"Red Ribbon" (Part 1 of 2), SGA/SG-1, John Sheppard/Cameron Mitchell
Title: Red Ribbon
Author: scrollgirl
Fandom: Stargate SG-1/Stargate Atlantis
Pairing: Cameron Mitchell/John Sheppard
Words: 14,800
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: genderbender, sex, swearing
Recipient: alizarin_nyc
Prompt: One of the boys is genderswitched, which makes it easier for the other to publicly express their affections... but what happens when he switches back?
Author's Notes: Story is set during "The Return, Part 1" for SGA, and spans a period of time between "Memento Mori" and "The Quest" for SG-1. The Ancient device mentioned is from my Jack/Daniel fic, This Is the Alternative, but you don't have to necessarily read that story to understand this one. Written for sg_flyboys. Early beta by capricious_k.
Caveat Lector: I don't know anything about Boone, CO. My apologies if I've misrepresented them.
Summary: John's not having a good time. He's been kicked out of Atlantis, stuck with an SG team he hates. Rodney's in Nevada, Teyla and Ronon are in Pegasus. Now he's got a tenth grade crush on Cameron Mitchell, Air Force golden boy. It's been a while since John fell for a straight guy -- he's out of practice. But then? His day gets worse.
Red Ribbon
by Scroll
General O'Neill promises John a gate team as a consolation prize for getting kicked out of Atlantis by the Ancients. "The Pentagon wants a full debriefing with the entire military contingent of the expedition, but we'll keep it as quick and painless as possible. With more and more planets falling to the Ori, I want you and your people back in the field where you can do some good."
"Looking forward to it, sir," John says with a tight smile. It won't be Teyla and Ronon and McKay at his back, but a gate team is light years better than riding a desk.
So he keeps his mouth shut when Landry assigns him to SG-23 with Wallace, Babbis, and Grainger. Grainger is a typical Marine -- tough, competent, and faintly annoyed at having to baby-sit a hapless biologist, an even more hapless airman, and an officer whose hair looks the way John's does. Not that John can blame the man his frustration, considering the way Babbis and Wallace seem to be in silent competition over which one of them will get the next concussion.
At least they come back from their latest mission without any broken bones.
Mitchell, already in civvies, catches John coming out of the locker room and follows him onto the elevator. "Sheppard, heard one of your guys is in the infirmary," he says as they head up to the surface. "Again. What the hell happened?"
John rolls his eyes. "Babbis sprained his wrist putting up the tent."
The incredulous expression on Mitchell's face is vaguely insulting, and John's about to speak up in his man's defence when he remembers: sprained his wrist putting up a tent. At least when SG-1 ends up in the infirmary, it's because they've narrowly escaped being killed by hostile aliens while trying to save the galaxy from certain doom. Speaking of which.
"How goes the quest for the Holy Grail?" John still doesn't know what to make of this whole Knights of the Round Table re-enactment that's playing out in the Milky Way, but he's got a dozen Monty Python jokes lined up, waiting for the perfect moment. Too bad Rodney is stuck in Nevada; it's not the same, telling them over the phone. And Teyla and Ronon are an entire galaxy away, which sucks even worse since they side with John on "Holy Grail" being funnier than "Life of Brian", to Rodney's everlasting disgust and dismay.
John can't remember whether Mitchell likes Monty Python. He does remember Mitchell used to laugh at his jokes, even the really lame ones, back when they were stationed together in Afghanistan. But that was a lifetime ago, back when they were younger and brasher and believed in their own invulnerability, and despite Mitchell's friendliness since John's return to Earth, he doubts the other man has forgotten John's role in his cousin's death.
Besides, John has read all the Ori-related mission reports. He knows Chulak has been conquered, the weapon on Dakara is gone, the Jaffa are scattered, and most of Earth's allies have either converted to Origin out of self-preservation or been wiped out entirely. Things are pretty grim around the SGC these days. Mitchell's recounting Dr. Jackson's research efforts with the forced cheer of a cancer patient pinning his hopes on the latest round of chemo.
"You like Chinese?" says John abruptly. "There's a Szechwan restaurant near my building. We could get take-out --" 'And go back to my place' is the rest of that sentence, but John cuts himself off before he says anything too obvious. More obvious.
His impulsive offer turn out to be a good one, though, because Mitchell lights up right away at the suggestion. "Yeah, I've been there, it's a great place," he says, all eager enthusiasm. "Best crispy beef in two states."
"Great." John smiles back and goes for broke. "They finally issued me a new credit card, so my treat." When Mitchell tries to protest, he shrugs and says, "Hey, I still owe you for that pizza I let go cold in the back of the jumper."
"All right, then!" Mitchell laughs, giving in with good grace. "But I'm paying for the beer."
Then he digs his keys out and tosses them over. John stares down at them in his hand, then stares at Mitchell. "You're letting me drive the mustang? Seriously?"
Mitchell claps him on the back and winks. "You treat her nice and I'll even let you take her for a spin on the back roads next time we're both on stand-down."
* * *
Cam follows Sheppard into the tiny bachelor pad and tries to keep a neutral expression at the sight of cracked beige walls and scuffed linoleum. A fancy-looking skateboard leans precariously against a plastic moving crate half full of civilian clothes, shoes, magazines, and what looks like official Atlantis briefing books. There's a high-end entertainment centre set up and an even more high-end leather couch, but the coffee table is a piece of plywood set on top of two overturned milk crates and there are no curtains for the windows. The kitchen is cramped and completely bare of cookware.
"Yeah, I know," says Sheppard, kicking off his boots. "It's a hole. Keep your shoes on if you want, I don't care." He goes into the kitchenette and rummages in a drawer. "I have paper plates."
Cam gives him a wry smile and brandishes his chopsticks. "Let's just eat out of the containers." They turn on ESPN and settle onto the incredibly comfortable couch (Cam notices a pile of linen crumpled in one corner and wonders if Sheppard uses it as a bed) and dig into their kung pao chicken, crispy beef, noodles, hot and sour soup, and tofu. "How can you eat that stuff?" asks Cam, making a face at the little white rectangles sitting in their spicy red sauce.
Wielding his chopsticks with the delicate precision of a surgeon, Sheppard pops another piece in his mouth. "Reminds me of an Athosian dish they make with tava beans. We had it all the time." He plucks another bit of tofu from his container and drops it into Cam's. "Besides, it's good for you."
Wrinkling his nose, Cam chews the tofu carefully, because maybe it won't be as gross as he remembers. The chilli adds some flavour, but the slippery sensation is too much like the slime pits on P4X-134, and Cam gulps his beer to wash it down. "I'll stick with the beef, thanks."
"Your loss, my gain," replies Sheppard loftily. He slurps down the rest of the tofu while Cam makes gagging faces.
That the man likes tofu explains so much, Cam decides, and shovels more kung pao chicken into his mouth.
* * *
John finds a new routine. It's not a great routine, not even close, but it's what he's got. It's a bland studio apartment he hates, a cement cell laughingly called his office, milk runs through the gate with a team he can't rely on, commissary food with Carson and Lorne when their schedules match up, long-distance phone calls to Nevada that Landry's turning a blind eye to, and a sweaty palms, sticky sheets, tenth grade crush on Lt. Colonel Cameron Mitchell, golden boy of the USAF.
It's been a long while since John fell for a straight boy. He's out of practice.
The first couple of times Mitchell invites him over for a home-cooked meal, John wonders. Thinks -- maybe. But then he remembers that Mitchell really is that much of a people-person, the kind of guy who gets along with everyone, with actual caring and genuine interest to back up the Southern charm and good ol' boy attitude. For some reason Mitchell's decided to adopt him, and John is lonely enough (though he'll never admit it on pain of death) and crushing hard enough to take what he can get.
So they hang out. Go running in the mornings. Play basketball. Or, more accurately, since basketball isn't exactly his sport, SG-1 minus Carter plays basketball and sometimes John subs in if Jackson has an inconveniently-timed epiphany and runs back to his office in the middle of a game.
And a couple times a week, whenever they're both Earth-side, Mitchell cooks dinner, or they get take-out, and they watch whatever game is playing on the gazillion channels this planet has to offer. (College football is one of the few upsides of being banished from the Pegasus galaxy.) And it's... nice. Almost like dating. Except for the part where Mitchell is straight and completely oblivious to John eyeing his ass in those tight jeans.
The first few times it's just the two of them. But more and more often Teal'c shows up with chips, salsa, and beer he doesn't drink. John tries not to resent this other guy horning in, but one long, steady stare convinces John it's Teal'c who is allowing him to tag along and, really, it's not like John's going to argue with a hundred-year-old Jaffa warrior who can break him in half with both hands tied behind his back.
Still, even with Teal'c playing chaperon, dinner with Mitchell is the high point of his week. On those nights John lets himself consider the possibility that he can move on after all.
Other nights, though... Other nights Mitchell keeps it an SG-1 thing, a team thing. Those nights John skips dinner and goes for a run and doesn't make it back to his crappy apartment until long past midnight, dripping with sweat and trembling with exhaustion and aching for Atlantis.
"General O'Neill made me promise," Mitchell tries to explain one evening when it's just the two of them. He looks apologetic, talking like he owes John something. "What I mean is, he's got a point. Jackson and Carter would grow roots if the rest of us didn't drag them out of the mountain and make them sleep in their own beds and eat real food. And Teal'c and Vala live on base, they're stuck underground unless someone takes them out." He pauses. "Okay, Teal'c could go out on his own if he really wanted to, but he says he's tried that a couple times and it never turns out well."
John gets it. He does, because Rodney's the same way, so he gets it. And he isn't going to point out that technically Vala isn't a member of SG-1 because that would be petty. Because "technically" doesn't matters when someone you care about gets snatched right out from under your nose.
"That was Jackson," Mitchell tells him as he hangs up the phone. "Couple of goons grabbed Vala from the restaurant, pushed her into a car. I gotta get back to the base." He's shoving bare feet into boots and simultaneously shoving leftovers into tupperware containers. "I'm real sorry to run out on you like this," he says, which is about the stupidest thing John's ever heard.
He blocks Cam from stacking more dishes into the sink, grabbing his arms to hold him still. "Stop, I can take care of the dishes," John insists, pushing the other man out of the kitchen. "Go, don't worry about me, just go."
Mitchell wavers for a moment, then grabs his keys. Murmurs, "Thanks, Sheppard," and goes, the mustang roaring into the night.
After setting the DVR to record the game, John attacks the dishes. He scrubs every pot and pan, wipes them dry, then wipes down the counter, the fridge, the tiled floor, until every surface is spotless and shining. He's methodical and meticulous, the way he is cleaning a weapon. Mitchell's apartment is nice, twice the size of his own with a full kitchen and a separate bedroom, and much homier; of course, there are storage rooms in the SGC that are homier than the apartment he's renting. But he likes this place, with the family photos and kiddie artwork, the afghan draped over the back of the recliner, the expensive but not over-the-top entertainment system.
He thinks about watching the rest of the game, or hell, going back to his place. Instead he sits on Cam's couch, pulls out his cell phone, and calls Elizabeth. She doesn't pick up, same as the last time John tried calling, and if it wasn't for the fact that she has responded to a couple of his emails, he'd be worried. Her replies were... short, kind of vague. But he figures the IOA must be keeping her pretty busy. Carson's probably worrying over nothing.
John thinks about Vala and her little-girl pigtails. She reminds him a lot of Ronon, back when he was first settling into Atlantis. That faint, nearly-extinguished flicker of hope for home. For a chance to finally, finally stop running.
Staring out the living room window at the star-spotted sky, he wonders if Teyla and Ronon are okay. He wonders if the city knows he's gone.
* * *
Cam comes home to find Sheppard dead asleep on his couch. The hard-bound copy of War and Peace he inherited from Great Uncle Cameron, which he uses mostly as a door-stopper, is open and face-down on Sheppard's chest. The digital camera Aunt Liddy and Uncle Ed gave him two birthdays ago, while Cam was still struggling with physio, is exactly where he left it after the last team movie night: conveniently sitting on the coffee table. He takes a couple of full-body shots and a few extreme close-ups -- the camera zooming in on the glisten of saliva at the corner of Sheppard's mouth -- then backs quietly out of the living room.
He's only home to shower and change, and to dig up the contacts of some old friends in the CIA. Sam's working with Barrett to organise an NID task force while Jackson has O'Neill calling in favours.
When he comes back out, Sheppard is in the kitchen, frying some eggs. His dark hair is even more of a mess than usual, lying flat on one side and sticking up every which way on the other. It suits him somehow. "There's coffee in the pot," he says first thing, "and sausages on the table. You like scrambled eggs?" The toast pops up and he flips four pieces onto a plate.
"Scrambled's good," Cam replies, setting out the butter and marmalade. He pours coffee into two mugs. "You take it with sugar, right?"
Sheppard looks pleased and surprised that Cam remembers, and nods and turns back to the stove. "The eggs are ready," he says, ladling out two heaping platefuls. They eat silently, too focused on the food to make small-talk, and Cam quickly discovers he's famished from an all-nighter of interviewing witnesses and reviewing security footage from the restaurant. When Sheppard drops the third piece of toast on his plate, he's too grateful for the kindness to protest.
"Thanks, man."
"Consider it an apology for crashing on your couch without permission."
Cam waves that away. "You obviously needed the sleep." He doesn't mention that he knows about Sheppard's midnight adventures through the streets of Colorado Springs, or that, more than Babbis and Wallace's inability to stay out of the infirmary, it's Sheppard's state of mind that is keeping SG-23 on the softball missions. Landry's no fool. Cam may not have reported Sheppard's nocturnal activities to him just yet (and yeah, there's a twinge of guilt there, but the man deserves some time to adjust, right?) but Landry is sharp enough to read the frustration and restlessness and lostness beneath Sheppard's bland smiles and half-hearted "sirs".
"I didn't even hear you come in," Sheppard's saying, sounding rueful, half pissed at himself. "That hasn't happened to me since..." He shakes his head. "I don't think it's happened to me ever. Not when I wasn't knocked out or drugged or otherwise unconscious."
"Or drunk as a skunk?" Cam teases.
"Or otherwise unconscious," Sheppard repeats firmly. The corners of his eyes crease as he holds back a smile, and Cam counts it as a victory -- for Sheppard and for himself. Ten minutes of hot food and a bit of company won't bring Vala safely back to them, or stop Cam from worrying about what the kidnappers want from her, but it's still worth something. It's worth a hell of a lot.
* * *
"Hear you lost your pants again," says John, sticking his head into the infirmary. Mitchell's got his shirt off while Dr. Lam examines the wound in his arm and John can't help sneaking a peek. Broad shoulders, defined arms, a strong chest with light brown hair trailing down to a flat stomach. Couple of interesting scars John wouldn't mind exploring.
Oh yeah, he's got it bad.
"Sam's been telling tales," Mitchell grouses, and squirms impatiently while Lam applies a new dressing.
"Colonel Carter's too much of a professional to gloss over pertinent details in an official report just to save you a little humiliation." John smirks and gives him an exaggerated once-over -- any excuse to let his eyes linger. "The ladies won't have to bother asking boxers or briefs any more."
Lam laughs and strips off her latex gloves. "I haven't had to ask that question since day one," she says with a sly grin, tossing Mitchell's shirt at his chest. "Well, Vala did a good job getting the bullet out. It shouldn't even scar too badly. Keep the bandage dry, don't use the arm, et cetera. You know the drill." Once Mitchell is dressed, she helps him into a sling. "I'd ask if you wanted pain meds..."
"Thanks, Doc, I'm good," says Mitchell, hopping off the gurney. "I'll take an aspirin if I need to."
"Of course you will," Lam sighs, then hands Mitchell a tiny bottle of pills anyway. "Just in case." She turns to John. "I'd appreciate it if you drove him home, Colonel. He really should be resting that arm."
John opens his mouth to agree, but Mitchell holds up his good hand, saying, "Whoa, hey, I'm not going any where until we get Vala back to her old self."
Dr. Lam shakes her head. "That's not going to be for another couple of days at least. Vala's resting now, but I want to run an MRI before Colonel Carter tries to hook her up to the Galaran memory device. The last thing we need is to rush and make a mistake with something as delicate as the brain."
John steps forward. "Which means I'm taking Mitchell home so he can get some real sleep in his own bed." He holds Mitchell's leather jacket open until the other man relents and slips his good arm through, letting the other side drape over his bad shoulder. The empty sleeve still has traces of blood around the bullet hole.
"Let me know if anything changes?" Mitchell says to Lam as they're leaving.
"I will if you will," says Lam with a smile. "Go on, get out of my infirmary."
John doesn't bother changing out of his BDUs, just leads them right out of the Mountain and into the late summer night air. "You want to pick up something to eat?" he asks once they're in the mustang and winding down into Colorado Springs. "Or there's leftover pizza in the fridge."
Mitchell glances over, confused. "I've got leftover pizza?"
Caught, John gazes blindly out the windshield for a long, silent minute, uncertain how to answer without coming across like a stalker. "Yeah, I may have been abusing your hospitality a bit," he finally says, forcing a light, jovial tone. "I went over to your place for lunch today. Picked up a pizza and ate it in front of your television." He flashes a grin that does nothing to dispel the tension. "It was that or the commissary's meatloaf special."
"The meatloaf's not that bad," says Mitchell without inflection. There's nothing in his voice to clue John into whether he's pissed off, or creeped out, or two seconds away from wrestling the steering wheel away from the obviously insane person driving his car. He can feel the weight of Mitchell's gaze like a tangible thing, pressing heavy on his chest, but he can't read him out of the corner of his eye, and John's not brave enough to look at him straight on.
"I'm sorry, okay?" he grits through his teeth. "I just, I couldn't stand being trapped in a cement bunker for another minute." He still can't look at Mitchell, can't hear a sound from him, and feels as though his confession has used up all the oxygen in the car. Cranking down the window, John lets the fresh mountain air wash over him, breathing deeply and missing the bite of brine in the wind.
Eventually Mitchell interrupts the quiet, speaking slowly, cautiously. "Look, Sheppard, I'm not mad at you, if that's what you're thinking." He leans over and nudges John's shoulder with his good hand. "We're friends, right? Mi casa es su casa." There's a pause. "I'm just a little worried about you."
"I'm fine."
Mitchell scoffs, "Sure you are." When John doesn't reply, he sighs and continues, "If you need to talk to someone..."
"Yeah, thanks," John grunts, putting all his focus into making a left-hand turn.
"Or if you want someone to feed you real food instead of take-out, or you just need someplace to crash... I gave you the extra set of keys for a reason, Shep. Day or night."
John meets Cam's open and reassuring gaze for all of a second before turning back to the road. "Still pretty damn presumptuous of me," he says gruffly.
"Hell, I don't care if you'd rather stay at my place than go back to that rat-trap you call an apartment," Mitchell says easily. "Just tell me you didn't get anchovies on my pizza."
John glances over again and relaxes a little, warmed by the teasing smile aimed his way. "No anchovies," he promises. "But there's pineapple."
"Now you're talking," Mitchell cheers and flips the radio to classic rock.
* * *
Cam knows he's not exactly the brains of SG-1. He's smart, no question -- he'd have to be to make lieutenant colonel in the Air Force, even if he's not a genius like Carter. Maybe he doesn't have Jackson's brilliant insights or Teal'c's century of experience or Vala's wiliness, but he likes to think he brings a fresh perspective to an otherwise pretty jaded bunch, as well as an instinctive understanding of what his team needs from him to be the heroes that they are. His parents raised him to pay attention to people's feelings and motivations, and the Air Force trained him to watch every approach for the enemy, and the SGC has taught him to deal with six impossible things before breakfast, so it's not like Cam is fresh off the farm.
But it still comes as a massive shock when he realises John Sheppard has the hots for him.
At first Cam laughs it off: it's ridiculous, he's known Sheppard for years, his cousin Trevor was a groomsman at Sheppard's wedding, for heaven's sake. But the idea gets stuck in his head like a burr under the saddle, driving him crazy. Cam hates to second-guess himself, but he starts to notice things, little things that seem perfectly innocuous when taken at face-value, but which have totally different connotations when seen through the lens of "holy shit, Sheppard likes me likes me."
He thought they'd just been hanging out, two guys who've known each other for years, casual friends becoming better acquainted. Nothing tipped him off -- not the dinners together, which Sheppard started and Cam continued, or their morning runs, which are just exercise, or the way they slump comfortably on the couch so their shoulders and knees touch, which is mostly Cam's doing since Sheppard's not a very tactile guy and generally acts like he'd rather shoot you than hug you.
But he watches Cam when he thinks Cam isn't looking. He's subtle, though. Until that moment in the infirmary -- the moment after the moment Sheppard pretended to leer at him, just before his gaze flickered away, the glimmer of genuine desire in his eyes -- Cam would never have guessed that Sheppard was anything less than ruler straight.
Not that he has a problem with it. Of course not.
In fact, Cam is so determined to not have a problem with it that he does nothing to stop or slow down whatever the hell it is they're doing, the home-cooked meals, the weekend drives, the strictly platonic touching. Until one morning he wakes up to the scent of coffee and bacon, another toothbrush in the bathroom, sheets and a pillow piled at the end of his couch, Johnny Cash on the radio, and realises that, at some point when he wasn't looking, Sheppard's moved in with him.
"I don't know what I should do," Cam tells Teal'c, who is apparently not at all surprised by recent developments. "The guy's depressed enough already. I don't want to hurt his feelings."
"He has fixated on you as someone familiar who does not also remind him of that which he has lost," Teal'c rumbles, disapproval etched in his frown. "You are merely a coping mechanism."
"Gee, thanks." Cam tilts his head. "I thought you liked Sheppard."
Teal'c raises an eyebrow. "I do not dislike him," he says carefully. "I respect his commitment to the Atlantis expedition. He has led them well, and has gained the trust and loyalty of those serving under his command." A pause, and then with great feeling: "But I do not trust his intentions towards you."
Surprised, Cam blurts out, "Because he's gay?"
Teal'c simply looks at him, the long-suffering look that says you are so very young. "Because he is a member of your military and thus subject to its policies -- as you are. You should not even be discussing the matter, with me or anyone else." His expression softens a little, and he adds quietly, "Even suspicion of homosexuality can be detrimental to both your careers. Why then does he not exercise greater restraint in his behaviour toward you?"
Cam shrugs uncomfortably, because he knows it's as much his fault for not discouraging Sheppard. "He's just lonely, Teal'c. I've known the guy a long time and he's never really had a family. Not many friends who're still around, or alive. I know he was married for a while, but obviously it didn't work out. All he has is the Air Force."
"And even here he has been thwarted," Teal'c points out. "He has lost Atlantis; he has lost his team. What more does he have to lose?"
But Cam can't agree. "Give him some credit for self-discipline," he protests. "He's not gonna sabotage his career just because he's upset about losing Atlantis."
"And what of your career, Colonel Mitchell?"
Cam shakes his head and doesn't respond. He trusts Sheppard. Feels responsible for him, even, the memory of Trev binding them together. Teal'c allows the subject to drop, but Cam can read him well enough to know he's not going to stop worrying for him.
* * *
John is not freaking out. He is not freaking out. He is not freaking out. He is -- oh, who the hell is he kidding? He's totally freaking out.
"Relax, Colonel," says the nurse drawing blood from his arm. "Believe it or not," she adds with an amused smile, "this isn't the first time something like this has happened at the SGC." She withdraws the needle and puts pressure on the insertion point with a cotton ball. "There, I'll get these samples to the lab."
John's left to cool his heels while the doctors figure out how the hell this has happened to him. Grainger, Babbis, and Wallace are fine and after their usual post-mission check-up, they're released to write up their reports. (John suspects Wallace in particular is eager to get down on paper the fact that this time it wasn't his fault.) Finally, just as John's finishing up a late lunch, Dr. Lam comes back in with General Landry and Dr. Jackson. "Huh," says Landry. "I was sure you were pulling my leg."
Unfortunately no one's popping out from behind a gurney to yell "April Fool's!" Which means John really did turn into a woman when he accidentally activated the unknown device they found on P9X-825.
Sometimes, he really hates the Ancients.
"How are you feeling, Colonel?" Lam asks him, checking his pulse. "Are you noticing anything unusual? I mean, aside from the obvious."
John's still stuck on 'the obvious' because -- breasts. Vagina. Things that should not belong to his body and yet, inexplicably, do. But no, aside from the obvious lack of his dick, there's nothing really unusual. "I feel fine," he says, shrugging one shoulder, and it's true, even though he thinks it shouldn't be. "Weirded out, but fine."
"The tests we've run are fairly conclusive," says Lam, turning to Landry. "From what I can tell, once activated the device instantaneously re-wrote Colonel Sheppard's Y chromosome to turn him into -- well." She waved a hand at John. "There doesn't seem to be any damage to his DNA other than this change, so I'm cautiously optimistic in pronouncing him as healthy now as he was this morning."
"Aside from the obvious," Landry drawls. "Dr. Jackson, you were telling me that something similar happened to you and Jack a few years ago?"
"Yes, that's right," says Dr. Jackson. "We were exploring the ruins of an Ancient outpost when Jack accidentally activated a device that looks exactly like the one Colonel Sheppard's team just brought back from P9X-825. I grabbed Jack to pull him away and was caught up in the transformation." He shrugs and smiles as though it was no big deal. "Fortunately, Teal'c had witnessed a similar transformation happen to one of the men under his command when he was still First Prime of Apophis. From his observations, and the experience Jack and I had, I think it's safe to conclude Colonel Sheppard will suffer no ill effects."
"Aside from the obvious!" John exclaims, waving a hand at his own body, not quite ready to be blasé about suddenly turning into a woman.
"It's a temporary condition, Colonel, I promise," Jackson says earnestly. "Jack and I turned back into our usual selves within four days. Same thing happened with Teal'c's friend. Of course, having said all this," and now he turns to General Landry, "I'd like to volunteer to keep an eye on the colonel during this time. Make sure he's adjusting and that he doesn't feel too overwhelmed by the sudden changes to his body."
Lam looks worried. "I'd prefer the colonel to remain in the infirmary so I can monitor him. We don't know what kind of side effects there might be to this kind of radical physiological transformation. We'll know more once the device General O'Neill found arrives here from Area 51 and Colonel Carter can run a comparative spectral analysis."
But Jackson looks determined to get John out of the Mountain, which... actually kind of worries him a little. "Dr. Lam, I can promise you he'll be fine. I spent my four days as a female watching Thelma and Louise and shopping for Wonder Bras." Landry makes a choking sound, but Jackson keeps going. "Jack spent four days drinking beer and catching up on all the Simpsons episodes he'd missed."
"A beer sounds good right about now," John puts in, because yeah, a beer sounds great, and Jackson may be a Grade A weirdo, but he's also the one trying to spring him from the infirmary. John's lost his dick, not his mind. "I'm gonna have to pass on the bra shopping, though."
Landry huffs a laugh. "Get Mitchell to look after him," he tells Jackson. "Those two are always in each other's pockets anyway. I need you to stay focused on your research." He glances back at John once before leaving. "Colonel, you're on medical leave as of this moment. If you start to experience anything unusual, be sure to inform Dr. Lam right away."
"Yes, sir," says John, mostly to himself. Lam pats his arm in sympathy and retreats to her office with his medical file.
"Colonel." John glances over to find Jackson staring at him with the oddest expression. If John has to describe it, he'd almost say the man looks... wistful. "Colonel, we need to talk. But not here." Jackson tilts his head at the nurses bustling around them. "Come on, get dressed. I'll drive."
* * *
"We must go."
Cam looks up from his paperwork to find Teal'c standing in the door to his office, dressed in civilian clothes and with Cam's jacket in one hand. "Go where?"
"Your apartment. Daniel Jackson is bringing Colonel Sheppard there." Teal'c disappears around the corner, still holding Cam's jacket, and despite the fact that Cam's still in his BDUs, he hurries to catch up.
"Teal'c, wait up!" He slides into the elevator just as the doors are closing. "Teal'c, what's going on? Did something happen to Sheppard?" He knows SG-23 was scheduled to go off-world this morning, but the mission was just a simple follow-up of some anomalous energy readings on an uninhabited world. "Don't tell me Wallace is in the infirmary again."
But Teal'c doesn't say another word until they're off the base and heading into the Springs. "This is an Asgard anti-surveillance device," he says, holding out a translucent white oval stone that looks kind of like a computer mouse. "Years ago, when it became apparent that certain factions within your government were keeping close watch on the activities of SG-1 even here on Earth, Thor provided one such device to each of us. Since that time, Thor and Colonel Carter have made modifications to incorporate Ancient anti-surveillance technology as well."
Cam doesn't know where to even begin. "Okay," he says slowly. "Souped up anti-spyware thingy, gotcha." He eases off the gas pedal as they pass into residential neighbourhoods. "Is there a reason you're telling me about this now?"
Teal'c shakes his head. "It would be better for Colonel Sheppard to explain." He leans over and slips the device into Cam's inside breast pocket. "If he so chooses."
There's a strange woman in an oversized Air Force hoodie and scrub pants pacing back and forth in Cam's living room while Jackson sits on the couch, lost in thought. "Okay, seriously," says Cam, looking between Teal'c and Jackson and the woman. "What the hell is going on here? Who is this?" The woman grimaces but stays silent, arms crossed protectively over her chest, her face red. She's disturbingly familiar, but Cam doesn't have the patience for guessing games. "Jackson, I need you to start talking. Now."
Jackson comes over and touches Cam's breast pocket. "It is already activated," Teal'c tells him. "But I have not yet explained the situation concerning Colonel Sheppard."
"Hoo boy." Scratching his neck, Jackson visibly collects his thoughts. "Mitchell, you've read every single mission report, right?"
"If you're gonna start teasing me about that again..."
"Not this time." Jackson glances over his shoulder at the woman. "Do you remember reading a report from three years ago about an Ancient device that was essentially a sex-change machine?"
Cam nods and grins. "How could I forget that one! General O'Neill accidentally activated an Ancient device SG-1 uncovered on PX0-794. Both you and he were transformed into oh holy shit, Sheppard?" And Cam's across the room in a heartbeat because, okay, yeah, a report about Jackson and O'Neill turning into women after they've already been changed back makes for funny bedtime reading, but Sheppard as a woman, right now, in his living room, is a whole different story.
"God, Sheppard, are you okay?" Cam reaches out to, he's not sure, hug the guy or maybe shake him to make sure he's real, or something, but Sheppard flinches back. "Sorry, man. Just -- wow." He looks up and down the woman standing in front of him. "Is that really you?" No wonder she looks familiar. She has all of Sheppard's features but drawn with more delicacy, more femininity. Weird.
"Yeah, it's me," the woman says, and hell, the pitch is higher, but otherwise her voice sounds exactly the same, with that kind of rasp Sheppard always gets when he's upset. "Yeah, I got turned into a woman. I'd really rather not talk about it, okay?" Brushing past Cam, she flops onto the couch and grabs the TV remote to channel surf with grim determination.
"Landry asked you to keep an eye on Colonel Sheppard," Jackson tells Cam. "We're on stand-down, anyway, while Sam works on fine-tuning the anti-prior device and I keep digging through Merlin's library."
While Cam hates sitting on his ass while two-fifths of his team get their geek on, he knows that science and research are the key to defeating the Ori. At least he and Teal'c have gotten some good sparring sessions in. "Sure, I can do that," he agrees. "But why all the hush-hush?"
"Tell Colonel Sheppard of the Asgard device," says Teal'c. "He will explain what needs to be done." He turns to go.
Cam grabs his arm when he realises Teal'c and Jackson are just going to leave him here with a female Sheppard. "Whoa, whoa, whoa. That's it? You're leaving?"
"We are leaving," Teal'c intones, freeing his arm with a quick twist.
"You'll be fine." Jackson pats him on his shoulder. "Just go easy on him, okay? Not every day you wake up female."
Cam turns back to the woman -- to Sheppard -- on his couch with her feet up on his coffee table, scowling at USC's bad defence. "Yeah, no kidding."
* * *
John can't hear what Mitchell and the others are talking about, but he'd bet a month's supply of tava beans it has to do with the little bomb Jackson dropped on him in the car.
"We don't know for sure the transformation is temporary," Jackson had said. "We still don't know a lot about the device beyond its effects on the individuals that initiate it -- namely you and Jack. And, well, Teal'c's friend, but he was killed in battle years ago. The scientists at Area 51 have never been able to duplicate the transformation in a controlled setting."
"I'm still stuck on the part where this thing isn't temporary!" John tried to keep calm -- after all, Jackson was fine. Obviously he'd been changed back to his old self with no problem. "Please tell me I'm not going to be stuck like this for the rest of my life."
Jackson kept his eyes on the road. "Teal'c didn't tell General Hammond the whole truth about what happened to his friend. He said the effects of the device would automatically wear off after four days. That might still be true, but we don't know for certain. You see, Teal'c had sex with his friend on the fourth day, and the next morning his friend was back to normal. Jack and I had sex on the fourth day, and the next morning we were back to normal." Finally he looked over at John. "We don't know whether having sex on the fourth day is what reversed the transformation, or if it was just a coincidence."
"You're telling me..." No. It was ridiculous. John refused to believe it. "You're telling me I have to have sex, as a woman, in order to turn back into a man?"
"I'm saying it's a strong possibility," Jackson clarified. "I asked Jack about it later and he told me Teal'c never explicitly told him to, y'know, come on to me or whatever. It was pretty spontaneous on both our parts. Which is a bit much for a coincidence, don't you think? I've wondered whether sex was the ultimate purpose of the device, or merely a by-product of the transformation."
"Wait, wait. Are you telling me General O'Neill propositioned someone under his command? A male someone?" John stared at Jackson in horror. "You really, really should not be telling me this."
Jackson glared briefly at him. "Would you rather I not say anything and possibly leave you stuck as a woman for the rest of your life?"
There wasn't any way John could respond to that. "I hope you swept your car for bugs."
Jackson patted his jacket pocket. "Don't worry, I'm covered." But it's not until Jackson pulled the car into Mitchell's parking garage that John figured out what was going on.
"Why did you bring me here," he growled, but he knew without a doubt his secret tenth grade crush wasn't so secret anymore. Fuck. "This is not what Landry had in mind when he said Mitchell would baby-sit me."
"Well, I'll leave it up to you whether or not you want to explain this whole mess to Mitchell," said Jackson with a pitying expression. "But I figured you'd rather ask him for help than me or Teal'c."
John winced and turned away. Fucking hell.
Out of the corner of his eye, John watches Jackson and Teal'c skedaddle, leaving Mitchell to his fate. He wonders how exactly he should broach the subject of saving him from McKay staring at his B-cups. Hey, Mitchell, wanna take my new body out for a test drive? Hey, Mitchell, how about another exciting adventure through the stargate? Hey, Mitchell, I can pay you?
Mitchell hovers in the doorway between the living room and the kitchen for a moment before coming over with two cold beers. "You look like you could use this," he says, passing one over and settling down on the couch next to him.
John gulps down half of his before he can meet Mitchell's gaze. "They told you what happened?"
Resting his bottle on his knee, Mitchell nods. "Just the bare bones. You're supposed to fill in the rest." He turns to John with an expectant look.
"It was an accident. Obviously."
"Obviously."
Another SG-23 mission gone sideways, only this time he can't blame Wallace or Babbis because John was the idiot who sat down on the large black cube in the middle of the deserted town square, thinking it was some kind of modern art park bench. He quickly realised his mistake once the cube started flashing blue and green lights, but it was already too late. He came to slung over Grainger's shoulder as they quick-marched back to the gate.
Mitchell bumps his shoulder. "Four days of beer and football and sci-fi classics. I'll cook, you'll eat. You won't even have to think about this whole," he looks John up and down, "thing, if you don't want to."
John makes a face. "I'm gonna have to take a shower at some point," he says wryly.
"Ooh, I'll buy you a loofah!" Mitchell exclaims, then ducks away, laughing, when John threatens to knock him on his ass. "That's it! That was my one joke! I'm done now."
John drains the rest of his beer, then steals Mitchell's out from under his hand. "Better be." But he's smiling reluctantly.
* * *
It's Day Two of Operation: Distract Sheppard and Cam should really stop staring. But the truth is, he can't tear his eyes away from the woman sprawled on his living room couch, eating nachos, and watching the highlights of yesterday's basketball game. He knows she's supposed to be John Sheppard, catches glimpses of him in the dark, messy hair, the greenish brown eyes, the shape of her mouth. Even the relaxed curve of her spine. But every time he goes to speak to her, to call her "Sheppard", his brain slams on the brakes. Do not pass Go, do not collect $200.
"You're staring, Mitchell," she calls out without even looking over. "Will you get your ass over here before I feel like any more of a freak show?"
Busted. "You sure you're not contagious," Cam half-jokes, plopping down on the couch next to her. He cringes at her baleful glare. "I'll shut up now." But zipping his lips doesn't stop him from peeking over every few seconds, as though to confirm she still exists and hasn't turned into some other weird and freaky thing while he wasn't looking.
"You're still staring," she growls, pissed off and unhappy.
Cam flushes and turns away. "Yeah, I know. I'm sorry." He focuses on the television, staring uncomprehendingly at Kobe making a three-pointer. It's not like him to be so rude, and he hates that he's making her feel self-conscious. But there's a part of his brain (you sure it's your brain there, Shaft?) that can't help noticing that the woman who slept on his couch last night is really fucking hot.
It's not any one thing: it's the whole package. The way she moves, loose and carelessly graceful. The way she smirks, the way she slants her eyes at him. Her scratchy voice and her deadpan sarcasm. Her captivated face when her team makes a good play. The tilt of her head, the steady hands, the clean shampoo scent of her hair. And yeah, the way she fills her jeans doesn't hurt either.
But Cam's worked next to smart, sexy women for almost two decades and it's never hit him between the eyes like this, at first glance, with no warning. Hell, he's been friends with Triple-Threat Samantha Carter for years and has managed to keep perspective -- a truly Herculean feat if ever there was one. With this woman -- with Sheppard -- he feels like he's back in high school, popping a boner every time Amy Vandenberg brushes past him in the hallways.
The worst thing is he knows she knows. And she knows he knows. Because he's caught her staring at his crotch, biting her lip, a pretty blush on her cheeks, and she's caught him staring at her breasts, mouth dry, palms tingling with a need to touch, hold. They're circling each other, constantly aroused, waiting to see who'll break first and throw sanity out the window.
Yeah, Cam's pretty much figured out why Teal'c gave him the Asgard anti-surveillance device. Rat bastard.
Continued in Part 2 of 2.
Author: scrollgirl
Fandom: Stargate SG-1/Stargate Atlantis
Pairing: Cameron Mitchell/John Sheppard
Words: 14,800
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: genderbender, sex, swearing
Recipient: alizarin_nyc
Prompt: One of the boys is genderswitched, which makes it easier for the other to publicly express their affections... but what happens when he switches back?
Author's Notes: Story is set during "The Return, Part 1" for SGA, and spans a period of time between "Memento Mori" and "The Quest" for SG-1. The Ancient device mentioned is from my Jack/Daniel fic, This Is the Alternative, but you don't have to necessarily read that story to understand this one. Written for sg_flyboys. Early beta by capricious_k.
Caveat Lector: I don't know anything about Boone, CO. My apologies if I've misrepresented them.
Summary: John's not having a good time. He's been kicked out of Atlantis, stuck with an SG team he hates. Rodney's in Nevada, Teyla and Ronon are in Pegasus. Now he's got a tenth grade crush on Cameron Mitchell, Air Force golden boy. It's been a while since John fell for a straight guy -- he's out of practice. But then? His day gets worse.
Red Ribbon
by Scroll
General O'Neill promises John a gate team as a consolation prize for getting kicked out of Atlantis by the Ancients. "The Pentagon wants a full debriefing with the entire military contingent of the expedition, but we'll keep it as quick and painless as possible. With more and more planets falling to the Ori, I want you and your people back in the field where you can do some good."
"Looking forward to it, sir," John says with a tight smile. It won't be Teyla and Ronon and McKay at his back, but a gate team is light years better than riding a desk.
So he keeps his mouth shut when Landry assigns him to SG-23 with Wallace, Babbis, and Grainger. Grainger is a typical Marine -- tough, competent, and faintly annoyed at having to baby-sit a hapless biologist, an even more hapless airman, and an officer whose hair looks the way John's does. Not that John can blame the man his frustration, considering the way Babbis and Wallace seem to be in silent competition over which one of them will get the next concussion.
At least they come back from their latest mission without any broken bones.
Mitchell, already in civvies, catches John coming out of the locker room and follows him onto the elevator. "Sheppard, heard one of your guys is in the infirmary," he says as they head up to the surface. "Again. What the hell happened?"
John rolls his eyes. "Babbis sprained his wrist putting up the tent."
The incredulous expression on Mitchell's face is vaguely insulting, and John's about to speak up in his man's defence when he remembers: sprained his wrist putting up a tent. At least when SG-1 ends up in the infirmary, it's because they've narrowly escaped being killed by hostile aliens while trying to save the galaxy from certain doom. Speaking of which.
"How goes the quest for the Holy Grail?" John still doesn't know what to make of this whole Knights of the Round Table re-enactment that's playing out in the Milky Way, but he's got a dozen Monty Python jokes lined up, waiting for the perfect moment. Too bad Rodney is stuck in Nevada; it's not the same, telling them over the phone. And Teyla and Ronon are an entire galaxy away, which sucks even worse since they side with John on "Holy Grail" being funnier than "Life of Brian", to Rodney's everlasting disgust and dismay.
John can't remember whether Mitchell likes Monty Python. He does remember Mitchell used to laugh at his jokes, even the really lame ones, back when they were stationed together in Afghanistan. But that was a lifetime ago, back when they were younger and brasher and believed in their own invulnerability, and despite Mitchell's friendliness since John's return to Earth, he doubts the other man has forgotten John's role in his cousin's death.
Besides, John has read all the Ori-related mission reports. He knows Chulak has been conquered, the weapon on Dakara is gone, the Jaffa are scattered, and most of Earth's allies have either converted to Origin out of self-preservation or been wiped out entirely. Things are pretty grim around the SGC these days. Mitchell's recounting Dr. Jackson's research efforts with the forced cheer of a cancer patient pinning his hopes on the latest round of chemo.
"You like Chinese?" says John abruptly. "There's a Szechwan restaurant near my building. We could get take-out --" 'And go back to my place' is the rest of that sentence, but John cuts himself off before he says anything too obvious. More obvious.
His impulsive offer turn out to be a good one, though, because Mitchell lights up right away at the suggestion. "Yeah, I've been there, it's a great place," he says, all eager enthusiasm. "Best crispy beef in two states."
"Great." John smiles back and goes for broke. "They finally issued me a new credit card, so my treat." When Mitchell tries to protest, he shrugs and says, "Hey, I still owe you for that pizza I let go cold in the back of the jumper."
"All right, then!" Mitchell laughs, giving in with good grace. "But I'm paying for the beer."
Then he digs his keys out and tosses them over. John stares down at them in his hand, then stares at Mitchell. "You're letting me drive the mustang? Seriously?"
Mitchell claps him on the back and winks. "You treat her nice and I'll even let you take her for a spin on the back roads next time we're both on stand-down."
* * *
Cam follows Sheppard into the tiny bachelor pad and tries to keep a neutral expression at the sight of cracked beige walls and scuffed linoleum. A fancy-looking skateboard leans precariously against a plastic moving crate half full of civilian clothes, shoes, magazines, and what looks like official Atlantis briefing books. There's a high-end entertainment centre set up and an even more high-end leather couch, but the coffee table is a piece of plywood set on top of two overturned milk crates and there are no curtains for the windows. The kitchen is cramped and completely bare of cookware.
"Yeah, I know," says Sheppard, kicking off his boots. "It's a hole. Keep your shoes on if you want, I don't care." He goes into the kitchenette and rummages in a drawer. "I have paper plates."
Cam gives him a wry smile and brandishes his chopsticks. "Let's just eat out of the containers." They turn on ESPN and settle onto the incredibly comfortable couch (Cam notices a pile of linen crumpled in one corner and wonders if Sheppard uses it as a bed) and dig into their kung pao chicken, crispy beef, noodles, hot and sour soup, and tofu. "How can you eat that stuff?" asks Cam, making a face at the little white rectangles sitting in their spicy red sauce.
Wielding his chopsticks with the delicate precision of a surgeon, Sheppard pops another piece in his mouth. "Reminds me of an Athosian dish they make with tava beans. We had it all the time." He plucks another bit of tofu from his container and drops it into Cam's. "Besides, it's good for you."
Wrinkling his nose, Cam chews the tofu carefully, because maybe it won't be as gross as he remembers. The chilli adds some flavour, but the slippery sensation is too much like the slime pits on P4X-134, and Cam gulps his beer to wash it down. "I'll stick with the beef, thanks."
"Your loss, my gain," replies Sheppard loftily. He slurps down the rest of the tofu while Cam makes gagging faces.
That the man likes tofu explains so much, Cam decides, and shovels more kung pao chicken into his mouth.
* * *
John finds a new routine. It's not a great routine, not even close, but it's what he's got. It's a bland studio apartment he hates, a cement cell laughingly called his office, milk runs through the gate with a team he can't rely on, commissary food with Carson and Lorne when their schedules match up, long-distance phone calls to Nevada that Landry's turning a blind eye to, and a sweaty palms, sticky sheets, tenth grade crush on Lt. Colonel Cameron Mitchell, golden boy of the USAF.
It's been a long while since John fell for a straight boy. He's out of practice.
The first couple of times Mitchell invites him over for a home-cooked meal, John wonders. Thinks -- maybe. But then he remembers that Mitchell really is that much of a people-person, the kind of guy who gets along with everyone, with actual caring and genuine interest to back up the Southern charm and good ol' boy attitude. For some reason Mitchell's decided to adopt him, and John is lonely enough (though he'll never admit it on pain of death) and crushing hard enough to take what he can get.
So they hang out. Go running in the mornings. Play basketball. Or, more accurately, since basketball isn't exactly his sport, SG-1 minus Carter plays basketball and sometimes John subs in if Jackson has an inconveniently-timed epiphany and runs back to his office in the middle of a game.
And a couple times a week, whenever they're both Earth-side, Mitchell cooks dinner, or they get take-out, and they watch whatever game is playing on the gazillion channels this planet has to offer. (College football is one of the few upsides of being banished from the Pegasus galaxy.) And it's... nice. Almost like dating. Except for the part where Mitchell is straight and completely oblivious to John eyeing his ass in those tight jeans.
The first few times it's just the two of them. But more and more often Teal'c shows up with chips, salsa, and beer he doesn't drink. John tries not to resent this other guy horning in, but one long, steady stare convinces John it's Teal'c who is allowing him to tag along and, really, it's not like John's going to argue with a hundred-year-old Jaffa warrior who can break him in half with both hands tied behind his back.
Still, even with Teal'c playing chaperon, dinner with Mitchell is the high point of his week. On those nights John lets himself consider the possibility that he can move on after all.
Other nights, though... Other nights Mitchell keeps it an SG-1 thing, a team thing. Those nights John skips dinner and goes for a run and doesn't make it back to his crappy apartment until long past midnight, dripping with sweat and trembling with exhaustion and aching for Atlantis.
"General O'Neill made me promise," Mitchell tries to explain one evening when it's just the two of them. He looks apologetic, talking like he owes John something. "What I mean is, he's got a point. Jackson and Carter would grow roots if the rest of us didn't drag them out of the mountain and make them sleep in their own beds and eat real food. And Teal'c and Vala live on base, they're stuck underground unless someone takes them out." He pauses. "Okay, Teal'c could go out on his own if he really wanted to, but he says he's tried that a couple times and it never turns out well."
John gets it. He does, because Rodney's the same way, so he gets it. And he isn't going to point out that technically Vala isn't a member of SG-1 because that would be petty. Because "technically" doesn't matters when someone you care about gets snatched right out from under your nose.
"That was Jackson," Mitchell tells him as he hangs up the phone. "Couple of goons grabbed Vala from the restaurant, pushed her into a car. I gotta get back to the base." He's shoving bare feet into boots and simultaneously shoving leftovers into tupperware containers. "I'm real sorry to run out on you like this," he says, which is about the stupidest thing John's ever heard.
He blocks Cam from stacking more dishes into the sink, grabbing his arms to hold him still. "Stop, I can take care of the dishes," John insists, pushing the other man out of the kitchen. "Go, don't worry about me, just go."
Mitchell wavers for a moment, then grabs his keys. Murmurs, "Thanks, Sheppard," and goes, the mustang roaring into the night.
After setting the DVR to record the game, John attacks the dishes. He scrubs every pot and pan, wipes them dry, then wipes down the counter, the fridge, the tiled floor, until every surface is spotless and shining. He's methodical and meticulous, the way he is cleaning a weapon. Mitchell's apartment is nice, twice the size of his own with a full kitchen and a separate bedroom, and much homier; of course, there are storage rooms in the SGC that are homier than the apartment he's renting. But he likes this place, with the family photos and kiddie artwork, the afghan draped over the back of the recliner, the expensive but not over-the-top entertainment system.
He thinks about watching the rest of the game, or hell, going back to his place. Instead he sits on Cam's couch, pulls out his cell phone, and calls Elizabeth. She doesn't pick up, same as the last time John tried calling, and if it wasn't for the fact that she has responded to a couple of his emails, he'd be worried. Her replies were... short, kind of vague. But he figures the IOA must be keeping her pretty busy. Carson's probably worrying over nothing.
John thinks about Vala and her little-girl pigtails. She reminds him a lot of Ronon, back when he was first settling into Atlantis. That faint, nearly-extinguished flicker of hope for home. For a chance to finally, finally stop running.
Staring out the living room window at the star-spotted sky, he wonders if Teyla and Ronon are okay. He wonders if the city knows he's gone.
* * *
Cam comes home to find Sheppard dead asleep on his couch. The hard-bound copy of War and Peace he inherited from Great Uncle Cameron, which he uses mostly as a door-stopper, is open and face-down on Sheppard's chest. The digital camera Aunt Liddy and Uncle Ed gave him two birthdays ago, while Cam was still struggling with physio, is exactly where he left it after the last team movie night: conveniently sitting on the coffee table. He takes a couple of full-body shots and a few extreme close-ups -- the camera zooming in on the glisten of saliva at the corner of Sheppard's mouth -- then backs quietly out of the living room.
He's only home to shower and change, and to dig up the contacts of some old friends in the CIA. Sam's working with Barrett to organise an NID task force while Jackson has O'Neill calling in favours.
When he comes back out, Sheppard is in the kitchen, frying some eggs. His dark hair is even more of a mess than usual, lying flat on one side and sticking up every which way on the other. It suits him somehow. "There's coffee in the pot," he says first thing, "and sausages on the table. You like scrambled eggs?" The toast pops up and he flips four pieces onto a plate.
"Scrambled's good," Cam replies, setting out the butter and marmalade. He pours coffee into two mugs. "You take it with sugar, right?"
Sheppard looks pleased and surprised that Cam remembers, and nods and turns back to the stove. "The eggs are ready," he says, ladling out two heaping platefuls. They eat silently, too focused on the food to make small-talk, and Cam quickly discovers he's famished from an all-nighter of interviewing witnesses and reviewing security footage from the restaurant. When Sheppard drops the third piece of toast on his plate, he's too grateful for the kindness to protest.
"Thanks, man."
"Consider it an apology for crashing on your couch without permission."
Cam waves that away. "You obviously needed the sleep." He doesn't mention that he knows about Sheppard's midnight adventures through the streets of Colorado Springs, or that, more than Babbis and Wallace's inability to stay out of the infirmary, it's Sheppard's state of mind that is keeping SG-23 on the softball missions. Landry's no fool. Cam may not have reported Sheppard's nocturnal activities to him just yet (and yeah, there's a twinge of guilt there, but the man deserves some time to adjust, right?) but Landry is sharp enough to read the frustration and restlessness and lostness beneath Sheppard's bland smiles and half-hearted "sirs".
"I didn't even hear you come in," Sheppard's saying, sounding rueful, half pissed at himself. "That hasn't happened to me since..." He shakes his head. "I don't think it's happened to me ever. Not when I wasn't knocked out or drugged or otherwise unconscious."
"Or drunk as a skunk?" Cam teases.
"Or otherwise unconscious," Sheppard repeats firmly. The corners of his eyes crease as he holds back a smile, and Cam counts it as a victory -- for Sheppard and for himself. Ten minutes of hot food and a bit of company won't bring Vala safely back to them, or stop Cam from worrying about what the kidnappers want from her, but it's still worth something. It's worth a hell of a lot.
* * *
"Hear you lost your pants again," says John, sticking his head into the infirmary. Mitchell's got his shirt off while Dr. Lam examines the wound in his arm and John can't help sneaking a peek. Broad shoulders, defined arms, a strong chest with light brown hair trailing down to a flat stomach. Couple of interesting scars John wouldn't mind exploring.
Oh yeah, he's got it bad.
"Sam's been telling tales," Mitchell grouses, and squirms impatiently while Lam applies a new dressing.
"Colonel Carter's too much of a professional to gloss over pertinent details in an official report just to save you a little humiliation." John smirks and gives him an exaggerated once-over -- any excuse to let his eyes linger. "The ladies won't have to bother asking boxers or briefs any more."
Lam laughs and strips off her latex gloves. "I haven't had to ask that question since day one," she says with a sly grin, tossing Mitchell's shirt at his chest. "Well, Vala did a good job getting the bullet out. It shouldn't even scar too badly. Keep the bandage dry, don't use the arm, et cetera. You know the drill." Once Mitchell is dressed, she helps him into a sling. "I'd ask if you wanted pain meds..."
"Thanks, Doc, I'm good," says Mitchell, hopping off the gurney. "I'll take an aspirin if I need to."
"Of course you will," Lam sighs, then hands Mitchell a tiny bottle of pills anyway. "Just in case." She turns to John. "I'd appreciate it if you drove him home, Colonel. He really should be resting that arm."
John opens his mouth to agree, but Mitchell holds up his good hand, saying, "Whoa, hey, I'm not going any where until we get Vala back to her old self."
Dr. Lam shakes her head. "That's not going to be for another couple of days at least. Vala's resting now, but I want to run an MRI before Colonel Carter tries to hook her up to the Galaran memory device. The last thing we need is to rush and make a mistake with something as delicate as the brain."
John steps forward. "Which means I'm taking Mitchell home so he can get some real sleep in his own bed." He holds Mitchell's leather jacket open until the other man relents and slips his good arm through, letting the other side drape over his bad shoulder. The empty sleeve still has traces of blood around the bullet hole.
"Let me know if anything changes?" Mitchell says to Lam as they're leaving.
"I will if you will," says Lam with a smile. "Go on, get out of my infirmary."
John doesn't bother changing out of his BDUs, just leads them right out of the Mountain and into the late summer night air. "You want to pick up something to eat?" he asks once they're in the mustang and winding down into Colorado Springs. "Or there's leftover pizza in the fridge."
Mitchell glances over, confused. "I've got leftover pizza?"
Caught, John gazes blindly out the windshield for a long, silent minute, uncertain how to answer without coming across like a stalker. "Yeah, I may have been abusing your hospitality a bit," he finally says, forcing a light, jovial tone. "I went over to your place for lunch today. Picked up a pizza and ate it in front of your television." He flashes a grin that does nothing to dispel the tension. "It was that or the commissary's meatloaf special."
"The meatloaf's not that bad," says Mitchell without inflection. There's nothing in his voice to clue John into whether he's pissed off, or creeped out, or two seconds away from wrestling the steering wheel away from the obviously insane person driving his car. He can feel the weight of Mitchell's gaze like a tangible thing, pressing heavy on his chest, but he can't read him out of the corner of his eye, and John's not brave enough to look at him straight on.
"I'm sorry, okay?" he grits through his teeth. "I just, I couldn't stand being trapped in a cement bunker for another minute." He still can't look at Mitchell, can't hear a sound from him, and feels as though his confession has used up all the oxygen in the car. Cranking down the window, John lets the fresh mountain air wash over him, breathing deeply and missing the bite of brine in the wind.
Eventually Mitchell interrupts the quiet, speaking slowly, cautiously. "Look, Sheppard, I'm not mad at you, if that's what you're thinking." He leans over and nudges John's shoulder with his good hand. "We're friends, right? Mi casa es su casa." There's a pause. "I'm just a little worried about you."
"I'm fine."
Mitchell scoffs, "Sure you are." When John doesn't reply, he sighs and continues, "If you need to talk to someone..."
"Yeah, thanks," John grunts, putting all his focus into making a left-hand turn.
"Or if you want someone to feed you real food instead of take-out, or you just need someplace to crash... I gave you the extra set of keys for a reason, Shep. Day or night."
John meets Cam's open and reassuring gaze for all of a second before turning back to the road. "Still pretty damn presumptuous of me," he says gruffly.
"Hell, I don't care if you'd rather stay at my place than go back to that rat-trap you call an apartment," Mitchell says easily. "Just tell me you didn't get anchovies on my pizza."
John glances over again and relaxes a little, warmed by the teasing smile aimed his way. "No anchovies," he promises. "But there's pineapple."
"Now you're talking," Mitchell cheers and flips the radio to classic rock.
* * *
Cam knows he's not exactly the brains of SG-1. He's smart, no question -- he'd have to be to make lieutenant colonel in the Air Force, even if he's not a genius like Carter. Maybe he doesn't have Jackson's brilliant insights or Teal'c's century of experience or Vala's wiliness, but he likes to think he brings a fresh perspective to an otherwise pretty jaded bunch, as well as an instinctive understanding of what his team needs from him to be the heroes that they are. His parents raised him to pay attention to people's feelings and motivations, and the Air Force trained him to watch every approach for the enemy, and the SGC has taught him to deal with six impossible things before breakfast, so it's not like Cam is fresh off the farm.
But it still comes as a massive shock when he realises John Sheppard has the hots for him.
At first Cam laughs it off: it's ridiculous, he's known Sheppard for years, his cousin Trevor was a groomsman at Sheppard's wedding, for heaven's sake. But the idea gets stuck in his head like a burr under the saddle, driving him crazy. Cam hates to second-guess himself, but he starts to notice things, little things that seem perfectly innocuous when taken at face-value, but which have totally different connotations when seen through the lens of "holy shit, Sheppard likes me likes me."
He thought they'd just been hanging out, two guys who've known each other for years, casual friends becoming better acquainted. Nothing tipped him off -- not the dinners together, which Sheppard started and Cam continued, or their morning runs, which are just exercise, or the way they slump comfortably on the couch so their shoulders and knees touch, which is mostly Cam's doing since Sheppard's not a very tactile guy and generally acts like he'd rather shoot you than hug you.
But he watches Cam when he thinks Cam isn't looking. He's subtle, though. Until that moment in the infirmary -- the moment after the moment Sheppard pretended to leer at him, just before his gaze flickered away, the glimmer of genuine desire in his eyes -- Cam would never have guessed that Sheppard was anything less than ruler straight.
Not that he has a problem with it. Of course not.
In fact, Cam is so determined to not have a problem with it that he does nothing to stop or slow down whatever the hell it is they're doing, the home-cooked meals, the weekend drives, the strictly platonic touching. Until one morning he wakes up to the scent of coffee and bacon, another toothbrush in the bathroom, sheets and a pillow piled at the end of his couch, Johnny Cash on the radio, and realises that, at some point when he wasn't looking, Sheppard's moved in with him.
"I don't know what I should do," Cam tells Teal'c, who is apparently not at all surprised by recent developments. "The guy's depressed enough already. I don't want to hurt his feelings."
"He has fixated on you as someone familiar who does not also remind him of that which he has lost," Teal'c rumbles, disapproval etched in his frown. "You are merely a coping mechanism."
"Gee, thanks." Cam tilts his head. "I thought you liked Sheppard."
Teal'c raises an eyebrow. "I do not dislike him," he says carefully. "I respect his commitment to the Atlantis expedition. He has led them well, and has gained the trust and loyalty of those serving under his command." A pause, and then with great feeling: "But I do not trust his intentions towards you."
Surprised, Cam blurts out, "Because he's gay?"
Teal'c simply looks at him, the long-suffering look that says you are so very young. "Because he is a member of your military and thus subject to its policies -- as you are. You should not even be discussing the matter, with me or anyone else." His expression softens a little, and he adds quietly, "Even suspicion of homosexuality can be detrimental to both your careers. Why then does he not exercise greater restraint in his behaviour toward you?"
Cam shrugs uncomfortably, because he knows it's as much his fault for not discouraging Sheppard. "He's just lonely, Teal'c. I've known the guy a long time and he's never really had a family. Not many friends who're still around, or alive. I know he was married for a while, but obviously it didn't work out. All he has is the Air Force."
"And even here he has been thwarted," Teal'c points out. "He has lost Atlantis; he has lost his team. What more does he have to lose?"
But Cam can't agree. "Give him some credit for self-discipline," he protests. "He's not gonna sabotage his career just because he's upset about losing Atlantis."
"And what of your career, Colonel Mitchell?"
Cam shakes his head and doesn't respond. He trusts Sheppard. Feels responsible for him, even, the memory of Trev binding them together. Teal'c allows the subject to drop, but Cam can read him well enough to know he's not going to stop worrying for him.
* * *
John is not freaking out. He is not freaking out. He is not freaking out. He is -- oh, who the hell is he kidding? He's totally freaking out.
"Relax, Colonel," says the nurse drawing blood from his arm. "Believe it or not," she adds with an amused smile, "this isn't the first time something like this has happened at the SGC." She withdraws the needle and puts pressure on the insertion point with a cotton ball. "There, I'll get these samples to the lab."
John's left to cool his heels while the doctors figure out how the hell this has happened to him. Grainger, Babbis, and Wallace are fine and after their usual post-mission check-up, they're released to write up their reports. (John suspects Wallace in particular is eager to get down on paper the fact that this time it wasn't his fault.) Finally, just as John's finishing up a late lunch, Dr. Lam comes back in with General Landry and Dr. Jackson. "Huh," says Landry. "I was sure you were pulling my leg."
Unfortunately no one's popping out from behind a gurney to yell "April Fool's!" Which means John really did turn into a woman when he accidentally activated the unknown device they found on P9X-825.
Sometimes, he really hates the Ancients.
"How are you feeling, Colonel?" Lam asks him, checking his pulse. "Are you noticing anything unusual? I mean, aside from the obvious."
John's still stuck on 'the obvious' because -- breasts. Vagina. Things that should not belong to his body and yet, inexplicably, do. But no, aside from the obvious lack of his dick, there's nothing really unusual. "I feel fine," he says, shrugging one shoulder, and it's true, even though he thinks it shouldn't be. "Weirded out, but fine."
"The tests we've run are fairly conclusive," says Lam, turning to Landry. "From what I can tell, once activated the device instantaneously re-wrote Colonel Sheppard's Y chromosome to turn him into -- well." She waved a hand at John. "There doesn't seem to be any damage to his DNA other than this change, so I'm cautiously optimistic in pronouncing him as healthy now as he was this morning."
"Aside from the obvious," Landry drawls. "Dr. Jackson, you were telling me that something similar happened to you and Jack a few years ago?"
"Yes, that's right," says Dr. Jackson. "We were exploring the ruins of an Ancient outpost when Jack accidentally activated a device that looks exactly like the one Colonel Sheppard's team just brought back from P9X-825. I grabbed Jack to pull him away and was caught up in the transformation." He shrugs and smiles as though it was no big deal. "Fortunately, Teal'c had witnessed a similar transformation happen to one of the men under his command when he was still First Prime of Apophis. From his observations, and the experience Jack and I had, I think it's safe to conclude Colonel Sheppard will suffer no ill effects."
"Aside from the obvious!" John exclaims, waving a hand at his own body, not quite ready to be blasé about suddenly turning into a woman.
"It's a temporary condition, Colonel, I promise," Jackson says earnestly. "Jack and I turned back into our usual selves within four days. Same thing happened with Teal'c's friend. Of course, having said all this," and now he turns to General Landry, "I'd like to volunteer to keep an eye on the colonel during this time. Make sure he's adjusting and that he doesn't feel too overwhelmed by the sudden changes to his body."
Lam looks worried. "I'd prefer the colonel to remain in the infirmary so I can monitor him. We don't know what kind of side effects there might be to this kind of radical physiological transformation. We'll know more once the device General O'Neill found arrives here from Area 51 and Colonel Carter can run a comparative spectral analysis."
But Jackson looks determined to get John out of the Mountain, which... actually kind of worries him a little. "Dr. Lam, I can promise you he'll be fine. I spent my four days as a female watching Thelma and Louise and shopping for Wonder Bras." Landry makes a choking sound, but Jackson keeps going. "Jack spent four days drinking beer and catching up on all the Simpsons episodes he'd missed."
"A beer sounds good right about now," John puts in, because yeah, a beer sounds great, and Jackson may be a Grade A weirdo, but he's also the one trying to spring him from the infirmary. John's lost his dick, not his mind. "I'm gonna have to pass on the bra shopping, though."
Landry huffs a laugh. "Get Mitchell to look after him," he tells Jackson. "Those two are always in each other's pockets anyway. I need you to stay focused on your research." He glances back at John once before leaving. "Colonel, you're on medical leave as of this moment. If you start to experience anything unusual, be sure to inform Dr. Lam right away."
"Yes, sir," says John, mostly to himself. Lam pats his arm in sympathy and retreats to her office with his medical file.
"Colonel." John glances over to find Jackson staring at him with the oddest expression. If John has to describe it, he'd almost say the man looks... wistful. "Colonel, we need to talk. But not here." Jackson tilts his head at the nurses bustling around them. "Come on, get dressed. I'll drive."
* * *
"We must go."
Cam looks up from his paperwork to find Teal'c standing in the door to his office, dressed in civilian clothes and with Cam's jacket in one hand. "Go where?"
"Your apartment. Daniel Jackson is bringing Colonel Sheppard there." Teal'c disappears around the corner, still holding Cam's jacket, and despite the fact that Cam's still in his BDUs, he hurries to catch up.
"Teal'c, wait up!" He slides into the elevator just as the doors are closing. "Teal'c, what's going on? Did something happen to Sheppard?" He knows SG-23 was scheduled to go off-world this morning, but the mission was just a simple follow-up of some anomalous energy readings on an uninhabited world. "Don't tell me Wallace is in the infirmary again."
But Teal'c doesn't say another word until they're off the base and heading into the Springs. "This is an Asgard anti-surveillance device," he says, holding out a translucent white oval stone that looks kind of like a computer mouse. "Years ago, when it became apparent that certain factions within your government were keeping close watch on the activities of SG-1 even here on Earth, Thor provided one such device to each of us. Since that time, Thor and Colonel Carter have made modifications to incorporate Ancient anti-surveillance technology as well."
Cam doesn't know where to even begin. "Okay," he says slowly. "Souped up anti-spyware thingy, gotcha." He eases off the gas pedal as they pass into residential neighbourhoods. "Is there a reason you're telling me about this now?"
Teal'c shakes his head. "It would be better for Colonel Sheppard to explain." He leans over and slips the device into Cam's inside breast pocket. "If he so chooses."
There's a strange woman in an oversized Air Force hoodie and scrub pants pacing back and forth in Cam's living room while Jackson sits on the couch, lost in thought. "Okay, seriously," says Cam, looking between Teal'c and Jackson and the woman. "What the hell is going on here? Who is this?" The woman grimaces but stays silent, arms crossed protectively over her chest, her face red. She's disturbingly familiar, but Cam doesn't have the patience for guessing games. "Jackson, I need you to start talking. Now."
Jackson comes over and touches Cam's breast pocket. "It is already activated," Teal'c tells him. "But I have not yet explained the situation concerning Colonel Sheppard."
"Hoo boy." Scratching his neck, Jackson visibly collects his thoughts. "Mitchell, you've read every single mission report, right?"
"If you're gonna start teasing me about that again..."
"Not this time." Jackson glances over his shoulder at the woman. "Do you remember reading a report from three years ago about an Ancient device that was essentially a sex-change machine?"
Cam nods and grins. "How could I forget that one! General O'Neill accidentally activated an Ancient device SG-1 uncovered on PX0-794. Both you and he were transformed into oh holy shit, Sheppard?" And Cam's across the room in a heartbeat because, okay, yeah, a report about Jackson and O'Neill turning into women after they've already been changed back makes for funny bedtime reading, but Sheppard as a woman, right now, in his living room, is a whole different story.
"God, Sheppard, are you okay?" Cam reaches out to, he's not sure, hug the guy or maybe shake him to make sure he's real, or something, but Sheppard flinches back. "Sorry, man. Just -- wow." He looks up and down the woman standing in front of him. "Is that really you?" No wonder she looks familiar. She has all of Sheppard's features but drawn with more delicacy, more femininity. Weird.
"Yeah, it's me," the woman says, and hell, the pitch is higher, but otherwise her voice sounds exactly the same, with that kind of rasp Sheppard always gets when he's upset. "Yeah, I got turned into a woman. I'd really rather not talk about it, okay?" Brushing past Cam, she flops onto the couch and grabs the TV remote to channel surf with grim determination.
"Landry asked you to keep an eye on Colonel Sheppard," Jackson tells Cam. "We're on stand-down, anyway, while Sam works on fine-tuning the anti-prior device and I keep digging through Merlin's library."
While Cam hates sitting on his ass while two-fifths of his team get their geek on, he knows that science and research are the key to defeating the Ori. At least he and Teal'c have gotten some good sparring sessions in. "Sure, I can do that," he agrees. "But why all the hush-hush?"
"Tell Colonel Sheppard of the Asgard device," says Teal'c. "He will explain what needs to be done." He turns to go.
Cam grabs his arm when he realises Teal'c and Jackson are just going to leave him here with a female Sheppard. "Whoa, whoa, whoa. That's it? You're leaving?"
"We are leaving," Teal'c intones, freeing his arm with a quick twist.
"You'll be fine." Jackson pats him on his shoulder. "Just go easy on him, okay? Not every day you wake up female."
Cam turns back to the woman -- to Sheppard -- on his couch with her feet up on his coffee table, scowling at USC's bad defence. "Yeah, no kidding."
* * *
John can't hear what Mitchell and the others are talking about, but he'd bet a month's supply of tava beans it has to do with the little bomb Jackson dropped on him in the car.
"We don't know for sure the transformation is temporary," Jackson had said. "We still don't know a lot about the device beyond its effects on the individuals that initiate it -- namely you and Jack. And, well, Teal'c's friend, but he was killed in battle years ago. The scientists at Area 51 have never been able to duplicate the transformation in a controlled setting."
"I'm still stuck on the part where this thing isn't temporary!" John tried to keep calm -- after all, Jackson was fine. Obviously he'd been changed back to his old self with no problem. "Please tell me I'm not going to be stuck like this for the rest of my life."
Jackson kept his eyes on the road. "Teal'c didn't tell General Hammond the whole truth about what happened to his friend. He said the effects of the device would automatically wear off after four days. That might still be true, but we don't know for certain. You see, Teal'c had sex with his friend on the fourth day, and the next morning his friend was back to normal. Jack and I had sex on the fourth day, and the next morning we were back to normal." Finally he looked over at John. "We don't know whether having sex on the fourth day is what reversed the transformation, or if it was just a coincidence."
"You're telling me..." No. It was ridiculous. John refused to believe it. "You're telling me I have to have sex, as a woman, in order to turn back into a man?"
"I'm saying it's a strong possibility," Jackson clarified. "I asked Jack about it later and he told me Teal'c never explicitly told him to, y'know, come on to me or whatever. It was pretty spontaneous on both our parts. Which is a bit much for a coincidence, don't you think? I've wondered whether sex was the ultimate purpose of the device, or merely a by-product of the transformation."
"Wait, wait. Are you telling me General O'Neill propositioned someone under his command? A male someone?" John stared at Jackson in horror. "You really, really should not be telling me this."
Jackson glared briefly at him. "Would you rather I not say anything and possibly leave you stuck as a woman for the rest of your life?"
There wasn't any way John could respond to that. "I hope you swept your car for bugs."
Jackson patted his jacket pocket. "Don't worry, I'm covered." But it's not until Jackson pulled the car into Mitchell's parking garage that John figured out what was going on.
"Why did you bring me here," he growled, but he knew without a doubt his secret tenth grade crush wasn't so secret anymore. Fuck. "This is not what Landry had in mind when he said Mitchell would baby-sit me."
"Well, I'll leave it up to you whether or not you want to explain this whole mess to Mitchell," said Jackson with a pitying expression. "But I figured you'd rather ask him for help than me or Teal'c."
John winced and turned away. Fucking hell.
Out of the corner of his eye, John watches Jackson and Teal'c skedaddle, leaving Mitchell to his fate. He wonders how exactly he should broach the subject of saving him from McKay staring at his B-cups. Hey, Mitchell, wanna take my new body out for a test drive? Hey, Mitchell, how about another exciting adventure through the stargate? Hey, Mitchell, I can pay you?
Mitchell hovers in the doorway between the living room and the kitchen for a moment before coming over with two cold beers. "You look like you could use this," he says, passing one over and settling down on the couch next to him.
John gulps down half of his before he can meet Mitchell's gaze. "They told you what happened?"
Resting his bottle on his knee, Mitchell nods. "Just the bare bones. You're supposed to fill in the rest." He turns to John with an expectant look.
"It was an accident. Obviously."
"Obviously."
Another SG-23 mission gone sideways, only this time he can't blame Wallace or Babbis because John was the idiot who sat down on the large black cube in the middle of the deserted town square, thinking it was some kind of modern art park bench. He quickly realised his mistake once the cube started flashing blue and green lights, but it was already too late. He came to slung over Grainger's shoulder as they quick-marched back to the gate.
Mitchell bumps his shoulder. "Four days of beer and football and sci-fi classics. I'll cook, you'll eat. You won't even have to think about this whole," he looks John up and down, "thing, if you don't want to."
John makes a face. "I'm gonna have to take a shower at some point," he says wryly.
"Ooh, I'll buy you a loofah!" Mitchell exclaims, then ducks away, laughing, when John threatens to knock him on his ass. "That's it! That was my one joke! I'm done now."
John drains the rest of his beer, then steals Mitchell's out from under his hand. "Better be." But he's smiling reluctantly.
* * *
It's Day Two of Operation: Distract Sheppard and Cam should really stop staring. But the truth is, he can't tear his eyes away from the woman sprawled on his living room couch, eating nachos, and watching the highlights of yesterday's basketball game. He knows she's supposed to be John Sheppard, catches glimpses of him in the dark, messy hair, the greenish brown eyes, the shape of her mouth. Even the relaxed curve of her spine. But every time he goes to speak to her, to call her "Sheppard", his brain slams on the brakes. Do not pass Go, do not collect $200.
"You're staring, Mitchell," she calls out without even looking over. "Will you get your ass over here before I feel like any more of a freak show?"
Busted. "You sure you're not contagious," Cam half-jokes, plopping down on the couch next to her. He cringes at her baleful glare. "I'll shut up now." But zipping his lips doesn't stop him from peeking over every few seconds, as though to confirm she still exists and hasn't turned into some other weird and freaky thing while he wasn't looking.
"You're still staring," she growls, pissed off and unhappy.
Cam flushes and turns away. "Yeah, I know. I'm sorry." He focuses on the television, staring uncomprehendingly at Kobe making a three-pointer. It's not like him to be so rude, and he hates that he's making her feel self-conscious. But there's a part of his brain (you sure it's your brain there, Shaft?) that can't help noticing that the woman who slept on his couch last night is really fucking hot.
It's not any one thing: it's the whole package. The way she moves, loose and carelessly graceful. The way she smirks, the way she slants her eyes at him. Her scratchy voice and her deadpan sarcasm. Her captivated face when her team makes a good play. The tilt of her head, the steady hands, the clean shampoo scent of her hair. And yeah, the way she fills her jeans doesn't hurt either.
But Cam's worked next to smart, sexy women for almost two decades and it's never hit him between the eyes like this, at first glance, with no warning. Hell, he's been friends with Triple-Threat Samantha Carter for years and has managed to keep perspective -- a truly Herculean feat if ever there was one. With this woman -- with Sheppard -- he feels like he's back in high school, popping a boner every time Amy Vandenberg brushes past him in the hallways.
The worst thing is he knows she knows. And she knows he knows. Because he's caught her staring at his crotch, biting her lip, a pretty blush on her cheeks, and she's caught him staring at her breasts, mouth dry, palms tingling with a need to touch, hold. They're circling each other, constantly aroused, waiting to see who'll break first and throw sanity out the window.
Yeah, Cam's pretty much figured out why Teal'c gave him the Asgard anti-surveillance device. Rat bastard.
Continued in Part 2 of 2.