Disclaimer: See Prologue.
Pulling up in front of a small suburban home with a detached garage was the first surprise John received after leaving the hospital. He let his eyes scan the surrounding neighborhood before turning to face the woman still sitting in the driver's seat, "You live here?"
"Above the garage," she clarified, opening her car door and stepping out. He slowly copied her actions, gripping the frame of the door as he stood until he heard Casey groan and take his arm carefully. "I gotcha flyboy."
"I'm fine. I can walk," John insisted, glaring down at the top of the head that came to just above his shoulder.
"There are stairs," was the only response he received before she was slowly steering him, while loaded down with two bags herself, up the driveway and then up external wooden stairs. "Welcome, mi casa and all that jazz," she muttered, tossing her bags, and him, onto the couch that was practically on top of the front door.
John eyed the apartment critically and suddenly felt better about his own living situation. The room John was sitting in seemed to be a combination of a living room and kitchen and he could see a short hallway past the kitchen that he assumed led to a bedroom and a bathroom. Before he could curb his tongue he found himself blurting out, "Nice milk crate coffee table. You live like you're still in college."
"Money's tight," she replied, glaring at him. "You hungry?"
"I could eat," he admitted, dropping back into the, surprisingly, comfortable couch with a wince. "I don't suppose you have any pain killers do you?"
"Hazards of checking out AMA. No drugs."
"I technically didn't check out AMA. I didn't actually check out at all," John pointed out with a smirk. His plan had initially been to go to the nurse's desk, request the paperwork and any prescriptions, no matter what they told him, before leaving. Then he had learned of the Marine presence at the hospital the night before and had immediately decided that leaving without any notice might be the better idea.
"Yea, I was there," Casey muttered, just loud enough for him to hear, and walked the short distance to the kitchen. "I'm taking you to a doctor in the morning though. You're going to need antibiotics."
"I'm more concerned about the pain killers," he replied, a hopeful tone filling his voice.
"Is it really that bad? You're not fucking with me right?"
"The shot wore off hours ago."
"Fine. Bathroom cabinet."
"Seriously?"
"Yea, remember last year when that idiot rear ended me on 592 turning onto The Strip?" John frowned and racked his brain trying to remember what she was talking about. Casey, apparently noticing the older male's confusion, elaborated, "You sent flowers to the newsroom 'cause I had left you alone for a week. And then you sent flowers, again, when you found out why I left you alone for a week. Every female at the paper was jealous of me for a while there. If they only knew the truth."
"Right," John drawled out, forcing a smile onto his face as he vaguely remembered. That had been right before he passed his detectives exam, he hadn't exactly been in the best state of mind for a few weeks there.
"Anyway, I didn't need the vicodin they prescribed once I got home from the hospital. So, go get one or two, I trust you to know what you should take, and come back here and tell me what the hell is going on."
John didn't say anything, in case she changed her mind, but stood up and slowly made his way a few steps down the hall until he found a small bathroom just outside of a bedroom. The pills were exactly where Casey said they'd be and he immediately dropped two into his mouth, using the bathroom faucet for water to swallow them down. His reflection, surprisingly, wasn't any different then it had been the afternoon before; he had been expecting a vast difference. Something that showed that his entire world view had been flipped on it's axis. After a few more seconds he finally came to the conclusion that one too many serious shocks in your life, and he'd had more then his fair share, and you just cease being effected by it.
"Numb," he muttered, carefully poking the beginning to mark near his eye. "Number," he added before popping one more of the pills and washing it down. The dosage on the bottle was for someone less then half his weight; and while, five years ago he wouldn't have even contemplated taking the narcotics before something so potentially big was going to land in his lap, things had changed in the last few years. "Not like you're gonna be flying anything Sheppard. Might as well enjoy the trip."
John managed to dissuade Casey from asking any questions until they had finished eating the hamburgers she had thrown together for them. However, once they were both settled on the couch, with beer, he knew he wasn't going to be able to stall any longer. Meeting her stare head-on John considered how to go about explaining, when a thought occurred to him and left him first quietly asking her to turn the radio onto a static channel.
"Static channel?" she asked back, just as quietly.
"Ambient noise." He watched Casey's eyebrows raise to nearly her hairline at the clarified request and then waited as she crossed the room to where he could see her stereo. His confusion only lasted for a second when instead of turning on the stereo, she reached up to a shelf and flicked a switch on a small black box. "Why am I not that shocked that you have an audio jammer?"
"Cause you've met me," she replied, flopping back onto the couch and taking a sip of her beer. "Now, no more excuses."
"How accurate do you think the idea of Big Brother is?"
"Big Brother like, Nineteen Eighty-Four, Orwell? Or, really stupid reality tv show?" she questioned, just in case his vicodin and beer soaked brain had meant something else.
"The book. Jesus Casey."
"Am I to assume you mean in practical application in today's society as opposed to the grandiose theoretical idea presented in the novel?"
"Yea."
"I wouldn't be remotely surprised if there's something like that going on. We're at war. Now, regardless of what anyone's personal feelings are on the subject; it's the truth. The Patriot Act being a perfect example."
"Good," John replied, gauging her expression after his answer and wasn't remotely shocked when her jaw dropped and she looked like she might immediately argue. "Hey, I'm not saying that the idea is good. I'm saying that, I'm glad you seem to buy into that it's possible."
"Why are we discussing this? We're never going to agree on it. Reporter here, free speech, the public has a right to know? Any of this ringing a bell?"
"Yea, yea, yea. And I was in the sandbox," John muttered. "We've had this discussion before. I promise, I have a point. Somewhere."
"Please get there. I need to get you bathed and changed. You're starting to get a little ripe," Casey shot back and then blushed at the eyebrow he raised in response. "Well, not bathe you, but, get you stuff for you to bathe with."
"I'm too tired to even respond to that properly," he informed her, only half a smile managing to grace his face, before launching into what had happened over the last few days starting with a new coroner being brought in at the last minute. He just had no idea how to elaborate on the story so that the word "aliens" could be used. At the moment, letting Casey think that some sadistic serial killer who had been draining bodies was blown up in his hideout was as specific as he felt safe with saying. "There's a lot more to it then that, but, I need us to be somewhere more secure before I tell you."
"This has something to do with the FBI confiscating every file and piece of evidence related to the case doesn't it?"
He was only marginally surprised that she knew that; mainly because even he hadn't known that yet.
"Yup, only they are not the FBI," he corrected, choosing to not tell the woman that his resignation from the police force had essentially blocked any new information from him. He figured she already knew that part as well.
"CIA?"
"Nope. Better hidden. From what I saw better funded then the usual alphabet soup as well. We're talking some seriously Black shit Casey."
The younger woman took a few minutes to consider his words and John waited, watching her carefully guarded expression and tried to figure out what the slight twitches could mean. Her normal tell was a slight narrowing of her eyes, but he didn't see any evidence of that this time. When it finally arrived in her expression he allowed himself to relax and listen, "Well, I have an idea of somewhere we can go. But first you need to answer me something. Where's your head at with this? What are you planning?"
"Nothing yet," he admitted, after finding his free hand quite interesting so as to avoid her eyes. "I just want to look into a few things. See if I need to clean up any more messes."
Her eyes narrowed again and he squirmed, just a little, under her glare as she spoke, "But you just told me that the guy who did this was blown to high heaven by a bunch of fighter jets."
"He was, but, there might be more then one suspect," he explained vaguely. "Also, something this guy from the organization said to me the other day. It got me thinking."
"What was it? He call you on your tendency to be an apathetic asshole?"
"Actually, no," John spluttered out in shock from the blunt comment and then paused and thought back to the few conversations he had with McKay. "Maybe? I don't know. Can you just trust me on this? If I'm wrong then no harm, no foul. If I'm even in the near ballpark of being right? We're screwed."
"What'd this guy say to you?"
"He, sort of, called me a hero."
"Remember what happened last time you tried to be a hero Sheppard?"
"Yea," he admitted. "But, it was still the right thing to do."
"You're right," Casey muttered, rolling her eyes. "We're screwed...or at least, by default, I am. I will not be wearing any red shirts around you for the rest of my life."
John chuckled as she got up shaking her head and waved for him to follow her back towards the bedroom where he could hear her opening doors and asking him what size pants he wears. Slowly making his way back to the bedroom, where he found Casey holding out a large pair of sweats and a t-shirt, he contemplated exactly how he was going to explain the entire story to her without sounding insane due to lack of evidence. He considered all the options he had at hand, while he attempted to wash himself up and hopped around to get the pants on with only one working arm, and finally decided that no matter what he told her he had to figure out a way that Casey didn't wind up in some hidden prison with him.
It wasn't until he was standing in the middle of her bedroom, arguing that he wasn't going to steal her bed while she wrestled the t-shirt over his head, that he realized he probably wasn't going to win any arguments with the brunette anyway and he should just suck it up and plunge head first into things.
As soon as they were somewhere a certain Dr. Rodney McKay and Agent (Mister?) Richard Woolsey couldn't locate him immediately after he explained.
Note: All explanatory chapters have now been completed. We can finally get into the action-reaction portion of our adventure.
Comments, questions and critiques are (as always) welcomed. Anyone out there?
