Love and beta thanks to Maverick who catches my Australianisms and queries my departures from canon. Without her Rodney would have died of citrus poisoning. Many thanks to Rustler too for taking over what was left. Shout-outs to all the Oz ladies who encouraged and squeed appropriately.

*

"Dreams are physical phenomena" – Freud.

*

The mind is a mystery.

A journalist steps into a line-up, researching a story. The eyewitness points to him, says he is the man she saw holding up a gas station. Turns out she's seen him on television. Saw him on television the day of the hold-up. No arrest is made.

A lecturer in psychology experiments with his students. He makes them take a keyboard test, telling them hitting the red key will crash the system. The system crashes every time and he tells the student they must have hit the red key. Some disagree, some can be persuaded, and others have vivid recollections of hitting a key they never touched.

The brain makes sense of the nonsensical, connects the disconnected.

John remembers being nine. He and two other boys are playing in an empty lot, throwing rocks in pretend warfare. John is hit. He remembers his hand on his forehead, instinctively covering the point of impact. When he pulls away his fingers are covered in blood, bright red like his bicycle lying on the ground at the rear of the lot, like the tomatoes in his mother's vegetable garden. It's dripping down his hand in rivulets, running down the side of his face, into his eyes. The shock makes him burst into tears, crying all the way home, abandoning his bike at the lot.

In the end it's just a small cut. Doesn’t even warrant stitches.

Today, he can't remember the pain, just the blood.

*

Rodney's apartment is a mess. There are boxes on the floor full of papers, books and notepads. The contents are half in and half out, spread out on the floor so that John has to navigate between them as Rodney leads him into the living room. The chaos extends to Rodney’s desk. His laptop is barely visible under newspapers, unopened mail, three pizza boxes and four coffee mugs. There's laundry on the couch. It isn’t folded but it looks clean.

"Have a seat," Rodney says. He scoops the cat off the single sofa and puts her down on the floor. John sits in the spot the cat has vacated, thinking about the cat hair he’ll be wiping from his pants before he leaves.

Rodney looks little better than his apartment. His hair has crept below his ears and he hasn't shaved. He's wearing ill-fitting jeans and a t-shirt with a picture of a chemical compound on it: "CH3CH2OH."

"I suppose I should offer you a beverage of some kind…?" Rodney says.

"Coffee?" John says.

Rodney scratches his head. "I don't have any cream," he says. "Or sugar for that matter."

"Fine with me," John says.

Rodney disappears into the kitchen. The room is lit by sunlight seeping through the gap between the partially closed drapes. It's dull inside, but not dark – evening-ish. John resists an urge to open the windows. It's warm outside. A balmy eighty-six degrees. John likes being outside on warm days.

Rodney returns with coffee in plain white mugs. John's has a chip on the base.

"So nice to have visitors," Rodney says. He smiles disingenuously at John as he moves the laundry to the side of the couch.

John sips his coffee. It's too strong and too hot. "Don't you want to know why I'm here?"

"Elizabeth sent you to check up on me," Rodney says. He looks up at John's surprised face. "I'm sorry, was it a mystery?"

"It's been over a week," John says.

It's been two weeks since they came back. Eight days since they've seen Rodney on base. He was there to begin with, facing debriefings and review panels with John and Elizabeth and the rest of the survivors. They put them in quarantine, found them quarters on the base, interviewed them separately and together. On the sixth day they were allowed to seek local accommodation. John and Elizabeth stayed on base. Rodney had an apartment to go to. He went home and never came back.

"I have work to do," Rodney says. "It's far too crowded at the SGC. Too many amateurs trying to reinvent the wheel. Or the event horizon, in this case. It's distracting."

"Colonel Carter asked about you."

"Colonel Carter has my email. And my phone number. Not to mention numerous other personal details about my life that I don't usually entrust to attractive women." Rodney finds a place on the coffee table for his mug, rests it on a book entitled Relativity Revivalism and the new Einstein Deconstructionism. "Elizabeth thinks I'm home wallowing in my own misery or guilt or whatever profound emotion she’s credited me with. She either thinks I’m unstable or unusually deep. I don't know whether to be flattered or insulted."

"We just wondered how you were settling in." John emphasizes the "we." Elizabeth expressed concern, but John is curious. The truth is, no one is adjusting to their return. "But you’re obviously fine and getting back to normal in your nice, normal apartment, with your nice, normal laundry."

Rodney looks at the laundry and rolls his eyes. "It was like this before I left for Atlantis," he says. "And this is clean laundry, I might add. It's not like I'm drowning in my own filth here."

John puts his mug on the coffee table, finding a place on the book next to Rodney's mug. "Pleased as I am to hear that, Elizabeth wants you back at the SGC – tomorrow at the latest."

"What for?"

John takes a breath. "Psychiatric evaluation."

Rodney's face falls. "You're kidding."

"It's not just you," John says. "We’re all doing it."

"You consented to this? What are you - pod-John? Has anyone sampled your DNA since you got back? It's possible you're not who you think you are."

John's reaction was similar to Rodney's. Unfortunately he’s military and was ordered to undergo psychiatric evaluation within the first week of their return. So far he’s managed to avoid it. Taking on Rodney gave him another excuse.

He has no intention of being a hypocrite, and he fully intends to respect the wishes of the woman who saved his life before she’d met him, but John procrastinates effortlessly, like he knows what he is doing without knowing why. Rodney’s not the only one whose aversion to psychoanalysis borders on instinctual.

"I’m not wild about the idea," John says. "But given the circumstances, I fully intend to cooperate. It is, after all, in our best interests." John tries to sound earnest but he comes off sounding like he’s selling bibles.

The look on Rodney’s face tells John he’s fooling no one. "You’re talking out of your ass, Major," Rodney says, smiling. "Trust me, no one knows more about fake bravado than I do."

"Fine," John says. "Don’t go to counseling. But come back to the SGC for a day. Just show your face. For Elizabeth’s sake."

"Are you fucking her?"

John blinks. "Excuse me?"

"You’re Elizabeth’s messenger boy. You’re either fucking her or you ran over her dog and this is penance."

John reaches for his mug, drinks the remaining dregs of coffee. "For an astro-physicist, you have very little imagination." John puts his hands in his pockets, takes out his car keys. "I’ll tell Elizabeth to expect you on base tomorrow."

Rodney says something that sounds like, "yeahwhatever." John leaves him alone in his dark living room, stepping over the cat on his way out.

*

Elizabeth’s quarters are next to John’s, in amongst a row of former Atlantis expedition team members. John finds her there, sitting at her desk. Her official capacity on base is ill-defined so she uses her quarters as an office, takes meetings, phones calls, appointments in the same place.

"How did it go?" she asks.

"He’ll be here," John says. He sits on the couch next to her desk. There’s a bureau next to the couch where Elizabeth has placed an assortment of items from the Pegasus Galaxy: some coloured rocks, a pipe, a box made out of volcanic ash and the Athosian urn John gave her for her birthday. John picks up the urn, turns it over in his hands, absently admiring the pattern. "He’s pretty pissed, though."

Elizabeth turns in her chair. "I imagine he is. But I don’t believe he should be expected to recover without supervision."

"He won’t go quietly," John says.

Elizabeth smiles. "That’s why you’re going to go first and tell Rodney and the rest of my psychoanalysis phobic team that they have nothing to fear."

John places the urn back on the bureau. "You’ve already been, I take it?"

"Yes."

"How was it?"

"It’s difficult to say." She looks down at her hands briefly. "Although, I’ve noticed no one has sent men in white coats to take me away. I’m taking that as a positive."

"That’s not funny."

"It wasn’t meant to be. John – " She pauses. "- I need to know if you or Rodney or anyone else has been so affected by our experience that they wish themselves, or anyone else, harm."

Deep down John knows this. And he knows a good leader would volunteer to go first. He was a good leader on Atlantis. Now he’s superfluous.

"How’s Simon?" he asks suddenly.

Elizabeth looks away. "He’s fine. He’ll be here on Saturday."

He notices something in her tone. "You two okay?"

"As well as can be expected." She smiles ruefully. "He’s not actually forgiven me for disappearing to another galaxy."

"Did you expect him to?"

She pauses to think. "A part of me never expected to come back."

"I know what you mean," John says. Being faced once more with the life he had so readily relinquished eight months ago has left him unsettled, like arriving at a party of strangers and not knowing where to stand.

"Do you want me to make an appointment for you?" Elizabeth says.

John sighs, leans his head against his hand. "It’s not necessary," he says. "I’ll go."

"Atlantis is gone, John," Elizabeth says.

It’s true. They destroyed it, nothing to go back to even if they could. "Yeah," he says, nodding. "Yeah, I know."

*

"What do you remember?"

"About what?" John says.

"Atlantis. What are some of the first images that come to mind when you remember the infection?"

John scratches the back of his neck. Dr Stepniak doesn’t blink, doesn’t change expression. She’s barely moved since John sat down. She takes notes on a yellow legal pad, nods and says, "go on" when appropriate. She tells him she’s there to evaluate, not to counsel. He tells her it makes little difference to him.

"Hazmat suits," John says. "They’re yellow. Hard to forget." He remembers the shutdown. They were in the conference room: himself, Elizabeth, Rodney, Teyla, Ford and Beckett. The doors closed, the alarms sounded and the reports came in so quickly they couldn’t distinguish the voices in their ears from those in the conference room.

"A beacon, " Dr Stepniak says. "A signpost, if you will. The hazmat suits are the stand-out memory that triggers your recall. Go on."

"Atlantis knew more than we did," he says. "We knew that quarantined rooms meant one or more of the people inside had been infected. We didn’t know who. Zelenka was in the control room and had access to the main systems he gave us readings on all life signs in the city starting with ours."

"What did he tell you?"

"Teyla, Ford and Beckett were all infected." Zelenka read the life signs on the entire population of Atlantis. Elizabeth kept a tally. The count was eventually forty-one. "Atlantis allows non-infected personnel to move freely about the city during a shut-down so Rodney and I were sent for hazmat suits."

Atlantis seemed to know what to do in a crisis. Even if it couldn’t predict the magnitude of an attack or prevent its consequences, the city was very good at damage control. Atlantis allowed them to take the infected personnel to the infirmary so that Beckett could examine them. The weird part was that no one seemed sick. No one behaved out of the ordinary or exhibited physical symptoms. For a while it had been easy to believe that for once in the short history of association, Atlantis had got it wrong.

But then there was an outbreak of flu two months ago that Beckett found puzzling, and there were elevated white blood cell counts in the infected personnel. And by the next day the sleeping had started.

"Tell me about the Wraith," Dr Stepniak says.

John finds it strange talking about the Wraith to people a whole galaxy away, like reality is about space and time as much as it is about experience. Then again, he's crossed galaxies in a footstep. If distance is dependent upon time then the Wraith are their next-door neighbours.

"Very unfriendly," John says. "A little like vampires without the pop-culture cred."

"Do you dream about them?" Dr Stepniak says.

"No." John answers honestly. Dr Stepniak makes a note in her file.

"Tell me, Major," she says without looking up. "When you close your eyes, before you go to sleep at night, what do you see?"

The power of suggestion makes John close his eyes. He remembers Atlantis, feels the floor beneath him, pushing against his inertia, raising him up. He sees the ocean, stretching out before him in all directions. He sees the mainland of the Atlantean homeworld, the way it fills the horizon as the puddle jumper nears. He sees the Athosian children running toward him.

He sees the children sleeping. In the early days of the infection the Atlanteans drifted in and out of sleep, waking long enough to be scared and anxious. When Teyla woke she asked them to contact the Athosians on the mainland. She told them that if she was to die she wanted to be amongst her people. They took her to the mainland and found the sickness had spread amongst the Athosians. Tactile people that they were, the virus had left very few uninfected. Elizabeth offered to find them a sanctuary, a planet where they could hide from the coming menace, but the Athosians were tired of moving.

John opens his eyes. "I try to remember faces," John says. "The ones we brought back, the ones we didn't." Everyone who died under his command.

Dr Stepniak looks up from her notes, studies John curiously. "That's a lot to remember," she says.

"Sixty-two," John says.

"Do you sleep at all?"

John looks at the wall behind Dr Stepniak. There's a picture of a small house in a field, impressionist style. He wonders if it's supposed to be cheerful. "I sleep okay," he says.

Dr Stepniak looks at him like she doesn't believe him. "Do you take anything, Major?" Dr Stepniak asks.

"Like what?"

"Pills - to help you sleep."

"No."

"Do you drink?"

"No."

"Do you work out? Lift weights? Jog?"

Twice a day. Three sometimes. "I’m military," he says. "It’s required."

Dr Stepniak nods, makes another note in her file. When she looks up again she checks her watch. "Okay, that's enough for today."

"For today?"

"I'll see you again next week." She smiles at him. He doesn't smile back. When he leaves he passes Bates in the hall. They exchange awkward greetings and go their separate ways.

*

John and Elizabeth arrive at the briefing room to find Rodney already seated and staring expectantly at the door. He holds a pen between two fingers, tapping it against the table. His laptop is open in front of him.

"You’re here early," Elizabeth says to Rodney.

"The anticipation was killing me," Rodney says.

John takes a seat next to Rodney. Elizabeth sits on the opposite side, crosses her arms.

Colonel Carter arrives followed by Doctor Knight and two civilians. Dr Knight is the current head of the Stargate medical team. He gave the Atlantis survivors their physicals when they returned and supervised their quarantine. John has never met the civilians.

Carter handles introductions. "Dr McKay, Dr Weir, Major Sheppard, Dr Leahy and Dr Bowman are virologists. We're sending them to the research facility at the alpha site to study the Wraith virus. You've all met Dr Knight, of course."

They shake hands, saying, "Doctor" and "Major" appropriately. Leahy and Bowman are both women, aged approximately 50 and 40 respectively. Bowman is clearly new. She’s wearing a bright orange sweater and red corduroy pants. John would have remembered seeing her. It's unusual for SGC personnel to be loud in their dress sense.

Carter and the doctors take seats at the top of the table, Leahy and Bowman on the same side as Elizabeth and Carter at the head. Rodney is still moving the pen between two fingers only now he's tapping air rather than the table.

"I know you've discussed the subject at length," Carter says. "But Drs Leahy and Bowman would like to ask you about the Wraith virus."

"We apologise in advance if this feels repetitive," Dr Bowman says earnestly. "But your observations are important to our research. The smallest details, the tiniest events could be key to understanding the virus."

"Of course," Elizabeth says. "We want to help in whatever way we can." She looks at Rodney and John to make sure she's speaking for them. John nods. Rodney doesn't look up from his laptop.

"We've noted common behavioural characteristics between the virus and Flaviviridae virus," Dr Leahy says. "Although the end result is reminiscent of encephalitis lethargica and fits the immunity reaction theories behind that disease. However, we’ve used Flaviviridae as a comparison model because of the Wraith virus’s ability to remain undetected in the spinal column after the initial onset of symptoms, and because we've detected compromised hepatocytes and B lymphocytes which is characteristic of HCV. Of course, the damage done by the Wraith virus is more considerable than HCV, but at least we know what it is we’re dealing with."

"Undetected?" Elizabeth says, "Does that mean myself or any of the non-affected Atlantis crew could still develop symptoms?"

"Unlikely," Dr Bowman says. "Dr Beckett’s notes are very detailed. None of the non-affected personnel exhibited the initial flu-like symptoms."

"Also," Dr Leahy says. "HCV doesn't remain undetected for a definitive duration. One person might develop full-blown symptoms in a month, another might never develop symptoms. We're attributing the sudden and widespread onset of full-blown symptoms to the bio-engineering of the virus. Something we won't even begin to understand until we’ve studied the pathogen’s growth. But my guess is that it’s designed to react to something in the atmosphere of the Atlantis home planet. A seasonal change perhaps?"

John looks at Elizabeth. "It was getting warm...," he says.

"Atlantis is situated 31 degrees North of the equator which would place it in a seasonal zone," Elizabeth says. She looks at Rodney like she’s expecting him to contribute. Rodney's stares at his monitor. "There were three meteorologists on the team. I'm sure their research could tell you more."

"We'll look into it," Dr Bowman says. "Although the reaction to climate would be consistent with the end result. The Wraith engineered the virus to induce a state of coma in the victim. A certain climate was probably required to maintain a regulated body temperature."

"The infection rate was only 40%," Carter says. "Surely they were hoping for a higher number?"

"The infection rate was 60% in the Athosian community," Dr Bowman says. "Atlantis may have had built-in sterile surfaces."

"Nothing in the Ancients’ database indicates the Wraith have used bio-weaponry before," Elizabeth says. "It’s possible they were experimenting."

"I'm curious about Atlantis's bio-metric scanners," Dr Knight says. "We know Atlantis had some ability to detect genetic signatures because the technology is designed to respond to the Ancient gene. However, the biohazard programming is selective. You walked through the gate with a range of foreign viruses and bacteria and the city still managed to function. Perhaps it only detected elevated body temperature or, if it were more sophisticated, white blood cell count?"

Elizabeth nods. "Possibly. The quarantine suggested protection against further infection rather than an early warning system. It reacted to the flu outbreak but it couldn’t distinguish between us and the Wraith we captured." She looks at Rodney again. "Rodney?"

Rodney looks up from his computer screen. "When the systems weren't offline they were damaged by the storm," he says. "It's remarkable they detected a virus at all."

There's a pause while they wait for Rodney to elaborate. When he doesn't, Elizabeth clears her throat. "Most of the time Atlantis could be depended upon," she says. "But Rodney is correct, it was difficult to know whether the city was operating at full capacity at any given time."

Dr Bowman glances at her files. "I have a few more questions, and forgive me if this sounds overly intrusive, but we need to know how the virus was transmitted. The infection rate was high. Taking into account your close living quarters and the lack of variation in your environment it compares roughly to the Spanish flu. In a reasonably healthy environment with modern standards of hygiene we would expect infection to be most likely transmitted by close contact. Those unaffected were perhaps less -" She pauses a moment, looks over the top of her pointed, black rimmed spectacles. "- Intimate?"

Elizabeth looks uncomfortable. She shifts her position slightly. "You're saying, we were unaffected because we neglected to form close relationships?" John notices Rodney's head is up now, taking in the exchange with wide-eyed interest.

"In isolated areas the influenza virus had an infection rate of 50%," Dr Leahy says. "Coughing and sneezing allows the virus to be airborne so someone working in close proximity to another during the initial stages could easily be infected. Dr Beckett reported a low incidence of coughing as part of the initial flu symptoms, which leads us to believe the most effective method of transmission was from close contact situations as it is with the Flaviviridae virus - sharing quarters, utensils, bathrooms and so forth."

Elizabeth looks at John first, and then looks at Rodney. Rodney looks at John with what looks like disbelief.

"It wasn’t appropriate," John says. "As military commander..."

"Or as leader of the expedition," Elizabeth says, nodding.

"I'm just unlucky, I guess," Rodney says.

"We can't speak for everyone else," Elizabeth says quickly. "I recommend you speak to them personally. And separately." She emphasises "separately."

"Of course," Dr Leahy says.

"Drs Leahy and Bowman will leave for the research facility on the Alpha site in three days," Colonel Carter says. "That doesn't give us much time."

"I'll contact everyone as soon as possible," Elizabeth says. "I'm sure they'll want to help."

Colonel Carter closes the file in front of her. "We'll schedule another meeting before the doctors embark. For now, I think we all have work we should be doing."

"Wait," Rodney says. Everyone stops. They look at Rodney like they’d forgotten he was there. "A Tok'ra symbiote would cure the virus, right? I mean, there's virtually nothing those lizards can't cure."

Carter frowns. "What are you suggesting? That we implant your team mates without their consent?"

"No, no, no - not at all," Rodney waves a hand dismissively. "What if we could wake them up, just for a moment? Experimental treatment of chronic Encephalitis Lethargica sufferers have resulted in temporary consciousness. Surely, finding a similar treatment would be a matter of months rather than years."

Dr Bowman looks thoughtful. "It could take us years to develop a cure for the virus, if we find one at all. If we found our own version of levedopa, waking them up, even if temporary, could only benefit our research."

Colonel Carter shakes her head. "Even if we could, the Tok'ra aren't the allies they once were - especially with the death of..." She swallows. "Let's just say they aren't as easy to find as they used to be." Colonel Carter stands, gathers up her files and promises to assist Elizabeth in arranging interviews for the doctors with the Atlantis crew. The doctors file out of the room together, leaving John and Rodney sitting at the table.

John looks at Rodney. Rodney looks at his monitor, deep in thought.

"The Tok'ra?" John says.

Rodney looks up. "You have a better idea?"

"It depends," John says. "The Tok’ra are on our side, right?" Ford mentioned the Tok’ra. So did Elizabeth. John found little reason to retain information on the conflicts of the Milky Way. He had his own conflicts to deal with.

"The Tok’ra have their own agenda," Rodney says. "But if I were being held at zat-point I’d prefer a Tok’ra on the other end, rather than a Goa’uld."

"Will they help us?"

Rodney shakes his head. "Colonel Carter is right. They’re not allies anymore – and it’s not like they wanted to be in the first place. Our technology is primitive and our politics frustrate them. Anyway, they operate covertly so we couldn’t find them, even if we looked."

John shrugs. "It’s the best plan I’ve heard so far."

"In that case, the situation is hopeless," Rodney says. He closes his laptop, stands, and leaves John alone in the conference room.

John can’t remember ever being the last to leave a meeting.

*

When the cafeteria serves meatloaf for the fourth time since they returned, John decides it’s time to seek alternative accommodation. He arrives on Rodney's doorstep with two bags and his still unfinished copy of War and Peace. "I'm moving in," he tells Rodney.

Rodney looks down at the bags. "Excellent," he says. "I always hoped we'd be roomies. Now we can braid each other's hair, swap clothes and share pictures of the Backstreet Boys."

"No deal," John says. "My pictures of AJ are mine."

"I don't have anywhere for you to sleep," Rodney says.

"You have a couch."

"You want to sleep on my couch?"

John hands Rodney one of his bags. Rodney takes it reluctantly. "I just want to get off the base," John says. "It'll be temporary, I promise."

Rodney remains standing in the doorway, gripping the door jamb, like he’s considering whether to slam it in John's face. "Alright, fine," he says. "But if you snore, or drink out of the carton, or use my toothbrush, or bother my cat, you're out. No second chances."

Inside the laundry is still on the couch. The cat has resumed her position on the single-seater and the drapes are still drawn. There's no music, no television and Rodney's laptop is shut. John wonders what Rodney's been doing with his time.

Rodney clears the laundry form the couch, takes it into his bedroom. The couch is long and narrow. Doubtlessly uncomfortable. The bed at the base was fine, lumpy in parts and the pillows were like cement blocks. John doesn't care much for comfort. It seems everywhere he sleeps is temporary.

"You can use the closet in the study," Rodney says. "Just don't disturb me when I'm working."

"What are you working on?" John sits on the couch, feels something hard underneath him and reaches under the cushion. He extracts a shoe and shows it to Rodney. Rodney snatches it from him, throws it at the open door to the bedroom. It misses and bounces off the door-frame.

"Nothing you'd understand," Rodney says.

John doesn’t press the issue. "So," he says. "I could go shopping?"

"For what?"

"Food," John says. He nods at the pizza boxes. "Ordinarily I’d applaud your taste but I was hoping for at least four other food groups in my meals."

"Do you really need a place to stay or are you just here to criticise my living habits?" Rodney checks the cushions of the couch for more foreign objects. He shoos John to one corner and then the other so he can check the entire couch. He finds a paperback and comb. "You should let me know so I can take appropriate measures, like having you arrested for trespassing."

"Jesus, Rodney, I'm offering to cook dinner. In my book that's like offering a foot massage and a cigar." John stands, takes his wallet out of the pocket of his jacket. "Say, 'yes, John that would be swell' and we'll both get a decent meal tonight."

Rodney stops, still holding the comb and the paperback. Rodney's thumb obscures the title but it looks like it says, Vampire Lesbians Ride Again. "You can cook?" He says.

"Barely," John says. "I know a recipe or two."

"Always the hero," Rodney says. "’Yes, John, that would be swell.’"

John cooks roast beef. His mother taught him how to roast beef, chicken and a turkey. He liked it because it was mostly a matter of sticking something in the oven and waiting. He gave up on chicken and turkey because stuffing required an expertise he never bothered to learn. In truth, he is used to being fed. He spent so much time either on bases or on tours of duty that he’s not cooked for himself for years.

No one on Atlantis expected him to cook. They expected him to save their collective asses.

While they eat, Rodney lists all the things he can cook: tuna casserole, spaghetti bolognaise, apricot chicken and stir-fry tofu.

John blinks. "Tofu?"

"I was trying to impress my vegetarian girlfriend."

"Did it work?"

"Hard to tell. She said it was sensational but then she broke up with me, so it's possible she didn't want to hurt my feelings anymore than she had to." Rodney smiles, ruefully.

"Tofu," John says, frowning. "Always tasted like cardboard to me."

"The trick is in the marinade," Rodney says. He pauses, fork suspended in mid-air. "I can't believe I remembered that."

"Must have been some tofu," John says.

"It wasn't the first time I was dumped over dinner," Rodney says. "It probably won't be the last. At least, I hope it's not the last. Being dumped over dinner is infinitely more bearable than never dating again."

John stirs peas around his plate, contemplating his own dating experience. John's romantic life is chequered. Possibly more chequered than Rodney's. He moved around so much, never stayed long enough to put down roots.

"So the whole time on Atlantis you never…?" John says. He makes a vague gesture with his hands, hoping Rodney will understand.

"Had sex?" Rodney says. "Obviously not. Apparently, you, me and Elizabeth were the cold fish of the Pegasus Galaxy. Oh, except for your little tryst with an Ancient. Not all of us were lucky enough to date bonafide goddesses."

"You had admirers," John says.

"Yes," Rodney says. "A loyal, if not vocal throng."

"Teyla said the Athosian women were always pleased to see you."

"Really? She never told me that."

"Some of the men too,"

"I never noticed." Rodney looks skeptical. "What did they say about me?"

"You made them laugh. They thought you were funny."

Rodney rolls his eyes. "Did they know I wasn’t trying to be funny?"

"Yeah, I think they did."

Rodney carefully slices a potato. He’s eating slowly - slower than Rodney usually eats, like he’s got something on his mind. He looks up and sees John watching him. "This is nice," he says, smiling. "Really nice. Thank you."

"Don’t mention it," John says. "You can wash up."

"I have a dishwasher," Rodney says.

"In that case you can cook dinner tomorrow night."

"Huh." Rodney glances at the kitchen. "Tuna casserole work for you?"

"Works just fine," John says.

Rodney absently pushes food around his plate. "Why did you never – you know – hook up with anyone on Atlantis?" Rodney says. "You were like the poster-boy for Atlantis’s ten hottest people. Some of the women in the science team created an ‘undress the major’ computer game."

"Seriously?" John is impressed. No one’s ever made him into a game before. "You saw it?"

The tips of Rodney’s ears turn pink. He looks down at his food. "It wasn’t like they actually had a picture of you," he says.

"Was it at least convincing?"

"How should I know?" Rodney becomes deliberately absorbed in his food, finishes off the last of his broccoli and takes the empty plates into the kitchen. "If it makes you feel any better, I wouldn’t have been disappointed."

"My standards are high," John says.

Rodney sits down again. He leans back in his chair, rocks on the hind legs. "You didn’t answer my question," he says, carefully.

John doesn’t have an answer for Rodney. It seemed proper to isolate himself on Atlantis, and Chaya was too unreal to affect him. He can almost believe he imagined her. He shrugs it off. "I was kind of busy trying to keep us alive..."

"Sure," Rodney says, nodding. "We had responsibilities."

"And it would have been inappropriate to hook up with anyone under my command."

"Which left the civilians."

"Or the Athosians," John says. "Teyla always wanted us to intermingle."

"Teyla liked you," Rodney says.

"Teyla liked you," John says.

"Oh, let’s face it," Rodney says. "Teyla liked everyone."

"She was consistent," John says, nodding. Teyla was fair. John liked that about her. She was reliable and dependable and John needed that on Atlantis. He needed her stability.

"Do you think…" John looks up and meets Rodney’s eyes. John knows what Rodney is trying to say: did Teyla make it? If they went back, would any of the Athosians be alive to greet them?

If they went back. If that were possible.

"I guess we’ll never know," John says.

John doesn't dream the way he used to. Dr Heightmeyer told him it's not the dreams that have disappeared but his ability to recall them. She said dreams with emotional content are easier to remember, stored in different parts of the brain that do not rely on visual encoding in order to be recalled. As he becomes older his emotions are organised and compartmentalized and do not readily become dreams.

John dreams of images, nonsensical flashes of people and places. Dr Heightmeyer said the memory constructs stories out of images, makes sense of the senseless. John wonders if this is what Freud found so fascinating, the capacity of the mind to construct reality out of the ether.

For John, the dreams are always about flying. Sometimes when he feels wind currents lifting him, or inertia restraining him, he sees flashes of his dreams, a feeling of dread as the floor slips away from under him, or the craft spinning out of control, unresponsive to his command.

In the dead of night he awakens from a dream. He remembers walking into a corridor, seemingly endless. The floor is marked with coloured lines as it is in Stargate Command. Along the walls he sees shapes, suspended in the air, stacked one on top of the other in rows. When he gets closer he sees they are bodies, lines and lines of bodies. Their eyes are open and they're staring into space.

Rodney is still dressed in the clothes he wore that day. "Yes?" he says. Rodney looks John up and down, like he’s surprised to see John in night-wear.

"What are you doing?"

"Working."

"It's three o'clock in the morning." John leans into the room, sees Rodney's computer monitor. The game Rodney is playing is paused. "You're playing Tomb Raider?"

"I was taking a break," Rodney says.

"I never understood the appeal of this game," John bends down to take a closer look at the monitor. "Beyond Lara Croft's physical attributes, of course."

"I'll write you a cheat and you can finish it in an hour," Rodney says flatly.

"Is that what you do with these things?" John says. "Write cheats?"

"Of course," Rodney says. "I'm a science nerd therefore I spend my spare time coming up with ways to circumvent computer game programming so I can see Lara Croft's comically oversized breasts."

"You're the one playing Tomb Raider at three in the morning," John says. Rodney presses his lips together in a thin line. John instantly regrets his insensitivity. Rodney is more inclined to find new proofs for Fermat’s Theorem than play computer games in the dead of night. Something is clearly troubling him. "After spending eight months on the same team you should know I don't think of you as a science nerd," John says.

"I find it relaxing," Rodney says. He leans across John and switches the computer off. "And as you know, there is little that relaxes me. This game, therefore, is an invaluable contribution to my thinking process."

John holds up his hands. "I know," he says. He goes back to the couch. "I assume you won't be getting an early start tomorrow?"

John re-arranges the cushions on the couch, makes himself comfortable again. He stares at the ceiling, head resting on his interlaced fingers.

He thinks he should have told Rodney about the dream.

*

Between the hours of sleeping and waking, John has an entirely different dream. He wakes up with a hard-on. Vague images of naked and sweating bodies slip away as he becomes conscious, until there's nothing left of the dream but arousal.

He needs to jerk off. The privacy afforded him in his quarters at the SGC was something he forgot to consider when he made the decision to leave. He opts for the privacy of a shower, takes the towel Rodney left him and heads for the bathroom.

He hears a crashing sound coming from Rodney's bedroom and the door is thrown open. "Wait!" Rodney says.

John doesn't turn around. His erection makes a tent out of his boxers. He puts the towel over his arms and holds it in front of his midriff. "What is it, Rodney?" he says impatiently.

"I'm sorry, " Rodney says. "I really need to use the bathroom."

John turns around. Rodney's face is flushed. He gives John a pleading look. "Okay," John says. "I'll wait."

"God bless you, Sir," Rodney says, and then his eyes fall to the towel covering John's erection. The recognition is instantaneous. "Oh. I'll be - um - very quick, I promise."

Rodney disappears into the bathroom, closes the door behind him. John is surprised to find his cheeks are hot. He raises his eyes to the ceiling, feels all of fourteen again.

Rodney keeps his promise and is out again, quickly. "All yours," he tells John. " Feel free to - ah - use my shampoo."

John glares at Rodney before closing the bathroom door. John’s erection has already diminished, discouraged by its unceremonious revelation. He turns the water on, undresses.

The hot water recalls the dream. The images are vague, but the feeling is clear. He closes his eyes, and lifts his face to the jets. He thinks about the Lieutenant he saw in the elevator at the SGC, dark haired, bright blue eyes and a red, red mouth. He tries to imagine her pushing him against the wall of the elevator, falling to her knees and unzipping his pants.

He takes his dick in his hand, moves it in and out of his fist, concentrating on the image of himself in the elevator, the dark haired lieutenant's mouth around his cock. He leans out of the shower jets so the water lands on his back, allowing him to work up a lubricant on his dick.

He is reminded of Rodney in the next room and his thoughts take a detour. John imagines Rodney in the bathroom with him, watching John lazily jerk off. It’s not the first time he’s thought of Rodney this way, and he’s a little uncomfortable with it. Unfortunately, it’s a far more effective masturbatory fantasy than the thought of the lieutenant in the elevator and he can’t seem to stop himself.

He imagines Rodney's eyes focused on John's erection, mouth partly open, mesmerised by the movement of John’s hand.

Rodney compels and attracts John in ways John doesn’t understand. Rodney is an oddity: peculiar looking, wickedly funny and dangerously intelligent. Rodney intrigues John in a way the pretty lieutenant in the elevator never will.

The Rodney in John’s fantasy reaches into his own pants, moves his hand, his eyes still on John. He says, "Oh yeah… just like that..." and it’s like every porn movie John’s ever seen. The thought takes John over the edge and he comes in his hand.

"That was fast," Rodney says, when John steps out of bathroom. John can hear the smirk in Rodney’s voice.

"Shut up," John says, scowling at Rodney. He gets dressed quickly, heads back to the SGC as soon as he can. He avoids making eye contact with Rodney on the way out.

It’s late afternoon and the cafeteria is mostly empty. Elizabeth is drinking tea. John is eating strawberry shortcake. He pokes at it with his fork, not sure why he made the choice. It looked inviting with the bright lights of the display cabinet behind it. Now it looks dull and rubbery. He gives up in favour of orange juice.

"I’m taking a post at the Alpha Site," Elizabeth says.

John puts his glass down on the table. "When?"

"As soon as possible, I hope." Elizabeth holds her teacup in both hands, rests her elbows on the table.

"For how long?"

"Indefinitely."

John doesn’t know what to say. "Oh," he says.

"I can’t change things from here," Elizabeth says. "Myself and some of the other members of the expedition will be working on integrating the Ancients’ technology into our systems, see it we can make it useful. I’ll also be assisting the research facility in any way I can."

It’s not really a surprise. They will all be expected to take posts eventually. John included. Still, John can’t help feeling the last remnants of Atlantis are falling away.

"What about Simon?" he says.

"Simon and I…" She meets John’s eyes and John understands. It must be tough waiting for the woman you love to finish saving the world – whichever world - and come home.

"I’m taking Radek," she says.

"I thought he had a family?"

"He’s married – or he was. It seems Simon’s not the only who doesn’t appreciate his spouse leaving indefinitely for secret locations. I guess it’s not the best way to sustain a relationship." She shrugs, drinks her tea and looks across the room. Her nonchalance is an act. John knows it’s difficult to wind up alone after all they’ve been through.

"Are you taking anyone else?"

"I’ve not asked anyone else," Elizabeth says. "I’m asking you now."

John thinks for a moment. "Have you mentioned this to Rodney?" he says.

"No." Elizabeth looks guilty. "Rodney hasn’t been easy to talk to lately. I was hoping you would talk to him."

John nods. "You need him."

"I need you both, John. Your experience is as unique as your genes."

John finds the thought of running away again appealing. He’s never been to the Alpha site, never been anywhere off world in this galaxy. He’s taken long looks at Earth’s Stargate whenever he’s been allowed and he’s reminded that, as many times as he’s been through a stargate, he’s only ever been through this one once.

"We accomplished so much," Elizabeth says. She puts her teacup down on the table and laces her fingers together, rests her chin against her hands. "We spent eight months in another galaxy. When our mission becomes public knowledge, and that day may not be far off, our names will be some of the most widely known on the planet."

"It’s not enough?" John says.

"It should be." Elizabeth frowns. "Shouldn’t it?"

John pushes his strawberry shortcake to the side of the table. He finishes his juice, checks the clock on the far wall. It’s almost night.

"Is that what Simon told you?" John says.

"Simon wants a family."

"Shit," John says. It occurs to him that Elizabeth is running away too.

Elizabeth nods. "As you can imagine, family will not be an option for me much longer."

"Tough call," John says.

"No it isn’t," Elizabeth says, shaking her head. "I have a family. And they need me." She sounds unsure. She had that same tone in her voice when she gave the order to abandon Atlantis.

John looks at the clock again. "If we stay here a little longer they’ll serve us dinner," he says.

"I’m sure there’s something else you could be doing?"

"I’ll talk to Rodney," John says.

Elizabeth smiles, gratefully. "Thank you, John," she says. "For everything."

"Right back at you," he says.

*

John walks Elizabeth to her quarters. They meet Colonel Carter in the hallway outside Elizabeth’s room.

"I was hoping to find you here," Carter says. "I’m experimenting with some of the conductors you brought back from Atlantis. I could use your genes, Major."

"Is the General not available?" John says. John knows Carter would have asked the General first. She trusts him. Not unlike the way Elizabeth trusts John.

"I don’t like to disturb him during the Simpsons." Carter smiles apologetically.

"Just point and tell me what to do," John says.

They leave Elizabeth at her quarters, and walk back to the elevator. Carter hits the call button, presses her palms together and clasps her hands, like there’s something she needs to say and is working on how to say it. Eventually, she says, "I lied about the conductors, Major. I have an ulterior motive for dragging you away from Dr Weir." She swallows, nervously. "It’s about Dr McKay."

A part of him expected this. "I take it he’s not being his usual charming self."

The elevator arrives. Two former Atlanteans residing on base get out – Vretham and Knowles. Vretham is a zoologist and Knowles is a marine. He never saw them together on Atlantis. Knowles salutes and Vretham asks after Dr McKay. John wonders why he’s suddenly the foremost authority on all things Rodney. He tells them Rodney misses having subordinates to find fault with and Vretham smiles.

"I think he’s avoiding me," Carter says, after they’ve gone. The elevator doors closes and Carter presses "21".

"He’s avoiding the entire base," John says. "I had to use emotional blackmail to get him to the meeting yesterday."

"I asked him if he could visit the lab and explain the insulation system on the micro-conductors," Carter says. "He told me it was all in his report. I know I haven’t seem him in a while but the Dr McKay I knew would never pass up the opportunity to explain new technology to me. In fact, it would have given him a perverse thrill."

Carter is right. Rodney is a show off, a scientific performance artist. "He’s fine," John says. He’s not sure he believes it himself. "A little pissed at how things turned out, but then we all are."

"Of course," Carter says. "I just wanted to let him know – well, he can talk to me if he needs to."

"I’ll pass it on," John says.

The elevator doors open on 21. Carter gets out. "Tell him I could still use help with the conductors," she says. "Tell him - tell him I don’t know where to start." She raises her hands, palm up, and pretends to look baffled. Pandering to Rodney’s ego is a cheap shot.

John thinks he should try it anyway.

*

Rodney is out when John returns to the apartment. John gets a half hour to himself before Rodney arrives home again, bearing catfood.

"She’s very demanding," Rodney says, nodding at the cat. "I’ve tried negotiating feeding times with her but she’s not having a bar of it. She actually clawed me." Rodney holds up his arm to show John. There’s a scratch an inch long on his wrist.

The cat follows Rodney into the kitchen, rubs herself against Rodney’s leg. Clearly all is forgiven.

"I saw Colonel Carter today," John says. "She needs help with some conductor thing we brought back from Atlantis. She says, ‘she can’t work it out’."

Rodney fixes the cat’s dinner on the sink: canned food and dried fish. He puts the bowl on the floor. "Radek is on base," Rodney says. "Why doesn’t she ask him? He’s the one that packed those conductors in the first place. I thought they were superfluous."

"Colonel Carter wanted to speak to you personally," John says. He emphasises ‘personally.’

"Really?" Rodney says. "Do you think she’s finally acknowledged my intellectual superiority and now wishes to throw herself at my feet and worship my brilliance like Phaedo to my Socrates?"

John can’t imagine Colonel Carter throwing herself at anyone’s feet, let alone Rodney’s. John holds up his hands. "I’m just the messenger."

"Oh please, Major." Rodney fills a third bowl with water and puts it on the floor next to the cat food. "You either think I’m pathetically desperate or incurably vain. I don’t know which is more insulting. Either way, that ruse is beneath you."

"She was just concerned about you Rodney." John rubs his chin, feels embarrassed. "She thinks you’re ignoring her."

"I’m not ignoring her!" Rodney throws his hands up in the air. "I just want some time away. Is that so difficult to understand?"

John looks at the floor. The cat has finished eating and has moved to the back door, waiting to be let outside. John understands the need to hide. He hid in Antartica before he hid in Atlantis. ‘No, it’s not," he says.

"Good," Rodney says. He opens the door for the cat. "I’m glad we understand each other."

John detects a note of disappointment in Rodney’s tone. He suspects the intervention ended all too quickly.

*

This time John does not wake from a dream. He feels a presence, like there's someone in the room, watching him. He opens his eyes and sees the dark outline of Rodney standing by the couch. He’s so still, for a moment John wonders if Rodney is sleeping standing up. He’s wearing a t-shirt and boxers with a pattern on them that John can’t make out in the dark.

"Rodney?" John says.

"You’re going to think I'm crazy, " Rodney says.

John sits upright. "And I usually think you’re so well adjusted," John says. He grabs the pillow behind him and wedges it between the armrest and his back. "What's going on?"

"I can't remember," Rodney says.

"You can't remember what?"

"Anything!" Rodney throws up his hands. "Particle physics, quantum probability, nuclear fission, Heisenberg’s uncertainty experiment, calculus, Newton's Princepia for god's sake! For the last five days, I’ve been trying to read my doctoral thesis on gravitational fields and black hole theory and I can't get past the opening paragraph!" Rodney grasps John's shoulders. "Don't you understand? It's all gone."

John looks down at Rodney's hands and raises an eyebrow at Rodney. Rodney lets his hands fall to his sides.

"You know what year it is, right?" John says calmly. "Your address? The name of your sister?"

"2005, 26 Marigold Place and Jeannie. Yes, yes, all ordinary cognitive processes are functioning normally, thank you, Dr Sheppard."

"But you can't remember mathematics and physics problems."

"Yes!" Rodney sinks into the sofa opposite the couch. "I have long term memory. I can remember lines from the Deer Hunter. I was trying to read my thesis and I kept thinking, 'a deer's gotta be taken with one shot...'"

John lets his breath out in a puff. "You know how ridiculous this sounds, right?"

"Didn't I say that already?"

John is familiar with post-combat psychological conditions. They were taught to look for symptoms of shellshock and post-traumatic stress in officer training. Rodney's complaint doesn’t fit the mould but it comes close. "I take it you didn't tell Dr Stepniak?"

"Of course not," Rodney says.

John nods. He wouldn't have told Dr Stepniak either. Memory loss would be a sure fire trip to the infirmary, if not an institution. Rodney certainly wouldn't be cleared for any future expeditions to lost cities or Ancients’ outposts. Rodney might even have his SGC privileges revoked.

"When did you first notice this - condition?" John asks.

"The first day back, maybe the second. We were in quarantine and Radek was talking about decoding the compression algorithm we used to store information from the Ancients’ database. I didn’t understand him." He pauses. "I had it all on my laptop and I didn't understand any of it."

"But you had countless debriefings when we got home. No one asked you to explain Ancient technology or elaborate on your reports?"

"Colonel Carter read the reports. She didn’t seem to need explanations. But if she did – well, Radek was there along with Naveed and Burton. I guess with all that happened to us, no one questioned that I wasn't my usual animated self."

John questioned. So did Elizabeth and Colonel Carter. In hindsight, John thinks he should have paid more attention. Rodney is important, possibly more important than any of them. When the city was in trouble it was always Rodney pulling the impossible out of thin air.

John swings his legs over the side of the couch, gets to his feet. "You want coffee?" he says, to Rodney.

"Coffee?" Rodney looks at John like he's suggested they swap underwear.

"I figure we're not going back to sleep anytime soon," John says.

Rodney nods. "Coffee," he says.

John makes coffee and they drink while they take inventory. They run through everything Rodney remembers about Atlantis, everything Rodney remembers about his family, everything Rodney remembers about music, university, college, his high school teachers, the first car he bought, his apartment in DC, the restaurant in Toronto where he ordered garlic shrimp and was sick for two days afterward, the first time he saw the stargate and pretended he wasn’t impressed.

Rodney recounts in detail the Air Force’s security checks and briefings but he is unable to explain the construction of the model wormhole he devised for them.

"I’m going to go out on a limb here and suggest your problem is psychological rather than physiological," John says.

"Another proud moment for Psychology 101," Rodney says. "Next you’ll be telling me my problem stems from the lack of a father figure in my childhood and a dissatisfaction with the size of my genitalia."

"The thought crossed my mind," John says. "But I think you’re more complicated than that."

"Thank you." Rodney frowns. "I think."

"You’re arrogant, self-centered, fussy and you talk too much," John says. "But you’re far from simple." John picks up the empty coffee mugs and takes them into the kitchen. Through the kitchen window he can see the night sky turning a deep blue. It’s almost morning.

"Fussy," Rodney says, following John into the kitchen. "I’m having a crisis and you’re insulting me. Should I remind you about the part where I’m losing my mind?" Rodney opens the fridge door, stands in front for moment before taking out the milk. He searches the cupboards for a glass, finds one and holds it out towards John. "You want some?"

"I’m good," John says.

Rodney pours himself a glass of milk, he drinks, turns around to face John, leaning back against the counter. He gestures at John with his milk. "You’re enjoying this."

"You’re also kind of sensitive," John says. He stands against the sink, facing Rodney. "Does anyone else know?"

"No," Rodney says. "Radek has questioned my presence of mind on occasion, but no more than he usually does. Curiously, most of you seem to think I'm generally irrational and your attitude toward me hasn't changed. Clearly the myth of the eccentric scientist prevails."

"You have eight cartons of milk in your refrigerator," John says.

"Relax." John holds up his hands in surrender. "I'm on your side, remember? I'm the last person who wants to see you institutionalised. I’d be left looking after your cat."

Rodney sighs. He drinks the rest of the milk and places the empty glass on the counter. He rubs his forehead with the heel of his hand. "I don’t know what’s happening to me," he says, eventually.

John tries to think of something reassuring to say. "Maybe you just need time?"

"Time," Rodney says. He shakes his head. "I don’t have time. I have papers to write. Atlantis redefined the laws of physics – someone has to record that – and the information we retrieved from the Ancients’ database has to be interpreted and organized and then there’s the telemetric sensors we brought back – someone has to figure out whether they can be integrated into our systems. I can’t take time out from scientific discovery while I have a mental breakdown."

John doesn't have an answer for Rodney. He wishes he did. He wishes his Mensa intellect would prove useful on more than one occasion.

"These late nights can't be helping," John says.

Rodney waves a hand, dismissively. "I can't sleep. It's pointless trying."

"You can't sleep at all?"

"I might have slept last night. Dozed is probably more accurate. I seem to slip into a quasi-conscious state for an hour or two each night. I have these waking dreams..."

John knows what he means. "What am I going to do with you, McKay?" John says, shaking his head.

"You could make me a sandwich," Rodney says. He opens the refrigerator door. "I think we have some leftovers."

*

At the end of his tour in Afghanistan, John is flown back to DC to face an inquiry. On the flight back John sits next to his former co-pilot. Across the aisle from them is a red-headed serviceman John doesn’t recognize. An hour into the flight, John notices his co-pilot staring at the red-head service-man. Moments later the co-pilot breaks into a sweat and starts to shake. John calls for a medic just as the co-pilot starts to fit, his eyes roll backward and his head rolls from shoulder to shoulder before falling forward. The medic administers an injection of diazepam and co-pilot quiets, breathes through his nose. He makes a sighing noise as his breathing slows, like a child.

John remembers he and the co-pilot had tried to save a red-headed marine from a downed Blackhawk. It was too hot, and they had to give up before it went up in flames around them. They got out quickly, throwing themselves to the ground just as the blackhawk exploded. The body of the red haired marine landed barely three feet away from them.

The red headed serviceman doesn’t look anything like the marine. The serviceman is older, taller. The only thing they have in common is the red hair. Sometimes that’s all it takes.

Rodney suggests late night/ early morning television and John agrees because it allows him to lay on the couch with his eyes closed. Rodney flips through channel after channel of infomercials, dead eighties sitcoms and sports no one has heard of, before settling on Hogan’s Heroes.

John thinks about his room in Atlantis. He misses the calming tones of the decor, the sound of water lapping against the piers and the ever-present smell of the sea. When the sentient fog allowed him to realise his dream home it was conveniently located in Colorado Springs, but in reality he'd never thought about where he'd put down roots, just the kind of home he would have when he did. Now he wants to live by the sea.

"Bob Crane was a sex addict," Rodney says. John doesn’t know how to respond so he says nothing. Rodney is unperturbed. He goes into a short monologue about the life of Bob Crane and his predilection for putting his sexual conquests on camera. He says Bob Crane was shot by his electronics supplier. John appreciates the poetry.

John hears a click and opens his eyes. The television is off and Rodney is looking at John.

"What?" John says.

"You don't need to be here," Rodney says. "You can stay in a hotel, you can rent your own apartment. I hear the quarters at the SGC are very comfortable even if the food isn't particularly memorable - it really depends on your perspective, of course. Apparently the beds are sizeable not to mention osteopathically friendly - unlike your current sleeping apparatus. Which leads me to ask, why are you here?"

John lifts his palm to his forehead and lets it rest there for a moment, letting the heat of his hand flow into his temple. "It’s your animal magnetism," John says. I can’t stay away."

"Were you sent to spy on me?"

"What? No," John says, frowning. "And you have an over-inflated sense of your importance to the Stargate programme."

"The woman who lived in the apartment across the hallway was a spy," Rodney says. "The Air Force thought I might be inclined to treason after my exile to Siberia."

John raises his eyebrows. "How did you find out?"

"She told me," Rodney says. "Just before I was sent to Antartica, actually. Apparently I’d been cleared."

John’s motives are confused. While he feels compelled to personally gauge Rodney’s well-being, he also feels drawn to Rodney, especially since they returned. It occurs to John that the cumulative effect of his experience is that he’s more needy than he used to be.

John shifts his position on the couch, feeling uncomfortable. It’s a cool spring in Colorado, still cold enough for blankets, but John feels warm, like he has a temperature. He wonders whether it’s the air conditioning or whether it’s the corner he’s being backed into. He suspects it’s the latter.

"Rodney..." He looks at the ceiling, tries to remember a pertinent phrase about not getting off the roller coaster before the ride starts. "You remember Chaya, right?"

Rodney makes a face. "You've been possessed by an Ancient? Or did you 'ascend'?" Rodney's eyes go wide. "My god, you weren't impregnated were you?"

"Impregnated?" John sits upright. "Jesus Christ, Rodney, stop thinking for a second and remember how you felt about Chaya. Chaya and me, specifically."

"Oh," Rodney says. Then it hits him. "Oh...!" Rodney grips the armrests, like he's about to propel himself forward and run.

"It means something, right?" John says. "I mean, you and me - we're not here together so we can drink beer and watch sports."

"You..." Rodney swallows. "You're the last person in the universe - and you know I’m not resorting to hyperbole when I say that - I thought I would be having this conversation with."

John gets to his feet. He's come this far. No turning back now. "You drive me crazy," John says, his voice lowered. "I think I like it."

Rodney doesn't move. "You do?"

John kneels before Rodney, puts his hands over Rodney's on the armrests. "Is that okay?"

Rodney looks at John's hands on the armrests. "Yes, it’s okay," he says. "It’s very okay. It’s unbelievably, incredibly okay. It’s really…"

John kisses Rodney, one hand against Rodney's chin, lightly holding him in place. Rodney kisses back and it's the sweetest, nicest thing that's happened to John since he came back to Earth. With Rodney's mouth against his, he can almost forget.

John wants more. He grabs a fistful of Rodney's t-shirt, pushes it up Rodney's chest so John can explore Rodney’s skin. Fingers glide over Rodney’s stomach, his ribs, the dip of his back where it meets the curve of his ass. Another finger finds the waistband of Rodney's boxers, hooks the elastic and pulls down over Rodney’s hips. John sucks Rodney's neck, pushes aside Rodney's t-shirt so he can tongue Rodney's collar bone all the way to his shoulder.

John's in a hurry. Rodney's still tentative, one hand in John's hair and the other still gripping the armrest. John's fingers brush the tip of Rodney's penis and Rodney tenses. "Oh..." he says.

John stops. "Are you okay?"

"I'm good," Rodney says. "It's - um - been a while."

"Just like riding a bicycle," John says. He edges Rodney’s boxers pasts his hips, exposing Rodney’s erection.

"My father took my bicycle away after I crashed it into the garage," Rodney says. "I never could get the hang of a two-wheeler."

John pauses, his fingers still hooked in Rodney’s boxers. "Forget the bicycle," he says. "Just relax."

John sucks Rodney all the way in and slowly draws his mouth up the shaft again.

Rodney lets out his breath. "Ohh…," he says. "Fuck…John." He tightens his hands in John's hair, gripping so hard it hurts. John knows how to give head, has been doing it since he was fourteen. He likes the power, the feeling of being needed, desperately. He works Rodney's boxers down his legs until they lay in a puddle around his ankles and then he parts Rodney’s knees, slides his finger down the cleft of Rodney's ass and slowly edges inside.

"Fuck." Rodney breathes in sharply, edges forward on the sofa to give John a better angle. John slides another finger inside, flexes and bends them so Rodney can feel the movement. "Oh… yes." Rodney says. "Like that." John moves his fingers some more and Rodney’s body jerks. He comes in John's mouth, his fingers still gripping John’s hair.

John extracts his fingers while he licks Rodney clean. He lowers a kiss to the point where Rodney's hip meets his stomach, leans back on his heels and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

"That was amazing," Rodney says. "Really. You're good at that."

John stands, holds his palm out. "Come to bed with me," he says.

Rodney glances at the window. The drapes are still drawn but it's clearly light outside. "It's morning," Rodney says.

John grins. "No one needs us today. I want to sleep. I want you to sleep with me."

Rodney pulls his boxers up. "When you put it that way," he says. "How can I refuse?"

They undress and climb beneath the covers. John wraps himself around Rodney's back, one arm in the crook of Rodney's neck, the other against Rodney's chest.

John is hard. Harder now that his erection is pressed against Rodney’s ass. John shifts position, and his dick rubs against Rodney’s backside. Rodney shifts a little in response, increases the friction between their bodies. Blood rushes to John’s dick and he puts his hand between Rodney and himself, rubs his dick against Rodney and his palm.

"Do you want to fuck me?" Rodney says.

John's wanted to fuck Rodney since he saw him fire on a Wraith, pistol held in front of him, a look of intent in his eyes. He didn’t have a plan, clearly didn’t know how to aim a firearm, but he did it anyway. He saved John’s life. It was sexy as hell.

"Do you want me to?"

"Yes." Rodney turns around to face John. "Please."

John gets out of bed, quickly returns to the living room for his bag and comes back to the bedroom armed with lube. When he returns Rodney is lying on his back, the covers thrown off. He rests his head on one arm, his eyes drifting down John's naked body.

"You've probably been told this before," Rodney says. "But you're really amazing - I mean, you're stunning. Really hot." He looks embarrassed. "Am I gushing?"

John climbs onto the bed, kneels at Rodney's side. He squeezes lube into his palm, rubs it along his cock. "I like it when you say it," John says. His voice is low and breath-heavy, affected by the feel of his hand on his cock and the sight of Rodney watching.

John maneuvers himself so he’s between Rodney’s legs, John’s knees pushing Rodney’s thighs apart. John places a hand under Rodney’s knee, lifts it so he can better access the cleft in Rodney’s ass. John’s hands are slippery with lube and Rodney flinches as John easily slides his finger along Rodney’s perineum. He fucks Rodney with his fingers first, spreads the lube around Rodney’s ass.

John puts his palm under Rodney’s ass and lifts slightly so he can edge his cock inside. He inches in, carefully, watching Rodney’s face. Rodney grips the sheets in his fists. His breath is controlled, forcing the air out through his nose.

John is all the way in now and Rodney lets his air out in a sigh. "Go – od," he says.

"I’m not going to last," John says.

"Don’t hold back for me," Rodney says. Rodney’s hand drifts across his belly and down to his own re-awakened erection. He massages the tip between his fingers.

It’s incredibly erotic. "Keep doing that," John says. "Keep touching yourself." Rodney uses his pre-cum to grease his hand. He strokes himself, like he did in John’s fantasy, his eyes on John, his pupils fixed and dilated. John’s less gentle now. He thrusts, lets his need take over.

John shudders and comes inside Rodney. Rodney licks his lips, uses both hands on his cock until he comes too, semen falling on his stomach and chest. He says John’s name when he comes, only he doesn’t pronounce the "n" so it comes out, "Joh..."

Later, when John is wrapped around Rodney again, fading into unconsciousness, Rodney says, "I think I had a dream like this."

"Yeah?"

"Well, more like a fantasy," Rodney says. "You were wearing a toga…"

John falls asleep before he can hear the rest.

*

When John wakes, the clock beside Rodney's bed reads 12.45. The room is warm and John is stretched out on the bed without covers. Rodney is asleep beside him, wrapped in the bed covers from the waist down. Rodney is lying on his stomach, arms at his side. His mouth is open. John resolves to describe the scene in detail later for Rodney’s benefit. Rodney calls John vain but they both know whose ego is more sensitive.

John gets out of bed carefully, trying to avoid waking Rodney. He wraps a towel around his waist and goes into the bathroom. He showers and shaves, brushes his teeth and rubs wax in his hair. He only has one style. Fortunately he's learned it well.

Outside he finds Rodney, dressed in boxers, coffee cup in hand and stumbling half-awake toward the couch. "You take forever in the bathroom," he says. He pushes John's bedding to the side of the couch.

"You were asleep when I left you." John finds his jeans on the floor of Rodney's bedroom, puts them on underneath the towel, prudish-like. Rodney isn't even looking at him.

"Before you went into the bathroom? It's a wonder you remember that far back in your distant past."

In the kitchen, John sniffs the coffee. Rodney makes the kind of coffee that could strip paint. "This stuff will kill you," John says.

"I survived a nano-virus, tidal wave, terrorist attack – twice - my ship sliced in half by an event horizon and god knows how many attacks by vampire aliens and you think I'm worried about the strength of my coffee?"

John pours the coffee, waters it down. He joins Rodney in the living room, leans against the wall separating the dining area from the kitchen. "You're cranky in the morning."

"It's afternoon," Rodney says. "And I'm cranky all day."

"I’ve noticed. I thought that might be due to a lack of sex. I was wrong - obviously."

Rodney eyes lower to his coffee. "Don't get too full of yourself, Major, you're not gay sex's answer to Prozac."

"You've had some experience, I take it?"

"Did you think I was a monk before I met you?"

"A monk? No." John takes a seat on the sofa opposite Rodney. "Straight, maybe..."

"Typical military small mindedness," Rodney says. "You sort people into sexualities like you’re sorting them into allies and enemies. Or neutral. You'd be happier if everyone was wearing flags."

John does his best not to roll his eyes. "And you thought I was...?"

"I thought you were military," Rodney says. "I presumed you were straight by necessity. There's a difference. Also, Chaya was for all intents and purposes female."

"You don't get to be the only one around here who's complicated, Rodney, that's not fair." The coffee is hot. John blows across the top, creates tiny ripples on the surface. "And in case last night didn't spell it out for you, I'm interested in you. We're not going to get anywhere if you react like I'm interrogating you every time I ask a personal question."

"Fine," Rodney says. He takes a breath, exhales. "I've had four significant relationships. All disasters. The longest relationship I ever had lasted three years and that was partly because she spent two of those years in Munich. I was in love with my doctoral thesis supervisor - at least I thought I was. After my doctorate was conferred we had sex and he told me my ego made it impossible for him to like me. Do you think he was jealous? I suspected he was. He's withering away in astrophysics obscurity now so I suppose he had something to be jealous about. I swore off men and scientists after that, but I met a particle physicist at a conference in Montreal and she was... well, she convinced me that scientists were the way forward. After that, it seemed every conference I attended was a hot-bed of sexual iniquity. You'd be amazed what happens when physicists get together. Mind you, I've heard military barracks are seedier than downtown Shanghai so maybe you wouldn't be. You're not my first military man either. I've been with the Air-Force for a long time."

John raises eyebrows. "Anyone I know?"

"I don't know, do you have a club? 'Guns and queers'? Is there a mailing list?"

John runs a finger around the edge of his coffee cup. He had a long-term relationship once, even thought about marrying her. Then he went to Afghanistan. He should tell Rodney about this. Instead he says, "You weren’t with anyone on Atlantis?" John knows the answer to this. He’s just looking for clarification.

Rodney shrugs. "Maybe it was the gene therapy? Or the sea air? I didn't think about it much. Well - not as much as I used to."

"We get more selective with age," John says helpfully.

"I’ve always aimed high," Rodney says. "Colonel Carter, Dr Heightmeyer. I even harboured lustful thoughts about Elizabeth on occasion. And there was yourself, of course."

John gets up, takes his cup and Rodney’s into the kitchen, touches Rodney temple as he passes him. "Must be a weird place inside there," he says. He puts the cups in the dishwasher, next to the cups from last night. They drink a lot of coffee.

"That's what I’ve been trying to tell you," Rodney says.

John checks the clock on the microwave. Elizabeth is leaving for the Alpha site today. "We should say goodbye to Elizabeth," John says. "And Radek."

There's a long pause from the living room. John looks out the window at the cloudless sky. A beautiful day.

Eventually, Rodney says, "Okay."

Elizabeth tells them to 'visit’, like she’s moving to another town, not another planet.

She's accompanied by Radek, Grodin and Somerfield. There are others who have already left. Almost a third of the remaining Atlantis contingent is relocating to the Alpha Site. General O’Neill suggested the site would provide a halfway house for the expedition team, an intermediary point between leaving Atlantis and returning home for good.

Rodney promises to be there as soon as he can, throws John a look as he says it, like he’s expecting John to call his bluff.

"Sure," John says. "Soon as we can." He sounds too cheerful. Elizabeth raises an eyebrow at him.

They watch the event horizon until it disappears and they're left staring at the gate room wall. It's been three and a half weeks since they stepped through a stargate. It feels like an age.

"I'm going home before someone asks me to fix something," Rodney says. He says it quietly but there's no one around to hear. The gateroom technicians are already attending to other matters. Interstellar travel is not extraordinary to anyone here.

"You can't hide forever," John says. He's still looking at the gate.

"I don't need forever," Rodney says. "I’m sure the situation will right itself eventually. In the mean time I don’t want Dr Stepniak's men in white coats coming for me."

Rodney leaves John alone in the gateroom. John stares at the gate a while longer. He’d forgotten how big it was, how inspiring.

*

John stays on base for a meeting with General O'Neill. General O’Neill says he doesn't like his office, and arranges to meet John in the cafeteria. It has something to do with General O’Neill’s chair, apparently, but John wonders if it isn't the remnants of restlessness left over from years in the field. Old soldiers do not become desk-bound easily.

John encounters Dr Stepniak in the hallway outside the cafeteria and asks if he can walk her to the elevator. She says, "Yes," stealing a sideways look at him while they’re walking.

"I've been cleared?" John asks. He knows the answer. It's a conversation starter.

"Yes," Dr Stepniak says. "You can return to active duty at any time. If that's what you want."

"What would have made you change your mind?"

She puts her hands in the pockets of her jacket. She's a wearing a sedate blue suit. For a civilian she looks very military. "What do you mean?"

"I’m just wondering what you were looking for," John says.

"Confusion. Denial. Withdrawal. Irritability," she says. "All in varying degrees of severity, of course."

They pass one of the gate technicians. John tries to remember his name. Silver? Sylvester? The technician smiles, half-waves, half-salutes.

"What about memory loss?" John says, when the technician has passed.

Dr Stepniak looks at him, frowns. "You're suffering memory loss?"

"No," He answers quickly. Too quickly. Dr Stepniak raises her eyebrows. "Hypothetically," John says. "I heard some buddies of mine who came back from Afghanistan and couldn't remember simple things, like how to drive or how to programme the VCR."

Dr Stepniak doesn't look convinced. "Post traumatic stress disorder is an imprecise name for a variety of symptoms linking back to what is, presumably, a singular event. I'm told gas and radiation exposure can deplete brain cells and have a similar effect so I'd be hesitant to call it one way or another."

"It could be physical?"

"Arguably, all psychiatric conditions are physical reactions." They reach the elevator. Dr Stepniak stops in front, not pressing the call button. "But amnesia over extended periods of time is rare. If the memory loss is sustained then I think you're looking at a psychological cause. Major, do you have something you want to tell me?" She cocks her head to one side.

"Completely hypothetical," he says. "I swear."

"In that case," Dr Stepniak says. "It hypothetically depends on whether your amnesiac has suffered an injury or whether he, or she, just doesn’t want to remember."

John nods. "How do you tell?"

Dr Stepniak presses the call button and the elevator doors open. "You could send him - or her - to me?"

"Is that essential?"

Dr Stepniak rolls her eyes. "Major, do you want my help or not?"

John smiles. "I’ll let you know." He motions toward the cafeteria. "Lunch date," he says.

Dr Stepniak gets in the elevator. She’s still looking at him curiously when the door closes.

*

"The Air Force likes everything neatly set out - preferably with numbers and bullet points." General O'Neill pours sugar from a dispenser into his coffee. He thinks for a moment and then pours again. He pushes the dispenser toward John. John waves it away. "You're a loose end to them - and they're looking at me to tie you off."

"You're giving me an assignment?" It's not surprising. The debrief lasted longer than anyone expected. They've been in limbo far too long.

"Not exactly." O'Neill sips his coffee, frowns. "God, that's awful," he says. "My feeling is that you did all that was required of you and more – and considering all that was required of you was to go to another galaxy and turn Ancient machines on, I think you went above and beyond - way beyond - the call of duty. I'm not sending you anywhere you don't want to go."

"Thanks," John says. "I appreciate it."

"Don't mention it," O'Neill says. "But it begs the question, where do you want to go?"

John thinks about Rodney. Rodney is probably at home right now, attempting to convince the cat to switch to an anti-fur ball diet while the cat looks at him like he’s gone insane.

"Do I have to decide now?"

O'Neill shrugs. "No, but I would appreciate a decision by the end of the week. The paper pushers at the Pentagon can be very demanding. I tried patching them through to Carter but she's got some kind of gizmo rigged that feeds my calls back to me. She's a genius." He holds up his hands in a "what can you do?" gesture. John understands.

"I'd like to visit the research facility at the Alpha Site," John says. "Some time."

"Sure," O'Neill says. "Any time you want."

"I'd like to take Dr McKay with me."

"Okay," O'Neill says. "Assuming he wants to go. Weir tells me he's not much of a joiner lately. I have no control over him, of course, and no one at the Pentagon is giving me instructions. He's on some kind of permanent retainer so he doesn't defect to the Chinese space programme or something so it's not like anyone is going to cut him off." O'Neill looks up. Behind John one of the cooks is writing the evening menu on a blackboard. "Chicken parmigana," O'Neill reads. "There's one I haven't tried."

"McKay will go," John says. "He needs the exercise."

"Let me know," O'Neill says. "I'll set it up."

Rodney orders out and they eat Chinese with chopsticks and make small talk. Later Rodney wordlessly pushes John against the refrigerator and kisses him, knocking the magnetic whiteboard saying "out of milk" to the floor. He rubs himself against John, groin to groin, splays his hand flat against John's stomach so that his fingers dip below the waist of John's jeans.

"Right here," John says. "Do it here."

Rodney falls to his knees, pushes John’s t-shirt up and unzips John's jeans, taking John's cock in his mouth. John closes his eyes, leans his head back against the fridge while Rodney pushes John's jeans to his knees. Rodney wets a finger and slides between John's legs, up the cleft of John's ass. John parts his legs as far as the jeans around his knees will allow, gives Rodney some room to maneuver. And then Rodney’s finger is inside him, and then another, and then he has three inside him or maybe it’s four because he’s being stretched and pulled and it burns, feels like he’s going to explode in white heat. He moans, begs Rodney for more, harder, faster. He bends his knees, pushes his back against the fridge so he is thrusting forward.

It doesn't take long. Rodney moves his fingers inside John, tongues the tip of John's cock and John is gone, closing his eyes and saying, "Fuck," as Rodney sucks him clean.

They wind up in bed again, wound around each other, spoon-like under the covers. John rests his forehead against Rodney's shoulder, feeling the rise and deflate of Rodney's torso. Rodney presses John's arm against Rodney's midriff, his fingers covering John's.

John closes his eyes and thinks about the Alpha Site, thinks about his dream of lifeless bodies lining the halls of the SGC. John presses tighter against Rodney.

"I can’t go," Rodney says.

John eyes flick open. "Go where?"

"The Alpha Site. You were going to ask. I’m pre-empting you."

John lifts his head so that his chin is resting on Rodney’s shoulder. "I asked General O’Neill if we could visit."

"Visit," Rodney says. "You haven’t requested an assignment?"

"I wanted to check it out first. I mean, I can understand why Elizabeth wants to be there and Zelenka and Vretham and – well – everyone from the science team except you. But what would I do? Sounds to me like they need scientists, not guns."

"Bates is already stationed there. So are Landers and Lieutenant Hiro."

"And I’ll be sure to ask them how they like it when I visit."

Rodney pulls away from John, rolls onto his back. Rodney raises himself up on his elbow. "What if someone finds out?"

"About us?"

"No, you moron, about my condition. You think anyone really cares that we’re fucking? Didn’t the military invent the phrase ‘don’t ask don’t tell’? Trust me, no one in the military wants to know that their history-making Major takes it up the ass. However, if there’s a crisis involving Ancient or Asgard technology and the entire facility looks at me to fix it, it will be immediately evident that I’m losing my mind and all hell will break loose."

"Firstly, if you exhibit signs of memory loss, I’m confident the Alpha Site will be able to deal with it. Secondly, you’re not losing your mind."

"Well, thank you, Dr Jung. I feel reassured. If I tell you how my father never loved me will you explain away my lack of popularity with women and my need for self-aggrandisment?"

"I can, but it will cost you two hundred dollars."

Rodney raises his arm, lets it fall over his eyes. He sighs, loudly. "Just a visit," he says.

"A couple of days. Tops."

"If you weren’t so attractive…" Rodney says. "I’m swayed by your charm and good looks. It’s really not fair."

"Is that a ‘yes’?" John hooks Rodney’s ankle, dragging Rodney’s legs apart so John can wedge his knee between them. He spreads his body over Rodney’s, his thighs between Rodney’s thighs, his dick nudging Rodney’s. John places his hands flat on the bed, either side of Rodney’s head, raises himself up so he can move himself against Rodney.

"Ohh…" Rodney says. Rodney puts his hands on John’s hips, guides his movements. "That’s not fair either."

"I can stop anytime," John says. He lowers his head to Rodney’s neck, tastes the length of Rodney’s carotid as it leads to his collarbone. John’s teeth graze the skin, and Rodney sucks in air. John kisses Rodney, mouth open and hungry.

When they pull apart, Rodney says, "Sure you can."

*

John is twelve when he slams his bike into a curb. He’s watching the boy next door, barely 18 and riding a motorcycle, a dark-brown leather jacket making him look broader in the shoulders than he is. John is flying over the handle-bars before he realises what he’s done.

On the way to the hospital he asks his mother what happened. She tells him he fell of his bike. She says he asked her the same question ten minutes ago. He’s asked her three times now.

The doctors told his mother he had a concussion. He looked it up when he was released from hospital: short term memory is affected by temporary disruption to the connections between neurons, usually a result of damage to the hippocampus and the medial temporal lobes. Long term memory loss is more complicated, a result of damage to the cortex, rare and irreparable.

*

John's used to flying rather than stepping through a stargate. He remembers the first time, the fleeting feeling of the ground falling away as he walked into nothingness, the sudden return of hard surface beneath his feet as he landed on the other side, like walking blind. The puddle jumper made the experience seamless, less like hurtling into the abyss and more like flying through a cloud.

He should be used to that feeling of suspension, the moment between one gravity and the next, but there's nothing like stepping across planets to lose your sense of place.

Beside John, Rodney is fussing with the shoulder buckle of his backpack. Stargate Command doesn't let anyone travel off-world without military supplies. Rodney appreciates the Power Bars but he deems the first aid pack, distress flares and spare water excessive. "They've completely cut off the circulation to my arm," he says. "Prolonged oxygen deprivation causes necrosis. When we get there, they’ll have to send me to the infirmary to amputate my fingers."

They are also carrying frozen pig enzymes for an ongoing research project being conducted on the site. It's a small sample but it's kept in a temperature regulated container that is far heavier than the sample. John offers to carry it. Rodney doesn't argue.

John doesn't ask about the research. After nanites and bio-engineered viruses, pig enzymes are small potatoes.

John fixes the buckle on Rodney's pack, gives Rodney room to move his shoulder. "Better?" he says.

"I suppose it will suffice," Rodney says, flexing his fingers.

John toys with his own straps, rotates his shoulders to check the ease of movement. It's mostly adrenaline. He's ready to go and they haven't even started the dialing sequence.

General O'Neill enters the gate-room followed by his aide. He nods at the control room above their heads and the noise of the gate gearing to life drowns out Rodney's latest protest about his ill-fitting boots.

"Have fun," O'Neill says. "Don't forget to write."

"Yes, Sir," John says. He grins at Rodney. Rodney watches the gate spin, silent for once.

The seventh chevron locks and then there's a one-sided radio conversation while the control room exchanges pleasantries with their counterparts at the Alpha Site. Eventually the technician clears them to go and they heft their cargo, ready to embark.

"Say 'hi' to Dr Weir," O'Neill says. He salutes casually. Half military, half everyone's favourite uncle.

John salutes back.

Rodney nods. "Thank you, General," he says over-politely. "We'll be sure to pass that on."

"You remember how to do this, right?" John says, when they reach the event horizon.

John follows a beat after.

He finds his feet again in the gate room at the Alpha Site. He's barely relocated his equilibrium when he sees Elizabeth at the bottom of the ramp, flanked by two Air Force officers and Grodin. She smiles up at them.

"Welcome to the Alpha Site," she says.

They are shown to quarters first (Rodney's room is across the hallway from John's) and then Elizabeth asks them if they want to visit the facility.

"It was the first thing I did when I got here," she says.

John agrees. He has to know where they are. He has to see them, if only to dispel the images from his dream, replace them with real ones. Like that will help.

"Rodney?" Elizabeth says.

Rodney looks to John, like he's looking to be persuaded. John keeps his face blank. "Okay," Rodney says, eventually. "Okay."

The research facility is outside. It's spring in their corner of the planet and the air is mildly warm. There's a recreational field to the right of the facility, with a track around the edge and what looks like a baseball diamond in the corner. A solitary figure runs around the track, too far away to be recogniseable.

Elizabeth leads them to a dark, warehouse-like building with large double doors at the front and no other visible points of entry. Elizabeth opens the door and motions for them to enter ahead of her.

They find themselves in a lounge, a kitchen to their left and a bathroom to their right.

She shows them the laboratories behind the lounge, situated to the left and right of a central hallway. The design of the facility is not complex and there is very little adornment or personalisation of desks or benches. Elizabeth tells them the personnel are temporary. No one stays long enough to put down roots.

They find Dr Bowman working in one of the smaller laboratories. When she sees them she gets up to greet them, tells them she's making progress, if slowly. It doesn’t sound positive, but John knows the smallest steps are large walls that must be climbed before any real medical progress can be made. It must be frustrating.

"They're under a lot of pressure," Elizabeth says, when they are back out in the hallway. "The President has expressed concern over keeping civilians indefinitely. He wants to know whether they can be saved and he's given us six months to come up with an answer." She pauses in front of a door marked ‘Temperature Regulated.’ "He's right, though. I mean - some of these people had living wills. They wouldn't want this."

John stares at the tiny window in the door. It's dark inside, dotted occasionally with small, blinking lights, flashing blue and red. John knows what's in there. He's seen it in his dreams.

"Ready?" Elizabeth says. Johns nods. Rodney says, "No," but it's quiet and half-hearted. Elizabeth ignores him. She swipes her access card and the door opens with a subdued click. Inside, the room floods with blue light, illuminating the occupants. There's wires and tubing protruding from the walls and the ceiling, leading to dark, prone figures lined up, two by two along the walls, like bunk-mates in barracks.

Elizabeth goes in first, John and Rodney following warily. The set-up is not a surprise. They were advised, even given a detailed plan of the room and the facility, but John knew the real thing would be confronting. A coma is a middle place between the living and the dead. Admittedly, Dr Knights had described them as hibernating, a condition designed to do from the inside what the Wraith cocoons had done to their prisoners on the motherships, but the effect of their lifeless bodies lined up against the walls suggests being amongst the undead.

John approaches the first 'bunk'. A monitor shows basic life signs: temperature, blood pressure, ECG and oxygen saturation. The name of the occupant is written on a card in a plastic pocket hanging next to the monitor. The card includes a date of birth, nationality and Atlantis expedition designation. The first card reads "MCGASKILL, James, Dr. 12/31/1965. United Kingdom. Geological Survey."

All the occupants of the facility are wearing green pyjamas, prison issue style. McGaskill’s feet are bare and unnaturally white. His thighs, calves, arms, neck and stomach are wrapped in what looks like insulation, connected to tiny wires leading back to the walls.

"Muscle stimulation," Elizabeth says, nodding at the insulation-like wrapping. "Prolonged inactivity causes the internal organs to deteriorate and decay."

John nods, moves on. He reads each card and checks each monitor he comes to. He recognises every face but there are some he knows better than others, some that cause him to take longer looks, hoping for a sign of the person he knew in the sleeping figure before him.

He stops when he comes to "FORD, Aiden." Ford looks remarkably child-like, but then at the age of twenty-five it's possible he always did. The gun and the uniform create the illusion of maturity.

John touches Ford's face, finds Ford is warm under John's fingers. They aren't dead, and the temperature of the room is kept slightly below body temperature, but they look frozen, like their skin should be ice to touch.

John remembers how Ford talked of his grandparents, what they would think as the months went by without hearing from their grandson. Ford would have wanted to go home.

Ford is sporting stubble around his chin and his hair is longer. Some of the others have facial hair that is beard-like but it is clear someone attends to their cosmetic needs. John thinks he should ask Elizabeth about it. He looks around and sees her at the far end of the room, crouched down so that she's eye-level with the occupant of the lower bunk. She appears to be talking.

At the opposite end of the room, John sees Rodney, standing next to one of the bunks, staring at the occupant. As John gets closer he makes out the familiar form of Dr Beckett, a lot paler and with more facial hair, identifiable but not quite himself.

"Someone looks after them," John says, inclining his head toward Dr Beckett.

"Carson used to fuss with his hair when he thought no one was looking," Rodney says. "A lot like you, really. He would have hated that beard."

"He looks dignified," John says. "Like Sean Connery."

"He does not," Rodney says. "Although, I commend your effort to find a positive in his condition."

Beckett’s face is expressionless. John wonders if they dream. "They’re alive," John says. "That’s something."

"If Carson were able, I’m sure he would take issue with your definition of ‘alive.’ "

"What if it had been you, Rodney?" Elizabeth joins them at Dr Beckett’s side. "What would you have wanted?"

Rodney looks at Dr Beckett, his expression pained. "I don’t know," he says. "I don’t know."

*

Outside again, Elizabeth leaves them for an appointment. She tells them to peruse the grounds, visit the air hangar or climb the hill next to the recreational area. They walk across the recreational area, seat themselves on some rocks, conveniently located in the shade.

The vegetation is sparse suggesting the area was once an agricultural region. There are ruins on the other side of the hill, a temple and a township surrounding it, presumably the homes of a Goa'uld and his Jaffa.

John pulls a water flask from his vest pocket and drinks. Rodney takes a Power Bar and an apple from his pack, holds one in each hand as if weighing them against each other. Eventually, he stands, raises his hands above his head and drops them.

The apple rolls toward John. "What did you do that for?" John says. Rodney picks them up. Holds them above his head, and drops them again. "Rodney?" John says.

Rodney retrieves the apple and the Power Bar but doesn't repeat the performance. "Science used to be about observation," Rodney says. "Being a scientist required nothing more than the continued surveillance of ordinary occurrences, like the way objects fell. You just sat back, pulled up a chair in the piazza and watched your lackey drop weights off a tower."

"It can’t have been that simple," John says. "I mean, one minute the Earth is flat, the next it’s just another pea in the great soup of existence. It had to take some heavy thinking."

Rodney shakes his head. "Today, the great advances in sciences are made by conceptualising the invisible - particles and DNA. We have dissected and atomised ourselves, and it turns out, we're not solid. We're not even static. According to sections of theoretical physics, alternate dimensions, ESP and ghosts are all theoretically possible." Rodney holds up the apple in his fist. "What happened to science you could hold in your hand? What happened to science that you could know? A scientist spends his life trying to solve the mysteries of existence and who does it benefit? Arguably, there are thousands more useful things he could be doing."

John feels the breeze pick up, whisper past his ears. The weather reminds him of Colorado. Or Colorado in a few months time. He wonders if that's why they chose this spot, ease of acclimatisation. "Something useful like medicine," he says. "Or virology? Biotechnology?"

Rodney sits down on the ground, leans against the rock behind him. "I finished high school when I was fourteen, finished my undergraduate studies by sixteen. It would have taken me a year to finish my doctorate if someone could have provided me with the right equipment. Unfortunately the Canadian government doesn't have the same space exploration budget as the US Air Force - although arguably that provides us with a higher standard of living."

"Colder," John says.

"We ski," Rodney says, shrugging. "The point being, I learn fast. Very fast. They say your mathematical brain peaks in your twenties so possibly I've slowed down but even allowing for a minor reduction in speed of comprehension, I still learn at a rate inconceivable to a lay-person. So when I’m faced with a problem in an area of science I’m not completely familiar with…"

John understands. Rodney hates being confronted by a question he can’t answer. "You figure, ‘what the hell, I’ll read a book or two on cellular biology and genetics and by tomorrow I’ll be an expert,’?"

"I’m not unfamiliar with micro-biology," Rodney says, defensively. "It’s not like I was starting at freshman level on Monday and hoping to cure cancer by Friday."

"Not at all," John says. "You gave yourself three weeks at least. That’s enough time to cure Cancer and AIDS and write a book about it afterwards."

"Carson made notes," Rodney says. "Pages and pages of notes. It was really a matter of following his logic and deciphering his terminology. Doctor Danier assisted – she’s a zoologist but unfortunately my choice of persons with suitable expertise was limited. We were making progress. We were only a step away from isolating the pathogen."

"Doctor’s Leahy and Bowman isolated the pathogen in days. The cure could take years and that’s if they find one at all. Rodney…"

"I could have done something!"

"No, you couldn’t," John says. He meets Rodney’s eyes. Rodney looks away, pressing his lips together like he’s swallowing his reaction. He crosses his arms and looks up the hill, squinting at the sun. John bends to the ground, picks up a rock and tosses it, just to see how far it will go. "Jesus, Rodney, I knew you were arrogant, I just didn’t realise you were an egocentric son of a bitch along with it."

Rodney looks at John again, frowns. "What’s that supposed to mean?"

John stands, brushes dirt from the backside of his pants. "I’m heading back," he says. "Talk to me when you’ve figured it out." He walks back toward the compound, doesn’t look behind to see if Rodney is following.

*

He is awoken in the night by someone tapping on his door.

It’s Rodney. John knows it’s Rodney. He switches on the lamp, gets out of bed and answers the door.

Rodney looks pissed. He’s stuffed his hands in the pockets of his BDUs and his sweater is zipped up to his chin, defensive-like.

"What do you want, McKay?" John is irritable: a combination of lack of sleep and general Rodney McKay madness.

"Let me see," Rodney says. "What could I possibly want after you stormed off in a hissy fit during my crisis of confidence earlier? I think I’m entitled to an explanation. We’re sleeping together, after all. Or are we pretending that never happened?"

John leans out into the hallway, looks left and right. Rodney knows John doesn’t want to have a conversation about his sexual habits in the hallway. It gives Rodney a certain leverage. John invites Rodney in. They stand for a while, apprising each other, not willing to be the first to speak.

"Well," John says eventually. "Here you are." He crosses arms.

Rodney mimics John’s position. "Don’t you have something you want to tell me?"

"You came here because you want me to apologise?" John laughs derisively. "You know, you’re not nearly as smart as everyone says you are."

"Yes, well, some of us weren’t fortunate enough to get into Mensa and be gifted with insight into the human condition, Major. And while I consider myself capable of handling some of the more complex questions posed by particle theorists of the last fifty years I do not have ESP and hence, have no idea why you’re so pissed at me."

An image flashes across John’s mind: they’re leaving Atlantis, keying in the destruction codes, storing the Ancients’ database on their far too inadequate hard-drives, arranging to transport forty-two sleeping expedition team members through what will surely be an all too brief wormhole opening. Rodney has spent a sleepless week creating a naquadah generator overload that will give them enough power to open a wormhole to the Alpha Site (Elizabeth is worried about contagion). He says it will destroy the dialing system and probably the gate itself but it will be irrelevant once they’ve returned to their galaxy.

John spent the weeks preceding their departure searching for a Pegasus Alpha Site for the Atlanteans to evacuate to when the Wraith come. He spent any remaining time he had in private counsel with Elizabeth, discussing the more serious questions like what to do with their hibernating team-mates if they had to evacuate. They talked about mercy killings, euthanasia - questions John never expected to answer in his military career.

It was a time he doesn’t like to remember. "Get out," John says.

"What?"

"Go, Rodney." He puts his hand on Rodney’s shoulder and steers him toward the door.

"We’re not going to talk about this?" Rodney says. It’s clear Rodney expected more.

John did too. "Not tonight," John says.

Rodney gives him one last look from the hallway, his eyes narrowed, looking for something he can’t see.

John closes the door, thinks he used to be a far less complicated man.

*

There are two deathgliders in the Alpha Site hangar. Bates organised a flying lesson for John, promised a spectacular aerial view of the planet, not to mention a thrilling ride. The deathgliders are confined to the planet's atmosphere so John doubts they'll compare to puddle jumpers, but he's desperate to be airborne so he refuses to compare.

He beats the breakfast crowd to the mess and gets out to the hangar early. His instructor is a Major Wallis, barely five foot five and in her early forties. She's been stationed at the Alpha Site for approximately two years for the purpose of flying deathgliders and the Air Force constructed variations. She says it's the best job in the world and he refrains from telling her he used to feel the same about his job on Atlantis.

"I saw the specs on those puddle jumpers," she says, as she climbs into the cockpit. John is in the navigation chair. "Must have been something, flying one of those."

"It was," John says. "Really something."

Wallis tells him she wants him to get the feel of the gees before she puts him in the pilot's seat. "It won't take long," she says. "I fully intend to have you flying by the end of the day."

She's true to her word. By the end of the day John can take off, land, dip, dive and perform a low fly-by. He's keen to try a roll but Wallis vetoes the idea. She tells him he needs to leave some adventure for the next lesson.

They come in for their last landing just as the sun is setting. They fly over the research facility, over the playing field and over the hill where Rodney dropped his apple and ration bar yesterday. They’re low enough for John to make out the rocks they were sitting on, the path from the facility to the compound.

John remembers being sixteen, getting home after midnight and trying to sneak in the backdoor, hoping his father wouldn't hear. His father slept like he was on guard duty, one eye open. He caught John on the stairs, shoes in hand. He said he expected better of John but then he said that about everything John did so it meant little.

John wonders if he can sneak back to his quarters without encountering Rodney. John never appreciated being lectured.

Rodney doesn't knock on his door, doesn't come looking for him. John has dinner in the mess with Elizabeth and Bates. No one mentions Rodney and John doesn't ask. Elizabeth tells them an amusing story about her meeting with dignitaries from PS3-890 who presented her with a vial of their most powerful aphrodisiac. A customary gift for alien visitors, apparently.

"Their herbology is widely regarded," she says with a straight face. John grins. Bates smirks into his soup.

John sleeps through the night. In the morning he decides a day without Rodney is long enough and he has little interest in making it two days. He resolves to find Rodney's hideout and quickly learns it isn’t a mystery. Zelenka points John toward the astro-physics lab.

Inside, Rodney is staring at a computer monitor. He's on an angle with his feet up on the desk, crossed at the ankles. He's holding a mug and leaning his head into his hand.

John taps on the door. Rodney looks up. "Tomb Raider?" John says, inclining his head toward the monitor.

Rodney shakes his head. "Results of an experiment Zelenka's been conducting on this." Rodney holds up a mouse-sized object, black with filament-type wires attached to one end. "It's the processor for the biometric scanners on Atlantis. I brought one back with me. I wish I'd bought more. It's possible this one is faulty."

John steps closer, eyes the processor. "How can you tell?"

"The