Archive of Our Own

It happened just like the first time. One moment John was walking down a corridor, and the next moment he was standing in a tiny room with a thing disengaging from his head. He looked around in bewilderment.

It was the same tiny room he'd found himself in last time. The door was closed, and Rodney McKay, wearing shapeless black fatigues, was watching him suspiciously. There was no one else in the room.

"Er, Sheppard . . . ?" Rodney asked cautiously.

"Shit!" John spat. "Still not Kansas."

Rodney's brow wrinkled. "What?"

"This is the wrong place. I'm not home yet, McKay. You just switched your guy with the wrong universe." John looked down at himself. Still his hands, check. The face felt like his own, as well -- no wait, there was a cut on his cheek, with stitches; that hadn't been there before. He rolled up the right sleeve of his fatigues -- the same design as Rodney's. Colonel Sheppard's ugly blue mole-scar wasn't there. The watch on his left wrist did look familiar.

Rodney looked around at the mostly-empty room. "How can you tell?"

"Well, for starters, how about being in the wrong galaxy? I'm supposed to be in California."

"You were in California," Rodney countered. "But you -- Colonel Sheppard -- couldn't get home from there, so he came to the SGC, and we brought him here."

John went still. "I'm a civilian here?"

"Discharged three years ago."

"Flying news choppers?"

"I have no idea. Sheppard said he switched places while you were surfing."

Well, that sounded right. John ran a hand through his hair and found it longer than Colonel Sheppard's. "What about this?" He brushed the stitches on his face. "It's recent?" It certainly felt tender and fresh.

"That happened yesterday."

Yesterday, he hadn't been living in his own body. "Okay," he conceded. "Maybe it's the right universe. But still the wrong place. What now?"

Rodney grimaced. "That, uh, might get complicated. But first you have to be introduced to everybody." He turned and waved at the room's tall, narrow door.

The outer chamber was in much better shape than the one John had seen in the other universe. It had consoles and display screens alight and humming, with no gaping holes to mark ripped-out technology. There was only a little sand tracked around on the floor, although he saw that the doorway was nearly swamped with sand. Apparently this place hadn't been vandalized like the one Rodney -- the other Rodney -- had taken him to.

There were people in the outer room, but he didn't recognize them. They looked at him closely.

"Well?" said one of them, a young man with a shock of dirty-blond hair and one oddly-dark eye wearing an Atlantis expedition uniform -- without insignia, of course. "So . . . what?!"

Rodney whuffed out a breath. "It worked. John Sheppard, this is Gen-- Captain O'Neill."

John shifted uneasily. It was always uncomfortable running into military people since his discharge. He wasn't even sure which service this guy was in. At least he wasn't tempted to salute first; he would have had the higher rank, while he was still in the Air Force. "Captain," he said with a nod.

One of the other men in the room -- near John's age, scruffy-jawed, wearing the same black fatigues as he was -- stepped forward and extended a hand. "I'm Daniel Jackson." Evidently not an officer.

John shook hands with him and looked at the third man, in another expedition uniform, who had a Middle Eastern or maybe Mediterranean look about him.

"Peter Grodin," he said in a clipped British accent. Okay, not so Mediterranean after all.

"Dr. Grodin is head of the Atlantis expedition's science division," said Jackson.

John turned to Rodney. "Wait, aren't you --"

"In this universe, I didn't go with the expedition on the original mission," Rodney said, looking uncomfortable. "I've only been here a couple of days. Dr. Jackson and I accompanied you -- um, Colonel Sheppard -- through the Gate from Earth."

"And we're all glad you did," drawled Captain O'Neill.

Jackson -- apparently another scientist -- chimed in with more helpful information. "Jack -- I mean, Captain O'Neill, is acting head of the expedition's military division."

O'Neill shrugged. "It's a long story. But that might change anyway, since there are several people with higher rank here now."

Both Grodin and Jackson looked uncomfortable at the possibility of a change in command. That was curious, if Jackson had just arrived.

O'Neill rubbed his hands together and grinned at them broadly. "So, we did what we came for. What do you say we blow this clam bake and haul for home?"

"Fine by me," said John.

"He means Atlantis," said Rodney. "We, uh . . . we don't have any way of contacting Earth right now."

John stared.

"We're working on it, though!" Rodney said quickly.

Grodin rolled his eyes. "We've been working on it for over two years," he put in drily.

"But that was before you had me helping you," Rodney affirmed.

They headed for the door and slogged up the steep ramp of sand beyond. Rodney slipped and John caught his arm quickly. Rodney looked at the hand on his sleeve, then at John, considering. John let go.

Once they had reached the top of the dune, they saw a puddlejumper parked on the sand with a woman John recognized standing by the hatch.

"Teyla," he greeted her with a smile. He'd met her in the other universe, and she'd immediately struck him as tough, sensible and serene.

This Teyla was frowning at him not-so-serenely. "You know my counterpart?"

John hesitated, thrown off balance. "Uh, we met."

"Do not assume I am she." Teyla turned into the jumper.

"Okay," John said under his breath, and followed.

O'Neill was standing at the front of the cockpit. He looked at John shrewdly. "You want to fly it?"

John grinned. "Sure!" It would be nice to fly one of these babies without worrying about imminent death or Rodney yelling bizarre instructions at him. He hadn't thought he would have another chance at it. He hesitated a moment as he realized this might be his last chance, then put that aside and slid into the pilot's seat.

"Okay, this is a piece of cake," O'Neill instructed. "You just have to --"

John looked around to make sure everyone was on board, then commanded the engines to power and the hatch to close. A moment later, they were hovering.

O'Neill blinked. "Done this before?"

John shrugged. "Just the once. One flight, one dogfight, one Wraith dart that won't be reporting home." He figured he'd earned the right to be just a little smug about that.

"Well . . . great," said O'Neill. "Take us home, then."

John called up the schematic that showed the way back to the Gate and turned the little ship in that direction. "I, uh, haven't really gotten the hang of the DHD thing, though. Can't remember those addresses."

"Just think of it like a phone number," Rodney chimed in from behind him, at the same moment that Jackson said, "Think of it as a word." A second later, the two were arguing about mnemonic representations of Stargate addresses.

O'Neill shook his head. "I'll take care of dialing when you get us there."

John slid his eyes over to the officer -- probably Air Force, he thought. "Time for a couple of maneuvers on the way?"

"Sure, why not?"

John glanced backward. "They need to be strapped in better than that?"

"Nah, the inertial dampeners will take care of it."

That turned out to be true, although it took half the fun out of it. John could hardly feel the barrel roll at all, even though it made Rodney squawk with dismay. Only the sharpest turns produced any noticeable g-force at all, and even then it was a tiny fraction of what it should have been.

"I could get used to this," John admitted as the little craft followed his every command through moves that would have been impossible with any aircraft on Earth.

"Not quite like an F-16, but it has its charms," said O'Neill. Yep, he was Air Force all right.

All too soon they were at the Gate, and O'Neill called up the shimmery blue event horizon. They slipped through the puddle into Atlantis, and the autopilot took over.

This Atlantis looked a lot like the one John had just left, but there were subtle differences. The people were a little thinner, a little angrier, a little more worried. No one seemed to care very much about him or his problems; with Colonel Sheppard sent back to his rightful universe, they seemed to regard that as a solved problem. John was just another warm body, and very few people here bothered to nod or greet him when they passed in the hallways.

Dr. Weir seemed distracted when she debriefed them; she wasn't nearly as warm toward John as the other Weir had been. There was a Colonel Caldwell present at the debriefing in a wheelchair, and a Colonel Mitchell -- who wore what John now recognized as SGC fatigues instead of an Atlantis or Daedalus uniform -- sitting in as well. They both seemed to regard Captain O'Neill as an equal despite his youth and rank, but John could see where questions of command were starting to make things uncertain.

Dr. Beckett gave him a cursory checkup with very little personal interaction.

"So . . . " John tried tentatively. "Did you know Colonel Sheppard well?"

"Not at all. Only met the man twice. I probably owe him my life, though."

"Right." John sighed. Even the people who didn't actually know Colonel Sheppard seemed to like him better than John.

He was standing outside the door to the infirmary, wondering where to go next, when Rodney appeared and snagged his arm. "Come on, let's go see if there's anything left in the mess worth eating."

John blinked. "Okay."

Over plates of a rice-type food that was actually a little more like orzo, topped with a savory meat that John wasn't going to ask about, Rodney outlined the differences between this universe and the one he'd visited, and explained what had happened during the past week while Colonel Sheppard had been stirring things up here.

"Sounds like he made a big difference here in just a few days," John said a little glumly, poking at a cube of meat with his fork. He'd left the other Atlantis pretty much the same as he found it, except the other McKay now had burned hands and a lot of issues to work through. Looked like John was still the screw-up when compared against the great Colonel Sheppard.

"Well, at least he gave the SGC the kick in the pants they needed to realize my idea about the power source was right. Too bad it can't be used again," Rodney mused. "And now Earth knows that the Atlantis expedition is still out here, and in some trouble. They'll send the Odyssey. Worst case, you can be home in a couple of months."

"Home." John sighed. "Back to good ol' Fox News."

Just then, Peter Grodin stepped into the mess and looked around. He caught sight of John and Rodney and came over to their table. "Good, I found you," he said, looking at John. "Dr. Weir wants to speak to you."

John looked around. It was night, and from what he understood of the Atlantis clock, it was pretty late. "Now?" he asked.

"Yes, it's the first moment she's had free." Grodin looked harried himself. "I was going to take her a plate."

John dug into the rest of his stew stuff. "Put together something she'd like, and I'll take it to her. You look like you need to sit down a few minutes yourself."

"Right." Grodin nodded and went off to the tables set with food. By the time he was back with two plates, John was ready to go.

"Oh, Peter," Rodney said as John stood up, "I wanted to talk to you about the damage to the dialing crystal --"

John sighed. Apparently no one ever stopped working around here. These people needed to learn how to have some fun.

Dr. Weir's office was much the same in this universe as in the other, tastefully furnished with a few artifacts from various cultures. John set the covered plate on her desk and ran a finger down one of the carved statues, wondering if more of these were from the Pegasus Galaxy and fewer from Earth than the other Dr. Weir's.

He turned as she came into the office. "Sorry," she said breathily. "Colonel Caldwell wanted to discuss something. Oh, food!" She peeked under the cover.

John gave her his best charming smile. "Peter Grodin sent that along."

"Good, I'm starving." She didn't start on the meal, though, but settled into her chair with her hands on her desk. "I apologize for keeping you waiting."

"No problem. I've got nothing but time, until I can get back to Earth."

"Yes! Well. That's . . . what I wanted to talk to you about."

John took the chair opposite. "You don't think I'll be able to get back to Earth?"

"Oh, I'm sure you can, if that's what you really want."

John blinked. "Why wouldn't I want to go back to Earth?"

She smiled -- firmly, confidently. "Mr. Sheppard, I'd like to offer you a place on this expedition."

John's heart was pounding, but all he said was, "I see."

"You could be a great asset to the work we're trying to do here. And I think you would find it exciting, challenging work --"

"You do realize I'm not Colonel Sheppard, don't you?" John could see it clearly; the expedition members are locked up, prisoners in their own home, until the mighty Colonel Sheppard comes charging through the Gate to their rescue. Of course they wanted to hold on to any piece of that hero they could get. But John couldn't be their consolation prize.

"I understand that," said Weir. "But you have the same genes, same background, similar skills --"

"Similar but not identical. I'm pretty rusty at the command thing. Actually, I was never really good at it in the first place."

"We aren't asking you to take command." Weir's voice went dry and sardonic. "We have more than enough colonels around here at the moment."

"Okay. But pretty much everyone here is either military or science, right? I'm no egghead, and the Air Force is never going to take me back. So what job are you proposing to give me?"

"I can hire you as a civilian pilot. I do have that discretion -- or I did, when the expedition was formed, and I presume that's still true. Captain O'Neill says you're already better than anyone except him at piloting the Gateships."

John was amused. "What, not 'puddlejumpers?'"

She blinked. "I'm sorry?"

"It's what they called the Gateships in that other universe."

"Oh." Weir didn't seem to know what to make of that. "Well, whatever they're called, I think it's evident that you can fly them. Your Ancient gene could also be useful to us in other ways -- for example, you should be able to control the weapons chair platform as well as O'Neill does."

"Okaaay." John hadn't heard of that one. Maybe it was one of the places Teyla and Ronon weren't allowed to show him in the other Atlantis.

Weir went on with her pitch. "As a civilian, you would have the same payscale and benefits as any of our scientists -- I can assure you, that's a very competitive package."

"It'd better be," John murmured. "So, what would I be doing, and who would I report to?"

"In general, directly to me. Captain O'Neill . . . that is, the ranking military officer would have the right to request your services when needed. The science team might want your help in activating equipment on occasion. And there's a very good chance you'll be invited to join one of the offworld teams. If you choose to do so -- entirely at your own discretion -- then you will have to obey the orders of your team leader whenever you're offworld or on specific assignments here on Atlantis."

"Sounds . . . pretty exciting."

She leaned forward, hands clasped on her desk. "So, what do you say, Mr. Sheppard?"

He frowned. "I'll have to think about it."

She looked surprised, as if she couldn't imagine why anyone would be reluctant to join an expedition millions of light-years from home in constant danger from Wraith and pseudo-Nazi soldiers and who knew what else. "All right, I think we can give you time to consider. Please let me know if there's anything else I can tell you that would help with your decision."

"Well actually, now that you mention it . . ."

"Yes?"

"What about my job back home? As I understand it, Colonel Sheppard popped into my body on my day off work and just took off without telling anyone where I -- where he was going?"

"Ah." Weir studied her hands. "I understand Colonel Sheppard did ask General O'Neill -- the head of the SGC -- to intercede for you with your employers. He'll probably tell them you were called away urgently by the Air Force on a matter of national security."

"Oh great, they'll be sure to believe that."

"We'll get more current news when we re-establish contact with Earth, or in the worst case, when the Odyssey arrives."

"So, like, a couple months from now."

"Perhaps sooner." Weir sat up a little straighter. "As head of this expedition, I'm prepared to arrange a stipend for your time here, even if you decide not to stay. We could pay you at your old salary effective the day that you -- Colonel Sheppard -- arrived through the Gate, until you reach Earth again."

That sounded like a pretty good deal; John looked for the catch. "And you're sure your, uh, bosses back on Earth will agree to that?"

"Even if the leadership of the International Advisory has undergone changes, I'm sure they can be persuaded that you're worth the money. After all, you did essentially rescue this expedition."

John grimaced. "Yeah." Except it hadn't been him. If even Weir couldn't keep that straight, how could he expect anyone else to remember?

Weir stood. "I hope you will consider staying with us, Mr. Sheppard. We can use a man of your abilities on this mission. But regardless of your decision, we're conscious that we already owe you a debt of gratitude. The same events that may have endangered your employment back on Earth were very much to our benefit."

Great. Colonel Sheppard had stiffed John while he was playing the hero, and that meant Atlantis owed John. Riiiight. Perfectly sensible.

John stood too, and smiled politely at Weir and shook her hand, but he was feeling more disheartened than ever. It was silly, since he'd just been offered a way out of the hole he'd dug for himself three years ago, a chance to redeem himself, a chance at a new life with some real meaning and excitement in it.

But he couldn't help feeling the offer was being made to another man. Colonel Sheppard was the one who was getting the chance to fix John's mistakes. Once they realized John was just going to screw it all up again, the offer would be rescinded.

As Weir pulled her dinner toward her, John stepped out of her office with a frown tugging at his mouth, only to find Rodney McKay waiting on the other side.

Rodney bounced on his heels and raised his eyebrows. "So, what did she say?"

John glanced around uncomfortably at the people scattered throughout the control room. He didn't recognize any of them. They didn't seem to be listening, but you could never tell. He started walking randomly and found himself taking the stairs up to the jumper bay. Gateship bay, whatever.

"She said General O'Neill would tell my boss I was called away urgently for reasons of national security." John snorted. "Guess I can kiss that job goodbye." What would he find to do next, tourist hops around the islands?

Rodney frowned. "Wait, that's it? That's what she told you?"

"Well, that was part of it." No one seemed to be in the bay, but John headed for one of the craft and asked it to open.

Score another point for Weir's offer: John would give a lot to be able to fly these things regularly. There was just something about a machine that did whatever you wanted. John wondered if the Ancients had invented any sex toys, then shook himself and brought his focus back to reality. "So, is Captain O'Neill related to General O'Neill? Is that how he got the job?"

"Sort of. Not really. It's a long story." Rodney huffed irritably. "What else did she tell you?"

John led the way into the little jumper and sat on one of the rear benches. When Rodney followed, he ordered the hatch to close. "She offered me a job."

Rodney beamed. "Yes! I knew it. This is perfect. Apparently O'Neill hates coming into the labs to initialize the equipment, but with your gene we can --"

"I told her I'd think about it."

"What? Are you crazy? What's to think about?"

"I don't know, maybe not wanting to get killed in some bizarre way? Not wanting to get that close to military service again? Not wanting to take the risk of getting screwed over and abandoned by my superior officers and then blamed just because I didn't want to sit around and watch my buddies die in front of me?" John realized he had raised his voice until he was nearly shouting. With an effort, he bit his words off.

Rodney closed his mouth slowly. "Still have some issues, huh?"

"Not that it's any of your business," John retorted.

At that, Rodney looked hurt. He glanced away, toward the front windscreen. "I just thought it would be, you know, fun . . . if we were here together."

John didn't know what to say to that. Why should Rodney care?

"I've wanted to come to Atlantis ever since I heard of it," Rodney said thoughtfully. "Before we knew it was Atlantis, even. I was supposed to come out with the original expedition, you know, but I was . . . sick. So I had to wait. Then a year later the Daedalus shipped out, and they still wouldn't take me. I thought I would never get here."

"Until the gallant Colonel Sheppard swept you up on his white charger and carried you off to the city of your dreams," said John bitterly.

Rodney gave him a puzzled look, then sat up sharply. "You're jealous!"

"Of perfect Colonel Sheppard and his perfect life in that other perfect universe? You're damn right I am."

"Well . . . you shouldn't be," Rodney said lamely.

"Why not?"

"Because! Because this isn't his universe, it's yours. You get to make whatever you want out of this place and the opportunities you find here."

"You mean the opportunities he bought for me."

"Oh, get over it already!" Rodney snapped. "You think I didn't get a little miffed every time he talked about what his Rodney could have done? Sheppard trusted me the moment he met me, but it had nothing to do with me! It was all about what that other Dr. McKay had done. Things I could have done if I'd come on the expedition in the first place like I was supposed to, but it didn't happen that way."

John blinked. Okay, so maybe someone did understand how he felt.

"But when the chance came to make up for it all and get to Atlantis two years late instead of not at all, you'd better believe I jumped at it. And if you let this chance pass you by just because you don't like how it came to you, you're a lot stupider than I think."

John looked away angrily. Maybe he was stupid, compared to Colonel Sheppard. How would Rodney know?

"Do you know how he ended up on the expedition?" Rodney asked.

"Probably through some daring feat of heroism that brought him to the attention of the SGC," John guessed.

"Wrong. He touched something -- actually, he just sat down -- and turned it on, and they realized he had the gene. They dragged him along just for that."

"And then he shot his superior officer and ended up in command," John mused, remembering a conversation with Teyla. Maybe Colonel Sheppard's world wasn't so perfect after all.

Rodney was taken aback. "Is that what happened? He didn't tell me that part."

John shrugged. "I heard it was a mercy killing. Guy got caught by a Wraith."

"Oh." Rodney swallowed. "I haven't seen any Wraith, but they sound, uh, pretty nasty."

"I've seen one." John remembered the canopy of the Wraith's ship flickering and then fading out, leaving him facing a ghoul-white face with teeth like a shark's. "They're certainly . . . ugly." And that one had been wounded even before John emptied a nine-mil into it. He supposed when they were healthy they'd be even more impressively disturbing.

"Well," said Rodney firmly, "I can see being afraid of the Wraith -- I'm afraid of them, after all! But you shouldn't let that stop you from accepting Dr. Weir's offer. This is an incredible opporuntity, don't you get it? You can't let a little danger get in the way of, of, progress, and the advancement of humanity, and all that."

"And winning the Nobel Prize," John added wryly, guessing that was a big factor for Rodney based on what he'd seen of the man's counterpart.

"Yes, yes," said Rodney impatiently, as if he didn't want to admit he cared about that. "And all sorts of other honors and awards when the world finds out what great work we've done. And you want to pass all that up just to go back to California and surf?!"

"I haven't said no," John pointed out mildly.

"And you haven't said yes, either. Why not?"

"What do you care?" John retorted.

"Well, I just thought we were . . . I mean, I thought we could be . . . you know. Friends."

John groaned. "Oh hell, you're in love with him too, aren't you?"

"What? No! I mean, it's the other way around."

John wrinkled his brow. "What, he's in love with you?"

"No, with his Rodney McKay. Look, the first time he laid eyes on me, Colonel Sheppard hugged me. In public."

"Huh?" That did not sound like the very straight and strait-laced Colonel Sheppard that John had heard about from the other McKay.

Rodney shrugged dismissively. "Well, he not only thought I was his Rodney, he also thought I'd come to rescue him from some evil virtual environment or something like that. But the point is, he trusted me and relied on me just because of who I look like. It was obvious from the way he acted that Sheppard and McKay make a great team. I thought that could be true for us, as well as them."

John eyed him closely. Maybe it was time to make this very clear. "By 'team' you actually mean couple, don't you?"

Rodney's fair skin bloomed pink under the jumper's lights. "Well, I suppose that might play into it a little. But really, just as a, a working team -- you know, complementary skills and all that. Or friends, if you --"

"I don't think I want to be friends with you, Rodney," John said slowly.

"Oh." Rodney stared dejectedly at the floor of the jumper.

"You know, when that, uh, device brought me back here, I was on my way to McKay's quarters to try to seduce him."

"Oh?" Rodney perked up a little.

"It wasn't easy -- turns out he was sort of a prude. And he was pretty convinced Colonel Sheppard was straight."

"Uh, no, not in the strictest sense." Rodney's face was bright red now, making John struggle not to smirk. "Or any sense at all, really."

"I guess they really got their signals crossed there, huh?"

Rodney's mouth quirked up on one side. "Good thing they had us to straighten out their perfect lives for them."

"Or un-straighten them, as the case may be."

They were both leaning forward from the edges of their bench seats, faces only a few inches apart.

John closed that distance and brought their mouths together. Within a few minutes he had to concede that maybe this universe had a few things to recommend it over the other after all. Also, as he soon found out, this Rodney was much better at graceful acceptance of blowjobs than his counterpart, and no slouch in the enthusiastic-reciprocation department as well.

Straightening his clothes afterward, John looked toward the front of the jumper and wondered if it could tell him whether there was anyone outside. Immediately, a schematic of the upper levels of the central tower popped up, showing the jumper bay, the Gate room, and several other places he wasn't familiar with. All the blinking life signs were concentrated in the Gate room. "Cool," he murmured.

"I should be getting back to the labs," Rodney said as he checked his fly for the third time. He was still a little pink around the ears, but his eyes were exceptionally bright and his mouth was more than a little smug. "There's so much I have to catch up with, and so little time . . ."

"Wait a second," said John. "Do you know where I'm supposed to be staying? Do I have a room here?"

"You -- uh, Colonel Sheppard -- got guest quarters for last night. I guess you can still use those."

"And you know where that is?"

"Um." Rodney coughed. "Yes, I can show you."

The room turned out to be pretty small and sparsely furnished. There was a backpack sitting in the corner, but when John headed for it Rodney quickly said, "That's mine."

"Oh." There didn't seem to be any other luggage in the room. "Where's my stuff?"

"Colonel Sheppard didn't bring anything. It was, um, pretty hectic when we went through the gate."

John stared. "You mean these are the only clothes I have?" No wonder they smelled a little ripe.

"Supposedly we can ask a Sergeant Bates for any spare clothes or supplies they have available. I guess he's responsible for, you know, allocating that sort of stuff."

Great. He might not be back in the military again, but apparently he had to suck up to the quartermaster anyway.

"He'd also be the one to ask about getting a larger room. If you want it. I mean, if you're staying . . ."

John gave a long sigh. "In the morning, I'll tell Weir I accept."

"You will?" Rodney lit up like an Ancient toy. "Good! Well . . . wonderful. That's great."

John shrugged. "There's nothing for me back on Earth. And this is a pretty amazing place, even with the Wraith and, you know, all the other bad guys. And, uh . . ." He looked at Rodney shyly. "There are some pretty good guys here, too."

Rodney beamed. "Good. But now I really should be getting --" He jerked a thumb out the door.

"Okay, go. I'll find this Bates myself. Will you be, um, coming back here tonight?"

Rodney gulped. "If that's okay with you?"

"Yes, okay. I mean, better than okay. I'd like that."

"Then I will. But it might be pretty late, so don't wait up."

John suspected it was already pretty late, but he didn't say anything.

He found Bates by walking around the corridors until he bumped into someone and then asking where he should look for the Sergeant. The fourth person he asked was actually helpful, and it turned out Bates was still awake, so John asked for what he needed.

Bates -- a dour, suspicious man who looked like he was spoiling for a fight -- wanted to know whether John was with the scientists or the military. Apparently the uniforms were color-coded, and there was no color for guests or civilian pilots. John ended up with a mish-mash of clothes and personal effects from two dead men named Miller and Kavanagh -- one Marine and one scientist, apparently. They and another scientist had died while investigating a crashed Wraith ship on the second habitable planet of this solar system.

If John counted only the black and grey clothes, he had enough to wear for two whole days, plus the black fatigues he had on now. He might have to consider wearing a little bit of color -- but only if he was really desperate. He resolved to find out how laundry got done around here as soon as possible.

With nothing to read or watch or listen to, he fell asleep at once and barely noticed when Rodney crawled in next to him.

Rodney wasn't there when John woke to sunlight (odd, yellow-greenish sunlight) streaming in through the oddly-paned window that ran from top to bottom of the oddly-angled wall. Standing nude before the narrow window, he looked out on a forest of towers, many of them oddly-shaped.

Fortunately, he'd already been introduced to the bathroom fixtures on the other Atlantis. They were functional and effective -- the water starting out at exactly the right temperature was the most noticeable -- but he wished just a little that they could be less pretty and more familiar. The vaporizer thing that took the place of a toilet was just weird, and made him want to tuck his dick safely out of the way.

When he emerged from the bathroom and reached for his newly-acquired clothes, he found an open laptop sitting on top of them. Cautiously, he tickled the trackpad, and the screen came to life with a message in an extra large font:

"Got this computer for you. Not enough CPU power for real work, but adequate for email and DVDs. Has some decent games on it too, I recommend the sudoku. Your account is jsheppard, password is the other name for the gateships. -RM"

John's mouth quirked as he read the message. It was a pretty thoughtful gesture for a self-centered guy. "Gee, Rodney, does this mean we're going steady?" He wondered what would be the Atlantis equivalent of letting Rodney wear his letterman's jacket.

He pulled on black cargo pants and a long-sleeved gray shirt and headed to the mess first, thinking that Dr. Weir was likely to be busy in the mornings anyway and he might as well be fortified before talking to her.

He paused after filling his tray (half with identifiable but not particularly appealing things, half with strange stuff he didn't recognize) and looked around for a place to sit. A table in the corner caught his attention, with half a dozen women sitting around it talking very solemnly.

"Hey! Colonel Sheppard!" someone called.

Hiding his wince, John turned. A little girl -- no, just a very short woman -- was waving at him from a table not far away, where she sat with another woman and a man. Both the women were blondes and wore black SGC fatigues, and the man (also very young-looking) had an expedition uniform that John now knew indicated he was one of the Marines from the original group. Or possibly he had inherited his clothes from such a person, but probably he wouldn't be wearing the jacket if that were the case. Bates had been pretty adamant on that point; he hadn't even given John one of the uniform jackets, since there was no correct color for him.

He slid his tray onto the table next to the man's and smiled at all three of them. "Hi. I'm, uh, actually not Colonel Sheppard. Just call me John."

The small woman -- who had one leg propped up on an extra chair and a pair of crutches nearby -- cocked her head at him. "Oh right, I heard something about that. So you're not, uh . . ."

"Not actually the same guy who came through the gate a couple days ago. I gather you two also came through from the SGC?"

The second woman -- a darker, strawberry blonde -- nodded. "That's right. I'm Lieutenant Laura Cadman. The one with the romantic war wound is Lieutenant Jennifer Hailey --" Here the smaller woman smacked her on the shoulder, "-- and next to you is Lieutenant John Markham."

"Nice to meet you, John," said Markham.

"Ditto," said John with a grimace. "You can call me Shep . . . pard, if that's easier." He wasn't ready to be 'Shep' again. Maybe he never would be.

Hailey said, "I just wanted to make sure you didn't interrupt the therapy session there in the corner." She cocked her head at the tableful of women. "They're kind of anti-man right now."

"With good reason," Cadman added darkly.

"Sure, but he doesn't need to get his head bitten off just because he tries to make some friends." Hailey smiled at John. "Anyway, I'm having an argument with these two jarheads here, and I could use a little support from a fellow airman."

The hash browns caught in John's throat. "I'm not in the Air Force," he said.

"But you were, right? That's what I heard, anyway." Hailey glanced around the room but didn't seem to see whoever had passed the gossip along.

"I was discharged three years ago." John paused to take a sip of juice, bracing himself. "Dishonorably."

"See!" Cadman bumped shoulders with Hailey. "Air Force brass are idiots. Can't tell a good man when they've got one." She winked at John, and he relaxed just a little.

"All brass are idiots," Markham said, barely glancing up from his breakfast. "Doesn't matter which branch they're in."

"Right!" said Hailey stoutly. "So you can't go by that. I still say Air Force is way cooler."

Cadman snorted. "Please! You're only in the Air Force because they waived the height requirement for you."

"My sitting height is within the limits! Almost," said Hailey. "Anyway, it just proves my point. The Air Force accepted me because they value brains over brawn. Cooler, and smarter, too!"

"I have to admit," said John, getting into the spirit a little, "the Air Force definitely has the fastest and coolest things to fly." That had been his own reasoning, after all.

"What, you think Harriers aren't cool?" Cadman objected. "Or Ospreys?"

"They're fine," said John, who had flown Ospreys a time or two. "Just not the coolest things out there."

"I'm in the Corps, and I get to fly Gateships," said Markham. "Nothing cooler than that."

"Well, I'm a civilian, and I get to fly Gateships too," John returned, disposing of that argument.

"Hey!" Cadman leaned across the table. "So it's true? Weir offered you a job?"

"Yeah." John shrugged. "I guess she figured I could be a good pilot even if the Air Force doesn't want me anymore."

"Aw, she just wants to get into your jeans," Cadman said wickedly.

Hailey sniggered, and Markham groaned. John just stared.

"Is it true you have the strong ATA gene, like Jack O'Neill?" Markham asked.

"Uh, I guess so." John recognized the pun belatedly: Cadman had meant that Weir wanted his genes.

"I have the gene too," Markham volunteered, "but just the regular kind. That's not so special anymore, with everyone getting the therapy these days."

"I'm not getting it," said Cadman firmly.

"Aw, not even to get closer to Car-son?" Hailey sing-songed at her.

"Hey, Dr. Beckett's a hunk, you already agreed with me on that. But he can keep his research in the lab. There are other things I'd rather have him putting in my body."

Markham made a gagging sound. "Please, do you have to talk about stuff like that over breakfast?"

"Well, I'm getting the therapy," said Hailey, ignoring him. "Dr. Beckett won't let me try until my leg is healed up, but I bet it will take with me."

"What's this therapy you're talking about?" John asked. "And what happened to your leg?"

The rest of the meal passed enjoyably, with the three lieutenants explaining to John things that everyone already knew, or at least everyone on Atlantis. No one asked about the reason for his discharge; they all seemed perfectly willing to believe it was unjust. Their impression of him might be based on whatever they'd seen of Colonel Sheppard, but somehow John was beginning to find it didn't bother him that much. If they were willing to give him a fair chance, he was ready to make the most of it -- just like Rodney had suggested.

When he went looking for Dr. Weir, he found, as expected, that she was in a meeting. He hung out in the control room smiling at the technicians there and asking questions about the Ancient technology. A sergeant with a Canadian flag on his arm -- and what service was he in? John wondered. He'd thought only the scientists were international -- was explaining the DHD to him when the doors to the conference room rotated and O'Neill charged out looking impatient.

"Look, I'm tellin' ya," O'Neill said back through the doors, "the Iratus bug planet is the way to go. Less time in the jumper, less time for them to make trouble."

"Jack's got a point there, Colonel," said Colonel Mitchell, pausing by the door and looking back.

Colonel Caldwell pushed his wheelchair sharply through the doors. "But we'll have no way of monitoring them after that. What if they get off the planet?"

"Hello, space gate?" said O'Neill, hardly respectful to a superior officer.

"They could be picked up by someone else with spacegoing technology," Caldwell spat. "We'd never know."

"We know the Wraith visit that planet. What if they cut a deal with them? We can't take the risk of the Wraith know Atlantis wasn't destroyed." This was another officer John didn't recognize, muscular and sharp-eyed, his hair beginning to lose the battle with age in much the same way Rodney's was.

"No, man, the Genii would never do that!" protested another new voice, belonging to a young man with a mop of dark curls that reached down to his ears, wearing the blue-paneled jacket of a scientist over a brightly patterned shirt. "It's totally against their ethics."

"Most Genii wouldn't," said Caldwell. "But Kolya? I wouldn't put anything past him. We need to keep them in this solar system. That way we have complete control over their access to the rest of the galaxy."

"But if we have control, we also have responsibility," said the young man. "And we can't afford to feed them --"

Grodin followed the argument through the doors. "They can grow their own food. Our geologists and botanists say the climate on the other planet should be temperate enough at higher latitudes, and the growing season is just beginning in the northern hemisphere."

O'Neill palmed his face. "But it takes fifteen hours to get there in a Gateship!"

"Actually, closer to twenty just now," said Grodin apologetically. "The planets are at different spots in their orbits since the last time you flew there."

"Okay, how about somewhere else on this planet?" Mitchell said reasonably. "There's gotta be an island somewhere with decent hunting or fishing so they can feed themselves."

"Yeah, and build a nice boat," O'Neill objected.

"We could give them subcutaneous transmitters," said the officer with the retreating hairline. "Track them wherever they go."

"Gentlemen, enough!" Weir said, emerging through the doors. "Thank you for your input. We've been over the options. This discussion is suspended for now. Dr. Grodin, please check the database for other planets with space gates and give the coordinates to Captain O'Neill so he can check them out. Captain Ellison --" This was addressed to the unknown officer, "-- I want to see some options for keeping eight or ten Genii secured in the back of a Gateship on an extended trip."

Ellison looked annoyed at that. "With or without bathroom privileges?" he muttered, but quietly enough that Weir could pretend not to have heard.

"We'll discuss this again tomorrow morning," she said firmly. "Just now, I don't think we need to share this debate with the whole city, hmm?"

"No, ma'am," said Mitchell promptly. He smacked O'Neill in the arm and jerked his head at the door. O'Neill waved a salute at Weir and the two men headed off together.

"Dr. Weir," said Caldwell with a sharp nod, and started wheeling himself away. He was echoed by Captain Ellison and the young scientist, who left together in another direction.

Grodin stayed behind and seemed about to start some other discussion with Weir, until she caught sight of John leaning against the balcony railing and raised a hand to forestall Grodin.

"Mr. Sheppard, did you want to speak to me?" she asked.

"Yes, ma'am." John looked around and decided there wasn't much point being secretive about it. He already had a sense that news traveled fast in Atlantis. "I've decided I should accept your offer."

She smiled. "Good. That's very good." Then she looked around a little hectically. "I'm busy at the moment, but I'm sure Dr. Grodin or Sergeant Campbell can introduce you to --"

"If it's all right with you," John interrupted gently, "Dr. McKay has been showing me around. I'll just see if I can find him and we'll get to know the city together."

She blinked. "Yes. All right, that would be fine. Come back and see me --" she waved a hand uncertainly, "-- later, and we can get the details worked out."

When John finally tracked down which lab Rodney was working in, he found him surrounded by other scientists.

"John!" Rodney said, beaming. "Come look at this. I had the ATA therapy and it worked, see?" He waved at a glowing green thing stuck to his chest. "I have the Ancient gene now, just like you!"

"Great," said John weakly. Hailey had pointed out they'd given the therapy to over a hundred of the members of the original expedition, and only had one case that might have been an adverse reaction, maybe. It was perfectly safe. Right?

"I actually found this back in Antartica," Rodney burbled on cheerfully. "I meant to bring it on the expedition, but of course I didn't get to come along." He shot a glare at one of the other scientists. "And I never had a chance to give it to anyone else, seeing how I was confined to the infirmary at the time."

"Cool," said John. "So you found a . . . glowy brooch thing."

Rodney rolled his eyes. "It's a personal shield. Here, Simpson, show him." He turned to a blonde woman who stood back from the crowd, watching.

With a glint in her eye that made John a little uncomfortable -- wasn't she one of the women from the anti-man table that morning? -- Simpson picked up a heavy wrench-like tool from a table nearby and threw it hard at Rodney. It hit something with a green flash and rebounded like a rubber ball, nearly hitting someone else. The other scientists shied away, muttering in annoyance.

Rodney grinned at John, almost glowing himself. "See? I'm invulnerable. Come on, try it. Hit me!"

"Uh . . ." John glanced around at the others in the room, uncertain.

"Just do it! Hit me!"

John hauled off and threw a punch, but not full strength. That turned out to be a good thing, since it felt approximately like hitting a concrete wall. "Ow," he said, shaking out his hand.

"Isn't that cool?"

"Yes, Rodney, it's very cool. What else can it do?"

"Well, I found a description of it in the Ancient database, but it isn't all translated yet. But apparently it should be able to block almost any physical attack, and most energy attacks as well. It can even protect against hard vacuum, although I'd only have enough air for a minute or two."

"Any physical attack? Like . . . a car crash?"

"Or a bullet!" Rodney quivered with excitement.

"Well, I don't have a gun," John said. Neither did any of the scientists in the room -- he wasn't sure when he'd made note of that fact, but apparently his brain was getting back into combat-readiness, because he had noticed. "What about, say, falling from a height?"

Rodney's eyes lit up wickedly. "There are balconies in the mess. No, wait -- the Gate room!"

John nodded. "Or the hatch from the jump-- the Gateship bay. That would make an impression."

They headed out into the corridor, considering ever more dramatic possibilities for testing the device. They hadn't gone far before they ran into someone John recognized. "Hey, John!" he called.

Markham turned around. He was, as John had noted at breakfast, armed with a nine-mil in a thigh holster. John guessed it went back to the seige he had heard about, with Wraith beaming in all over the city until they got the shields working. Anyone might get into the habit of going armed at all times after something like that.

"Give me your gun," John said.

Markham looked doubtful.

"C'mon, I know how to handle it," John insisted. "I just want to show McKay here something." He held out his hand.

Markham slowly unsnapped his holster and feld the gun out.

John turned and eyed McKay critically while he thumbed the safety off, then without fanfare aimed the gun on a glancing trajectory toward his left leg and fired.

The bullet bounced off the shield with a green flare and ricocheted three times before flattening itself on a wall.

Markham jumped and yelled, "What are you doing?!" and reached for his gun.

"It worked!" Rodney reported happily, patting his leg with a series of dull green glows.

"Cool," said John, grinning. He thought about trying again on a more critical area, but he didn't want to take chances with another ricochet. And it went against all of his instincts to shoot a friend in the chest, anyway.

Just then Markham grabbed him and started wrestling for the gun. "Hang on a sec," John said, wanting to get the safety set first.

"What are you doing? You're nuts!" Markham insisted, not backing off.

"He's fine, it was just an experiment," John insisted.

"So you missed! I'm not giving you a second chance to shoot an unarmed man!"

"Hey, I'm fine!" Rodney was yelling, adding to the mix.

"Okay, careful, I just want to safe it before --"

"Hold it right there!" someone yelled from down the corridor.

John turned to see the balding man from earlier -- Captain Ellison -- breathing hard as if he'd just sprinted up some stairs and aiming a gun directly at John. Surprise loosened him up enough for Markham to get the gun away, fortunately without pulling the trigger against John's finger. The lieutenant stepped back and aimed his gun at John as well.

John held up his hands. "Hey, easy, it's just a little misunderstanding --" he began.

"Oh my god, don't shoot him, he just got here, we need him!" Rodney yelled in panicked tones.

John tried instinctively to get between Rodney and the weapons, then remembered the shield and stepped aside. Maybe he should be pulling Rodney in front to protect him.

"Captain, he tried to shoot Doctor McKay," Markham said darkly.

"No he didn't!" Rodney yelled.

"I didn't," said John more quietly, trying to project calm. "It was just an experiment. We're testing an Ancient device that Dr. McKay found." His prospects for continued employment in Atlantis were looking pretty poor, and he hadn't even signed a contract yet.

"It's true!" Rodney exclaimed. "It's a personal shield, see?" He slapped at his chest and triggered a green flash. "Bullets can't hurt me. Try to shoot me and you'll see!"

"I'm more worried about them shooting me at the moment," John murmured out of the corner of his mouth.

"No one's going to shoot anyone," Ellison said, lowering his weapon. "Stand down, Lieutenant," he said, and Markham moved back.

Running footsteps heralded the arrival of the scientist with the Hawaiian shirt who had been in on the debate earlier. "Jim, are you okay?" he panted. "What happened?"

"No big deal, Chief," Ellison said. "Just a little, uh . . . disagreement."

"-- Misunderstanding," said John at the same moment.

"-- Experiment!" Rodney added, half a beat behind.

"No one's hurt," said Ellison. "Lieutenant, you can go back to work. I'll have a little talk with these two about proper gun safety protocol." He moved toward John and Rodney with eyes narrowed. John was just resigning himself to a dressing down on his first -- zeroth, actually -- day in his new job, when Ellison's nostrils flared and his eyes went wide. In a second he had his gun up again and pointed at Rodney.

"Step away from him," he said in a low voice.

"What? Wait," said John, torn between an instinct to protect Rodney and the realization that the scientist was the safest of them all if that gun went off.

Rodney was lifting his hands slowly, confused.

"Get back!" Ellison said more sharply. "He's a Goa'uld!"

"He -- what?" John was more baffled than ever.

Rodney dropped his hands, indignant. "I am not!" he yelled.

Markham, halfway along the corridor, turned back and raised his weapon as well.

"I'm not a Goa'uld!" Rodney repeated.

"Down. Get down!" Ellison shouted at him. "On the floor!"

"Now, wait a second here," John tried.

"I'm not!" Rodney insisted.

In a move too quick to follow, Ellison grabbed Rodney and threw him down to the floor. Rodney yelled incoherently, and the shield flared. Markham and the other scientist were both moving in and speaking over each other. John yelled, "Let him go!" and reached for Ellison, but the other man threw him off.

Then there was a moment of stillness: Rodney was spreadeagled on the floor with Markham's gun trained on him and Ellison's hand on the back of his neck. John, Rodney, and the other scientist were all talking at once.

Ellison pulled back suddenly and got to his feet, looking confused. "He's not," he said quietly. Then, loud enough to carry, "He's not a Goa'uld!"

Everyone shut up.

"Well, I tried to tell you!" Rodney protested, climbing to his feet and brushing himself off pointlessly.

"But . . . you were, weren't you?" said Ellison. "You have naqadah in your blood."

Rodney looked miserable. "I . . . well, yes, I might have been, sort of, you know -- possessed. But only for three days!"

"What are you talking about?" John demanded, completely baffled.

"I remember," said the second scientist suddenly. "Dr. McKay was slated to come with the expedition originally, but Colonel Carter discovered the day before our departure that he'd been implanted with a Goa'uld."

"It was removed within two days!" Rodney said.

The other scientist looked upset. "Supposedly the, uh, the Trust was trying to plant someone on the expedition."

"Wouldn't have worked," said Ellison shortly. "If Carter hadn't figured it out first, I would have."

"Guess the Trust didn't realize we'd have your abilities on our side, sir," said Markham.

John was completely baffled. What abilities? "Implanted?" he asked. "Possessed? What the hell is this?"

Rodney sighed, looking more tired than angry now. "I'll explain it later, John."

"That thing," said Ellison, waving at the device on Rodney's shirt. "That green thing -- it's interfering with the way you smell. That's why I couldn't tell it wasn't a current implantation."

Rodney patted his chest. "This is the personal shield. It can stop bullets. And energy blasts."

Ellison's eyebrows went up. "Really? Sounds useful."

"It, uh, it imprints on a single user, though," Rodney said a little diffidently. "This is the only one we've found, so far."

"And you imprinted it on a scientist?" Ellison snorted. "Typical."

Rodney pulled himself up. "I'm the one who found it, naturally I got to be the first to try it." He didn't mention that he'd found it a couple of years ago, John noticed.

Ellison turned his glower on John. "And you. You decided to test this thing with Lieutenant Markham's gun?"

John tried to look innocent. "He said it could stop bullets. If he was wrong, I would have barely winged him in the leg."

"And you knew the ricochets wouldn't hit anyone because . . . ?"

John could only wince at that, because the man definitely had a point.

Ellison sighed and rubbed at his forehead. "All right. You --" He pointed at Rodney. "Take that thing off. And you." He turned back to John and considered him with narrowed eyes. "You're joining the expedition?"

"Dr. Weir just hired me," John confirmed.

"Right. Firing range, tomorrow morning, seven o'clock. I don't care how much training you've had before, you're going to get a gun safety lecture tonight."

"Yes, sir." John sighed. Funny how this job was just like being back in the Air Force again, only he'd been busted down to lower rank than anyone else.

"Um," said Rodney. "I think I have a problem here." He was grabbing for the device on his chest, but he couldn't get to it because the shield was in the way.

Dr. Beckett wasn't particularly worried about Rodney's problem. "The gene therapy isn't instantaneous," he chided. "I'm sure I told you to wait at least twenty-four hours before trying to use any Ancient technology."

"But you also said it might start to work before that!" Rodney protested.

"Aye, but not very reliably. As ye've just found out. Most ATA therapy recipients find their control is quite shaky for the first few days, and improves slowly after that. There's a reason we don't let people try flying the Gateships for a week after getting the injection."

"A week?!" Rodney yelled.

"Fortunately," Beckett went on, "Unlike keeping a Gateship in the air, ye don't need one hundred percent reliability to get that shield to turn off. I'm sure it'll come off within the next day or two."

"That's not much better!" Rodney said. "Two days? I could starve to death."

Hardly starve, John thought. "Well, at least you'd get pretty dehydrated," he conceded, and then frowned. "Wait, can you piss with that thing on?"

Rodney looked more horrified than ever.

"See if you can spit," John urged him.

"What? I need to conserve water, here!" Rodney said.

"One spit isn't going to dry you up," said John. "But it will tell us if your bodily fluids can get out through the shield."

Rodney looked around, grabbed a little basin, and spat into it. "Ha!" he said. "That works."

"So you should at least be able to piss," John mused. "If you can open your fly, that is . . ."

Rodney groaned. "I can't. I already tried to take my shirt off, and I can't grab on to it."

Beckett was standing to one side, watching them. "There is one thing that might help ye get the shield off a bit sooner . . ." he began.

"What?" Rodney demanded. "Tell me, I'll try anything!"

The doctor shrugged. "There's been some indication that the kinds of controls people tend to have trouble with in those first few days are cases where their conscious intentions and their unconscious desires are out of line."

Rodney stared at Beckett as if he were crazy. "What, you think I subconsciously want to fall into a hypoglycemic coma?"

"Hardly that. But perhaps the shield makes ye feel a bit safer?"

John thought that sounded like a possibility, given how much shooting and other drama there had apparently been when Colonel Sheppard's strike team came through the Gate.

Rodney snorted, obviously not agreeing. "Right, danger of dehydration, starvation and soiling myself sounds just great to me. Very safe!"

Beckett sighed. "Well, if ye want, I could set up a meeting for ye with Dr. Heightmeyer, our psychologist. Identifying and resolving any such subconscious conflicts might help."

Rodney gave an elaborate sigh. "I said I'd try anything. But psychology is an even more superstitious voodoo field than medicine."

Beckett looked sour. "Why, thank ye, Rodney. So lovely to have ye back with us again -- we've missed all your sweet compliments these last two years."

So Beckett must have known Rodney fairly well before the expedition left Earth. And thinking of that made John think of the conversation they'd had on the way to the infirmary. He turned to Rodney. "Actually, I'm more worried about what you were telling me earlier, about that Goa'uld thing." He was almost certain he'd pronounced that wrong. "Does Dr. Beckett know about the trouble you had after the extraction?"

Beckett frowned. "No, I did not know. The SGC neglected to send medical records along with the new personnel who came through the Gate."

"He said he needed PT for a year afterwards," John supplied. "He could barely walk at first."

"I could walk!" Rodney corrected. "It was mostly just fine motor control that I had trouble with. Something about the timing of voluntary muscle movements in my cerebellum. But it's all healed up now!"

"If it was in your cerebellum, ye would have needed to rebuild those neural control circuits," said Beckett thoughtfully. "Once ye get that shield off, come back here and we'll do some thorough tests to see how well ye've recovered."

"I'm fine," Rodney growled, and turned a glare on John. "Thanks a lot, Benedict Arnold," he muttered.

John shrugged.

John went to lunch on his own, since Rodney was meeting with the Heightmeyer person and couldn't eat anyway. He had something that appeared to be a sandwich, but only the mustard was easily identified; the green-flecked bread, meat, and lacy lettuce stuff all unfamiliar. It tasted reasonably good, though, so he mentally marked it as one of the mess hall's better efforts and went back to ask the cooks what kind of meat it was. They called it a skeel: a large game animal from the mainland, they said, hunted by the Athosians. Uh-huh.

John was about to pass by the desserts since he wasn't really into sweet stuff, but then he hesitated. Rodney did like sweets. But Rodney couldn't eat right now. But maybe that would be fixed soon.

That was where John got the idea.

He carried the cup of vanilla-like custardy stuff back to his quarters, then headed for the lab where he'd found Rodney before. Rodney wasn't there, but one of the other scientists directed John to a different lab nearby, where he found Rodney in full voice arguing with what seemed to be ten other people. John looked more closely and realized it was actually just an argument between Rodney and the woman who'd thrown the wrench at him -- Simpson, was it? -- while lots of other people looked on. Simpson and Rodney both appeared to be releasing lots of aggression, and the onlookers probably hadn't had anything so interesting to watch in months, so John quietly propped himself against a wall and waited.

Eventually Simpson hurled out of the room after accusing Rodney of interfering with their research even though he was obviously completely ignorant of the Ancients' approach to science. Everyone else drifted away, and Rodney settled himself at a laptop and started to type furiously.

"Hey," said John behind his shoulder.

"What!" Rodney yelled, turning. "Oh, it's you."

"Yeah. How did, um . . . " No, John supposed Rodney wouldn't appreciate being asked about his appointment with the psychologist. "So, you still have the, um, thing, huh?" He waved at Rodney's green-jeweled chest.

"Of course I still have it," Rodney growled, fingers never pausing in their attack on the keyboard. "The woman is a witchdoctor. She probably keeps a collection of shriveled testicle sacs in her desk drawer."

Uh-oh. Heightmeyer must have been running the anti-man therapy groups. Maybe she was even a member, in the way that Cadman had implied someone -- men, probably the Genii that had recently taken over the city? -- had given the women good cause for their attitude. But that didn't help Rodney.

"So, uh, when do you think you'll be taking a break?" John asked.

"From what?" Rodney didn't look up from the laptop.

John waved vaguely around the room. "From . . . work?"

"Oh. Probably sometime after midnight."

"What?!" John yelped.

Rodney shrugged. "It's not as if I can have dinner. Or coffee. Or even a bathroom break. I doubt anyone here has cigarettes even if I could smoke one -- or wanted to. So I might as well keep working until I pass out from low blood suger."

"Uh . . . huh. And you don't think taking a short rest would make it possible for you to work longer?"

"No, I don't." Rodney turned his head irritably and bellowed, "Mason! Why hasn't anyone developed a decent search interface for this database?"

A voice from behind some equipment muttered, "Maybe because the Ancients were so cryptic about everything we can't even tell what most of the entries are about?"

Rodney grumbled and typed something even more vehement.

"Okay, well, see you later," said John lamely.

Rodney grunted.

John went back to his quarters and considered leaving Rodney to cope by himself. But he really didn't have anything else to do, and he was curious whether his idea would work. So he opened up the laptop Rodney had left for him that morning, figured out how to access his account, and fired off an email:

Rodney, I know how to get that thing off your chest. Come see me in my room. -John

Then he made some preparations and flopped down on the bed to wait.

And wait. And wait.

He was torn between sending Rodney another email or just saying to hell with it when the door slid open at last.

"What are you talking about?" Rodney snapped without preamble. "I have important research to do and you --" He froze, staring at John.

John stretched lazily and pushed the sheet a little lower -- he'd gotten chilly lying there in just his skin.

Rodney's mouth moved, but nothing came out.

John reached for the little dish of custard he'd set next to the bed. He swirled the spoon in it (a plastic spoon, unfortunately, which wasn't quite so sexy) and lifted it to his mouth, first licking delicately at the custard and then closing his lips around the spoon and sucking as he pulled it slowly free. He licked his lips thoughtfully. "This stuff is pretty good, actually," he said.

Rodney was still staring, face beginning to turn pink.

With the second spoonful, John accidentally-on-purpose let a little glob of custard fall onto his chest. He looked down at it with a pout. "Too bad you can't help me with that," he said. "Or with this." He ran a finger along his dick, which had gotten pretty bored waiting for Rodney but was now showing definite signs of renewed interest.

Unfortunately, it was the same hand holding the spoon, and the sharp plastic edge scraped over his balls. John yelped and jumped and fumbled the custard dish, which arced through the air, flipping over several times and splattering yellow gunk all over his thighs and the sheets before landing upside-down right on his dick.

"Um." John glanced at Rodney, who was bright red now.

A strange little squeak made it past Rodney's lips, and then he broke down completely, doubled over with laughter so hard he couldn't even speak.

"Excuse me," said John carefully. "I could use a little help here?" He lifted the pudding dish carefully, but it was too late; the custard had all escaped and was currently working its way down into the crack between his balls and his thigh.

Rodney waved a hand incoherently, still laughing. "You think that's s-s-s-sexy?" he gasped.

"Hey, it worked, didn't it?" John protested.

"What?" Rodney managed to stop laughing just long enough to give John a confused look.

John pointed at the floor, where the green brooch thing that Rodney had been wearing on his chest was now lying, dark and inert.

Rodney picked it up, staring as he turned it in his fingers.

"Hey, don't put it back on!"

"Not going to." A little dazedly, Rodney set the device on the table beside John's bed and laid a finger on the empty dish sitting next to it. "I can eat now. Food!"

"Uh, this is all I've got here." John waved at himself.

Rodney's eyes narrowed. "That's not lemon, is it? Because I'm deathly allergic to citrus."

John rolled his eyes. "I did remember that, yes. This is vanilla."

"Mmm, vanilla . . ." Rodney pounced.

It was farce as much as -- or perhaps more than -- it was sex. Rodney was genuinely bent on eating as much of the custard as he could get his lips on. John was mostly bent on not being tickled to death. He squirmed and giggled and tried to direct Rodney to areas more interesting to him, but Rodney was concentrating on the places with the most custard. Finally John flipped Rodney over and gave him the same treatment, only with a little more sex in mind, and things progressed satisfactorily from there. It was obvious that the small amount of custard that remained would not be adequate as lube, so John settled for a nice session of sixty-nine and made a mental note to make nice with some of the nurses in the infirmary.

Rodney dragged John off to a late lunch/early dinner after that. John began to worry that he was going to get fat, associating with Rodney. He'd have to find out where the Daedalus crew exercised. He suspected he'd need to get in shape a little bit before he'd be ready to work out with the Marines.

"Hey, what's the deal with Ellison?" he asked Rodney, thinking of his appointment the next morning.

"Hrmm?" said Rodney around a fat sandwich of skeel meat. He swallowed hard. "Ellison's head of security in the city."

"Okay. But which service is he in?" John didn't take the man for Air Force, but there was something about him that wasn't quite like a Marine, either.

"He'v naw," Rodney mumbled.

"He's not? But everyone calls him Captain Ellison."

"He's retired, or something. Former Navy. Or Army. Or maybe Marines, I forget. Not Air Force, I would remember that. Anyway, he's been out of the military for a while, I think."

"Huh." John was familiar with retired officers (honorably retired, at least) being called by their former rank, but not usually in a professional capacity.

Rodney downed another enormous bite and added, "He's also an ex-cop. Police captain in Portland or somewhere."

John's brows flew up. "Okay, I can see why he's suited for the security job, but what's he doing on the expedition in the first place? I mean, there aren't a lot of cops in this group, are there?"

"No, it was some complicated story." Rodney went through another round of chewing and swallowing while John waited. "The Trust wanted them for something."

"The Trust?" John remembered Markham mentioning something about that, and the other scientist's upset reaction. "Aren't they the ones who, um . . . " He waved at Rodney vaguely.

"Kidnapped and implanted me, yes. They're an offshoot of a former faction of the NID." Rodney looked for a moment as if the topic might have soured his appetite, but hunger won out and he grabbed one of the fried purple starchy sticks.

"Ah, the No Initials Department." John shook his head in puzzlement. "What the hell would they want with a police captain, though?"

"How should I know? I never understood what they wanted with an astrophysicist, after all. Anyway, Ellison and Sandburg were guests of the SGC for protection from the Trust at the time the expedition was planning to leave, and somehow they ended up volunteering. I don't really know any more than that."

"Who's Sandburg?"

Rodney sighed. "Ellison's partner? Guy with the curly hair?"

"Oh, right." That must be the color-blind scientist. "Wait, so they were police partners?" Since when did a police captain have a partner? "I thought Sandburg was a scientist."

Rodney waved two purple fries dismissively. "He's got a degree in one of the soft sciences -- archeology or something. But yes, he was a cop, the Trust kidnapped him too, and he hangs out with Ellison more than with the archeologists. Really, John, that's all I know. I met them once before the expedition left, and twice since we got here."

"Okay. I guess I can find out more if I need to." So Ellison was former military (not Air Force) and a former cop; that might give John a little guidance on how to placate the guy.

John mused that a lot of people here seemed to have long, complicated stories. He felt as if he'd stepped into the middle of a long book. Or maybe a soap opera.

After thoroughly stuffing his face, Rodney settled in happily in the labs and looked unlikely to come out until well after midnight. John killed time by wandering around the city and chatting with people. He wondered where the control chair was that Dr. Weir had mentioned; it had to be one of the restricted areas that he hadn't been allowed to see in the other Atlantis. But he wasn't really trying to find the chair. Instead, he was trying to get a feel for how things were laid out and how the diplomats, scientists, Air Force and Marines got along with or avoided each other. He still didn't know which group he might fit in with. He didn't especially care, either, but he always liked to be aware when he was trampling over some social boundary.

John was hoping to spend some quality time that night with Rodney and the lube he'd gotten from an amiable doctor who had flirted without seeming to take him too seriously. But the long Atlantis days were wearing on him, for all that Rodney seemed to be thriving. John once again fell asleep before Rodney returned from the labs.

He slept later than he'd meant to and only woke when Rodney elbowed him and mumbled at him to do something about the beeping from his watch, propped on the bedside table. There wasn't time for breakfast before meeting Ellison, but that was all right; John didn't usually eat much in the morning, anyway.

His explorations last night had given him a rough idea of where he was headed, but he didn't know exactly. He met Teyla heading in the same direction and asked her if she could show him the way to the firing range. She considered gravely a moment before nodding and saying it was on her way. John suspected he could learn a lot about tiptoeing over social boundaries from Teyla, but she didn't seem much inclined to speak to him or even look at him. Another member of the anti-man club, maybe -- which was a shame, because he'd really liked the Teyla in the other universe.

"So, uh, I haven't seen Ronon in this universe," he said carefully. He hoped he wasn't reminding her of a recent loss or something -- the last thing he needed to do was give Teyla more reason to dislike him.

But she only cocked an eyebrow at him. "I am not familiar with any Ronon."

"Tall guy, not from Earth? Dreadlocks? Cool ray gun?"

She shook her head. "Halling, one of my fellow Athosians, is quite tall, but he carries no weapon."

"Huh. I guess maybe Ronon didn't make it to Atlantis in this version of things."

John wondered where the big man was and if his life was going better or worse than in the other dimension. He hadn't really had a chance to get to know that other Ronon, but he knew Rodney cared about him as a member of his team. And Ronon seemed to have a dry sense of humor which appealed to John. He could have used a buddy here who was even more of a misfit than he was.

Teyla led him to a sort of open arcade area on one of the piers. It had a sheltering arched roof and long, pillared walkways, but it was open to the wind from the sea. "Over there is the target range where the military people practice firing their weapons," she said. "Captain Ellison insisted that it should be out of doors."

John shrugged. "It's an easy way to get good ventilation."

"In that building --" She gestured at a domed structure that was less tall than most in Atlantis, maybe only four stories "-- are many rooms where people practice hand-to-hand and knife fighting. Every other morning, I teach the Athosian stick-fighting method to those who wish to learn it."

"That sounds cool," John said. Maybe this Teyla was approachable after all, with appropriate precautions.

"You may attend if you wish," she said coolly. "I believe you will find Captain Ellison at the end of the range, that way." She pointed.

"Great. Thanks a lot!" He smiled at her, but not too warmly. He wasn't trying to suggest anything, or even flirting with her. His reserve won him a faint smile before she left.

The firing range, when John finally found it (or rather, realized what was in front of his eyes), was a pleasant surprise. The sea breeze whipped away the gunsmoke almost before he smelled it, and some trick of the surrounding architecture muted the cracking sounds instead of echoing them. He was a little concerned at first that it would be hard to see someone approaching the target area, but gradually his eyes picked out the barriers and warning lights and other precautions. It would be a nice place to spend the morning shooting.

The shots he'd heard were coming from a couple of Marines who seemed to be in an impromptu competition. The curly-haired scientist -- Sandburg -- was standing back a short distance watching them idly. His blue-paneled jacket was zipped up against the cool morning air, but a plaid flannel shirt collar peeked out at the top.

Ellison was further back, discussing something with Bates the quartermaster. He glanced up as John approached, but didn't interrupt his conversation.

So John smiled at Sandburg and said, "We didn't get a chance to say hello yesterday. I'm John Sheppard."

The guy had an easy smile that made him look younger than he was. "Blair Sandburg."

"You're, uh, part of the science team?" John asked, waving at the blue jacket. In his experience, most of them were quick to identify themselves as "Doctor."

"Yeah, I'm an anthropologist," Sandburg said. "But I also help Jim out with the security side of things."

"Are you really an ex-cop?"

Sandburg's grin went a little twisted -- ironic or regretful or something. "Detective first class, Cascade PD."

John shook his head in wonder. "Anthropologist to detective to . . . here. That must be a hell of a story."

"Too long for today," Ellison put in behind him. "Right now I want to see how you handle these, Sheppard. You were Air Force, right?"

"Right." John sighed and applied himself to breaking down, checking, and re-assembling first a nine-millimeter, then a P-90, then a saw.

Instead of lecturing John, Ellison made him describe everything he was doing and why and how he might do it differently in other circumstances. It wasn't too onerous, but John was waiting for the moment when he'd get to use the guns instead. The Marines down the line, apparently done with their match, were watching to see how the new guy did. Bates and Sandburg were also still hovering somewhere in the background. John took a deep breath, centered himself, then lifted the P-90 and let old training take over.

It wasn't his best score, but with each weapon he got every shot in the target and almost all of them in the kill zone. He set down the nine-mil (which he'd saved for last), cocked his head, and considered the tattered target. "I'm a little rusty," he conceded with an apologetic grin at Ellison. "Haven't touched a gun in a couple of years."

One of the Marines swore.

Ellison said nothing, but turned to the counter behind them and picked up another weapon John had never seen before, an S-shaped alien thing reminiscent of a coiled snake.

"Ever used one of these?" said Ellison, handing it over.

John shook his head. He turned the thing around thoughtfully and found the right place to grip it, but he couldn't still see any obvious controls.

"Zat'nik'tel. Weapon of the Goa'uld."

John flinched and nearly dropped it. What he'd heard of the Goa'uld was not nice at all.

Ellison went on, "The SGC has a lot of them. Colonel Sheppard --" The emphasis was unmistakable "-- and his team brought nine of these through the Gate a few days ago. We're getting our people trained on them. Useful weapons." Patiently, Ellison showed John the hidden controls to let him arm and fire the weapon and explained its quirks; apparently, it could be either a stunning or a killing weapon, and also effective on some kinds of machines. "Not much use aiming it at a paper target, though. We're trying to set up something that will give us a feel for how it aims at real people and objects."

"If it's some sort of electrical charge, maybe a metal object would work," John suggested.

"It would, except half the stuff that looks like metal around here doesn't conduct electricity, and some of the stuff that looks like plastic does." Ellison sounded weary of the problem.

Sandburg put in, "We also have to make sure it isn't something that's going to retain a charge and zap the next person who touches it."

"Ouch," John said.

"Right. Okay, now these are a little safer." Ellison pointed to an array of several other alien weapons on the counter. "Wraith stun guns."

Sandburg added, "The Wraith like their prey alive, so these things don't kill, short of a freak accident like breaking your neck when you go down or something. We think the different shapes come from different hives."

"Think?" John asked. "Don't you know?"

"Some of these weapons are second-hand," Sandburg explained, "by way of the Genii. So they might just be an older model, or they might have come from a different part of the galaxy, or maybe they have a slightly different purpose."

Ellison picked up the thread of the explanation smoothly. They were obviously very used to working together, from the way they bounced conversation back and forth. "They all work pretty much the same way. In general, the bigger ones have longer range. We've seen some Wraith weapons that can take down groups of people, but we don't have any of those yet. At best, these ones can stun two people standing nearly in line with each other, but no more than that. Sometimes you might need to use more than one shot to bring down a person that's really big or drugged up --"

"Or a Wraith," Sandburg said.

"Right. Or someone further out toward the end of your range. Don't hesitate to shoot twice if you have to, with these weapons." He showed John the controls for each of the Wraith guns.

"We do have a target set up for the stun guns," Sandburg said, pointing at a weird little device off to the side of the range. It had a sort of rectangular box set upright in the center like a torso, and four arms (or two arms and two legs, maybe) sticking out from the corners. "The arm things are electrical, and the stunner disrupts them without destroying the circuit -- sort of the same way it affects human nerves. We tried a zat gun on this target, but it fried the circuits so we couldn't re-use it. So we're still looking for good zat targets."

"Problem is," Ellison went on, "we don't have a way of recharging the Wraith stunners yet. So we can't really spare a lot for target practice." He handed John one of the larger rifle-type weapons. "Just one or two shots, to get the hang of it."

John aimed the long barrel carefully and fired at the target. The four "arms" jerked satisfyingly and then hung limp. "Cool," he drawled with a grin.

Ellison pressed a button that made the target's arms stiffen again, then handed John a smaller Wraith stun pistol. This time John's shot only made the top two arms fall.

"You're using the top of the barrel to aim, but it's tapered, so you shot high," Ellison pointed out. "Common mistake. Also, remember the beam path is always straight so you don't need to adjust the angle for distance like you do for a bullet. Don't sight along the gun; just try to dead-aim the center of the barrel." He reset the target again.

John studied the weapon more closely and adjusted his grip a little, then tried again. This time all four arms spasmed and fell.

"Good," said Ellison.

"You picked that up really fast," Sandburg pointed out.

John shrugged. He didn't expect compliments and stroking from a weapons instructor, but a little admiration was always nice. Maybe he'd been a civilian too long, getting soft enough to like that sort of thing.

"That's all the ammo and charge we can afford for now." Ellison started packing the various weapons away.

"You should see if McKay can help you with that recharging thing," said John. "I bet he could rig something up for you. And he might have an idea on targets for the zat guns, too."

"What kind of scientist is he, again?" Ellison asked.

John had to think for a second. "Astrophysicist, I think. But really he's just a genius with any kind of technology. I haven't seen anything he can't do, except, um --"

"Things that require diplomacy and charm?" Sandburg suggested.

"I was going to say, things he doesn't think are important," John said mildly. But he grinned to let Sandburg know there was no offense.

Ellison was signing the weapons back over to the quartermaster's care.

"Am I done here, sir?" John asked.

Ellison shot him a sharp glance. "You don't need my permission to go."

John shrugged. "No, but I understand offending you would be a bad idea. And we did get off on the wrong foot there."

Ellison's stern expression eased to something with a little humor in it. "We're fine, Sheppard. You're cleared to sign out a weapon if you're going offworld."

Yeah, and how likely is that? John wondered. But he just nodded to Ellison in lieu of a salute and started back toward the core buildings with lunch in mind.

He was still walking along the arcade which held the firing range when footsteps jogged up behind him. "Hey, Sheppard!"

He turned to find one of the Marines who'd been watching him shoot, a young black man with an infectious grin. He gave the guy a careful smile, again wishing the expedition uniforms had some indication of name or rank. "Looks like you have me at an advantage," he said pleasantly.

"I'm Lieutenant Ford," said the Marine. "I used to be on Captain O'Neill's off-world team."

John nodded understanding. That was the primary gate team of the Atlantis expedition, analogous to SG-1 (or Colonel Sheppard's team in the other universe) and just as trouble-prone. He'd heard enough stories to have an idea of what that meant. "Used to be?" he asked.

"I'm going to be leading my own team now," said Ford proudly. "And I need a pilot -- someone with the gene. O'Neill says you're pretty good."

John blinked. Okay, apparently he would have opportunities to go off-world after all. Rodney would be jealous . . . he hesitated at that thought. "Do you need a scientist too? McKay's pretty good with Ancient technology. All kinds of technology, actually." And for all that Rodney complained incessantly, his counterpart's performance in the other universe showed that he had what it took to face up to anything. John knew Rodney would love to be on one of the gate teams, and would probably be pretty good at it, too.

Ford looked surprised. "Well, no, actually I asked Lieutenant Hailey if she'd be interested in joining. She's supposed to be some kind of science whiz, plus she's already combat trained and has Gate team experience from the SGC."

John remembered that Hailey had said something about the Air Force wanting her for her brain enough to overlook her lack of height.

Ford's brow wrinkled. "What's with you and McKay, anyway? I remember him from Antarctica before the expedition headed out, and he was a major pain in the ass. Nobody got along with him -- but you do."

John shrugged. "McKay's all bark. He's a good guy underneath. In the other universe . . ." He hesitated, not sure what to say. It didn't really prove anything, since the correspondences weren't exact, but he just had the feeling this Rodney could be as much of an asset as the other one was -- maybe even more. And he felt a sort of kinship, too; Rodney had missed his opportunity to be the expedition's head of science, just like John had missed the chance to become Colonel Sheppard. "I guess we just got to be friends," he finished lamely.

A snort off to the side made him turn his head. The other Marine -- the one Ford had had the shooting match with -- was leaning against a pillar and sneering. "Friends, right. I heard that one before." He stepped away from the pillar and loomed closer to flank John. "I also heard you had a dishonorable discharge. Wonder why that was?"

John tensed as he felt alarm start to coil in his gut. He'd gotten roughed up pretty bad at the Academy once after making a pass at the wrong guy. At the time, he'd felt lucky that word hadn't spread far enough to get him kicked out entirely -- but the beating wasn't fun, and he didn't particularly want another one now. "Does it matter?" he asked calmly. "I'm a civilian now. No law against making friends with anyone."

He glanced at Ford and saw the young lieutenant was looking uncomfortable, but making no move to stop the other guy. John felt obscurely disappointed by that. An officer -- even a junior one -- ought to be better than that. But then, maybe he was wrong in guessing the second man had lower rank.

"Matters to me," rumbled the big Marine. "We got enough fudge-packers around here already." He glanced over his shoulder. "Hey, Sarge, check it out! It's another cocksucker."

John's eyes flicked back to see Sergeant Bates, the unfriendly quartermaster, heading their way. If the Marine was right about Bates's attitude, that made two hostiles and one undecided. Not odds that John liked.

"I don't see why you should care," he went on as casually as possible, plotting escape routes in his mind. "Seems like you have bigger problems to think about in this galaxy, huh?" His best plan might be to go off the edge of the pier, less than a hundred yards away. He wondered how cold the water was.

"I don't like thinking I got packed off on this expedition with a bunch of weirdos and fags no one else wanted," the Marine growled. "We get back to Earth, my reputation's gonna be ruined."

Bates came up on the Marine's other side. He didn't say anything, but his disapproving look was directed at John, not the heckler.

"SGC already thinks you folks are heroes," John said as convincingly as he could, while trying to figure out if there was any Ancient technology nearby he could use to his advantage. "Besides, look at it this way: more women for the rest of you, right?"

Bates laughed, not pleasantly. Ford stirred and said, "He has a point there, Lanzetti."

John pressed that argument, since it seemed effective. "The gender ratio here is what, four to one? Maybe five to one? I came through the wormhole a couple days ago with seven people." It hadn't really been him, of course, but he was guessing Lanzetti wouldn't have picked up the finer points of the story. "That's two women, two guys who aren't going to be staying on Atlantis, me and McKay, and one other officer. If the last guy is straight, your dating pool is still up by one woman. But if McKay and I were straight, you'd be down by one woman, and you can't afford that. So see, I'm doing you a favor by hooking up with McKay!"

Lanzetti was staring at him with furrowed brow, as if the simple logic was beyond him. "You sayin' I can't pull a woman better than a dick-loving queer?" was his eventual response.

"Uh . . . " There were so many wrong assumptions there John didn't even know where to begin.

Lanzetti's hands were clenching into fists now; so much for calming the guy with logic. Bates still looked stony, and Ford was starting to shift nervously. "Give it up, Lanzetti," said the lieutenant. "You're not going to change the world by glaring at it."

Lanzetti transferred his glare to Ford. "I just don't see why the homos get all the good Gate team spots."

Ford laughed. "Forget him, I'll find another pilot. Come on, man, take it easy. I still have another position to fill, you know, but you need to be able to make nice with people from other cultures."

"Yeah, like the butt-fucking culture?" Lanzetti grumbled, but he wasn't looming so much and his hands weren't fisted anymore.

Ford punched the taller man in the arm. "There's some weird shit out there, man, seriously. I can tell you about this one time . . ." He led Lanzetti away, still talking.

John let a relieved breath trickle past his lips, but didn't relax quite yet. "Well, Sergeant? You got a problem with what I do in the bedroom?"

Bates glowered. "Which bedroom?"

"Huh?"

"If you and McKay are shacked up together, which room are you using? 'Cause I need to mark the other one as unoccupied."

"Oh! Uh . . ." John deflated a little. "We're in the room that was assigned to me. But we could use a larger place, if, uh, if one becomes available."

Bates eyed him like an eagle watching a rabbit. "I'll keep that in mind." Then he turned and followed Ford away.

John sagged back against a pillar, finally letting himself breathe. "Okay, that sucked," he muttered to himself. He was going to have to start compiling a mental list of people not to be caught alone with in dark hallways. He wondered if he should warn Rodney, as well. Surely the scientists would be more easygoing about such things?

"Nice job," said a voice.

John jumped. "Shit!" He needed to stop letting people sneak up on him; his reflexes were way too rusty.

"Sorry," said Ellison, not very sincerely. "Good work handling those guys," he said with jerk of the head in the direction the other three had gone.

"Yeah, seriously, man," said Sandburg, appearing behind Ellison's shoulder. "I was gonna stop them, but Jim wanted to see how you would handle it."

"Gee, thanks," John said dryly. "I nearly handled it by jumping into the drink."

"It wouldn't have gotten that serious," Ellison said.

"Well, I'm glad you're sure of that." John was starting to feel a little annoyed. Why the hell was the head of security watching the new guy handle a potentially explosive situation instead of doing something about it?

"No, Jim's right, man," Sandburg insisted. "They know if they try any gay-bashing they'll catch hell from Elizabeth and Jack -- I mean, Dr. Weir and Captain O'Neill. Not to mention Jim. Nobody here would put up with that kind of bullshit."

"Ford could have tried to defuse it earlier," John said.

Sandburg winced. "Aiden's okay, he's just not as smart as he thinks he is."

"He's also not the only one building a team," said Ellison. "Sandburg and I don't go offworld much, but we do a lot of stuff in the city and on the mainland that would go better if we have a regular team instead of grabbing whoever's available from the roster. We could use a pilot and a scientist."

"Yeah, especially if McKay's as good with the tech as you say he is," Sandburg said. "I read Ancient and I can usually figure out what their stuff is for, but I can't get it working if it's broken."

"And you both have the gene," Ellison continued. "You have the strong one, and McKay got the therapy."

Sandburg sighed. "Jim wouldn't let me get the therapy."

The corner of Ellison's mouth twitched upward. "And Blair wouldn't let me get it, either."

John looked between the two of them in surprise as Sandburg rounded on his partner. "Are you kidding, man? Do you have any idea how that retrovirus could mess up your senses? It's totally not worth --"

Ellison held up a hand to silence his friend. "Think about it," he said to John. "Talk to McKay about it. You can give me your answer later."

A little dazed by recent events -- harassment and two team offers in the space of a few minutes -- John decided to walk back to the central spire instead of taking a transporter. Rodney wasn't in their room anymore, so John wandered to the mess hall and found him shoveling down a plate of food. John sat across from him and just stared.

After a moment, Rodney looked up. "What?" He studied his plate, then the empty table in front of John. "Where's your breakfast?"

"Not hungry," John said.

"Oh, for -- here, eat this. I'll grab another later." Rodney shoved a roll at him.

The dough turned out to be bagel-like, dense and chewy. The slow chewing it required helped focus John's mind. "What would you do if you were offered a spot on a Gate team?" he asked.

Rodney gave him a sharp look. "Someone's already trying to snap up the hot new pilot, huh?"

"No, I -- well, yeah, but --"

"How many offers have you had?" Rodney asked. He didn't seemed surprised, but he wasn't particularly happy about it either.

"Two."

"Not from O'Neill, I assume," Rodney said. "His team's the best, but he doesn't need your gene or your piloting ability. Well, I guess you should look at the kind of missions each team would get, and whether you trust the team leader."

John shook his head. "No, wait, hang on -- I'm not trying to decide which one. Actually, the first offer was, uh, withdrawn. I'm trying to figure out whether or not to say yes to the second one."

Rodney blinked. "Why wouldn't you? Danger, excitement, lots of chances to be a heroic idiot -- sounds right up your alley." His tone was getting sharper by the minute.

"So, but if it was you, you'd say no, right?"

Rodney dropped his gaze unhappily to his plate and started scraping up the last fragments of food. "I'm not sure. I could do without the danger and hardship -- I like coming back to my own bed every night. But the chances for discovery, for finding new things and figuring them out before anyone else? That would be hard to pass up." He shook his head. "But no one will want me on their team, anyway, so it's a moot point."

"Rodney. The offer's for both of us."

Rodney stared.

"It's Ellison's team -- the other two would be Ellison and Sandburg -- and apparently they mostly stay on-planet. So I guess you could sleep in your own bed every night." Our own bed, John thought, but didn't correct himself.

Rodney's eyes narrowed a little. "What do they want me for, then?"

"Hey, good, there you are!" came a cheerful voice. Sandburg slid into the seat next to John. "I was looking for you guys." He grinned at Rodney. "Hi, I know we haven't officially been introduced. Dr. Blair Sandburg, anthropology."

Rodney shook his hand. "Uh, Dr. Rodney McKay, astrophysics."

John ducked his head to hide a smile at the scientist-dominance ritual.

"So, Jim and I thought -- okay, actually, I thought -- that you guys might need some more information while you're trying to make a decision."

John grinned. "Rodney was just wondering what you want us for."

Sandburg looked surprised. "Are you kidding? Do you know how many times in the last couple of years I've heard some one say 'if Dr. McKay was here, this would be fixed in two hours instead of two days?'"

Rodney's chin tilted up. "Well, naturally, uh . . ." He wavered a little. "Did someone really say that?"

"Sure! Dr. Grodin, and Dr. Zelenka before he died --"

"Who?"

"The Czech engineer?"

"Oh, yes, I heard . . . um, yes, he was quite good."

"I think even Dr. Kavanagh said something about Dr. McKay would have handled it better, and he never said anything nice about anybody!"

John felt a little weird, hearing someone talk about one of the guys whose clothes he was wearing. "And me?" he asked. "What do you need me for?"

Sandburg beamed at him. "Hey, you're Mr. Supergene! I hear the Ancient devices love you almost as much as Jack."

John blinked. "Well, I guess . . ."

"And even Jim couldn't object to your performance at the range this morning. That was poetry, oh man -- the look on Lanzetti's face!"

Rodney looked over at him. "I didn't hear about that."

John shrugged modestly. "I used to have sharpshooting qualifications with several weapons. I'm a little rusty now, but I guess I still have enough of the mojo to surprise a couple of Marines who were betting against me."

"So that's what we have to gain from associating with you guys," Sandburg said. "That and having a regular team so we don't have to schedule our exploration work around the Marines' duty roster. What about you? What do you need from us, anything you want to know?"

"Well," John drawled, at the same moment that Rodney began, "Just yesterday, we were discussing --"

They stopped and looked at each other, and Rodney waved for John to continue. John gave him a suspicious look -- since when are you this nice? -- and Rodney rolled his eyes: I can be polite if I feel like it!

Sandburg's gaze ping-ponged curiously between the two of them.

John cleared his throat, still a little wound up from the confrontation earlier. "Well, uh, before, you seemed to be -- that is, you and, uh, Captain Ellison were sort of implying -- I mean, it was like you wanted me to think . . ."

"We're together." Sandburg bobbed his head. "Sure. Everyone knows it."

Rodney gaped at John. "I could have told you that, if I'd known you wanted to know!"

"Actually," Sandburg continued, "Jim and I are one of three married couples on the expedition. The others are straight couples -- one pair married before coming out here, and one since."

John blinked rapidly. "Married?"

"Uh-huh." Sandburg grinned broadly. "We took time off work in February of oh-four to run down to San Francisco and make it official. So it's legal, even!"

"Weren't those marriages overturned later on?" John asked.

Sandburg's face fell. "Were they, really? I mean, there was talk about it, but no official action by the time we left Earth."

"Yeah, I think, um, later that fall. Election year politics." John shrugged apologetically.

"Oh, hey, you guys know how the elections went, don't you? It was too early to cast absentee ballots when we left -- I was so mad about not getting to vote. Did Hayes get re-elected?"

"Yes, thank god," said Rodney.

Sandburg turned on him. "What do you mean? The man's a total hypocrite, always pandering to his conservative base instead of doing what he knows is the right thing, morally and ecologically."

"But he's been very good to the Stargate program," Rodney pointed out. "Can you imagine what would have happened to us if the other guy had gotten in?"

"But Hayes is such a dickwad! I was hoping he'd get kicked out on his ass, for the good of the country."

"All politics is local," said John diplomatically. "I voted against Hayes, but if I'd been involved in the Stargate program, I might have chosen differently."

"If politics is local, why are we arguing about what happened two years ago in another galaxy?" Rodney said sourly.

Sandburg snickered. "Okay, you got a point, man." He turned to John appealingly. "But did they really invalidate all those marriages? That sucks!"

"They did, but the next year Massachusetts legalized gay marriage."

"For residents only," Rodney pointed out. "Of course, it's been legal in Canada for years."

"For citizens only," John parroted back.

Sandburg sighed. "Well, that kinda sucks. But I guess it doesn't really make much difference on a practical level, where we're at now. It was such a buzz, though, you know, all those gay couples lining up around the block, waiting for hours, some in tuxedos and some in T-shirts. I felt like I knew what the Summer of Love must have been like -- that's when I was born, y'know, and I've always sort of felt like I belonged back then. Of course --" He gave an ironic sideways dip of his head "-- the honeymoon didn't go any better than our other vacations. That was when the Trust got hold of us, actually." He frowned.

John leaned forward. "And they wanted you because . . . ?"

"Because of Jim's abilities, of course."

Rodney snapped his fingers. "Right, right, I remember. Ellison's supposed to be psychic or something, isn't he?"

"No man, not like that. It's all perfectly explainable with science!"

Rodney glared. "We have consistent scientific explanations for many supposedly psychic phenomena. The Ancients, as they got closer to ascension, were able to --"

"Hang on," John interrupted. "The Ancients are cool and all, but I'd rather hear about what Ellison can do. You said it's different?" He looked back to Sandburg.

"He has enhanced senses. The normal five senses that we all have, but in Jim's case they're way more sensitive. And sometimes, especially when he gets his synesthesia thing going, it almost does look like he's psychic, but really these are all perfectly natural, uh, physical phenomena."

John frowned. "So, you're saying he can just see and hear really well?"

"And smell and taste and feel, yeah. Like, for example, this morning he told me about your, um, your conversation with Aiden while were standing a couple hundred yards away. And the other day?" He turned to Rodney. "Jim could smell the naqadah in your blood, but because of that shield thing you were wearing he couldn't tell it was a low concentration from a former implantation."

Rodney looked skeptical. "Of course -- he smelled my history as a Goa'uld host. He didn't, oh, say, hear about it sometime in the past two years from someone who knew me and then use that knowledge to beef up his reputation."

Sandburg looked offended. "He wouldn't do that, man!"

"Wait a second." John frowned at Rodney. "You have no problem with psychic abilities in people who are about to be raptured up to heaven--"

"Ascension isn't the same as rapture!" Rodney objected.

John didn't stop. "-- And you yourself were possessed by an alien snake-parasite-thing, and I just got back from an alternate universe, and we're sitting here in a mythical city in another galaxy for god's sake, and you don't believe Ellison has supersmell?"

Rodney sniffed. "Well, when you put it that way . . ."

"C'mon, Rodney, just let the man finish his explanation!"

Sandburg shrugged. "Well, that's really about it. Jim's senses are enhanced, and that gives him an edge. He had a great reputation in the Cascade PD, so apparently the Trust thought he was too high-profile to kidnap. But when we took our trip to San Francisco, some idiot decided the gay thing meant that Jim's co-workers wouldn't care if the two of us never came back. So they kidnapped us."

"Why both of you?" Rodney asked, interested despite his show of disbelief.

"Oh, me, well, I help Jim cope with the senses. Sometimes all that extra input gets really overwhelming, you know, and it helps to have someone familiar around to focus on. And then there are weird side effects sometimes -- atypical drug reactions, synesthesia like I mentioned, unexpected stress responses, that sort of thing. I help with all that. I'm sort of the leading expert in the Sentinel phenomenon --"

"What's that?" John asked.

"Sentinels are people like Jim, with all five senses enhanced. As opposed to, say, perfumiers or wine-tasters who just have one or two enhanced senses. Okay, so the Trust took both of us and I guess they planned to, like, use us against each other or something." Sandburg grimaced. "They wanted to do experiments on Jim, supposedly so they could try to induce Sentinel abilities in their own people and make some kind of supersoldier. But really I think some of those guys were just sadists." Sandburg's hands, which had been gesturing animatedly for the first part of the story, curled into fists and then disappeared under the table into his lap.

"You don't have to tell us any more if it bugs you," John said. He'd seen POWs have the same trouble trying to tell their stories.

"No, it's okay. Fortunately, they only had us for a few days. The guys back in Cascade found out we were missing sooner than expected, and when they came looking for us they hooked up with another group from the SGC who were just about ready to make a raid on the Trust. Meanwhile, Jim and I were trying to make escape plans, but we hadn't figured out yet how to get through all the layers of security. Jim heard the raid starting and figured that was a good time to put our plans into action."

"And that's when you two ended up at the SGC," Rodney said, putting it together.

"Well, first we tried going back to Cascade, but there was another kidnapping attempt almost right away. So we went to Colorado to try to help the SGC deal with these jerks, and to testify if needed. But it got complicated with one thing and another and it took longer than we expected, and for a while we were almost afraid we'd have to live in a fortress the rest of our lives just to stay out of their hands. Then we heard about the Atlantis expedition, and Dr. Weir invited us both along, and well . . . here we are!"

John looked across at Rodney, who looked almost as overwhelmed as he was by the flood of words. "So . . . okay, thanks for the background. I was curious about that."

Rodney added impatiently, "Yes, but what does it have to do with us, here and now?"

"Right. Ellison's head of security, so I can see why the senses would help with that." John remembered how Ellison had arrived panting on the scene where he shot Rodney, as if he'd heard it and come running from far away. "What else?"

Sandburg considered. "Well, he has some trouble with Gate travel. Turns out it's hard for him to adjust to a new planet -- different sunlight, different gravity, different atmosphere, weird smells and plants and things. So we don't go offworld a lot. Only when there's enough time for Jim to make an adjustment." He looked at the two of them. "But there's plenty to explore on this planet! We still haven't finished checking out all of the city yet, even!"

"And that's mostly what you do?" John asked. It didn't sound like a lot of opportunities for flying, to him.

"Well, we've been trying to do some exploring twice a week, but lately it's been more like once a week. Right now we're working on the southeast pier, one building at a time. Mostly it's residential, but here and there we find labs or offices or meeting rooms . . ."

"That could be interesting," Rodney said. "You must find a lot of new technology and devices left behind by the Ancients."

"Right. Most of the places have been cleared out, but then the weirdest stuff will be left behind -- maybe forgotten, we're not sure. Sometimes it takes the scientists weeks to figure out what it is -- we're hoping you can help with that, Dr. McKay. One thing that's weird is, we haven't found any stores. No shops or groceries or even restaurants. There aren't any. So we've been trying to figure out how their economy --"

"And that's it?" John put in. "Exploring the city a couple times a week?"

"Oh, no, there's plenty of other stuff too. Jim goes out to the mainland a lot, helping the Athosians with identifying new settlement areas, figuring out which grains are edible and where to look for game or dig a well, that sort of thing." Sandburg smiled at John. "So there would be some flying for that. And we've been also working with the geologists on mapping the whole planet. We have continental-scale maps already, and some more detailed ones from the Ancient database. But you know, rivers and vegetation patterns and such have changed in the last ten thousand years."

"Why would Ellison be involved in that?" Rodney said.

Sandburg looked sheepish. "Well, I kinda volunteered him for it. I got to talking with one of the geologists and I pointed out how Jim's senses could help a lot with their project -- he can search large areas visually a lot faster than their best cameras, so he can tell them where to look for what they're interested in. And so we sort of got dragged into helping with it. But it's been going pretty slowly since it's hard to schedule Gateship time with a competent pilot." He shrugged. "So you see, you guys could help us out a lot. And I think you'd find it pretty interesting. Sometimes we do go off-world, too -- we just don't get into the high-profile first-contact stuff that Jack's team specializes in."

"Not so much danger and hardship, huh?" John drawled, looking at Rodney significantly.

Rodney met his gaze. "Sleeping in our own beds most nights."

John nodded acknowledgment and turned to Sandburg. "Sounds good to us."

Rodney added, "We'll do it. At least on a trial basis."

Sandburg blinked and looked between them. "Okay! Well . . . great! I'll tell Jim you said yes."

When Sandburg had left, John leaned back in his chair. All the talk had made him thirsty, but he didn't feel like getting into the food line. "Super senses," he mused. "Aliens that take control of people's bodies, and other aliens that suck the life out of people . . . not to mention the psychic aliens that invented interplanetary travel and built a mythical city and all that." He shook his head in wonder. "When did my life turn into a bad science fiction movie?"

Rodney rolled his eyes. "I don't know, maybe when you traveled to another galaxy?"

"Yeah, but see, I never made that choice. I was kidnapped. Or body-snatched. Or whatever." It was like he'd fallen down a rabbit hole and when he finally climbed out -- or was pulled -- he'd found the world turned upside-down.

"Well, you're here now. We just have to do our best to make this into a good science fiction story. The kind anyone wishes they could be in."

"With a happy ending?" John asked.

Rodney smiled at him a little sappily. "And maybe a love story thrown in on the side."

"Sounds good to me." John stole the last swallow of Rodney's coffee.

(Not Really) The End