herself as someone's perky niece, carrying the needed equipment in her pink and yellow backpack.
She checked Sheppard in his room as though he actually had the right to privacy, except he didn't, because skinny and tired he could still pose a threat. It was always the ones you least suspected and all. He sat on the end of the bed, unbuttoned his light-blue shirt, but it was Keller who slid the shirt down his arms since she felt he shouldn't move too much with his ribs and bruises.
For something that wasn't intimate, it looked really intimate, until the shirt was off and Rodney realize John was ramrod straight and shivering minutely. Keller thought it was because he was cold, promising to be quick.
Rodney suspected it had nothing to do with being cold, not with their crappy AC unit. Sheppard's eyes were distant, glassy, fixed on his knees without seeing them. He mumbled yes and no to Keller's questions like an automaton. When she pressed on the first rib, he flinched while saying no to any additional pain. He flinched a second time when she gripped his shoulder while leaning forward to listen to his heart. His breath shuddered when she listened to his lungs, and he closed his eyes as she fondled his throat looking for swollen glands - Carson had said to keep an eye out for possible illness; Sheppard's immune system was a little on the crappy side.
She asked him questions about sleeping and eating, took his temperature then weighed him on the scale Rodney had thought had just come with the house. When the exam was finished and Sheppard given - not a clean bill of health - but a no-more-worse-for-wear, he couldn't button his shirt fast enough.
As Keller was heading out, Rodney stopped her.
“Sheppard... he wasn't-- I mean, they didn't, you know... have their, um... have fun with him?”
Jennifer's smile was patient and kind. It then fell away. “If you're asking what I think you're asking, the answer is no. We found no evidence of rape.” She frowned. “But it's not like we know how long those people had him, and he was roughed up pretty bad. That would make anyone edgy for a while.”
“So you noticed.”
She wrinkled her nose in a rather endearing way. “Kind of hard not to.” She left, tossing back the reminder to make sure Sheppard continued to eat three square meals a day.
After lunch they watched some cheap sci-fi show with such a horrible grasp on science there was no way for Rodney not to slam it. That evening, after dinner, Sheppard and Rodney played chess.
“So if you're such a genius, why are you a fed?” Sheppard asked. He moved his knight. “Checkmate.”
“Bastard,” Rodney said, out loud, on purpose. He moved the pieces back to their squares because this was far from over. “Because genius isn't always appreciated. Not by wannabes.”
“So, what, you became a fed out of spite or something?”
“I became a fed because they did appreciate me. And I didn't have to sign any confidentiality agreements, and...” and the rest he couldn't answer, because he was still trying to figure the answer out. The limit to science wasn't genius, it was passion, and the passion of a teen thrust into an adult world was an incredibly fragile thing. Somewhere down the line that had been his young life, Rodney and his passion had had a falling out. One too many grants and promises with one too many conditions, he supposed. One too many older assholes pulling adult rank, taking what was rightfully Rodney's and putting their name on it. Those same adult assholes removing their name and putting Rodney's name back when things didn't work out. People had wanted results ASAP, didn't care if they weren't perfected but because they weren't perfected, it was Rodney, the convenient scapegoat, to the rescue.
That kind of treatment liked to smother passion in its sleep, with a pillow, then shoot it with a silencer for good measure.
So why the FBI, after he'd given his sister hell over trading science for a husband and kid? The hell Rodney knew. Some lab partner Rodney hadn't really liked (but who had been blond, and hot, so tolerable) suggested it after Rodney's tenth threat to find a new career. She said government agencies like the military and FBI had a thing for geniuses. Rodney had already said - more like thought, while being polite out loud - screw-you to the military. He'd been pissed enough for various reasons to shrug and think what-the-hell to the FBI.
“I have a knack for problem solving under pressure,” he said, which wasn't a lie; neither was it the answer.
He'd meant to give the FBI a try, not stick around. Except there was no such thing as testing the waters when it came to government agencies. You're either in or you're out. Rodney had got in - he wasn't sure how. He stayed in - he still didn't know why. Life was obnoxiously weird like that.
“Do you like your job?” Sheppard asked. He moved his rook.
Rodney shrugged. “It's okay.” Really, it was no different than research. People still demanded results; gave you hell if those results weren't to their liking, with the bonus of giving yourself hell for the same reason.
But, sometimes, the results were good, really good, inarguably good. People were saved because of him and no one could contest that.
“It has its moments,” he said. He moved his bishop, taking John's pawn. “What about you? Why'd you choose the Air Force over Harvard?”
“Wanted to fly,” John said without hesitation, a packed answer in just three words, wistful look in the eyes and everything. “And to do something that wasn't just about making money. Something that, you know... mattered.”
Rodney had the sneaking suspicion Sheppard's passion was far from being stifled.
“You still into science stuff?” Sheppard asked.
“As a hobby I may do a little research, if time permits. It rarely does.”
Sheppard nodded, moved his own bishop, and had Rodney in check. “You should never give up what you love, even when it seems like it's easier to do something else.”
“Thank you, Mr. Rogers. Let me guess, when you find a cardboard box you pretend it's a plane and that you're flying around doing crap that matters.”
Rodney figured he might have gone too far with that one, even if it was justified, him having heard it all before like the clichéd pep-talks of coaches more interested in winning than bolstering the fragile pride of their players.
Sheppard eyes hardened, a transparent defensive shell covering his skin. He was still for minutes after Rodney had made his move. Then Sheppard moved his knight.
“Checkmate.” He got up and went to bed.
When it was Rodney's turn for watch, he was only on his first cup of coffee when he heard a thump, followed by a cry of alarm, or pain. He sloshed his cup in his hurry to set it down, then bolted from the chair into Sheppard's room. He flipped on the light, his gun drawn and finger tight against the trigger.
Sheppard, shirtless and packed into a corner, winced, shrinking from the light. Rodney rushed over and crouched in front of him. Up close, he could see Sheppard trembling; his wide eyes darting wildly around the room were bright, glassy, his breathing shallow and ragged. Rodney touched his arm and when he did, Sheppard's whole body jumped, slamming hard against the wall.
“Sheppard! Sheppard, easy. It's me, McKay; calm down.”
Sheppard stared at him without recognition. Then, after a moment, his eyes cleared and his breathing began to slow.
“McKay,” he said.
Rodney nodded. “Yes, Agent McKay. Did something happen? What happened?”
Sheppard's next breath rushed from him in a single chuff. “Dream.” He swallowed. “I, uh... was dreaming and forgot where I was. Sorry?”
Rodney nodded. “Yeah, um... it's okay.” He hooked his thumb over his shoulder. “Need help getting back in bed or anything?”
Sheppard waved him off. “No. I got it.” All the same, Rodney kept his hand on Sheppard's arm as Sheppard stood. Maybe Rodney was being paranoid, but he didn't like the feel of Sheppard's clammy skin. He was sure there was heat radiating from it, unless that was a side effect of bad dreams. Rodney wasn't without his own nightmares; he just never thought to check his own temperature afterwards.
Rodney let go of John when John climbed back into the bed, where he curled up and covered up to below his chest. Rodney hadn't noticed until the transition from floor to bed all the scars Sheppard had - three that looked like bullet wounds in his right shoulder, his stomach and side above his hip, a thin jagged line pale even under his chest hair down his sternum. The fresher wounds now faded to scabs may or may not add to the collection.
There were a lot of stories on Sheppard's body, but then he was former Air Force, and even pilots got shot at. Rodney had stories, too - a knife wound on his arm, a line where a bullet had glanced off a rib, a puckered round scar on his bu-hip, his hip.
Stories earned fighting the bad guys.
Rodney had finally gotten around to reading the rest of Sheppard's file, about the discharge for disobeying orders so he could go behind enemy lines and save men that had been trapped there. The file didn't say whether or not he'd saved those men. He would have to ask Sheppard about it tomorrow.
The next morning, when Rodney woke up, he remembered he'd wanted to ask Sheppard something. He couldn't, for the life of him, remember what that something was. Not that it mattered when Sheppard was absent for breakfast.
“I checked on him,” Ronon said around a mouth full of cinnamon oatmeal. “He's still asleep.”
Which was odd. Even drugged and beaten, Sheppard had still risen at the same time as the sun. Even if he did go right back to bed afterwards.
Sheppard didn't join the land of the living until lunch, when he stumbled out of his room like a zombie, his sweat pants resting precariously on his hips. He even moaned a response when Rodney asked him if he got enough beauty rest.
“Up for some lunch?” Ronon asked.
Sheppard dropped into the unoccupied chair and leaned forward placing his face in his hands, his backbone pressing jagged and white against his skin. “Not really.”
“Too bad,” Rodney said, clapping him over that backbone. “Eat, or we're the ones Carson'll skin alive.” He made Sheppard cinnamon oatmeal, which Sheppard ate with little enthusiasm. Afterwards, he showered, dressed, attempted a Batman marathon only to nod off until Rodney demanded he either watch or go back to bed. Sheppard went back to bed.
“He doesn't look so hot,” Ronon said.
Rodney leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms and gnawing his lip. “He freaked out last night. Dream, I think. He was looking crappy then.” He looked at Ronon. “Think we should call Keller back?”
Ronon replied by pulling out the cell phone used for emergency calls, untraceable because they changed the number each time they used it. He contacted their contact who would relay the message to Keller.
Keller came about two hours later. It took four minutes just to wake John, and continued taps on the cheek and shoulder to keep him awake. Ronon had to hold him upright while Keller checked him. She frowned at his temperature, then frowned deeper when she listened to his lungs.
“Sounds like he may be coming down with a cold,” she said. “Not much I can do about it. You'll have to double his vitamin C intake and keep an eye on it. He's going to feel like crap but otherwise should be fine.”
Rodney scowled. “His timing sucks. He's supposed to testify tomorrow.”
“Well, it's not like he has the plague. Like I said, he's going to feel like crap but that's about it.” She shrugged. “Sorry.”
Sorry didn't cut it; it never did. Sheppard slept through the day, into the night with two bad dreams packing him into the corner, and the next morning he was worse than the day before. But he dressed in the street clothes the Bureau bought for him, tossed back two vitamin C, slipped on shades and a baseball cap and followed Rodney and Ronon out the back where the car was parked.
When they were at the courthouse and safe inside its marbled, more beautifully air conditioned halls, Sheppard changed into the FBI-issued suit in the bathroom. He was taken to a room where he met with the attorney assigned to ensure his wellbeing. Rodney had met with Ms. Teyla Emmagan before under less than ideal circumstances after someone had decided to lawyer up. Rodney had no doubts Beckett was the one who had called her on Sheppard's behalf - his loyalty was, after all, hesitant.
And, yet, for once, Rodney did not mind. Sheppard wasn't a suspect; he was a guy who'd been in the wrong place at the wrong time because desperation could be a bitch that way. And in his current state, he needed the kind of protection only a lawyer could give - telling other lawyers when to back off, lawyers like Acastus Kolya who Rodney had heard was the best defense attorney money could buy because he was the spawn of the devil.
“We fed him, clothed him, made sure he slept and was entertained. Everything short of bathing him ourselves. The fact that he's a little under the weather is not our fault.”
“I know,” Teyla said, with a kind smile for once. “I was given a report on his current health. I simply wish to talk to him and tell him what there is to expect.”
“Not my first trial,” Sheppard rasped. He coughed into his hand. When he was done, he said, “And I'm right here.”
Teyla sat down next to him. “I know, John. But this time you are not the one on trial, though it may feel that way...”
Teyla wasn't kidding. This was so far from Rodney's first court appearance that he couldn't even recall his first court appearance. Nor was this the first person under his protection on the stand. Yet the way Kolya harangued Sheppard, Rodney was surprised at how high his hackles raised. Sheppard looked terrible, though shaved and in a suit. He was pale, faint red at the cheeks that betrayed his fever, gray rings dark under his eyes and his skin sallow and gaunt. He looked like he did the day McKay had found him, only with fewer bruises. But he was alert enough to answer questions clearly, look Kolya right in the eye while doing so, then point to the men who had hurt him without a moment’s hesitation.
“The witness may step down.”
Sheppard returned to his seat between Rodney and Ronon. His arm was touching Rodney's, letting Rodney in on the fact that Sheppard was trembling. He kept nodding off through the rest of the trial.
A trial that was far from over, even if it was just to sentence the dealers to later try them with (or “talk” them into testifying against) the rest of the syndicate. Sheppard was to return tomorrow in case further testimony was needed. As soon as they got him back to the safe house and re-secured it, he stumbled to his room, leaving a trail of clothes and crashing in only his suit pants. They woke him an hour later to change and eat, then he crashed again. In the morning, he was wheezing, shivery and more the zombie than yesterday.
And he wasn't even needed at the trial.
Day three, the verdict was announced. The men were found guilty of drug trafficking and assault.
Babysitting duty was over.
“Wow,” Sheppard croaked. “That was fast.” But he didn't ask 'what next' like the others always did.
The fact was, Sheppard wasn't an inside man, just incredibly unlucky, and the Bureau's interest in him a pathetic half-life. He'd been useful, been put to use, and wasn't needed anymore. No more reason to keep him safe. Sheppard could go on his merry way with compensation for his troubles.
Driving back to the safe house so they could pack up, Sheppard asked, “So, I get to keep the clothes, right?”
Rodney sighed. “Yes, you get to keep the clothes. You even have a duffel bag to put them in. Pack up; we'll take you anywhere you like.”
Sheppard sat back and grinned. “Sweet.” Then coughed harshly into his fist. Rodney massaged his suddenly aching forehead.
At the safe house, they packed, while agents removed the goods to be used for a later safe house.
Rodney made a call to Director Weir, one Weir was quite astonished to hear him make.
“Told you it would come eventually, McKay,” she said. She sounded smug about it.
“Yes, sir... uh, ma'am,” McKay said grudgingly. He hung up and breathed out slowly. He turned to Ronon when he heard the big man approach.
“What was that about?” Ronon asked, bag in hand.
“Taking some time off,” McKay said.
Ronon smirked. “About time.”
“Shut up. I'll handle Sheppard. You can go home.”
“You sure?”
“Positive.”
Not really. He wasn't a spur of the moment kind of guy. Yet here he was, leaving the city limits, a former Air Force major still in need of a good meal and coughing into his fist in the passenger seat.
“Guess we're not going to some motel.” He sniffed, wiping his nose with a tissue. “Okay, that sounded kind of wrong.” He paused, raised an eyebrow, then narrowed his eyes at McKay. “You're not taking me out to the middle of nowhere to shoot me and dispose of the body, are you?”
“I'll definitely consider it if you drop that tissue on the floor.”
Sheppard stuffed it into the plastic shopping bag on the door handle.
“No,” Rodney said. “I'm taking you where I won't have to worry about you turning up on some autopsy slab.”
The look on Sheppard's face when they pulled up the winding gravel road toward one hell of a house was priceless. It was a wonder his eyes didn't bug right out of his skull.
“Oh, no. Oh, hell no. McKay!”
“Suck it up, Sheppard. He's still your dad.”
Just in case, though, McKay stuck around as Sheppard made his stiff, awkward way to the door. He rang the doorbell while looking back at Rodney. Rodney thought he looked a little extra pale, even frightened, and he started to wonder if he'd made a mistake.
The door opened to a thick bodied man with silver hair, wearing a polo shirt and a pair of khakis. Rodney saw Sheppard stiffen, heard him say something though he didn't know what. The older man didn't respond, just looked Sheppard up and down, not quite sure.
Then he fell on John in an embrace like a man who never wanted to let go again. Rodney couldn't hear the exchange, but he could guess - there was nothing like thinking a loved one dead to make you bury the sins of the past, pour concrete on the spot and never look back. Rodney had seen it before. Whatever had happened between father and son, in that very moment, it didn't exist. Hopefully, it would stay that way.
Sheppard's father all but pulled his son into the house. Rodney hadn't expected Sheppard to come trotting back to tell Rodney everything was hunky-dory and that he could go. It was for that reason Rodney came prepared. He got out of the car, slipped a note between the door and frame, then left.
It really would suck to have all that hard work go to waste, and Sheppard wasn't such a bad guy, even if his hair was stupid.
Rodney was out of the drive and down the road when his cell rang.
“Rodney McKay.”
“I thought you wanted a rematch?”
Rodney snorted. “I have to work, Sheppard.”
“No, you don't. I heard you call in for time off.”
Rodney scowled.
“McKay?”
“What, now?”
“Well, no, not now. Just... whenever.”
Rodney rolled his eyes and was glad Sheppard wasn't in a position to see the grin forcing itself on Rodney's face. This was what he liked about his job, that he accomplished things. And that, sometimes, the results were exactly to his liking.
“How about tomorrow?”
The end
A/N: Major apologies for any technical mistakes concerning FBI and court procedure. I'll admit that my knowledge is based mostly on what has been seen on TV shows and general logic, and I didn't know what, exactly, to look up that would help me iron things out (I have the worst luck with research, I really do.) My beta helped quite a bit, but any remaining mistakes are all mine.
Rating: PG+ for short scenes of minor violence and language, Gen
Characters: Sheppard, McKay, Ronon, some Teyla
Warnings: Mentions of non-con but no actual non-con.
Disclaimer: Don't own Stargate Atlantis.
Summary: FBI agents McKay and Dex are put in charge of looking after a not-quite-so-important witness. Police/Agency AU. Sheppard/McKay friendship. Many hugs to my beta wildcat88 for putting up with all the fics I keep sending her even though I know she's uber busy ;).
A/N: Cliches are eating my brain. I know cop/agent AUs are all over the place, but the idea made the muses dance and sing and they refused to have their fun spoiled.
Safe House
“FBI! F - B - I! Drop your weapons and get down on the floor!” Ronon's voice was thunder in the resonating warehouse. It vibrated even the concrete floor, and those who weren't spooked into a semblance of deer-in-the-headlights were spooked like sheep tripping over each other in their rush to get away. They were quickly, and efficiently, intercepted by men in black and kevlar. Bags of heroin and cocaine fell, exploding in a cloud that settled like powdered sugar all over the floor.
Surprise attacks always had a fifty/fifty turnout that could be very black or very white - ending either in a lot of blood or as a thing of beauty. Today had been poetry, with not a shot fired, and suspects and drug-mules hustled with their hands on their heads against the walls.
Rodney, having entered on the heels of all the chaos, stood off to one side out of the way. He wasn't good at the round up. The twitchy mules in desperate need of a fix made him nervous and the dealers - experienced, trusted, right hand to some very nasty people in a very nasty crime syndicate - could be slick and quick when they wanted. They never got far when they gave Rodney the slip, but the black eyes and disapproving glares of the other agents had gotten old a long time ago.
He was better at delegating, demanding, and by the time all suspects were against the walls, the drugs had been bagged, tagged and piled back on the tables from where they fell. He then updated himself on the perimeter check, getting call-backs from Stackhouse, Markham, Everton...
But not Bates. Lovely.
Calling Markham and Stackhouse for back-up, Rodney rushed off to Bates’ last known location: out back, heading toward some office building across the empty parking lot. It wasn't a large building, more a module house in desperate need of repair, the windows covered in decaying plastic and panels of siding hanging on by a thread.
Rodney could hear something - voices and the thump and thud of struggling. Rodney couldn't wait for back-up, not if that was Bates doing the struggling. He raised his gun made slick by clammy hands, kicked the door open and screamed, “FBI! Nobody move!”
Nobody did move because they were all frozen in mid-struggle: three guys in tight shirts showing off a lot of muscle, man-handling one hell of a skinny bastard with ridiculous dark hair, shirtless and panting like an animal. One guy had Skinny's arms and the other two had his legs, trying to lift him onto a rusty fold-out table, behind which stood a fourth guy in a white smock and brandishing a syringe.
Bates was crumpled in a heap in the corner on the other side of the table, unconscious... hopefully unconscious but Rodney didn't see any weapons on any of the men.
“Behind you!” Skinny cried.
Rodney whipped around, letting off a shot. It hit right in the shoulder of a fifth man about to swing a raised bat. A thud and a grunt pulled Rodney back to the table and the three men advancing.
Two men, actually, with the third face down on the floor, his legs tangled in Skinny's arms. When the two upright thugs saw the gun pointed their way, they froze and stepped back.
Stackhouse and Markham arrived, relieving one hell of a burden from Rodney that almost had him sagging from relief. Now he could get back to delegating, which he preferred.
------------------------
Skinny's name was John Sheppard - formerly Major John Sheppard of the Air Force before being dishonorably discharged for disobeying orders. There were a lot of “dises” in his file. What wasn't in his file was any history of drug use, drug trafficking or drug anything other than what was sanctioned by doctors and surgeons in the medical portion of his record.
Beckett, hesitantly loyal physician to the FBI, had declared John not a tweeker, and his intestines empty of any drug-filled balloons. The theory was that the thugs were in the process of loading Sheppard up, Sheppard was having none of it and Rodney had busted in just in time.
Carson's second verdict was that Sheppard was beat-up and in desperate need of a vitamin regime and a hot meal.
No duh. Rodney could have made the diagnosis from where he stood on the other side of the observation window. Sheppard's right eye was swollen almost shut, and the rest of his upper body, currently uncovered, was an abstract mess of bruises. And it didn't matter how Sheppard sat or breathed out, there was no hiding his ribs.
“Homeless vet.”
Rodney jumped. Three years of working with Ronon wasn't enough to gain any kind of tolerance for the man's low, intimidating voice. Ronon positioned himself next to Rodney, towering above him, thick arms folded over his even thicker chest.
“What?” Rodney snapped.
Ronon tilted his pointed chin toward Sheppard. “His last known address is currently occupied by someone else. So I'm guessing motel resident or homeless. You gonna talk to him?”
Rodney balked. “What? Me? Are you serious? Hello, this is me we're talking about. I don't do the interview thing, not unless it's the ‘whole good cop/bad cop’ deal.” Which he wasn't all that great at, either. Most of the time, he just pissed the suspects off, and not always to the FBI's advantage unless Ronon manipulated the situation that way. The rest of the time, Ronon handled the interviews himself, being more intimidating and all, and Rodney sat there mute, unintimidating and absolutely no help to the suspects, forcing the suspects to open up or endure six-foot and then some of scary alpha-male verbal smack-down.
Everyone knew the Bureau only kept Rodney around for his impossible intellect and delegating skills.
“He's your find, McKay,” Ronon said. Before Rodney could protest, Ronon clapped him on the shoulder then walked away.
Huffing a long-suffering sigh, and since the sooner he got this over with, the sooner he could move on to delegating, he straightened his spine and walked into the room.
Beckett was just finishing up, writing on his chart as he instructed Sheppard to press the button by his bed if he needed anything. When he looked up from said chart to Rodney, he frowned.
“I was just about to tell the lad to get some rest. He's exhausted.” Translation: get the bloody hell out.
Rodney raised his hands. “Just need to ask him a few questions and make him, uh, aware of a few things.”
Carson's eyebrow curved high up his head. “Is that so?” Translation: You upset him, I'm sticking a needle in your arse - which Carson had once, in all sincerity, threatened. His patient at the time had been just a kid, no more than ten, and Rodney had made him cry, so it was understandable.
Rodney swallowed. “I won't. Scout’s honor.”
“Doubt you were ever a scout,” Carson muttered darkly. He walked - more like stomped - out of the room, leaving Rodney with a tired, yet very wary, Sheppard.
“Hey,” Rodney said with a small wave.
“Hey,” Sheppard croaked back, clenching the edge of his blanket in a white-knuckled grip. Rodney's questioning skills may have been the stuff of annoyance for other agents, but it was a job requirement to know people, to read them: facial expressions, posture, eyes.
Right now, what Rodney was seeing was a man on the precipice of fight. Definitely not a tweeker, who might wear a thin shroud of violence that quickly dissolved at the slightest provocation.
There was nothing fake about what Rodney was seeing, even if Sheppard's tension was a nervous tension.
“Agent Rodney McKay,” Rodney said. “FBI.”
“Obviously,” Sheppard said.
Rodney blinked. “Huh?”
“It's what you shouted when you stopped those guys from cutting me open.” Sheppard's aura screamed hostile; his voice betrayed that exhaustion Carson had been talking about.
“Oh,” Rodney said, feeling a little more at ease. A tired, malnourished man wasn't exactly a threat, even if he was a former soldier. Still, Rodney kept his distance; he was a genius, after all, and an agent. He knew what people were capable of - even when sick, even when ten years old but with a mean right-kick to any vulnerable shins. “Yes, well... I need to ask you a few questions, and the quicker you can answer them, the quicker you can nap. To start, we know your name is John Sheppard and that you were formerly of the US Air Force.”
Sheppard's blink was languid, as was his crooked smile. “That wasn't a question.”
“But this is. So how does a man go from defending his country to trafficking drugs? Unless you're just that pissed off at our country.”
Maybe Sheppard was weary to the point of collapse, or maybe just didn't give a damn. He shook his head slowly like a man correcting his buddy on a question from a late-night game show, rather than a soldier bristling over his loyalty being questioned.
“Not pissed,” Sheppard said.
“What, then?”
Sheppard lifted a bony shoulder. “Needed the money.”
“So you were going to let a bunch of guys cut your belly open and stuff you full of heroin balloons for cash?”
“No,” Sheppard snapped, glowering. “I was going to unload some crap from a truck for five bucks an hour. Instead, I got locked in a truck with barely any friggin' air then herded off into some damn room with no damn windows when it's one hundred friggin' degrees outside. They offered us a better job, with our choice of drugs or money if we smuggled a bunch of drugs out of the country over into Europe. Those of us who said no were left in the room without food and only a cup of water a day. Each day we said no was another day in the room. I was the last guy, so they decided to use my dead body instead.”
Rodney furrowed his brow. “Why didn't they kill you first?”
“They were going to induce a heart attack or something, then you came in. Stopped them.” He winced. “Thanks for that, by the way.”
It was Rodney's turn to shrug. “You warned me about the other guy. We're even.”
“Cool,” Sheppard said as though for the sake of saying something. His good eyelid slid shut then opened with a flutter. The guy wasn't going to last much longer.
“We need you to testify,” Rodney said. This was normally the part where the suspect-turned-turncoat, or in John's case, complete innocent, launched into one heck of a bitch-fest on how they weren't having anything more to do with the bad guys. The turncoats didn't have a choice. The innocents - sometimes they did, sometimes they didn't, but they still bitched their little innocent hearts out.
John just lifted that same bony shoulder and said, “Sure,” as though he had nothing better to do.
“We'll set you up in a safe house, just until the trial's over.” Not necessarily for protection purposes - Sheppard was a mule, a supposed-to-be-dead mule with very limited knowledge of the guys who were supposed to make him dead. That put him on the bottom of the snitch totem pole, about five heads down from the three mules and two turncoats who knew a hell of a lot more. Putting him in a safe house was just about keeping him around.
But it still meant babysitting duty, which Rodney also sucked at, because he hated it. Even the most terrified witness could turn incredibly uncooperative when stuck in a tiny house with agents who didn't give a damn about them beyond who they could help put away.
“Cool,” John said. Then the eyelid slid shut and his breathing evened.
Rodney's mouth twisted uncertainly. It was probably all those legal drugs making Sheppard so agreeable. If that was the case, then the bitch-fest was little more than postponed.
It was also possible this guy thought he had absolutely nothing left to lose.
Good. It would make him easier to babysit.
-----------------------
They set John up in a small, cheap townhouse apartment, sparsely furnished except for the necessities of beds, a table, a few chairs, a microwave, a fridge full of food and a combination TV and DVD player, because basic cable sucked and the Bureau wasn't going to throw money away (their words) on actual cable. But a little extra was spent on clothes, toiletries and a few books and comics for Sheppard. The guy literally had had nothing but the clothes on his back. Then, after Beckett and his lackeys got hold of him, it had become no clothes at all.
The former major was the easiest babysitting job Rodney had ever endured. With him freshly out of the hospital, all he did was sleep, eat, sleep some more and watch movies. Food consisted of TV dinners and sandwiches since they would be easier on Sheppard than take-out according to Carson. On day one, when Ronon placed a mountain of a turkey sandwich in front of Sheppard, Sheppard's mouth slicked itself with salivation and he dug in with animal abandon.
He did it again - salivated and wolfed - at dinner. It was disgusting, watching bits of lettuce or gravy or whatever he was eating at the time fall from his mouth. Rodney had to leave the room to eat his own stuff.
Ronon joined Rodney in the living room, dropping into the foldable padded chair that groaned under his weight - poor chair.
“What ya watching?” he asked, no doubt to irritate. Even a back-water wild-man with no TV would know Star Trek when he saw it. Rodney refused to dignify the question with an answer.
Ronon grinned. Then he stopped grinning. “Don't try to take anything off of Sheppard's plate.”
“Because it's rude to steal from a starving man?”
“Yeah. And he almost stabbed my hand with his fork when I tried to take the brownie from his tray. People don't normally eat TV dinner brownies.”
Rodney frowned at that. What was not to like about TV dinner brownies?
“The guy's pretty messed up,” said Ronon.
“Probably has PTSD or whatever,” Rodney said. He wished he hadn't. The possibility was going to freak him out all night.
Because it was Ronon's first watch, Rodney turned in, but not before checking in on Sheppard and making sure he was still there. The guy was in bed, on the side that didn't have cracked ribs, and sans a shirt with the nights hot and the air conditioning subpar. Even asleep, Sheppard looked like crap.
The next day, Sheppard salivated over breakfast, even though it was just oatmeal and toast. After licking both plate and bowl clean, instead of going back to bed, he took a shower, dressed in a blue T-shirt and black sweat pants, and parked himself in front of the TV next to Rodney who was flipping channels. When he landed on that poor excuse for science fiction, Back to the Future, Sheppard perked up.
“Hey, leave it; I love this show.”
Rodney flipped.
John sagged, scowling. “I thought you guys were supposed to be nice to me.”
“We're supposed to protect you. Nice is an option.”
“Change it back or I won't testify.”
“Don't testify and I have no reason to protect your skinny ass.”
John slumped lower, folding his arms like a petulant child. “You suck, McKay.”
McKay smirked and continued flipping. When it became obvious that there was absolutely nothing on, however, the smirk slipped, but he continued to flip out of spite until Ronon stepped from the kitchen and grabbed the control.
“Hey, Back to the Future. I love this show.” Ronon, all smiles, parked himself on Rodney's other side.
Much to Rodney's chagrin that was growing into agony, it was a Back to the Future marathon. As soon as the torment was over and it was obvious that still nothing was on, Sheppard started to whine.
“I'm bored.”
“Go take a nap,” Rodney said, flipping through a newspaper just as boring as the TV.
Sheppard rubbed shadow-rimmed eyes. “All I do is sleep. It's turning my brain to slush--”
“No arguments there,” Rodney muttered.
“I need mental stimulation.”
“Then read.”
“That will put me to sleep,” snapped Sheppard.
Sighing, Rodney folded the newspaper and slapped it on the floor - there being no coffee table, which was just wrong. “Fine. How about a game? We've got, I think, Sorry, chess, and Monopoly and that's it.”
Ronon lifted a finger. “You have that PSP--”
“No, I don't.”
To Rodney's amazement, Sheppard said, “I like chess.” And sounded like he meant it. Rodney set up the board in the kitchen. He sat at the white end, having yet to lose with white.
Sheppard, the bastard, won twice. It was not acceptable. Rodney set the board up for game three.
Game three was no better but Rodney refused to give up. He glared at Sheppard as he set up the board.
“You're one of those Good Will Hunting types - the homeless super genius,” Rodney said.
“I went to college,” Sheppard said, matter-of-fact. “It wasn't Harvard like my dad wanted, but it was college.”
Rodney fumbled with the king. It fell, rolled, knocking over a pawn. “Harvard?” He narrowed his eyes. “Are you making fun of me?”
It was Sheppard who righted the pieces. “How is that making fun of you? You strike me more as an MIT guy.”
“Something like that. Seriously, you could have gone to Harvard? What, is your dad rich or something?”
Sheppard didn't answer, which was answer enough. Rodney could feel his blood pressure rise. “Your dad's rich and you're living on the streets. Okay, no, you are making fun of me. You're being sarcastic. Your dad's some drunk or dead or... are you serious?”
There was a shift in the air; it felt like - a sudden tension, like being in a crowd that had suddenly gone quiet because Rodney had said something stupid and loud. Sheppard sat with his chin resting on his fist, the picture of nonchalance except for a flicker of something dark in his eyes and twitching muscles in his jaw.
“We haven't talked,” was all he said, then he moved his pawn, though it wasn't his turn.
Rodney didn't need more. He could do the math; he'd been a number in that particular equation, so knew a falling out when he saw... heard... whatever... one. He also knew that, yes, it wasn't something to be talked about. Still...
“M-maybe you should.”
Dark, hazel eyes lifted, locking onto Rodney like a missile targeting system. Rodney lifted his hands.
“Hey, don't look at me like that. I'm just saying: if I got kidnapped by drug dealers who tried to kill me and stuff me full of heroin, home would start looking a lot less like the hellhole I thought it was.”
Sheppard lowered his eyes back to the board. He continued to say nothing, so Rodney had no idea if he was digesting that bit of insight or mentally cursing Rodney to go to hell. Sheppard lost the fourth game, which sadly didn't count since he'd been distracted. After that, he went to bed. Ronon had to wake him for lunch, yet half-asleep and groggy he still scarfed the soup and sandwich as if he hadn't eaten for days.
The third day, when Sheppard spied Rodney's Star Trek collection poking out of his suitcase, they had a Star Trek marathon, much to Ronon's annoyance. The following day was a pain in the ass. Keller dropped by - Beckett's right-hand fellow physician who made house-calls when the FBI had unhealthy informants. She was actually trained to do so, disguising herself as someone's perky niece, carrying the needed equipment in her pink and yellow backpack.
She checked Sheppard in his room as though he actually had the right to privacy, except he didn't, because skinny and tired he could still pose a threat. It was always the ones you least suspected and all. He sat on the end of the bed, unbuttoned his light-blue shirt, but it was Keller who slid the shirt down his arms since she felt he shouldn't move too much with his ribs and bruises.
For something that wasn't intimate, it looked really intimate, until the shirt was off and Rodney realize John was ramrod straight and shivering minutely. Keller thought it was because he was cold, promising to be quick.
Rodney suspected it had nothing to do with being cold, not with their crappy AC unit. Sheppard's eyes were distant, glassy, fixed on his knees without seeing them. He mumbled yes and no to Keller's questions like an automaton. When she pressed on the first rib, he flinched while saying no to any additional pain. He flinched a second time when she gripped his shoulder while leaning forward to listen to his heart. His breath shuddered when she listened to his lungs, and he closed his eyes as she fondled his throat looking for swollen glands - Carson had said to keep an eye out for possible illness; Sheppard's immune system was a little on the crappy side.
She asked him questions about sleeping and eating, took his temperature then weighed him on the scale Rodney had thought had just come with the house. When the exam was finished and Sheppard given - not a clean bill of health - but a no-more-worse-for-wear, he couldn't button his shirt fast enough.
As Keller was heading out, Rodney stopped her.
“Sheppard... he wasn't-- I mean, they didn't, you know... have their, um... have fun with him?”
Jennifer's smile was patient and kind. It then fell away. “If you're asking what I think you're asking, the answer is no. We found no evidence of rape.” She frowned. “But it's not like we know how long those people had him, and he was roughed up pretty bad. That would make anyone edgy for a while.”
“So you noticed.”
She wrinkled her nose in a rather endearing way. “Kind of hard not to.” She left, tossing back the reminder to make sure Sheppard continued to eat three square meals a day.
After lunch they watched some cheap sci-fi show with such a horrible grasp on science there was no way for Rodney not to slam it. That evening, after dinner, Sheppard and Rodney played chess.
“So if you're such a genius, why are you a fed?” Sheppard asked. He moved his knight. “Checkmate.”
“Bastard,” Rodney said, out loud, on purpose. He moved the pieces back to their squares because this was far from over. “Because genius isn't always appreciated. Not by wannabes.”
“So, what, you became a fed out of spite or something?”
“I became a fed because they did appreciate me. And I didn't have to sign any confidentiality agreements, and...” and the rest he couldn't answer, because he was still trying to figure the answer out. The limit to science wasn't genius, it was passion, and the passion of a teen thrust into an adult world was an incredibly fragile thing. Somewhere down the line that had been his young life, Rodney and his passion had had a falling out. One too many grants and promises with one too many conditions, he supposed. One too many older assholes pulling adult rank, taking what was rightfully Rodney's and putting their name on it. Those same adult assholes removing their name and putting Rodney's name back when things didn't work out. People had wanted results ASAP, didn't care if they weren't perfected but because they weren't perfected, it was Rodney, the convenient scapegoat, to the rescue.
That kind of treatment liked to smother passion in its sleep, with a pillow, then shoot it with a silencer for good measure.
So why the FBI, after he'd given his sister hell over trading science for a husband and kid? The hell Rodney knew. Some lab partner Rodney hadn't really liked (but who had been blond, and hot, so tolerable) suggested it after Rodney's tenth threat to find a new career. She said government agencies like the military and FBI had a thing for geniuses. Rodney had already said - more like thought, while being polite out loud - screw-you to the military. He'd been pissed enough for various reasons to shrug and think what-the-hell to the FBI.
“I have a knack for problem solving under pressure,” he said, which wasn't a lie; neither was it the answer.
He'd meant to give the FBI a try, not stick around. Except there was no such thing as testing the waters when it came to government agencies. You're either in or you're out. Rodney had got in - he wasn't sure how. He stayed in - he still didn't know why. Life was obnoxiously weird like that.
“Do you like your job?” Sheppard asked. He moved his rook.
Rodney shrugged. “It's okay.” Really, it was no different than research. People still demanded results; gave you hell if those results weren't to their liking, with the bonus of giving yourself hell for the same reason.
But, sometimes, the results were good, really good, inarguably good. People were saved because of him and no one could contest that.
“It has its moments,” he said. He moved his bishop, taking John's pawn. “What about you? Why'd you choose the Air Force over Harvard?”
“Wanted to fly,” John said without hesitation, a packed answer in just three words, wistful look in the eyes and everything. “And to do something that wasn't just about making money. Something that, you know... mattered.”
Rodney had the sneaking suspicion Sheppard's passion was far from being stifled.
“You still into science stuff?” Sheppard asked.
“As a hobby I may do a little research, if time permits. It rarely does.”
Sheppard nodded, moved his own bishop, and had Rodney in check. “You should never give up what you love, even when it seems like it's easier to do something else.”
“Thank you, Mr. Rogers. Let me guess, when you find a cardboard box you pretend it's a plane and that you're flying around doing crap that matters.”
Rodney figured he might have gone too far with that one, even if it was justified, him having heard it all before like the clichéd pep-talks of coaches more interested in winning than bolstering the fragile pride of their players.
Sheppard eyes hardened, a transparent defensive shell covering his skin. He was still for minutes after Rodney had made his move. Then Sheppard moved his knight.
“Checkmate.” He got up and went to bed.
When it was Rodney's turn for watch, he was only on his first cup of coffee when he heard a thump, followed by a cry of alarm, or pain. He sloshed his cup in his hurry to set it down, then bolted from the chair into Sheppard's room. He flipped on the light, his gun drawn and finger tight against the trigger.
Sheppard, shirtless and packed into a corner, winced, shrinking from the light. Rodney rushed over and crouched in front of him. Up close, he could see Sheppard trembling; his wide eyes darting wildly around the room were bright, glassy, his breathing shallow and ragged. Rodney touched his arm and when he did, Sheppard's whole body jumped, slamming hard against the wall.
“Sheppard! Sheppard, easy. It's me, McKay; calm down.”
Sheppard stared at him without recognition. Then, after a moment, his eyes cleared and his breathing began to slow.
“McKay,” he said.
Rodney nodded. “Yes, Agent McKay. Did something happen? What happened?”
Sheppard's next breath rushed from him in a single chuff. “Dream.” He swallowed. “I, uh... was dreaming and forgot where I was. Sorry?”
Rodney nodded. “Yeah, um... it's okay.” He hooked his thumb over his shoulder. “Need help getting back in bed or anything?”
Sheppard waved him off. “No. I got it.” All the same, Rodney kept his hand on Sheppard's arm as Sheppard stood. Maybe Rodney was being paranoid, but he didn't like the feel of Sheppard's clammy skin. He was sure there was heat radiating from it, unless that was a side effect of bad dreams. Rodney wasn't without his own nightmares; he just never thought to check his own temperature afterwards.
Rodney let go of John when John climbed back into the bed, where he curled up and covered up to below his chest. Rodney hadn't noticed until the transition from floor to bed all the scars Sheppard had - three that looked like bullet wounds in his right shoulder, his stomach and side above his hip, a thin jagged line pale even under his chest hair down his sternum. The fresher wounds now faded to scabs may or may not add to the collection.
There were a lot of stories on Sheppard's body, but then he was former Air Force, and even pilots got shot at. Rodney had stories, too - a knife wound on his arm, a line where a bullet had glanced off a rib, a puckered round scar on his bu-hip, his hip.
Stories earned fighting the bad guys.
Rodney had finally gotten around to reading the rest of Sheppard's file, about the discharge for disobeying orders so he could go behind enemy lines and save men that had been trapped there. The file didn't say whether or not he'd saved those men. He would have to ask Sheppard about it tomorrow.
The next morning, when Rodney woke up, he remembered he'd wanted to ask Sheppard something. He couldn't, for the life of him, remember what that something was. Not that it mattered when Sheppard was absent for breakfast.
“I checked on him,” Ronon said around a mouth full of cinnamon oatmeal. “He's still asleep.”
Which was odd. Even drugged and beaten, Sheppard had still risen at the same time as the sun. Even if he did go right back to bed afterwards.
Sheppard didn't join the land of the living until lunch, when he stumbled out of his room like a zombie, his sweat pants resting precariously on his hips. He even moaned a response when Rodney asked him if he got enough beauty rest.
“Up for some lunch?” Ronon asked.
Sheppard dropped into the unoccupied chair and leaned forward placing his face in his hands, his backbone pressing jagged and white against his skin. “Not really.”
“Too bad,” Rodney said, clapping him over that backbone. “Eat, or we're the ones Carson'll skin alive.” He made Sheppard cinnamon oatmeal, which Sheppard ate with little enthusiasm. Afterwards, he showered, dressed, attempted a Batman marathon only to nod off until Rodney demanded he either watch or go back to bed. Sheppard went back to bed.
“He doesn't look so hot,” Ronon said.
Rodney leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms and gnawing his lip. “He freaked out last night. Dream, I think. He was looking crappy then.” He looked at Ronon. “Think we should call Keller back?”
Ronon replied by pulling out the cell phone used for emergency calls, untraceable because they changed the number each time they used it. He contacted their contact who would relay the message to Keller.
Keller came about two hours later. It took four minutes just to wake John, and continued taps on the cheek and shoulder to keep him awake. Ronon had to hold him upright while Keller checked him. She frowned at his temperature, then frowned deeper when she listened to his lungs.
“Sounds like he may be coming down with a cold,” she said. “Not much I can do about it. You'll have to double his vitamin C intake and keep an eye on it. He's going to feel like crap but otherwise should be fine.”
Rodney scowled. “His timing sucks. He's supposed to testify tomorrow.”
“Well, it's not like he has the plague. Like I said, he's going to feel like crap but that's about it.” She shrugged. “Sorry.”
Sorry didn't cut it; it never did. Sheppard slept through the day, into the night with two bad dreams packing him into the corner, and the next morning he was worse than the day before. But he dressed in the street clothes the Bureau bought for him, tossed back two vitamin C, slipped on shades and a baseball cap and followed Rodney and Ronon out the back where the car was parked.
When they were at the courthouse and safe inside its marbled, more beautifully air conditioned halls, Sheppard changed into the FBI-issued suit in the bathroom. He was taken to a room where he met with the attorney assigned to ensure his wellbeing. Rodney had met with Ms. Teyla Emmagan before under less than ideal circumstances after someone had decided to lawyer up. Rodney had no doubts Beckett was the one who had called her on Sheppard's behalf - his loyalty was, after all, hesitant.
And, yet, for once, Rodney did not mind. Sheppard wasn't a suspect; he was a guy who'd been in the wrong place at the wrong time because desperation could be a bitch that way. And in his current state, he needed the kind of protection only a lawyer could give - telling other lawyers when to back off, lawyers like Acastus Kolya who Rodney had heard was the best defense attorney money could buy because he was the spawn of the devil.
“We fed him, clothed him, made sure he slept and was entertained. Everything short of bathing him ourselves. The fact that he's a little under the weather is not our fault.”
“I know,” Teyla said, with a kind smile for once. “I was given a report on his current health. I simply wish to talk to him and tell him what there is to expect.”
“Not my first trial,” Sheppard rasped. He coughed into his hand. When he was done, he said, “And I'm right here.”
Teyla sat down next to him. “I know, John. But this time you are not the one on trial, though it may feel that way...”
Teyla wasn't kidding. This was so far from Rodney's first court appearance that he couldn't even recall his first court appearance. Nor was this the first person under his protection on the stand. Yet the way Kolya harangued Sheppard, Rodney was surprised at how high his hackles raised. Sheppard looked terrible, though shaved and in a suit. He was pale, faint red at the cheeks that betrayed his fever, gray rings dark under his eyes and his skin sallow and gaunt. He looked like he did the day McKay had found him, only with fewer bruises. But he was alert enough to answer questions clearly, look Kolya right in the eye while doing so, then point to the men who had hurt him without a moment’s hesitation.
“The witness may step down.”
Sheppard returned to his seat between Rodney and Ronon. His arm was touching Rodney's, letting Rodney in on the fact that Sheppard was trembling. He kept nodding off through the rest of the trial.
A trial that was far from over, even if it was just to sentence the dealers to later try them with (or “talk” them into testifying against) the rest of the syndicate. Sheppard was to return tomorrow in case further testimony was needed. As soon as they got him back to the safe house and re-secured it, he stumbled to his room, leaving a trail of clothes and crashing in only his suit pants. They woke him an hour later to change and eat, then he crashed again. In the morning, he was wheezing, shivery and more the zombie than yesterday.
And he wasn't even needed at the trial.
Day three, the verdict was announced. The men were found guilty of drug trafficking and assault.
Babysitting duty was over.
“Wow,” Sheppard croaked. “That was fast.” But he didn't ask 'what next' like the others always did.
The fact was, Sheppard wasn't an inside man, just incredibly unlucky, and the Bureau's interest in him a pathetic half-life. He'd been useful, been put to use, and wasn't needed anymore. No more reason to keep him safe. Sheppard could go on his merry way with compensation for his troubles.
Driving back to the safe house so they could pack up, Sheppard asked, “So, I get to keep the clothes, right?”
Rodney sighed. “Yes, you get to keep the clothes. You even have a duffel bag to put them in. Pack up; we'll take you anywhere you like.”
Sheppard sat back and grinned. “Sweet.” Then coughed harshly into his fist. Rodney massaged his suddenly aching forehead.
At the safe house, they packed, while agents removed the goods to be used for a later safe house.
Rodney made a call to Director Weir, one Weir was quite astonished to hear him make.
“Told you it would come eventually, McKay,” she said. She sounded smug about it.
“Yes, sir... uh, ma'am,” McKay said grudgingly. He hung up and breathed out slowly. He turned to Ronon when he heard the big man approach.
“What was that about?” Ronon asked, bag in hand.
“Taking some time off,” McKay said.
Ronon smirked. “About time.”
“Shut up. I'll handle Sheppard. You can go home.”
“You sure?”
“Positive.”
Not really. He wasn't a spur of the moment kind of guy. Yet here he was, leaving the city limits, a former Air Force major still in need of a good meal and coughing into his fist in the passenger seat.
“Guess we're not going to some motel.” He sniffed, wiping his nose with a tissue. “Okay, that sounded kind of wrong.” He paused, raised an eyebrow, then narrowed his eyes at McKay. “You're not taking me out to the middle of nowhere to shoot me and dispose of the body, are you?”
“I'll definitely consider it if you drop that tissue on the floor.”
Sheppard stuffed it into the plastic shopping bag on the door handle.
“No,” Rodney said. “I'm taking you where I won't have to worry about you turning up on some autopsy slab.”
The look on Sheppard's face when they pulled up the winding gravel road toward one hell of a house was priceless. It was a wonder his eyes didn't bug right out of his skull.
“Oh, no. Oh, hell no. McKay!”
“Suck it up, Sheppard. He's still your dad.”
Just in case, though, McKay stuck around as Sheppard made his stiff, awkward way to the door. He rang the doorbell while looking back at Rodney. Rodney thought he looked a little extra pale, even frightened, and he started to wonder if he'd made a mistake.
The door opened to a thick bodied man with silver hair, wearing a polo shirt and a pair of khakis. Rodney saw Sheppard stiffen, heard him say something though he didn't know what. The older man didn't respond, just looked Sheppard up and down, not quite sure.
Then he fell on John in an embrace like a man who never wanted to let go again. Rodney couldn't hear the exchange, but he could guess - there was nothing like thinking a loved one dead to make you bury the sins of the past, pour concrete on the spot and never look back. Rodney had seen it before. Whatever had happened between father and son, in that very moment, it didn't exist. Hopefully, it would stay that way.
Sheppard's father all but pulled his son into the house. Rodney hadn't expected Sheppard to come trotting back to tell Rodney everything was hunky-dory and that he could go. It was for that reason Rodney came prepared. He got out of the car, slipped a note between the door and frame, then left.
It really would suck to have all that hard work go to waste, and Sheppard wasn't such a bad guy, even if his hair was stupid.
Rodney was out of the drive and down the road when his cell rang.
“Rodney McKay.”
“I thought you wanted a rematch?”
Rodney snorted. “I have to work, Sheppard.”
“No, you don't. I heard you call in for time off.”
Rodney scowled.
“McKay?”
“What, now?”
“Well, no, not now. Just... whenever.”
Rodney rolled his eyes and was glad Sheppard wasn't in a position to see the grin forcing itself on Rodney's face. This was what he liked about his job, that he accomplished things. And that, sometimes, the results were exactly to his liking.
“How about tomorrow?”
The end
A/N: Major apologies for any technical mistakes concerning FBI and court procedure. I'll admit that my knowledge is based mostly on what has been seen on TV shows and general logic, and I didn't know what, exactly, to look up that would help me iron things out (I have the worst luck with research, I really do.) My beta helped quite a bit, but any remaining mistakes are all mine.