Chapter Ten

McKay didn't exactly withdraw into his shell, but he definitely had been reserved in comparison to his normally boisterous self.

Unsure of what had prompted it, John decided to try and give him some space. Well, as much space as he could give a guy who he was carpooling with. It had taken a few days to sort out things to where Rodney could return to his apartment, and while John was fond of the guy, he was also ready to have his space back. Unfortunately, there was the whole carpool thing.

Something that was most certainly not John's idea, more of an insistence on Carson's part (and then the doctor that Carson had dragged him to when John decided to try Rodney's "just ignore his sheep herding excuse for medical advice" spiel). Personally, John didn't see anything wrong with continuing to ride his bike, but the whole medical community seemed to think that his shoulder needed time to heal. The first morning in the cramped car had been just about as awkward as the first time he and Rodney had run into each other outside of work, with John having almost to sit on his hands to keep from changing the radio from the classical station to classic rock.

Thankfully, someone cut Rodney off during the afternoon commute, which prompted both a rant of epic proportions and John's wistful reflection on how if he had his bike he totally could have returned the favor. That seemed to break some of the ice, and Bach and Beethoven had been turned down to a soft background hum as conversation filled the cramped cabin.

Not that John really considered a one-sided rant about how Kavanagh had gotten his degree out of a cereal box conversation, but it was an improvement over the silence.

It was nearing a month since the break-in, and John had obtained his freedom. In celebration, he had spent the night before polishing his clubs so that he could hit the green this weekend and continue to firmly ignore the rapidly filling inbox on his voicemail. Dave seemed to have a hard time accepting "no" for an answer. If the thought of Thanksgiving with his family had been intimidating, the prospect of Christmas was terrifying.

No, John planned on taking baby steps.

Besides, he had other plans; his first and foremost being to drag the hermit out of his cave for some fresh air. John tried to appear nonchalant as he leaned against the doorframe to the small office.

"I can hear you plotting from here," Rodney spoke without looking up from his computer screen, "but you can forget it, whatever it is."

"Whatever what is?" John asked, bobbing his eyebrows in an expression of pure innocence.

"Whatever has you grinning like an escapee from the local mental institution."

"It's just a small thing. You busy this weekend?"

"Yes," Rodney snapped, making several annoyed clicks of the mouse, refusing to drag his gaze away from the computer screen. "In fact, I'm busy right now, so just go away."

"Can't."

"Can't? Or won't?"

"Both." John shifted his position on the doorframe. "You've been hiding out in here again."

"Oh, I have not!" That elicited the desired reaction as Rodney slammed his hand on the desk and finally looked up in annoyance. "I've been very busy, as I told both you and the Mother Hen countless times. I've got deadlines, granted all ridiculous and overly ambitious, but deadlines nonetheless."

"It's been a week since you last graced us with your presence—lunch or otherwise."

"And?" Rodney removed the glasses as he kneaded his forehead with one hand. "I can't get any work done with you two chattering about who won the latest game of whatever the hell sport you two watch."

"Football, basketball, hockey, take your pick."

"Curling."

"Curling—that's not a sport."

"It is too, but whatever, I'm tired and overworked, and I simply don't have the energy to try and be nice and make sure your ungrateful hide doesn't blow up from that stupid engine during maiden flight."

"C'mon." John tilted his head towards the hallway.

"What? Where?"

"It's break time."

"I don't have time for br... hey, hey, what do you think you're doing?"

John had crossed the expanse of the room and taken a firm hold of the back of the scientist's chair. "The Twinkie King has been ignoring his subjects."

"Carson told me to cut back—"

"And now you're listening to his 'unsolicited medical advice'?"

"Well, no, but—stop that!"'

"You're taking a break, even if I have to roll you and this chair down to the vending machines myself."

"First off, that's called kidnapping, which is usually the next stage after stalking, so congratulations on taking that next big step—"

"I thought we moved past that whole stalking thing."

"And secondly, what the hell do you care if I take a break?" John jerked the chair to a stop, sending the scientist sprawling to the floor with an indignant squawk. Rodney fumbled on the floor, finally managing to push himself to a sitting position and pinning the pilot with a glare hot enough to melt lead. "You suck."

"Let's go." John offered a hand to help him to his feet, which after a few moments' hesitation was accepted, and hauled the scientist to his feet.

"I could file charges you know," Rodney grumbled, grabbing the glasses on the desk as an afterthought before they ambled out into the hallway. "I bruise like a peach."

"Drama queen," John shot back.

"Am not," came the whine.

"Are too." John shook his head. "And are you sure you're busy this weekend?"

"Positive... why?"

"I've got a spare set of clubs, was wondering if you wanted to hit the green with me."

"Are you speaking some sort of foreign language? What the hell are you talking about?"

"Golf."

"Golf? You play golf?"

John couldn't help but chuckle at the incredulous look slid his way. "Why is that surprising?"

"Because, golf is played by like, preppy rich boys. Not... not..."

He just quirked an eyebrow.

"Well, it doesn't really seem to fit the maverick pilot profile."

"Guess I've still got a few surprises up my sleeve, eh, 'Goose'?"

"You know, Goose died in that movie."

A sudden high-pitched shriek drowned out John's reply. Rodney's hands immediately flew to his ears as the sound droned on, and the lighting in the hallway flickered for a moment, before the entire hallway was plunged into darkness.

"What the hell?" John muttered, words inaudible over the wailing shriek and the sound of his heart hammering in his chest. He groped into the darkness, trying to find Rodney.

"Watch where you're putting those!" McKay snapped.

"I can't see you."

"Obviously!" His hand was slapped away. "What I wouldn't give for a flashlight right now."

John's eyes had just started to adjust to the dimness when emergency lighting kicked in, illuminating the hallway in a wash of slowly pulsing red. It gave the once familiar hallway an eerie look, almost like they were trapped on the set of a horror movie. The angry shriek had also died down to a pulsing warning tone, and a prickling of dread ran up John's spine.

"Did someone pull the fire alarm?" Rodney worried aloud and pressed in closer to John, despite his insistence on people minding their hands.

"No." There had been at least one fire drill since John started working at VerTech, but it had been fairly routine and normal. This was anything but. "This is definitely not a drill."

"Then what the hell is it?"

Over the alarm, John could hear something else, the cacophony muted by distance and walls. It set his teeth on edge and, not bothering to mind the distance warning, he grabbed Rodney by the elbow. "Let's get back to your office."

He got no argument for that idea, and they turned and headed back the way they came. As they reached the spot where the doorway to Rodney's office had been, they only encountered a metal sheet, similar to the blast shields in the hangars.

"Seriously, what in the hell?" Rodney wailed, beating a fist against the metal obstruction. "This is so not normal!"

The angry keen of the alarm wasn't able to completely drown out that same cacophony, closer now so that John was able to pick out the sounds of painful grunts of flesh hitting flesh and an angry pounding of feet on the floor. The uncomfortable prickling was quickly rising to an eerie familiar alarm—not too dissimilar to how he felt right before his chopper crashed into the sands of the Margow Desert. Without even thinking it through, he shoved Rodney behind him.

"What are you doing?"

"Stay behind me."

"What—why?"

"Someone's coming."

"Isn't that a good thing?"

John didn't answer him; he didn't have time to as an imposing figure in white scrubs burst into the hallway. Whoever it was, he was huge, weighing at least two hundred pounds and towering at more than a good six feet—and was headed right toward them. John tried to press against the wall, maybe give the guy a little room to barrel on by.

It didn't exactly pan out, because the man just dove toward them. John barely had time to shove Rodney out of the way with a shout to leave before he was pinned by a wall of muscle with crushing force. His head met the wall with a crash and he saw stars for a moment, before it cleared to an angry ebony face snarling in his vision.

"Kree shak shel nok!"

John tried to shove at the other man and ease up on the pressure pinning him against the wall, but the guy seemed to be made of pure muscle and it was all John could do to keep from being crushed by the angry man. Dark eyes glittered with hatred, and John suddenly found an elbow against his windpipe as more unfamiliar, angry words were cursed at him.

He gasped for breath, eyes landing on the strange gold tattoo adorning his attacker's forehead. John's lack of an answer only seemed to infuriate the man more, and his vision swam as the pressure on his throat increased. Dots danced in his vision, he was moments from passing out when suddenly the pressure was released and John crumpled to the floor.

Air flooded his lungs and John lay on the floor, gasping like a dying fish. He was dimly aware of the hulking figure staggering away, but it was only the alarmed cry that pulled him from his stupor. Still gulping precious breaths, John shoved himself up on his hands, trying to locate the source of shout.

McKay had managed to wrap his arms around the tattooed man's neck, probably in an attempt to pry him off of John. Unfortunately this had trapped him into the action as the angry individual had turned his rage onto the scientist. They danced around in a circle, the man trying to shake loose the terrified, but firmly clinging Rodney.

John staggered to his feet at the same moment that Rodney lost his grip and was flung into the wall opposite him. He slid down, dazed and unable to defend himself from the figure towering above him. John rushed forward, barely catching the arm that was meant to take out the downed man.

"Back... off, baldy," John's snarl was more of a croak, his throat sore from abuse.

"Mak tal shree," the man growled back.

"Same... to you!"

They grappled together, the pure strength rippling through his attacker's muscles managing to overpower John and push him back. He dug in his heels as adrenaline pumped through his system. John didn't know who the hell this guy thought he was, but he had chosen the wrong guy to pick a fight with.

A low, agonized moan signaled Rodney's return to the world of the living, and stole John's attention for a few moments. A fist slammed into his solar plexus, and for the second time in a five minute span John found himself back on the floor gasping for air. He dazedly stared up at the hulking figure looming over him. During the fight, the scrub top had ridden up, and John was treated to a grotesque view of a criss-cross of deep looking scars across the man's midriff.

What the—?

"There he is!"

"Get him!"

"Shel kek nem ron!" the man roared as no less than three muscle-bound security men piled on top of him.

John barely had time to scooch out of the way before the giant fell, cursing and swearing in his strange foreign tongue the entire way. John watched as one of the members of the security detail jabbed a large syringe into the man's neck, probably a sedative of some sort, if the slowly drooping lids were any indicator.

"Noc'ri'ton," the man uttered as he was manhandled to his feet, still weakly trying to fend off the men restraining him.

"What the... hell is... going on here?" John gasped out. His lungs were still trying to refill with air, chest heaving and aching with each breath.

"Nothing for you to be concerned with," growled the leader of the three men. He was just close enough for John to read the name "Devlin" on the clipped ID badge.

"Th' hell... it is," John massaged his throat, wishing he sounded a little more threatening and a lot less like Kermit the Frog. "Just what sort of... operation are you... running here?"

Devlin was unable to answer as the tattooed man seemed to find a new reserve of strength and started his struggles anew. It took all three men to restrain and start to manhandle him down the hall.

"Who... is he?" John called out breathlessly, fully intending on chasing them down just as soon as he found his feet.

The angry sucker punch to his chest made it difficult for John to regather himself, as the movement brought an uncomfortable tugging at the rapidly forming bruise. He had almost made it to his knees when a deep, throaty chuckle reached his ears, stopping him cold.

It may have been a month, but John hadn't forgotten the mirthless laugh of the person who had tossed him over the stairway railing. He froze, watching as the still chuckling Devlin and the other men disappeared around the corner, a cold ball of dread forming in his stomach. He had to have just imagined that, because there was no way...

"Oh, god, what hit me?" Rodney moaned pitifully.

Train of thought interrupted, John slid a glance over to see Rodney trying to pick up himself from the boneless heap he had become upon impact with the wall. He eyed the scientist closely, too harried, bruised, and exhausted from the fight to be able to offer much in the way of comfort. "You all right?"

"No, I am not all right, I just..." He trailed off, rubbing his head. "Who the hell was that?"

"Dunno," John mumbled in reply, every muscle shouting in protest as he tried to crawl to his feet. In addition to his new bruises and aches, his recently healed shoulder twinged, and John was unable to hide a grimace. Crazy guy better not have screwed up John's shoulder again. Once was enough.

McKay had ceased rubbing his head, to John's relief. The last thing he needed was for the man to get his valuable brain scrambled trying to save John. He blinked suddenly, not having realized that was what had happened until just now. A tight band constricted around his chest, although John wasn't sure if it was related to the last blow he had taken. In an effort to distract himself, he reached across the ground and picked up a pair of shattered spectacles.

"Casualty of war," he croaked, handing them over, watching as McKay's face paled several shades.

"Oh shit," he muttered, surging forward to scoop up the bits of glass before John could put a hand out to help. "Shit, shit, shit."

"I think it's a loss," John muttered.

"This is bad, this is very, very bad," he continued to murmur. "What the hell was I thinking?"

"I'd like to know that too," John tried to catch his eye, "because I thought I told you to get out of here."

Rodney paused in mourning his glasses, his entire frame freezing for a second, as if he had just been reminded of something unpleasant. "I... I don't know."

It seemed like there was a bad habit forming between them of leaping into the fray to try and save each other when things went to hell. John wasn't sure how he felt about that, so instead of pondering it further he stumbled to his feet, painfully dragging Rodney up with him. The angry red pulse of the light faded to black, before the hallway was lit back into its familiar brightness and the alarm died off in a sudden lurch. One by one each of the metal blast doors slid back out of sight, as if they hadn't been there to begin with.

John really wished he could say the same about doubts now plaguing his mind.

"Who the hell are we working for?" he asked quietly.

He hadn't really been expecting an answer, and definitely not the ominous reply that he got.

"I don't think you really want to know."

Rodney was packing his desk and still mourning the loss of his glasses, as well as the fact that he would have to tell Lorne to find him a new pair, when the light rap came at the doorframe to his office. Sheppard froze at the sound, entire body going tense before the irritating greeting was even spoken.

"Knock knock."

If he wasn't sure that the man wouldn't take some sort of perverse pleasure out of it, Rodney would tell Marrick exactly how creepy the stupid greeting was. As it was, he just tried to squash the rising frustration and uncomfortable flip-flops his stomach began to perform.

"What do you want?" he snapped irritably.

"I wanted to see how you were holding up."

Sheppard's shoulders bunched up, as if he were preparing for another fight. Rodney's stomach did another strange lurch, and he forced himself to ignore it and pin Marrick with an unblinking stare. "Fine. Thanks for asking. Go away now."

"From what I heard, both of you had a run-in with our guest."

"Guest?" Sheppard spat, voice still hoarse but apparently unable to stay silent any longer. "Do you usually treat your guests like that?"

"He's part of a trial study being run by the boys in medical Downstairs," Marrick answered smoothly.

"What kind of trial would that be?" Sheppard continued, and Rodney had to restrain himself from stomping on the other man's foot. These questions were dangerous territory.

"I'm sorry, but I don't think you have clearance for that information." Marrick narrowed his eyes, before flicking his probing gaze to Rodney. "I trust that no permanent damage was done."

"We'll survive," Rodney said sourly.

"That's good news." Marrick's smile revealed a row of shark-like teeth. "Your expertise on the X-302 project is invaluable."

"Yes, I keep getting told that," Rodney muttered and resumed packing his things.

"Y'know, it took three of your guys to get a handle on your 'trial subject'." Sheppard didn't seem inclined to drop the line of questioning, much to Rodney's chagrin. "And honestly, I can't say that he looked altogether too willing to go along with them."

"As I said, the details of the trial don't concern you." Marrick's tone hardened.

"They do when I'm nearly choked to death by your 'subject'."

"He was given the wrong dose of medication. It made him a bit wild and apparently unpredictable. A very regrettable incident, I assure you."

"Regrettable for whom? You or him?"

Rodney shot Sheppard a look, hoping to indicate that he needed to shut the hell up before he attracted any more undue attention. Unfortunately, subtlety was not one of Rodney's strong suits and Sheppard blithely ignored him.

"And while we're not talking about it, what the hell were those blast doors that—"

The angry line of questioning ended in a surprised cry, and Sheppard swiveled around to pin Rodney with a wild look. He stomped his foot on Sheppard's toes again even as he smiled tightly at Marrick. "The concern is touching, really, but we're fine."

"McKay—"

"Now, if you'll excuse us," he continued to speak over Sheppard, "we were on our way out."

"Were we?" Sheppard asked, annoyance tinging his tone.

"Well, yes," Rodney spoke as if he were in a discussion with a couple of five-year-olds, "you said you were going to take me home since I need my glasses for driving."

It was a bold-faced lie, but the intensity in Marrick's gaze seemed to lighten ever so slightly. "I noticed you weren't wearing them."

"They didn't survive the fight with your 'subject'," Sheppard explained impatiently, but had apparently taken the not-so-subtle hint and didn't push it any further.

"The company will be glad to pay for the replacements," Marrick said lightly, and Rodney felt his gut lurch again.

"Um, thank you, but I think I can handle the cost on my own," Rodney fumbled.

"If you're sure—"

"You got everything you need?" Sheppard asked, cutting off Marrick.

"Yeah, I think so." He made a show of slinging his messenger bag over his shoulder and settling it into place.

"Good, we shouldn't keep traffic waiting. You know how those evening commuters get if they can't cut us off."

Sheppard led the way, physically shouldering past Marrick and pinning the security officer with a fierce look as Rodney slipped past. They both bristled, hackles rising. It was Rodney's light hand on Sheppard's sleeve that pulled the pilot out of his pissing contest. He held his hand out impatiently and Rodney handed over the keys.

"So, you want to tell me why we just lied to Marrick?" Sheppard muttered as they made their way down the hall.

"It wasn't a lie," Rodney protested, but was unable to look the other man directly in the eye, "I really do need the glasses for driving."

Sheppard gave him a long, disbelieving look. "I never offered to drive you. That was a lie."

"You would have."

"So sure about that?"

He wasn't, actually, and the scrutiny Rodney found himself under made him squirm. "Yeah."

Sheppard didn't call him on the second lie, just spun the key ring around on his finger as they passed through the door leading to the main area of the building. "Then do you mind telling me why you decided to flatten my toes?"

"My foot slipped?"

"Bullshit."

"You were pissing him off."

"That was the point."

"Look, I really don't think you want to get on his bad side—at least any more than you already are."

"I'm not scared of him," Sheppard muttered and pinned Rodney with a look, "and you shouldn't be either."

"You have no idea who you're dealing with."

"And exactly who would that be, huh, McKay?"

Rodney realized that he had probably said too much, especially in the hallways of this place. His mouth shut with an audible click and he focused on putting one foot in front of the other, his pace quickening with the lengthening strides. Sheppard kept up, hovering uncomfortably close.

"You can't run away, I've got your car keys."

"I'm not running."

"You're avoiding the question."

"You ask too many of those."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Sheppard grabbed him by the arm, yanking both of them to a stop. "I don't know what's going on here, but it's something screwy that's for sure."

The pictures of a bloated body fished out of the city's reservoir danced in Rodney's mind, but instead of Peterson's face, this time it was Sheppard's unseeing eyes. Rodney swallowed dryly, because he shouldn't have that good of an imagination.

Something in his expression must have given away his thoughts, because Sheppard's angry rasp dropped to a concerned note. "What?"

"Nothing... sorry." Rodney shook his head, hoping to dispel the imaginary pictures and the worried frown on the other man's face. "Can we just please go to the car? It's been a long day."

"It has," Sheppard agreed cautiously, and they lapsed into silence as they finished winding their way through the building and out to the parking lot. It had been enough time for Rodney to think that the argument had been forgotten. That hope was dashed by the intense look he was pinned with as soon as they got into the cramped cabin of the Honda. "Rodney, is there something going on that I should know about?"

"No." He studied his reflection in the side mirror, knowing that he couldn't pull off a direct lie, especially with Sheppard looking ragged but ready to take on the world. "I'm just tired."

Rodney could feel the unbelieving stare boring into the back of his head, but he couldn't bring himself to meet the gaze. He wasn't lying about being tired because he was, and sore, and he wanted nothing more than to lie down on his bed and sleep for a week. There was a reason he had never taken up boxing or any physical contact sport.

"All right," the rasp in Sheppard's voice made Rodney wince, and part of him wanted to snatch the keys back and insist that he drive despite the lie he had just told.

"How's your throat?" He finally broke his staring contest with the mirror and looked over to see Sheppard tightly gripping the wheel.

"I'll live."

Rodney nodded mutely, wanted to say something else but didn't know what. Sheppard seemed to be in a similar straight, and they sat silently in the cabin for several long, tense moments. Finally, Sheppard cranked the engine and jammed the car into reverse harder than strictly necessary.

The tense atmosphere followed them from the parking lot all the way to the city limits. The angry silence did nothing to alleviate the nerve-racking thoughts plaguing Rodney, just added to them. They kept circling, going from one point to the next; from the strange incident that afternoon, to his next meeting with Lorne, and the way the stiff-backed individual sitting in the driver's seat refused to even look at him. He tried to knead out the tension bunching up behind his temples, earning a side glance from the driver's seat.

"Headache?"

"Yeah," Rodney muttered, continuing to massage his temples.

"Look," a ragged sigh escaped Sheppard, "I just... sorry, okay?"

"Sorry? About what?"

"Back there," he said tersely, as if hoping those two words would be enough explanation.

Unfortunately the dull throb behind Rodney's temples prevented him from using his secret, invisible Sheppard-emote decoder ring, so the short explanation did nothing for him. If anything, it just made it worse because it was one more thing to have to think about. Lorne had been right, damn it, things were getting complicated. He never had cared what anyone had thought before, and actually having to try with Sheppard and Carson added one more unnecessary stressor in his life.

"Fine," Rodney muttered, because he just didn't have the energy for this right now.

Sheppard's stern expression melted into something akin to concern. "No, it's not fine. There's no reason for you to let Marrick push you around—"

"Look, you're not my big brother, all right? I don't need you to fight my battles for me."

The concerned expression hardened then, and Sheppard's fingers dug into the steering wheel. "That's not what this is about."

"Then what? I really don't have the brain power to try and figure out your half-cryptic statements on my own right now, as much as that pains me to admit."

"Damn it, Rodney it's about..." Sheppard thumped the steering wheel in frustration, having trouble forming the words. "I can't do this!"

The pounding behind his temples increased to an almost hammering as Sheppard's voice spiked in anger. Deep felt, heart-to-hearts were not best conducted while trapped on a freeway with hundreds of other commuters clogging up the road. They were also best conducted by people who were able to string together a few sentences without the need to crack a joke to try and lighten the mood.

"Do what?" he finally whispered past the angry pounding in his head.

Sheppard's anger bled away at the quiet, resigned tone and he just shook his head furiously, painful rasp unable to completely hide the demon that had been unleashed. "I can't just keep playing ignorant anymore."

"You've been playing?"

The joke didn't break the tension, if anything it just increased it as Sheppard swiftly cut into another lane, too impatient to wait for the slow crawl to pick up its pace. "They're hiding something."

"I know," he replied softly.

"And you are too."

He should have denied it, told him how preposterous it was, but Rodney was tired of lying, and he was tired of pretending that everything was okay when it wasn't. He was tired of being alone and stuck in his head, unable to talk to anyone but a tight-lipped Air Force Major for five minutes a week. He was tired of tensing up every time he walked into his apartment, wondering if some other important piece of his personal life would be taken from him—or if perhaps someone would be waiting for him. If he came clean right then, at least he wouldn't be alone anymore. That would solve so many of his problems.

...and add to Sheppard's.

This wasn't Sheppard's fight, and if Rodney allowed him to get dragged into it he had a feeling it would only get the pilot killed. Stealth and subtlety had not exactly been his strong suit up to this point.

As much as Rodney hated being alone, he couldn't do that to one of the only two people to treat him decently in a good long while. So he neither confirmed nor denied Sheppard's accusation, and simply held his pounding head in his hands, wishing that the world might swallow him up.

"Are you in some kind of trouble?" Sheppard asked quietly, sounding more resigned at this point than frustrated.

Rodney didn't trust his voice to not give him away and just weakly shook his head. He wasn't in trouble.

He was in hell—and it didn't look like he was getting out anytime soon.