(no subject)
*
Joseph Harbin. That was who had been buried in Lime's grave, and the rising death toll was enough to make John's teeth clench, a cold anger rising in him. Harbin might have been a weak and greedy little shit, but he didn't deserve to be murdered. Malla had been completely innocent in a way that Harbin had not been; she'd deserved her fate even less.
Lime was the cause of this, and John was almost glad that he was still alive. It meant he could be made to pay. John was going to get his hands on the man, and Lime was going to pay. Pay for the people who were dead from his drug racket, for two kids who were as good as dead. Pay for Harbin. For Malla.
But how to get to Lime? What did Lime care about, if he cared about anything at all?
Anna Schmidt. Anna Schmidt and Martins. If Lime felt anything, it'd be for those two. John smiled, a grim twist of his lips. His skin felt stretched taut and thin, and he knew his expression was too grim to really be called a smile.
"Lorne," John said. "Send a security team to go pick up Anna Schmidt. And make sure she's here just before the meeting with Brodsky starts."
Lorne paused, his face carefully blank. "Sir?" he said a little warily.
"Trust me," John said. Lorne's eyes stayed on him, and whatever he saw in John's face made him frown, made his eyes go troubled. "Trust me," John repeated, jerking a nod towards the door.
As John had instructed, they brought her in a few minutes before John's meeting with Brodsky. She hesitated at John's open door.
He waved her in. "Come in. I'm not interested in your forged identification. That's a Genii matter. When did you last see Lime?"
"Two weeks ago." Schmidt's expression was remote, unruffled.
John couldn't tell if she was lying or not. Her face was smooth, almost like a doll's. Only the tiny lines around her eyes and mouth revealed the signs of stress and age. Her eyes were guileless and blue, reminding him of Rodney's. His throat felt tight when he spoke. "I want the truth. We know he's alive."
The proud line of his shoulders slumped a little. "It is true, then," she said. She'd heard the news before John had told her. But she and Martins were cozy enough that she could have gotten her information from him.
Of course, the traces of uncertainty she'd shown so far could be an act. She might have known all along, which would work to John's advantage. The fewer secrets Lime kept from her, the better for John, if he could just get her to talk.
"Joseph Harbin's body was found in the grave." He said it fast, his words hard, as he watched for her reaction.
Schmidt blinked, her eyes as blank as a blind person's. "What did you say? I'm sorry."
"I said another man was buried in his place," John said, frowning at her dazed expression. She seemed only half here, the rest of her adrift, unreachable. He wondered if she was drunk, although he smelled nothing on her breath.
"Where is he?" she said, with a sudden light to her eyes. Hope, John realized, and felt his own shoulders slump a little. Either she was a superb actress, or she'd really believed Lime was dead. Still, she knew Lime well, well enough to know where he might hole up when he was in trouble.
"That's what we want to find out." John tried to stay patient. Anger would probably push her further into her little dream world.
She was silent for a second, her brow furrowing. "I'm sorry. I don't seem to be able to understand anything you say. He is alive. Now, this minute, he is doing something." Her voice was filled with wonder, and John was sure now that she hadn't known.
A trace of John's impatience crept into his voice. "We know he's somewhere in the Genii sector. You may as well help us."
At that moment, Lorne led Brodsky into the conference room adjacent to John's office. The glass walls between them hid nothing, and he watched Schmidt's face freeze as she caught sight of the Genii.
"Yes, we know you're Genii. That's Colonel Brodsky. He wants you back, but we don't have to accommodate him. Now tell me where Lime is."
If Brodsky really wanted her, John couldn't do much to help her without trading in some big favors, but she didn't know that. It was ugly, the worst sort of manipulation. John was a little ashamed of himself, using tactics like that, but if the Pegasus galaxy had taught them anything, it was that sometimes you had to get a little dirty to get things done.
"I don't know," she said, her voice bright and hard as light in vacuum, devoid of emotion.
He'd lost her. Somehow he'd lost her, pushed her deep into that detached place in her head, to where even the threat of Brodsky failed to move her. Then he realized she wasn't drunk. Not drunk at all. She just didn't give a shit anymore, and John knew all too well how dangerous someone like that could be.
"If you help me, I am prepared to help you, Anna Schmidt," he said. It was a throw away line, because he already knew he'd failed.
Her sad blue eyes roamed over his face. There was finally a trace of emotion in her face, contempt, a faint sneer on her lips. "Martins always said you were a fool."
John frowned and tried one last time. "With the stargate on lockdown, Atlantis is a closed city. He can't get away." Let her get that information to her lover. Lime was trapped like a rat; he could stew on that for a while.
He led her to the door, but Schmidt paused, managing to get in the last word. "Poor man," she said in a toneless voice. "I wish he were dead. He would be safe from all of you then."
*
His meeting with Brodsky was not what anyone could call productive. Afterwards, John was convinced that the Genii was stone walling. Brodsky claimed to know nothing about how Harbin's body came to be identified as Lime's. It was a pretty sure thing that he could count on no Genii help apprehending Lime, what with Lime's influence stretching so far into the Genii sector.
"The Genii are up to something," he said in Elizabeth's office. "They're harboring a criminal."
"The Lime business," she said, looking troubled. She leaned back in her chair, twirling a pencil thoughtfully in one hand.
"Lime's in deep with the Genii. The 'mixup' with Harbin could be just the tip of the iceberg."
Elizabeth frowned, massaging her temple with her free hand. "John, the Genii have protested that you're interfering with their autonomy. Poking your nose into their business, throwing accusations around. Stirring up trouble."
He started pacing, stalking the length of her office while she looked on silently. "That's ridiculous," he said, proud that he sounded calm.
She sighed. "I know that. You know that. SGC doesn't know that. They look at your history with the Genii and think you've got 'unresolved issues,' I believe was the phrase used. They don't like what they're hearing. They don't want trouble."
He stopped, his back to her. "Are you telling me to back off?" he asked stiffly, staring at the intricate grain in the polished wooden bowl that sat on one of her shelves.
"Don't be ridiculous," she snapped. "I'm warning you, John. Be careful with Brodsky. He's a treacherous bastard."
John turned around, schooling his expression into a bland mask. "I'm learning that, believe me."
He eyed her controlled face carefully. "What about your history with the Genii?" he asked, his tone almost gentle. "SGC say anything about 'unresolved issues' on your part?"
It seemed an obvious question, but it startled her. Her face froze, eyes too wide, and they both jumped when the pencil snapped in her hand. After a pause, she spoke, lips tight, as if holding back words she couldn't or wouldn't say. "SGC says a lot of things, John. Let me deal with them. I want you to get to the bottom of this. But watch yourself."
"Fair enough," he said with a grimace.
*
John had to get out of the office after that. "I'm checking on the repairs," he said to Lorne, but really he just wanted to see Rodney. The conversation with Elizabeth had stirred up bad memories, Kolya, Atlantis in Genii hands. He kept seeing Elizabeth and Rodney as Genii hostages, kept flashing on the scar that still marked Rodney's arm.
And that was all on top of the fact that Lime being alive turned everything about the case on its head. He'd been wrong, dead wrong, believing Lime was out of the picture based on the word of the Genii. His mouth twisted a little as he thought of Anna Schmidt, how she'd called him a fool. Maybe she was onto something there.
A Marine stopped him as he exited the transporter on the level where Rodney was working. "Hard hat area, sir," she said and handed him one.
Rodney was supervising the repair crew working on Atlantis' ballast tanks and shot him a startled glance when he noticed John's presence. He jogged over with a smile on his face.
"Hey," Rodney said. "Playing hooky from work?"
"A little," he admitted. He didn't feel like rehashing his day so far, the vaguely queasy feeling he'd gotten from bullying Anna Schmidt, the frustration of dealing with Brodsky.
John didn't say anything more, but the quiet didn't last long. Rodney, like nature, abhorred a vacuum, and was more than willing to fill the silence with explanations and grandiose predictions of when they'd finally be finished with this section. He didn't know when Rodney's patter had gone from annoying to soothing, but it had happened at some point, fairly early on. John let the sound fill him up, felt his jaw muscles unclench finally.
He looked over at the group of welders Rodney was pointing out and tuned into Rodney's words for a moment. "At least, this group has some modicum of skill, a tiny grasp on how not to screw things up, unlike the last group SGC sent up," Rodney was saying, and John smiled.
Rodney shot him a strange look, affection tangled with confusion, but didn't stop talking.
He let his eyes play over Rodney, sweaty and smudged, in old clothes, a bright yellow hard hat perched on his head. The hard hat was triggering construction worker fantasies in the dirtier parts of John's mind, and he felt a sudden urge to kiss Rodney silly right then and there. He wanted to run his hands up under Rodney's black T-shirt, to trace the sweaty, warm skin over Rodney's ribs. Rodney would light up under his touch, a way to remind himself that there were things outside of work, beyond Brodsky and the Genii, beyond the Lime situation. Things he hadn't fucked up. Things he'd gotten completely right.
Rodney was busy though, distracted by shouted questions. After a few minutes, he had to go back to work. John stayed a while after to watch Rodney in his element, gesticulating and raising his voice and rallying his troops.
Immediately after the war, they'd started repairing the damaged towers of Atlantis only to realize that the city's flotation system needed immediate attention or their floating city would become a sinking city. Rodney had made fast and dirty repairs to the tanks, buying them some time. The jury-rigged fix left the city still partially flooded, but the influx of refugees meant that most of Rodney's time was diverted to making a huge number of living quarters habitable to some degree. Now that they had some breathing room on the refugee front, Rodney's team had started the permanent repairs.
Lorne radioed him then. "Martins is here. He says he met with Lime, and he looks pretty spooked."
Shit. "I'm coming," John replied. One last look over at Rodney, and he smiled a little as he ogled Rodney's ass. One of the scientists caught him at it, and John winked at her. She wiped her sweaty forehead and laughed, shaking her head.
Martins was in John's office when he got back. Shoulders hunched, he sat at the edge of his chair, staring down at the floor. If anything, Lorne had understated Martins' emotional distress; he looked like a wreck.
"Martins," John said, modulating his voice so as not to spook the man even more.
Martins spoke without looking up. "He's changed. He sounded crazy, going on about killing people if the price was right. It made him furious that I wouldn't join in with him."
John settled at his desk. Martins was trembling, and when he looked up at John, his expression was bewildered, betrayed.
"Lime's in the Genii sector," John said. It wasn't a question, but Martins nodded.
"He didn't care about Anna; he was the one who gave her up to the Genii." Martins' eyes looked wet and lost, as if he couldn't fathom the man who'd betray a lover. "When he thought I was the only one standing in his way, he was going to kill me, I just know it. I could see it in his eyes."
"He's a dangerous man," John murmured. "A dangerous man who needs to be stopped. You could help us. Arrange to meet Lime here, in the Atlantean sector."
Martins shook his head. "Wouldn't work."
"We'll never get him in the Genii zone," John said.
"Colonel Sheppard, you expect too much. I know he deserves a dark cell for the rest of his life for the things he's done. You've proved your stuff. But twenty years of friendship. That's a long time. Don't ask me to be the bait."
John felt his lips tighten. "Okay, forget it," he said in a clipped voice.
He rummaged around in his desk drawer, pulling out the disk encoded with Schmidt's forged identification. He waved it in Martins' direction. "The joint powers meeting is tomorrow, you know. Brodsky's going to ask for Anna Schmidt's return to the Genii."
Martins' face was blank, the subtle threat taking a moment to sink in. His eyes moved from the disk to John's face, his expression stricken.
John continued. "We didn't defeat the Wraith until we knew them." And sold our souls to the Genii, he thought but didn't say aloud. "Knew them as well as we know ourselves. I'm beginning to know Lime. I think this would have worked with your help."
Martins seemed hypnotized by the disk that John held up in the air. Not taking his eyes off it, Martins asked slowly, "What price would you pay?"
"Name it," John said.
*
John knew when Schmidt failed to make the 'gate activation he'd talked Elizabeth into authorizing that something had gone wrong. He sighed. It'd been a tricky move anyway, trying to pull an end run around the Genii. It would have resulted in severe repercussions, complicated an already tense situation, and Elizabeth had not been happy. But getting Anna Schmidt away from the Genii had been Martins' price for setting up the meet. Getting Lime was worth it.
Elizabeth had agreed. "Dead children," she said, her eyes narrowing. "Lime killed children. SGC can say what it wants; we're getting him."
Neither of them had mentioned that keeping Schmidt from the Genii would have served a less noble purpose as well, serving as an unmistakable "fuck you" back to the Genii, a little payback for their involvement with Lime. The Genii seemed to instinctively understand things like that, but the Atlanteans were learning.
Martins came to John's office later that day. Before John could open his mouth, Martins was talking. "I want off Atlantis. As soon as possible."
John rubbed the back of his neck, digging out the tension knots. "So she talked you out of it."
His expression more hurt than angry, Martins slid something across John's desk, the shattered pieces of an identification disk. Schmidt's, John realized.
"She gave me these," Martins said. He sounded lost, his face shadowed.
"Spirited, isn't she," John said dryly, one eyebrow climbing towards his hairline.
Martins' mouth twisted. "She's right. It is none of my business."
And she's got you under her thumb, doesn't she, John thought, shoving the broken pieces of the data disk into the trash with more force than necessary.
His anger faded before a genuine curiosity. The loss of Lime had brought the two of them together, mutual obsessions reinforcing each other. Had Lime's resurrection driven them apart?
"What'd she say to you?" John asked.
Martins flinched, his mouth twisting in a guilty frown. "She couldn't do anything to harm him. She loves him. And--"
So do you, John thought, frowning at Martins.
Martins shrugged, not finishing his thought.
"It won't make any difference in the long run. I'll get him," John promised, letting a tight smile slide over his face.
Martins' eyes darted away from John's, one shoulder hunching, a defensive posture. "Well, I won't have helped."
"Whatever lets you sleep at night, Martins," John said sourly. "I always wanted you out of the city, didn't I?"
"You all did." Martins sounded resentful, as if nothing in Atlantis had lived up to his expectations. He was someone who set himself up for disappointment, forever unhappy with reality. His eyes were sad and soulful, inviting sympathy, but John felt a little burned out in that department.
John stood. "Let's go to the gate room right now. We might get you an activation this afternoon."
They made their way down to the transporter, and John set the destination to the infirmary level. Martins seemed to change his mind in a stiff breeze. Maybe John could sway him back. If anything, John wasn't going to let the Halorian off easy. Martins would see close up what Lime had done before he got his trip off Atlantis.
"You don't mind a quick detour, do you?" John said, striding out of the transporter without waiting for Martins' answer.
Martins stopped short when he realized what the detour consisted of, but John walked on. He nodded at the nurses and was glad Beckett stayed out of sight while he led Martins back to the private room that had been had set aside. Beckett might agree with the end to John's means, but he probably wouldn't like John using his patients this way.
John gestured at the two beds that were against the far wall. "This is where they keep the children whose treatment started late because of Lime, the ones who didn't die, that is. The transformation isn't reversible at this point."
The twisted figure on one of the beds moaned softly, arching against the sheets. Revulsion and pity twisted Martins' face as he stared down at the little girl. There was little human left visible in her.
"Her name is Caltis," John said. "The boy is Perrin."
John led Martin between the two beds, keeping silent after that, letting the horror speak for itself. He stood there, watching Martin's head swivel back in forth, taking in the pasty gray of their skin, the yellow eyes.
The boy shifted on his bed, his mouth opening wide. He let out a sound that morphed into a piercing Wraith cry. It was like a spike in John's head, razors down his spine, and he looked over to see Martins with his hands over his ears.
The noise thankfully stopped, and Martins let his hands drop. He turned to John. "I've seen enough, Sheppard. I'll be your dumb decoy."
*
They had Martins set up the meet in one of the atriums that dotted the city, filled with Ancient fountains dry for 10,000 years and sleek metal benches. It was an out of the way spot, usually deserted, next door as it was to one of the damaged sections of Atlantis. Holes with blackened edges gaped in the outer walls, the damage yet another reminder of the war, another part of the city still in disrepair. John avoided looking at the blasted section, his eyes flickering past, concentrating on the smell of the ocean that drifted in through the opening.
A balcony encircled the open space of the atrium, and John sent a few Marines up there. Lorne set up a perimeter as well, enough Marines to make a net for Lime when he showed up.
Martins slumped on one of the benches, while Lorne and John watched from an alcove in the shadow of the balcony.
"I'd kill for a working scanner," Lorne said absently. "It'd make this so much easier."
John shrugged. The labs had been one of the Wraith's first targets. The few remaining scanners had eventually broken down, and the necessary replacement parts were all dedicated to restoring Atlantis.
They'd been lucky to lose only equipment in the attack. A few hours later -- he couldn't finish the thought, stifling a shudder. Rodney would have been there. Most of his staff would have been as well, but John was honest enough to admit that it was Rodney's near miss that gave him nightmares.
They waited, the moments stretching out endlessly, the corridors around them deserted and silent. He could almost imagine Atlantis breathing around them, damaged and injured as she was. They watched Martins, who sat staring at his feet. He crossed his arms, clutching his biceps as if he was cold.
John kept shifting his weight, until Lorne raised an eyebrow at him. I hate waiting, he thought with a sigh, but forced himself to stand still.
"Look." Lorne nudged him. It was Schmidt, coming up to Martins.
Lorne asked, "Should I go over there?"
If Lime was close by and watching, Lorne might scare him off. If they waited, Schmidt might leave on her own. John shook his head. "No, no, leave them for a while."
Martins sat there, Schmidt standing over him. He'd straightened hopefully at her approach, but he slumped again after a few minutes of conversation. Schmidt's gestures were agitated, her face set in an angry frown. It was the most overt emotion John had seen her display yet.
John frowned. Instead of Schmidt leaving, she and Martins were getting deeper into conversation. This didn't look good. He was going to have to risk it. "Lorne, go over there, see what she's up to," he said.
Lorne nodded, shifting and resettling his vest as he walked over. John tried to watch everything at once, Martins and Schmidt, Lorne, their surroundings. His vigilance wasn't quite up to the job; when it happened, it still managed to catch him by surprise.
There was movement behind Schmidt, and then-- "He's here," Lorne shouted. He turned and was off running.
John broke cover himself, running after Lorne. Martins was right on Lorne's heels; he must have been caught up in the heat of the chase. "Martins, stop," John shouted, but the warning was ignored.
He used his radio, clicking over to the command frequency. "Givens, Theriot, Lime's here. Looks like he's heading for the damaged zone, trying to get below again, down into the flooded sections."
The loud sound of his own breathing almost masked the radio response as he pounded after Lorne. His pace slowed when he hit the blasted section, threading his way through torn metal, carefully watching where he stepped.
His caution almost made him lose Lorne. He looked up just in time to see Lorne and Martins jump down through a gaping hole in the decking. He rushed over to follow them, jumping down to the deck below. It was a long way down. His knees flexed, taking the brunt of his weight when he landed. The faint crunching sound and the ache of the motion made him grimace. Bad knees were just one part of being on the wrong side of forty, but it still felt like his body was betraying him.
It was pitch black in the corridor below, and the dim glow of emergency lighting was the only illumination besides their flashlights. The dim figures of Lorne and Martins were just ahead; he'd finally caught up with them. He frowned. Martins had no business being in on the chase. Was he trying to get himself killed?
"Martins, get back," John said, but Martins didn't seem to hear, stopping in a dangerously exposed spot in the middle of the corridor. Lorne grabbed Martins' wrist, pulling the man bodily back against one wall.
After that, it was all confusion and darkness, feet pounding, murky water that splashed everywhere, shouts. Their path twisted and turned, until John wondered if he'd be able to find his way out without help. He wiped at his forehead with a sleeve: he was dripping. The sweat clung to him, sticky and unpleasant; it combined with the dampness of the flooded corridor so that his uniform felt clammy and chafing.
Voices, fragments of an exchange echoed back to where John ran.
"You're through, Lime." That was Martins voice. "--haven't got a chance this way. You might as well give up."
"What do you want?" The deep-voiced response must be Lime. John eased his sidearm from its holster.
Lorne's voice interrupted the exchange. "Martins. Martins, get back." Shouts echoed weirdly through the corridor, and John could see him gesturing wildly at Martins.
"Lorne, be careful," John shouted after him, but his words were drowned out by a shot. The muzzle flash revealed Lime's location, and John fired at the shadowy figure. Lime stumbled, but kept running, and then John's attention was focused on Lorne.
"Fucking hell," John muttered as he ran over. Martins crouched down beside Lorne, who lay in a crumpled heap, facedown on the wet floor of the corridor. John shoved Martins aside, putting a hand on Lorne's shoulder.
"Lorne," he whispered, easing the man onto his back. Blood poured from a chest wound, warm and metallic-smelling. "Oh, God." He pressed down onto the wound, desperately trying to stop the bleeding. Triggering his radio, he glanced over at Martin, whose face was white. John's own face felt even whiter as he spoke into his headset. "This is Sheppard. Medical emergency. Lorne's down. Beckett, get your ass down here now."
John looked up. "Martins, I need--" Martins was gone. "Martins? Martins!" he shouted, and then Lorne made a noise. John looked down, his gaze landing on Lorne's right hand. It was empty, fingers loosely curled. Lorne's thigh holster was empty as well. His sidearm was gone: Martins must have taken it while John was busy with Lorne's wound.
"Don't take any chances, Martins. If you see him, shoot," he shouted, hoping his voice carried. It echoed through the corridor, and he pressed harder on Lorne's wound, where blood continued to well. Too much blood, so much it made John's gut clench with fear.
"Don't you die on me, Lorne," he said in a frantic voice. "You don't get to fucking die on me now."
Lorne let out a groan. "That's it," John urged. "That's good. You didn't survive the war to get yourself killed by a goddamned racketeer."
A single shot made him start, and then Martins' slow, careful steps echoed through the corridor as he walked back into sight. Lorne's sidearm was in one of Martins' hands, held awkwardly away from his body. Shoulders slumped under an awful weight, Martins seemed to have aged years in a matter of minutes. The look in his eyes was haunted, the look of someone who'd had to kill a friend.
Beckett and a medical team were shoving John aside then, trying to get to their patient. "Anyone else need attention?" Carson asked, his voice distracted but calm as he ripped open Lorne's shirt.
Martins looked over at John, shaking his head. His features were pinched now, no longer boyish. John answered for him. "No. No one else."
*
Lime's second funeral was warmer and sunnier than his first. It felt almost like spring, and the irony didn't escape John.
The last time he'd been here with Lorne, who was currently recovering in the infirmary. It'd been a near thing, but Lorne would pull through. Every time John thought about it, he went weak-kneed with relief. He didn't know if he could have handled the death of yet another friend, someone who'd been there from practically the beginning.
Once again, he stood far from the grave, hanging back to take in the ceremony without really participating. Rodney had come with him this time and hovered at his side. Rodney claimed it was to get away from the endless repairs, but he couldn't hide the worry in his eyes when he looked at John.
Rodney stood a little closer than he normally did in public, and John had to admit that he welcomed the support. It felt good, the warmth of Rodney right next to him, Rodney's shoulder brushing his.
Anna Schmidt stood beside the grave. Martins was there as well, staring over at her, the look on his face wistful. Her expression was empty and still, and she didn't acknowledge Martins' presence, her grief betrayed only by the dark circles under her eyes. There were no tears this time.
The tableau didn't escape Rodney's attention. Rodney nudged his arm, gesturing over at Martins and Schmidt. "From the way you talked, I thought it was Lime that Martins was hung up over," Rodney whispered.
"It was," John whispered back.
"Oh," Rodney said after a beat. Comprehension flickered across his face, and when he spoke there was a brisk compassion in his voice. "Poor bastard."
The ceremony was ending. Martins had moved closer to where John stood with Rodney, hovering by the gates of the cemetery. He waited, staring at Schmidt as the mourners filed past him.
"Wait here a second," John said. "I'm going over to him." Rodney's eyes flickered over John's face, and he nodded, squeezing John's shoulder.
"Colonel Sheppard," Martins said, not turning his head when John came up beside him. "You don't have to stay. I'll take the public transport back." John nodded but didn't move away. They stood there a moment, and Martins continued. "Can't you do something about Anna?"
"I'll do what I can," John said. "If she'll let me."
Schmidt was drawing closer to them, and Martins twitched, taking a step towards her.
"I wouldn't," John warned.
"I can't just leave her." Martins' voice broke on the last word.
John shrugged and didn't say anything when Martins stepped away from him, to stand almost directly in Schmidt's path. Her steps were purposeful, and her head was held high, her eyes dry.
John was staring at Martins' back. He couldn't see Martins' face, but John knew that the man was smiling tentatively at Schmidt, his eyes hopeful. John almost turned away then, because he also knew what would come next.
Schmidt didn't hesitate, striding past Martins without a glance. She walked down the path, away from them, looking straight ahead of her. It was to be expected. Martins had killed her lover, his own oldest friend. It was a betrayal in service to a greater good, but a betrayal nonetheless.
Rodney's hand at the small of his back startled him. "Ready?" Rodney asked, his mouth right by John's ear, his breath warm on John's skin. Something that had been wound up tight in his chest eased a little.
He turned his head, smiling at Rodney. "You bet," he said.
Rodney let out a huff of breath, not quite a laugh. "I was just talking to Beckett. Lorne's awake."
They walked along, their feet crunching through the brown, fallen leaves that littered the ground. Rodney left his hand where it was, a warm pressure on John's back. The trees were bare, but the sun was warm on John's face. Looking up at the cloudless sky, John let out a contented sigh. He slid an arm over Rodney's shoulders as they neared the puddle jumper. "That's good. That's really good."
"Hmm," Rodney agreed.
"You wanna take her back?" John asked as he used the remote to lower the puddle jumper's ramp.
"Nah." Rodney shook his head. "How about you fly? Fly us home, John."
End