Old Malt, Generals and Physicists.

A/N : So I wrote this as a tag to Outcast because Sheppard looked so wretched at the SGC, before going to see his brother... So I made him angsty, and brought some friendly McKay to draw him out of his funk.

I'm working on posting my SGA fic here but until I do, if you want to read more of mine, check out my LJ: http (:) (/) aries_taurus (dot) livejournal (dot) com.

I've had the occasional beer with my team or with Ronon on days off. I make a point of not drinking off-world, with the occasional exception of Roos wine, with the Athosians. I made the mistake of assuming it was like Earth wine only once. I was got pretty drunk that time and Teyla had a good laugh at my expense, or rather at my disgustingly hung-over self.

Today, I want to get drunk and not just a little. I want to get piss-assed drunk out of my skull, to get completely, thoroughly wasted, smashed, shit-faced even and I'm willing to regret it for at least a week.

Because I just can't take any more.

I told Rodney I'm fine. We both knew what a load of crap that was. I'm not fine. I haven't been in a long time. I've lost too many friends—too many comrades in arms—and killed too many souls, including my own.

And now, I've lost dad and I guess it was the proverbial straw. It's funny how we tend to think physical distance equals emotional. It doesn't. I hadn't spoken to him in a lot of years and still the news of his death hit me full on like a sucker-punch. My brother's words sent me reeling, just for good measure. I fixed that but that's too small a comfort right now.

I learned the hard way that no matter how grown up you think you are, you're always your dad's son and losing him hurts in a way I thought I could never be hurt again. Maybe it's because of regret. Dave said I could have patched things up, if I'd bothered to show up. Some part of me argues that he could have done the same, that he's as much to blame as I am, maybe more so because parents are supposed to know better. We were a lot alike in our stubbornness.

All that introspection doesn't alter the fact I want to drink myself into oblivion. I know it won't change anything other than make me hurt and wish I'd had the sense not to do it. Maybe I just need to lose control for a bit. I know how wrong that sounds; needing booze to let go. If I was in the habit of doing that, then maybe this whole self-analysis would be worth it, but I'm not, so... No, this is just fear talking. At least I think it is.

"Screw this," I growl, shoving off my bunk. I've got a day left before I have to get back and Ronon isn't here to make me grow a conscience, which makes me kinda glad I sent him home.

If I'm going to get loaded, I'm not doing it hiding in the VOQ, under tons and tons of rock. I stop dead as soon as I'm in the corridor. What, I'm going to take a cab into Colorado Springs, find myself a bar and risk saying things I shouldn't about other galaxies and life-sucking aliens? I stand a better chance of getting hauled off to the loony-bin than actually compromising security, but still…

I run a frustrated hand through my hair, staring wildly at the walls.

"Colonel."

I straighten up and snap to. "General O'Neill, sir!"

"Oh, relax, Sheppard," he tells me, waving a hand. "I just dropped in for an update and, ah, I was looking for you, actually."

"What can I do for you, sir?" I ask, wary. I never quite know how to act around O'Neill. He's so… not General-like…

"Actually, I think I can do something for you," he says, features cryptic. "Heading off-base?" He cocks his head towards the elevator, eyeing my civvies.

I shift on my feet, tossing my head. "Yeah, well… No. Actually, I'm not really sure, sir."

O'Neill smiles at me, his expression almost wicked. "Maybe I can help," he states. Uncrossing his hands from behind his back, he produces a bottle of well-aged whiskey. "I thought you could use something stronger than beer."

I open my mouth to reply but nothing comes out. I swallow and try again. "How…"

O'Neill smiles knowingly, studying me with indulgence and just a hint of... satisfaction? "Oh, I don't know…I led SG-1 for eight-odd years, the SGC for about one and I've still got my feet tangled into it somehow. I think that gives me a, shall I say, unique perspective into your situation. Add family to the mix… So I figured you not only could use a drink, or more likely a few drinks, but also someplace to go to have said drinks. So here I am," he says, eyebrows almost waggling at me.

I work my mouth fruitlessly again, shaking my head. "Lead the way, sir," I finally answer.

"Nice digs, sir," I comment, making myself at home, as he suggested.

"Thank you. There's chips and popcorn, pizza place is speed-dial number one," he says, dressed in his own civvies, bomber jacket thrown over a shoulder.

My eyebrows climb a bit. "You're not staying?"

He turns to me, matter-of-factly.

"Sheppard. Seriously. Don't tell me you'd go on a binge with a General present. I'd be really disappointed in you." His tone is only half mocking. "All I ask is that if you have to puke, don't do it on my pristine, crème carpet. All right?"

I chuckle. "Yes sir."

"Good. Guest room is down the hall to the left, bathroom to the right. If you get them confused, you're on your own."

"Aye, sir."

"G'night," he offers as he disappears through the front door. I'm left alone with my thoughts again. If I was ever considering getting wasted with a General, O'Neill would be on a very, very short list indeed. My desire to drink myself silly is still there, though somewhat mollified. I sigh and roll my head in a small circle as I drop onto the sofa. I have a great bottle of aged whiskey and a house to myself. So why the hell haven't I started yet? I let my head fall back and stare at the ceiling for a beat, thinking again.

Guilt? A good guess, but no.

Fear. Of losing control, to be more exact. More likely. I keep control because if I don't, people die. Even then, sometimes they still do. Like Carson. Like Elizabeth. Like Matthews and his team. Like dad.

And sometimes, I do horrible things that will keep me up at night until the end of my days. Wallace is the most recent thing that comes to mind, but there are so many others… And who could forget Sumner… That thing, that crystal entity, had a point. What I fear most is myself and if I lose my precious control… So fear it is.

I've never been one to let myself be controlled by fear. Now's not the time to start.

I push off the sofa and walk to the kitchen. I rummage through the cabinets and I take a glass out of one of them. I break the seal on the bottle and fill my glass almost to the rim. This isn't a night for nursing a drink. I'm a man on a mission.

I inhale the deep aroma wafting up from the glass as I make my way to the living room window. I don't know why but I press "Play" as I move past the CD player.

Soon, soulful guitar fills the air and Eric Clapton begins to sing. I'm not a big fan, but somehow I don't mind it. I shake my head slowly. I recognize the song. River of Tears. I scoff a little. Just what I need.

Still, I let it play. I take a sip and hiss as the liquid burns down my throat, hopefully shoving back the lump forming there. I take the glass to my lips again and drink deeply, feeling the alcohol sear my insides. I don't care.

Before the CD moves on to the next track, the glass is empty. I'm drinking way too fast and I really, really don't care. I refill the cut glass tumbler and bring the bottle to the living room. At the rate I'm going, I shouldn't have bothered with a glass. Straight from the bottle would have saved some time.

It doesn't take long for the alcohol to make it to my blood and to my brain. I take another long gulp before letting myself fall back on the couch and stare at the ceiling again. I feel the hot tears prickle at the corner of my eyes. I let them fall, shoving my eyelids shut, wishing they'd wash away some of the pain I can't pretend doesn't exist anymore. I drain the second glass.

I leave the empty tumbler on the table and take the bottle, leaving the cap behind. I take a long, deep swallow and almost smile at the head rush I get from standing. I'm starting to feel pleasantly numb.

Ford.

I wish I could have saved that kid. He would have made such a great team leader.

Shit. Where did that come from?

I take another swig from the bottle. I hate this. I hate the grief, the loss, the pain. But it's my fault it's still there. I'm not good with feelings so I shove them back, all the way down and ignore them until, like tonight, it gets to be too much.

I'm sick of dealing, of burying, of pretending to be fine. Correction; I don't pretend. I try and convince everyone, myself included, that I am indeed all right.

I guzzle more booze from the bottle, as the room around me begins to sway just a little. I'm good and drunk now but not enough yet. I can still think. I can still feel.

And I don't like what I feel. More tears. I don't "cry" cry. I don't sob, snivel or bawl. I just weep, letting the tears fall, thick and fast.

Teyla mumbled something about the healing powers of a good cry, after she had one on my shoulder over almost losing her son to that Wraith queen. I hope she's right, because I don't think I've cried like this since I was ten, when I broke my arm. Man, I hurt, that time. And dad…

Dad.

God, I wish the both of us hadn't been so stubborn, proud and stupid. Maybe then, for once in my life I wouldn't have ended up with regrets. I wish Carson hadn't tried to carry that stupid container to the ordnance removal team. I wish I hadn't had to leave Elizabeth behind. I wish I hadn't had to convince Wallace into committing suicide.

Those things, and many others, I did for the greater good. Some I did because I had to. I killed a lot of people, most out of need. Some… Someone needs to make the difficult decisions and I can do it. I don't shirk from it. I don't even mind it.

Still…

I hate that I can.

I lift the bottle to my lips and swallow a huge gulp, some of the liquid escaping the corners of my mouth to drip down my chin onto my shirt. I slam the bottle a little too hard on the table, almost missing it. Every time I move, it takes a while for everything around me to follow, to catch up, and it occurs to me I'm way over my limit.

This isn't about self-pity. There is a deep, dark corner to my soul; I can't deny that. That's something every spec-ops veteran has, needs even, to live with what he does. However, I do have what I believe to be a saving grace, something that, in the end, makes me different from all the enemies that have ended up on the wrong end of my gun. I will never, ever take another life without cause or direct threat to me or to my people, and I will never abandon one of my own if there is even the slightest chance, however long it may take, to get them home.

Home. Now, to me, that's a beautiful, old city, far, far away. I close my eyes and I can hear the waves washing against the piers of Atlantis, I can see the still-new-to-me twin moons reflect on the waves.

What was I thinking, just now?

I roll my head from side to side, enjoying the deep alcoholic stupor I'm in. I'm too buzzed to think anymore. For some reason, I know that's good.

I blink slowly, trying to bring the room into focus.

Where the hell am I? Oh, right… General O'Neill's place. God… I'm really, really drunk.

I hear the door open and turn slowly, groaning when everything seems to move around me.

"Sheppard?"

I frown and concentrate hard. "McKay?" I say thickly. "Aren't… you with… the kids?"

"You are drunk, aren't you?"

My head falls back to the sofa. "Yeah. Plastered. Smashed. Loaded. Tanked-"

He doesn't let me finish, waving a hand with a scowl and making me dizzy. "I get the idea. Ronon lets you out of his sight for five minutes and this is what you do?" He snorts and huffs a little as he sits next to me. "Although I guess you're overdue for something like this."

I frown. What? "I am?"

"Never mind." He lifts the bottle and shows it to me. "Did you drink all of this?"

"There's still some left!" I argue. What the hell is he talking about? There's at least a third of the bottle left in there…

"I mean, was it full when you- Oh, never mind. Of course it was."

"Huh?" I don't get it. And why is the room spinning?

"Forget it. Come on. Let's get you into bed. Although I think we might need to stop by the bathroom first."

I scrunch my face. McKay's funny… "Why?" He smirks, dragging my arm over his shoulders and hefting me to my feet. Whoa… Room's spinning a lot… And…

"I don't feel so good," I tell him. "I think… Oh, crap..."

"That would be why," he says. "Just hold on for a minute."

Loud, muffled voices permeate the reckless pounding in my skull and if I wasn't sure it would make my head split in two, I'd yell at them to shut the hell up. I crack an eye open and don't regret it as much as I thought I would. I'm a smart man even when I'm drunk. There's a pillow over my head, blocking most of the light. I don't need to remember last night to know why I feel beyond awful. I try to swallow the pasty, sour taste in my mouth.

What I'd like to know is where the hell I am.

I don't bother to hold back a groan of pain and self-pity as I shove the pillow off my face and sit up, willing my decidedly angry stomach to stay where it belongs. I spare another moan and stagger to my feet. That's when it hits me.

Why am I in my boxers?

Where are my clothes?

Who took them off me?

"Ah, he lives!"

I screw my eyes shut and press a hand to my throbbing head. General O'Neill. That answers a lot of questions fast, albeit loudly. Painfully loudly.

"Hello, sir," I mutter. I crack an eye open. The General and… McKay? are sharing a cup of coffee in the hall, watching me. McKay must have read my expression of puzzlement because he walks in with my clothes, neatly folded. He shoves them in my hands and me towards the hall.

"Shower now, explanations later."

I don't argue.

Once I'm clean, dressed and medicated with a strong dose of ibuprofen, I find McKay waiting for me with a cup of coffee. General O'Neill is again nowhere to be found.

"Hey," I offer as greeting. Even that makes my skull pound.

Strangely, McKay stays silent.

"When did you get here?" I ask, after a sip of coffee. I don't like silent McKay. It's never good. He'll either take my head off or fall apart on me.

"Late last night, although in plenty of time to witness the end of your alcohol-induced meltdown," he says quietly. Crap. Meltdown. That cannot be good. What the hell did I say? I don't have a chance to ask before he speaks again, his voice low.

"Are you all right, John? I mean, seriously? I mean… I knew you weren't when I came to see you before I left for M7G-677, but…" He pauses and I wait, knowing he's not finished.

"I don't… do well with feelings. I'm not good at expressing them. In that, we're a lot alike, but people know how I feel. I can't hide it. But you? We always have a clue what's going on in that head of yours, but none of us are really sure. Except this time. This time, I knew."

I don't know what to say so I stay quiet.

"Are you all right?"

I think about it. Truth is, I'm not really. But I will be. I'm just not sure I can make him feel better. "Yeah, I am," I lie.

"Why didn't you come to us? We'd be there for you just like you are for us."

I really hate where this is going but I can't think straight enough with this headache to be my usual smartass deflective self.

"Because I can't," I say before I can help myself.

"Can't or won't?"

"Can't. I need to do this alone."

"Need or want?"

Now he's starting to irritate me and, my patience being inversely proportional to my headache, I don't feel like indulging him any more than I already have.

"Look, Rodney, I appreciate what you're trying to do but I'm fine, okay?"

His sarcastic smile is back and so are his narrowed eyes. "Case in point, Colonel Closed-Off."

I sigh and lean on the counter. I've cornered him before. Payback is a bitch, they say. "I need to, okay? That good enough for you?" I snap.

"Okay."

What? "What?"

"Okay. As in an idiom meaning all right, fine, agreed. Dates back to the 1800's, possibly originated in US President Martin Van Buren's re-election campaign. He was nicknamed 'Old Kinderhook', hence the OK club, hence the idiom. There are several other possible origins-"

"McKay!"

"What?" he replies defiantly.

I sigh and deflate. I'm grateful Rodney doesn't push this further.

"Kids didn't mess up the hair too much," I comment, sipping coffee, veering off topic. McKay knows it's just chaff. Still, he takes the hint.

He smiles devilishly. "Hmm. I have my ways."

I chuckle. "Hershey bars?"

"Why do you think I needed to make a trip here?"

"Hmm."

We silently sip our coffees, not quite at ease. Like he said, neither of us is good at this; usually, we'd be snarking each other, verbally sparring to avoid issues.

"You don't have to, you know," he says eventually. "You do know that, right?"

I stare at my cup for a long while. "Yeah. Look, Rodney… what… exactly did I say last night?" I eventually work up the nerve to ask.

"Nothing, John," he replies simply, confusing the hell out of me.

"Then why…"

"People who are grieving don't usually say much," he adds quietly.

I pick up my coffee make my way to the window, staring off in the distance, feeling the barriers come back up. I much prefer McKay when he's his usual annoying self, not this… I don't know what this is. I needed to lose control for a while and I was willing to regret it with the mother of all hangovers. This is not what I had in mind and I'm seriously starting to regret it. I hear McKay step behind me and my discomfort increases tenfold.

"Do you think General O'Neill has a chess set somewhere?" he asks, out of the blue. I chuckle, first and foremost out of relief and then at the thought of O'Neill playing chess. He's certainly smart enough, but somehow I doubt very much he has the patience for it.

"No. Nice try, though. Maybe you could finally beat me. I just wonder how rewarding it would be when I'm nursing the worst hangover of my life. There is no glory in easy victories, Rodney."

"Are you insinuating I can't beat you when you're sober? Also, that's a lame restatement of 'no pain no gain,' hotshot. And don't tell me this is worse than college."

"I know you can't, and that's 'no guts, no glory' I was going for. Where's O'Neill, anyway?"

"Said he'd be back this afternoon, once you're intelligent again. And you are on. King's pawn to E4."

"Pawn to C5," I reply, smiling to myself. I know he'll beat me. But somehow, it starts to feel like things are as they should be in my world.

And that's enough for now.

FIN.