Chapter Seven

A little too late, John realized that inviting Carson along on he and McKay's round of celebration beers might have not been the best idea. He took one look at John's heat flushed face at the first aid station and almost had a conniption fit on the spot. It seemed he was also not too fond of the idea that John had acquired his new battle scars (okay, battle flushed skin) shutting down, in essence, a bomb.

He proceeded to muscle the staff doctor aside and took over the examination himself. Thankfully, he had arrived after the portion of the exam where the doctor had checked John's body for burns. It had taken an entire IV bag of fluids and a few glasses of water before John was even allowed to leave. Apparently in a past life, Carson Beckett may have played the role of his mother in addition to his doctor.

He had been allowed to order the first round of beer, but the fish eye stare the Scot kept pinning him with let John know exactly how much he approved of the idea of John choosing alcohol over electrolytes.

"You're daft, you know that?" Carson prompted.

"That's the third time in the last five minutes you've told me that," John sipped on his beer casually.

"I'm hoping it might sink in soon."

"Not likely," McKay put in. "Anything that works through osmosis has to go through the hair first."

"I wasn't the only one staying behind," John pointed out.

Carson flicked an equally perturbed glance in McKay's direction. "Yes, you're both daft."

"I was simply acting as technical support."

The thought of McKay in a crowded call center, having to take calls on all of the stupidity brought on by "the common man" trying to interact with computers, was more than a little amusing.

"What are you grinning about?" McKay shot him a suspicious look.

"Nothing," John drained the rest of his beer and set the glass on the table noisily. "Nothing at all. What do you say to another round?"

"Ah ah," Carson intercepted his attempt to wave down one of the waitresses. "One's enough."

"Carson..."

"I've granted you your one," the Scot leveled him with a look, "but you sweated away a lot of water in there—"

"Yes he did," McKay wrinkled his nose. "That shower didn't do much to help."

"I smell fine," John protested, "and I feel perfectly hydrated."

"You shouldn't dehydrate yourself again," Carson warned, "and I know that by the time you go to sleep you'll probably want something a little stronger to take off the edge from that burn."

"I've had worse," John pointed out, pulling his hand back to his empty beer glass. This earned him an even sterner look, and he sighed and held up his hands, the picture of submission. "Fine. Fine."

Carson nodded his approval at what appeared like winning the argument. Little did he know that John had a plan. "Rodney, I'll trust you to keep him to his promise while I make a quick pit stop."

"What am I? His keeper?"

"Yes," Carson said blandly, and slipped out of the booth they had commandeered.

John waited until Buzzkill Beckett had made a retreat to the bathroom and slipped out of the booth, dragging a protesting McKay up to the bar. "What are you doing?"

"Quick, let's order something stronger before he gets back."

"So he can watch you drink it? Nice thinking, Top Gun."

John had never said that he had a good plan. "Tequila it is then."

"What? No—"

John motioned for the bartender to pour two shots. "My treat."

"You bought the beer—"

"Just go with it—it'll be fun."

The two squat shot glasses were set in front on the bar. John shelled out a few bills, and grabbed the glass closest to him. The murky light brown liquid quivered with the sudden movement, but a quick twist of the wrist kept John from spilling any. He held it out in front of him.

McKay just stared at him blankly.

"This is the part where you grab your shot and we toast to the fact that we weren't incinerated."

"I thought we already toasted to that with the beers." McKay's wide-eyed confusion almost drew a sigh from John.

"McKay..."

"Okay, okay," he muttered and, as if it were going to burn him, grasped the tiny glass between his thumb and forefinger. His eyes stayed glued to the glass as he carefully raised it up to eye level. "So, uh, I guess to not being dead?"

John nodded and moved his glass to lightly clink against McKay's, since he didn't seem too inclined to move his too far lest he spill its contents on the floor. "To not leaving anyone behind."

"What?"

"You left the comm on. I heard the exchange between you and Langham."

"Oh," McKay flushed, eyes widening, "I was just—"

"And I appreciate it."

McKay's mouth worked silently, and John had to throw back his shot to hide the grin trying to bubble to the surface. The tequila made his cheeks pucker, successfully disguising his mirth. Looked like he was right earlier; McKay really didn't know how to respond to interaction that wasn't tinted with some sort of anger or annoyance. It was certainly going to make things interesting.

That was all right, John enjoyed a challenge.

He wiped his hand across his lips to clear away the lingering droplets of tequila and indicated the shot glass with his head as if to say 'go on'. McKay downed the shot in one gulp, and wound up sputtering and coughing.

"Christ, that burns!"

John's chest bobbed with the quiet huff of laughter that escaped. "Like it?"

"God, no!"

"In that case, Bartender, one more round for me and my friend here." John pulled out a few more bills from his wallet and laid them on the bar.

"Did you not hear me?"

"I'm selectively deaf."

"Why does that not surprise me?"

"What?" he asked innocently.

"I said why does that not—oh, very funny."

"I thought so." He flashed McKay a grin.

"You also think it's a good idea to run toward exploding objects, so I'm not sure your opinion counts."

"It hadn't exploded yet."

"The fact that you have to tack the 'yet' on the end of that sentence is exactly my point."

"Your point?"

"Yes, the point is," McKay spared a glance for the fresh set of shots placed on the bar, "smart people run the other way."

"You didn't run either," John pointed out.

"I claim temporary insanity."

"To temporary insanity, then."

John was in the middle of reaching for his shot when an angry Scottish brogue reached his ears. "Just what do you think you're doing?"

"Bust-ed," McKay stage whispered.

"Quick, dispose of the evidence."

"What?"

"Hurry, he's almost here!"

"They're not my shots."

"You're my wingman, you can't let me down."

"How the hell did I become the Goose to your Maverick?"

"Pretend they're yours!"

"I'm not getting in the middle of this—"

He gave McKay his best impression of a kicked puppy.

"That's not going to work."

John widened his eyes, bunching up his eyebrows up to express how deeply the refusal to help wounded him.

"I... oh fine!"

Shooting John a dirty look, McKay grabbed a hold of both shot glasses, holding them up as Carson strode up to them, glancing between both guilty parties suspiciously.

"I thought you agreed to watch him."

"I agreed to no such thing," McKay corrected, and catching John's continued puppy dog stare, "but these are mine."

"You don't strike me as the blue agave type, Rodney."

"I'll have you know that I am a true connoisseur of tequila."

"Is that why you ordered two shots?"

"I, uh," he flicked a nervous glance at John, "am having an extra one on his behalf?"

Carson crossed his arms. "You want to sound a little surer of that?"

"Oh, I'm certain. See, Sheppard, this is what you're missing out on." And McKay tossed the shot back like a pro. It would have made John's heart swell with pride—if the scientist hadn't dissolved into another fit of coughing.

"A connoisseur, huh?" Carson did not seem convinced.

"Plebian," McKay croaked, eyes watering from either the tequila or the coughing fit. "You know nothing of tequila."

John rubbed his chin, trying to disguise the smile creeping out behind his splayed fingers.

"Then explain it to me."

McKay managed to catch his breath, wiping the water that had gathered at the corners of his eyes. "A true aficionado knows that if you don't choke, it's not a pure blue agave but a substandard agave blend."

"You're full of crap."

McKay shot John a withering glare, not looking one bit fooled by the hand trying to hide his widening grin. "I am not."

"You've still got one shot left in your hand."

"You distracted me with having to explain the finer details of this... fine... alcoholic... beverage."

"I'm waiting."

McKay blanched, and John had to turn away before he collapsed into a fit of unmanly giggles on the spot.

"Perfection such as this cannot be rushed."

"You're awful," Carson pointed the statement to John, whose shoulders were shaking with silent laughter. "How long are you going to make him keep this up?"

"He's not making me do anything," McKay continued, indignation rising. "I'm telling the absolute truth, and you calling me a liar is just hurtful."

Oh, God... if only John had this on tape...

"Rodney, you can't lie worth a crap."

"That's where you're wrong," McKay bristled, actual anger creeping into his tone.

John curiously peeked over his shoulder as the scientist gripped the shot glass tighter between two fingers, glaring fiercely at Beckett. With a stubborn tilt of his chin, he tossed the shot back like it was water. He choked slightly at the taste, but otherwise remained stone-faced. John flicked a look at Carson, who was caught somewhere between being perplexed and concerned at the sudden turnaround.

"Bartender," McKay said firmly, "another round, on my tab."

"Rodney—"

"Oh no, I'm going to prove to you my status as the king of tequila even if it takes all the Jose Cuervo in this bar!"

"You know Don Julio is a better brand, right?" John whispered.

"Shut up," McKay hissed, "and you owe me!"

"What was that?" Carson asked suspiciously.

"Nothing," they chimed in unison.

He looked less than convinced.

"C'mon, Carson," John tried, "it's been a long day."

"Which should be topped off by bed rest after everything you two went through; not alcoholic shenanigans."

"Only a little bit of shenanigans." John indicated the tiny number with his thumb and forefinger.

Carson gave him a long look and John just shrugged. With an aggrieved sigh, the Scot moved back toward their abandoned booth. The next set of shots was laid out on the bar, and McKay picked one up tentatively.

"Thanks for that." John indicated the retreating back.

"Is that why you almost gave it away by laughing?"

"C'mon, you have to admit that it was a little funny."

"No I don't," McKay muttered, "you could have just told him to stuff his unsolicited medical advice. It's what I do."

"It wasn't exactly unsolicited." John shrugged. "Besides, the Angry Beckett Vein can be scary when it's pointed in your direction."

"Coward," McKay muttered, sniffing the tequila experimentally, recoiling slightly at the odor. "This is disgusting."

"That's because you're drinking the cheap stuff."

"You orderedthe cheap stuff to start with."

"I'm on a budget," John lied. "I think you can drop the act, though. He doesn't seem fooled."

"Oh no, I'm playing this one out," McKay muttered and without any warning tossed back the next shot. He winced, but did not sputter this time. "Damn, it still burns."

"You know you've had too much if it doesn't," John pointed out, reaching for the extra one, only to have his hand slapped away. "Hey..."

"Sorry, doctor's orders. Dehydration and all."

"You do know that you have to drive home still, right?"

"Yes," McKay said peevishly, "but I'll worry about that later."

John sighed and held up his hands. "All right... I'm heading back to the table before the vein pops out."

"Yeah, yeah, I'll be right behind you."

John nodded and slipped away from the bar, worrying his lip between his teeth. He slid into a spot next to Carson, ordering a water to placate the Scot the next time the waitress came around. It was a little while before McKay rejoined them, sporting a freshly refilled shot glass in each hand. John eyed them carefully, fairly certain that neither were the one McKay had been nursing when John had left the bar.

McKay kicked John in the shin in order to get the pilot to move over and make room on the circular booth. John rolled his eyes and waved to Carson to slide over as well. It would have been a lot easier on all of them if Rodney had just seated himself on the other side but it seemed nothing was ever easy with him involved.

"Having fun?" John asked dryly.

"Oh," McKay set his shots down on the table carefully before gracelessly plopping into the booth, "a blast."

"Good," he intoned.

"No, it's great!" McKay raised one of his shots to the table in general. "To our illustrious employer and their 'ask all you want, but we still won't tell' policies that are probably going to kill us all."

"Cheery toast." Carson massaged his temples with two fingers.

Without waiting for anyone to clink their glasses with him, McKay downed the shot. He barely grimaced this time, fingers already edging toward the next glass.

"Going a little fast, aren't you, Tequila King?" John asked.

"Not fast enough if you ask me."

"Exactly which round are you on now?"

"Wouldn't you like to know?"

"That's usually the point of someone asking a question," John shot back.

"Why don't I go grab you a glass of water, Rodney?" Carson cut in. "You must be thirsty."

"Parched. More tequila."

"We'll start with water." Carson pushed himself up with a sigh and gave John a look. "Try to do a better job of playing babysitter than he did."

McKay sputtered, "I told you that was my shot—"

"Rodney, if you're a connoisseur of fine tequila then I'm the queen of England."

"There you go, not believing me again... your majesty."

"I'll be right back," Carson stressed.

"Good plan," John agreed. As the doctor slipped into the crowd, John watched as Rodney reached for the remaining shot of tequila. "Oh, whoa, why don't we slow down there a little bit?"

"Things are already going too slow as it is."

"You've had at least six shots of tequila in the past hour. I wouldn't exactly call that 'slow'."

"I'm not talking about the tequila," McKay muttered, fingers hovering a few inches from the glass.

"Then what are you talking about?"

McKay pursed his lips, glaring at the tequila. "Never mind."

"C'mon, McKay, clamming up isn't going to suddenly make 'it' go faster, or slower, or whatever it is bothering you better."

"What do you care?"

John scrubbed a face across his forehead, wincing slightly at the tender flesh. He didn't quite look like a lobster anymore, but it was probably going to sting for a few days. "I don't know—just try me, okay?"

McKay's gaze dropped from the tequila to the table, one hand absently fondling his watch. John thought that he was going to remain that way, until he finally softly admitted, "I hate it here."

John snorted out the surprised breath, unsure of what to do with the admission now that it had been said. It wasn't a stretch of imagination that McKay was unhappy with his situation, he ranted about it on almost a daily basis. It was just... John didn't do the feelings thing. His recent revelation also revealed that his co-worker had about the same level of aptitude for it.

"You should've said so," John went for oblivious, in case McKay suddenly wanted an out of the confession. "We don't need to stay at this bar—especially since the bartender seems a little too free flowing with the booze."

"No, I mean, I hate it here, working at Vertrauen."

"Then quit."

"I can't."

"Why not?"

"Well, as you so eloquently pointed out before our alcoholic adventures began; someone has to keep them from blowing up themselves and anyone hapless enough to be reeled into this poor excuse for a project."

"As much as I like not being blown up by Langham's newest idea for 'efficiency', you can't stay just because of that."

"You make it sound so easy."

"Isn't it?"

"No," McKay growled, "it's not."

"Why not?"

"Because I've got nowhere else to go." McKay got a faraway look in his eye that John suspected had nothing to do with the massive quantities of alcohol he had just consumed. Nancy had accused him of getting a similar look when he was about to tell her he was leaving for his latest classified assignment. "They've already reassigned my lab at Nellis. Even if I apologized to General Asshat—"

John couldn't stop the sputter of laughter that elicited. "General Asshat?"

"Maybe it was Ashley, Aisley... I don't remember."

"What'd you do?" John redirected the conversation back on track.

"I may have said something unsavory about the man's parentage."

"Is that it?"

"And his grandparentage."

"And that got you on their bad side?"

"It didn't help! He also just so happened to be one of the people in charge of funding after the latest propulsion system backfired on us—literally."

"Okay, I know that the brass can be jerks at times... but is that all there is to it?"

"No," McKay waved his hand, "there was..."

"What?"

"Sorry," McKay bit out suddenly, "but it's classified."

John frowned. "Classified?"

"Need-to-know."

On the receiving end of the glib answer, John was starting to understand why Nancy would get so pissed whenever he responded to her questions like that. He had to shove down the rising annoyance, because honestly this was none of his business. He was sorry he had asked because a dark cloud had descended across the scientist's face. Whatever the hell "it" was, it wasn't pleasant to think about.

"Look, sorry. Forget I asked."

The shadow evaporated as confusion settled in, and McKay finally dragged his gaze away from the table to peer at him. "About what?"

John blinked. "About... are you even following the conversation?"

"No."

"I'm going to ask again, how many shots have you had?"

"That's also need-to-know."

"McKay," he warned.

The scientist's face lit up in a bright grin. "You know, that's the same exact look Asshat got when... wait, his name isn't Asshat."

John began to rub his temples in earnest, ignoring the stinging it elicited from his skin. He had only intended to get a friendly drink. As much as it pained him to admit it, John was a little fond of the acerbic guy, for whatever reason he hadn't figured out. Getting McKay plastered wasn't really part of the plan.

"Asshat... Aisley... Ashley... Acey ... what the hell is his name?" McKay frowned.

John was starting to wonder if he really should start thinking these plans through a little more.

"I'm not very good with names..."

Seriously, rethink them.

"That's okay, because names aren't people... people are people!"

"You're cut off."

"...I'm not very good with people either, come to think of it. That's why I'm expendable."

"Expendable?" It was a familiar sentiment among soldiers at times, but John had never met anyone whose job didn't involve "protecting and serving" who really believed that.

"Well, not expendable expendable, because I've still got my brain. My big brain."

If Carson had any of those "stronger than beer" pain pills, John might not be so opposed to one or two of them right now, because this was making no sense.

"I like my brain," McKay defended to himself.

"I think you may have fried it a little with the tequila."

"I certainly hope not!" The thought of fried brain seemed to frighten him a little. "Losing it would be a devastating loss to science. It'll probably set us all back decades... centuries even!"

"Good to know you don't take yourself too seriously."

"Oh, I take myself seriously. Deadly seriously... wait, that's not right..."

John let out a ragged sigh.

"Dead seriously... no, that's not it either. Seriously deadly... what am I trying to say?"

"I wish I knew."

"Me too... hey, what time is it?"

"You've got a watch on your wrist—or are you drunk to the point where you can't read it?"

"I'm not drunk," McKay declared boldly, putting a hand on the table and rising shakily. He quickly dropped back down. "Okay, maybe a little."

"They say the first step to recovery is admitting it."

"But I don't want to recover. This is much preferable!"

"To what?" John rolled his eyes to the ceiling.

"Ah ah, classified."

"Okay, that's seriously getting annoying."

"I'm thirsty."

"Carson's getting you water." At least John hoped he was, and that the Scot hadn't used the opportunity to slip out the back door. John lightly rested a hand over his eyes and leaned into the stiff leather of the booth. Maybe if he just stayed really still, McKay would forget there had been a conversation and John could pretend he hadn't started the whole awkward non-linear mess. Next time he wanted to thank McKay, he'd just cut the guy off in traffic or some gesture that was not overtly friendly.

A light clink to his left forced him to draw the hand away from his face to see that the remaining shot of tequila had just been taken.

And John completely failed at this whole babysitting thing.

"Did he just take that last shot?" Carson's brogue cut through the din of noise surrounding their table.

"Yes." John let the hand drop back over his eyes. "It turns out he's a belligerent drunk."

"You're a belligerent drunk."

"See?" John said blandly as Carson set the tall glass in front of the hopelessly inebriated physicist.

McKay frowned at the glass in front of him. "That's not tequila."

"That's right, genius. It's water."

"I wanted tequila," McKay pouted.

"And I already told you, you're cut off."

"Maverick would never cut off Goose."

"What?" John shook his head.

"I'm your wingman."

John squirmed, because he hadn't meant it in that way, but it was a little true. He wouldn't have been able to shut down the engine without McKay's help. Stupid Top Gun references...

"What is he blathering on about?" Carson's saintly patience was sounding strained.

"Nothing," John put in quickly. "Hey, McKay, why don't you give me your keys?"

"My keys?" He fished around in his pocket, fumbling for a bit until he managed to pull out a few jingling pieces of metal that got caught on the edge of his pocket. "You mean these?"

"Yes," John said patiently. "Need help?"

Rodney blinked owlishly at the trapped keys. "No?"

Without waiting for the drunken scientist to figure it out, John reached out and snapped up the keys. At least that was one problem solved.

"Those are mine."

"I'm borrowing them."

"Oh," McKay paused, "why?"

"I think maybe we ought to get him home," Carson suggested.

"Great minds, Doc, great minds." John sighed and tapped McKay's loafer-clad feet with his own slightly heat-singed tennis shoes. "C'mon, 'Goose', let's get this show on the road."

McKay moved to comply, gripping the table tightly as he wiggled his way off the leather booth with a loud squelch. "Where are we going?"

"Home."

"Is there more tequila there?"

"I really hope not." John pinched the bridge of his nose, the action eliciting a sharp unpleasant tug on the tender skin.

Apparently the wince did not go unnoticed by Carson. "Are you sure you don't want anything for the night?"

"I've got plenty of Tylenol back at home." John shrugged, shifting uncomfortably as Carson's brows scrunched up in concern. "If it's worse tomorrow I'll let you know."

"Aye, you better."

McKay started to wander away and like an ingrained habit, John reached out and snagged the sleeve of his shirt, halting his progress toward what John assumed could only be the bar. He furrowed a brow at the hand clamped to McKay's sleeve, but quickly shook off the strange familiarity of the action.

"What about your bike?"

"I'll pick it up in the morning. No need to make two trips since we're going to the same place."

Carson nodded, and John used his fistful of shirtsleeve to wrangle the scientist in the direction of the exit.

"Are you sure—?"

"I've got it, Carson," John called over his shoulder, having to tighten his grip as McKay started veering toward the bar. "We're heading that way."

"We are?"

"Yes," John ground out as he managed to get them out the door into the cooling night air.

The sun had just set, night quickly seeping away what remained of the desert heat in the middle of November. John scanned the parking lot, finally spotting the tiny blue Honda Fit parked far away from the other vehicles, as if coming into proximity of another car might ding the paint.

"A little paranoid, aren't you, McKay?"

"Always," McKay proudly stated, taking a bold step off the curb.

His drunken coordination did not anticipate the parking stop waiting for him below, and John had to use his other hand to grab another handhold on the man to keep him from taking a spill. This resulted with an armful of grinning McKay. John rolled his eyes up to the sky, silently begging for patience.

"Whoa, that was close."

"Yes, those curbs are tricky."

"They are... but you showed it."

"Yes, I did."

"You're so cool."

"Car. Now." John continued to wrangle the other man toward the vehicle, hoping to cut off any more drunken rambling.

"Hey, how do you get your hair to do that poofy thing?"

"Car," John insisted firmly.

"Oh, look! A quarter!"