Time Immemorial

Chapter 42: Liquid Courage

July 24th
2245 Hours

John took a long pull from the bottle, feeling the amber liquid burn on its way down. He'd traded his copy of the 1984 Boston College versus University of Miami 'Hail Mary' game and the last of his popcorn stash to get it. The deal didn't seem fair in hindsight, but he suspected Sergeant Barlow had probably taken pity on his sorry ass.

The USS Daedalus had landed on the City's eastern pier just before sunrise. It had been a sight to behold. Flatter and leaner than her sister ship Prometheus, she was the picture of engineering triumph and military might. Her crew seemed to know it, too. Colonel Steven Caldwell, the ship's captain, had led the IOA delegation into Atlantis with an air of superiority. John didn't much care for the man. He got the sense the feeling was mutual.

An IOA panel had interviewed his people throughout the day. The expedition members had queued up outside the main conference room like pigs to the slaughter. The danger, John knew, was not theirs to realize, though.

He had stayed away from the witch hunt. The whole thing was a charade, but he would at least uphold the right to due process. If his teammates had grievances to air, it was their right to do so without interference. If the IOA found legitimate fault in their management of Atlantis, he would stand aside. But if they had arrived with the premeditated scheme Elizabeth feared, then they were simply going through the motions before appointing their own puppet and making her their scapegoat.

He bristled at the thought. It was criminal. Worse still, Elizabeth was a willing accomplice to the crime, ready to play victim to their con. Their meeting yesterday had solved nothing. There would be no united front. Tomorrow, John would tell the IOA his perspective on recent events, and then he'd tell the IOA where to shove it. Elizabeth would follow, but he suspected she would paint them a very different picture.

And so he had retreated as far away as he could get. Besides his own, only fifteen expedition members' quarters remained off-limits. They continued to occupy the Gate Room as a temporary berth, but he hadn't even tried to sleep there since the first night after his release. Instead, he had found his own little corner of the City to hole up in.

John sprawled on the floor of the Puddle Jumper's rear compartment. After a handful of trips to the mainland, no one had paid any mind to the Jumper Bay after the attack; they had bigger fires to fight. He had picked the farthest intact PJ — the neighboring craft had been completely decimated by plasma mortar — and staked his claim. Thankfully, no one had bothered him — no one except Zelenka, who had awkwardly stumbled upon him while looking for a misplaced tool at an ungodly hour three nights prior.

The isolation had been a welcome change. Left alone with his thoughts, he'd been allowed to sort through his tangled mess of memories and emotions. He hadn't been very effective, though. He'd thought his nightmares after the Klaan incident had been horrifying; his most recent made all the prior ones seem like blissful reveries. They varied in scope and plot, but they always ended the same way. He would stalk a faceless enemy from behind, and as he neared the combatant would pull a knife from a hidden sheath. John would fire his P-90 in self defense, downing the enemy, but as he overturned the dead body he would see Elizabeth's in its place. Try as he did, he could do nothing to alter the eventuality. He could never stay his pursuit; he could not hold his fire; he could never leave the body unturned. He had woken up in a cold sweat every night.

Sheppard languidly poured bourbon onto his old uniform piled on the PJ's floor next to him. The ragged hole from the blade's incision was visible, as was his own dried blood surrounding it. He lit the match he'd confiscated from the Jumper's emergency survival kit. Raising the bottle in a toast, he threw the match atop the BDUs and watched them burn for the next twenty minutes in silence.

The padding of feet betrayed a visitor's approach. He could tell by the gait who it was. He took a deep breath and another swig.

Elizabeth cautiously poked her head into the open rear hatch. She cleared her throat. John didn't look up.

"I…" she started, suddenly appreciating how hard it was to have a conversation with him anymore. "I was just on my way to my quarters when I thought I'd drop by and see how you're doing."

John snickered. "Is that the truth?"

Frowning, she admitted, "No. I've spent all afternoon looking for you. I stopped by your room but it's still quarantined. I checked the balcony on the northern pier, I checked the mess hall, the Gate Room, the gym…."

"Zelenka rat me out?"

"He may have casually mentioned seeing you in the Jumper Bay." She stepped onto the Jumper's rear loading ramp, circumspect. The pile of charred fabric smoldered, unrecognizable. She noticed a makeshift pillow and an emergency blanket stuffed against the bulkhead. His sidearm peeked out from underneath them. Food wrappers littered the cockpit's floor. More clothes laid piled carelessly atop a tablet computer. "Have you been living in here?"

He shrugged. "It's spacious, has a great bay window, not to mention one hell of a home security system," he reasoned, nodding toward a pod of Ancient drones.

"I see," was all she said, glancing around cagily. The place was a mess, almost as much as the man who occupied it. He sported a few days of growth on his face, the lingering evidence of a black eye, remnants of more gashes and contusions than she could count, and an edge that she hadn't seen in him before. Hence the alcohol? she wondered. "Night cap?"

John shook his head, offering her the bottle. "Liquid courage."

Elizabeth politely declined. "Courage for what?"

For tomorrow, he thought. "You know," he said instead, patting the bulkhead, "I thought about taking her up, maybe even camping out on the mainland for a bit. Hell, I could have Gated to another planet. But then I realized: there is nowhere in this universe that is far enough away from this circus."

He raised the bottle to his lips. Some of it sloshed onto his clothes as Elizabeth took it from him.

"Then you realized that flying drunk was a bad idea," she intoned.

He considered her statement. "Yeah, probably."

"Yeah, definitely."

"So instead, this bottle of bourbon and I reviewed some mission reports—"

"This bottle of bourbon and you," Elizabeth repeated disapprovingly, examining the label. "115 proof. Where on Earth did this come from?"

"Kentucky, I think. Don't look so surprised, Elizabeth. It's a military base; there's going to be booze."

Feeling slightly hypocritical, she dropped the subject. She herself had downed two tall glasses of Athosian ale before heading his way. If anyone needed liquid courage before tomorrow's proceedings, it was her, but not as much as she needed it to face him now. She sat down on the bench seat opposite John's spot on the floor.

"Listen," she tread lightly, "can we talk?"

Sheppard chuckled from the floor. "There's less than twelve hours before you march headlong to the gallows and now you want to talk? Okay, fine. You want to talk about the weather this time? How about that local sports team?"

"John, I'm serious—"

"Me, too. I can't do anymore small talk with you, Elizabeth. I'm done with that. If we're going to talk, we're going to talk. None of this tiptoeing, beat-around-the-bush bullshit."

With a deep breath, she answered, "Deal." Then she didn't know how to start. She took a swig of bourbon herself. "Speaking of mission reports, I read yours."

He regarded her as she drank, an uncharacteristic display of apprehension. "I included everything about the incident I could remember."

"Yes, you were very thorough," she agreed. "Your word choice was objective, your phrasing professional. But I'm here to talk about everything you didn't write."

"It's all there."

"It's not all there. I spoke with Rodney, Teyla, Aiden…. They told me what you went through. They're all worried about you—"

"Dammit, I'm fine!" he yelled, slamming the floor with a fist. He paused to collect himself. "Just pretend I said that without shouting."

"Okay, you're fine," she indulged, her eyes darting to the pile of ash in the center of the floor. "But in light of recent events, I think you should see Dr. Heightmeyer anyway."

"You're the second person to say that," he bemoaned. "What could Dr. Heightmeyer possibly do for me?"

"Well, for starters, she's someone who could listen."

"Oh, right. Because you and I, we're just supposed to have a working relationship."

Elizabeth felt the bite of her earlier words echo back at her.

Her silence reaffirmed his supposition. "I don't even know how to be around you anymore."

"Be you," she pleaded.

"Easy for you to say. That hasn't worked out so well for me in the past."

Exhaling, Elizabeth recognized she would be fighting an uphill battle. "I'm worried about you. I'm worried that Commander Antigonos has poisoned you with a guilt that is not yours to bear."

"Commander Antigonos," John reflected, hate lacing the name as it left his tongue. "I've never wanted to kill anyone before. And I'm not talking about self defense or in defense of others. I'm talking revenge. I'm talking about this impulse to put my hands around his neck and squeeze until the bastard's legs stopped kicking, this impulse that was pounding at the base of my skull like a chronic headache, a pounding more powerful than my own pulse."

"Did you kill him?"

"You said you read my report."

"I did, but I want to hear it from you."

"I let him die — is there a difference?"

"Yes. The same difference that makes you you, and him a monster."

"I'm not sure you would've been able to tell us apart by the end," he said gravely. "He got under my skin. He was in my head. He was toying with me, and it was a game he played well."

"But you won. You beat them, John."

"And you paid the price," he pointed out. "You made a big sacrifice. Everyone here owes you their lives."

"You don't have to thank me—"

"You shouldn't have done that."

Elizabeth raised her eyebrows. "Excuse me?"

"You willingly gave your life, for what? No guarantees, just the slightest whiff of hope that everyone else might get a fighting chance—"

"It was my life to give!"

"No one asked you to!"

"You didn't have to," she contended. "If a slim prospect of hope is all there is, then it's a worthy sacrifice. This team has done more with just a fighting chance than others could do with assured success. The choice was obvious."

"You don't get to make that choice for everyone," the major disputed.

"I'm sorry? As leader of this base, I don't get to make the choices that best affect our people?"

"You don't get to throw away your life on a whim, thinking in that harebrained head of yours that maybe it just might tip the scales!"

"No?" she challenged. "Only you get to do that, then?"

"What?"

"You're the only one who's allowed to lay your life down for your people if you think you can save them?"

John was confounded by her reasoning. "As military leader of this base—"

"Oh, let's not turn this into a battle of titles. The fact is you've gone off on I don't even know how many suicide missions without even the faintest scent of success in the air. And you pull it off every single time. Now can't I be allowed to try the same?"

"No. You can't."

"Why the hell not?" Elizabeth demanded.

"Because you're too damn important to me!" he cried out before realizing his blunder. He downed another gulp of bourbon. "Because you're too important to this expedition."

Elizabeth's eyes found her hands clasped in her lap. "I did it to save this expedition, yes," she replied steadily, "but when I made my decision there was only one person in this City I was thinking of." She summoned the nerve to meet his gaze. "If I had to give my life for another's, I can't think of anyone more worthy."

He shook his head adamantly. "I'm not worth it, Elizabeth. I don't deserve your selflessness."

"You deserve help, even if you don't want to ask for it. You don't know how to give up, remember? Don't give up on yourself now."

"I gave up," Sheppard professed. "Antigonos had me on the ropes and I gave up."

"That's not true," Elizabeth dismissed.

"I gave up," he insisted. "I gave in. He broke me and I gave them my access code."

"You were caught between a rock and a hard place. You did what you thought was best in order to protect this base and everyone in it."

"I didn't want to live anymore. I didn't care."

Elizabeth felt her heart turn to a block of ice. "I don't believe that."

"Believe it. You sacrificed yourself, I wanted to die — see the difference? I swore you an oath and I broke it. I lied to you. I failed you."

"What in god's name are you talking about?"

"I told you I'd come back for you in that lab," he croaked, his voice hoarse. His cheeks reddened; Elizabeth suspected it wasn't because of the alcohol. "Instead I abandoned you in a flooding room with a false promise. You died alone. What kind of monster does that make me?"

Elizabeth sank to the floor across from him. She could scarcely believe her ears.

"I told you I'd always have your back," he went on. "But when you died you went to the one place I couldn't."

"But you tried," she inferred.

"Hoped is more like it." He examined the remaining contents of the bottle. It was half empty.

Elizabeth covered her mouth with a hand, trying her best to reign in her horror. She let out a quivering breath. "John," she began slowly, "I don't blame you for my death. I knew it would be my end when I made my choice. You are not the villain in this story, Antigonos is, and you are nothing like him." A touch to his leg brought his eyes to hers. "I'm truly concerned about you. Maybe if you talked through what you're telling me with a trained psychologist—"

"Dammit, Elizabeth, I don't need a shrink, I need you!" Sheppard asserted. "But if you're trying to piece together what's going through my head, I'll save you some time: it's a mess. Don't bother."

"Don't bother? I'm trying to help—"

"Then stop. That man put me through a hell I didn't know could exist. You have no idea what I went through after you died—"

"Don't patronize me!" she retorted. "Do you honestly think I felt nothing when I saw you lying there in the morgue? Now, granted, I only had to cope with your death for about an hour, so forgive me if that makes my grief any less warranted than yours." She saw him open his mouth to object, but she cut him off. "I'm not finished. You listen to me, John Sheppard, and you listen good. Don't think for a second that you're the only one who has to deal with difficult decisions and overwhelming emotions. I do it on a daily basis. Do you think that I enjoy sending you through that Gate, knowing that you won't contact us for days? Do you think that I sleep well when you're gone? How am I suppose to choose between the welfare of Atlantis and your own, to knowingly send you into harm's way or to keep you here, safe?"

Her pulse surging, she forced in several deep breaths. Dammit, she had lost her cool. She'd allowed it get personal, again. "Give me that," Elizabeth muttered, swiping the bottle from the major. "It doesn't matter. Starting tomorrow, I won't be the one making those decisions anymore."

She didn't just take a sip of the liquor this time. She downed several gulps before needing to come up for air. Elizabeth squeezed her eyes shut against the burn, rubbing at the headache that was starting to blossom at her temple.

"Maybe I'd better take that back," John decided, moving the bottle to his side of the spacecraft. He could hear his own words starting to slur. Good, he thought. He had wanted to drown his sorrows, alone, and Elizabeth's arrival wasn't going to stop him from getting completely wrecked. "I think there's some liquid truth mixed in with this bottle of liquid courage," he said under his breath.

"Truth," she repeated with a derisive laugh. "That's been our problem. We were never honest with each other."

"Well," John answered, opening his arms, "here we are. Just you, me, and about half a bottle of truth left. Fire away." Elizabeth balked at his suggestion. "No, really, go ahead. This is our last couple of nights together, right? Ask me anything."

Shaking her head, Elizabeth could only think of one question to ask, but she couldn't muster the courage. "I'm not going to ask what you feel for me—"

"Why not?" he pressed. "Ask me."

"No. It's not fair to you—"

"Ask me, dammit!"

"No! Quite frankly I don't know if I could handle any answer. But I need to know that when I leave Atlantis I'll be doing so on good terms with you."

"Doing so on good terms — what, are we voiding some legal contract? Talk to me! Stop treating me like any other expedition member!"

"And stop treating me like I'm made of glass! I don't need your shoulder to cry on, I don't need your promise of protection, and you don't need the guilt when you're ultimately forced to break it. I never asked for any of that!"

"You didn't have to!" Sheppard said, throwing her own words in her face once more. He felt his emotions deflate a little. "Hell, maybe this is a good thing. Maybe the best way to keep you out of harm's way is to ship you as far away from me as possible."

"Right," she said saltily. "Suddenly you want me to just pick up the pieces and go home."

"Aren't those the lyrics to a Fleetwood Mac song?"

"Dammit, John, can you stop being so flippant for two minutes and get serious? This isn't a joke!"

"My whole life's a joke. Not a very good one, but…."

"Okay," Elizabeth challenged, folding her arms, "what is your problem?"

"My problem? Easy: I want two things and can only have one. And I almost lost both in one day."

"So now you distance yourself from them both."

"At least I'm not turning my back on them both."

"Wow, it must be nice to see everything in such undeniably clear terms."

"Yeah, well, dying tends to put things in perspective."

"Does it," she said flatly. "So that's your excuse for kicking in the teeth of those trying to help you."

"Is that why you came here, to try to help?" John demanded. "Or to pick a fight?"

Elizabeth sighed. "I came to work things out between us."

"So your conscience would be clear before you cut and run?" He laughed. "I don't think so. Not interested. But I'll tell you something else I want: to talk some sense into you and convince you to stay."

"John…."

"Here's another one: I want to let go, to not be responsible for anything for a whole two, three hours. But enough about me. What do you want?"

"Don't change the subject."

"I'm not changing the subject. We're having an honest conversation about each other's desires. That's what you wanted: honesty."

"That's not fair."

"Life's not fair." He gulped down another mouthful of booze. "You didn't answer the question."

"I don't have to."

"No, you don't. Rolling over for the IOA is answer enough."

Elizabeth's eyebrows shot up. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"It means that kissing your job goodbye so that I get to keep mine kills two birds with one stone: you get to clear your conscience, then you get to run away."

She blinked, dumbstruck. He had seen right through her, again. "I told you: I want to go back to Earth."

"Ha," he snorted. "That's a lie."

Her face reddened with indignation. "I have a family to get back to. I'm sorry if you don't know what that feels like."

The blow hit below the belt. But it was true. He'd shared with her the resentment his parents and brother harbored for him, a resentment that had led to one very bitter falling out and a slew of lonely Christmases. Elizabeth, on the other hand, was very close with her mother and….

"Oh, I get it," John said, realizing. "Simon."

Elizabeth looked up sharply. "You know he and I drifted apart, long before I left Earth."

"Did you end it?"

"I'm not doing this," she said, standing to leave.

"Look at me, Elizabeth."

"John, please don't…."

"Look at me! Did you end it with Simon, tell him that it was over?"

Rolling her eyes, she replied, "I'm wondering how this is even your business, but yes, I ended it."

John braced himself against the bench seat and pushed himself upward. "Maybe that was a mistake." Steadying himself against the Jumper's bulkhead, he waited for the dizzy spell to pass. "Go ahead, run back to your boring suburban life and your boring doctor. You can get matching shirts for his Tuesday night bowling league, hang out at the clubhouse while he golfs with his senator pals on Thursdays, and invite his boring surgeon friends over for Yahtzee and cocktails on Fridays."

"You can call it boring, but believe it or not I like some predictability in my life," she said.

John scoffed. "No, you don't. You came here."

She didn't have a response.

"You're just afraid," he went on.

"Oh, am I?"

"Yes."

"Afraid of what?"

"Of working without a script. Of operating without a safety net. That's your problem."

"I'm sorry, my problem?" she questioned.

"Yeah, your problem. You're so by-the-numbers, so worried about being improper—"

"What, would you rather I just relax?"

"Yes, for Christ's sake!" John implored. "Stop being a slave to procedure. Once, just once, you should try throwing the rule book out the window."

"And be more like you?" She reached for the bourbon again.

John's face fell. "I didn't say that."

"Tell me, John, how's that working out for you? Flying by the seat of your pants, giving the finger to authority, doing whatever the hell you want and damn everyone else."

"Thats not what I meant—"

"Let's see if I can recall correctly. That sort of attitude landed you in the brig in Afghanistan, then got you shipped to the bottom of the world where no one would have to deal with your shit — oh, but not before it killed your fellow soldier and best friend."

Sheppard remained silent.

"Oh," Elizabeth said, holding up a finger as she finished a swig, "let's not forget Colonel Sumner. I can't remember a single kind word he had to say about that attitude of yours. Too bad he died as you proved him right."

John was quiet.

Clasping her hands in diabolical mirth, she continued. "Ah, yes, and then there was the former Mrs. John Sheppard—"

"I think you've had enough," he interrupted, reaching for the bottle.

Elizabeth eluded his grasp. "No, no, wait, tell me where I go wrong. It wasn't just your professional life that suffered, was it? Tell me, is that why she left you? Did you apply that that trademark irreverent attitude to your marriage, too?"

"You need to think about what you're saying."

"Aw, because it's going to hurt your feelings?"

"Because you're going to wake up tomorrow and regret it."

She grinned maliciously. "Struck a chord, did I? Now who needs to relax? I bet she was sick of coming in second to a goddamn helicopter week after week. I bet she was tired of you cheating on her with the U.S. Air Force. I bet she felt sick to her stomach every time you came back from destinations unknown riddled with bullets, only for you to laugh in her face for her concern then hop back in the cockpit the very next day." She raised the bottle to her lips. "You know, you really are—"

Blam! The sound of the 9-mil firing was followed immediately by that of shattering glass. It was ear-splitting in the confined space.

Elizabeth looked at what remained of the bottle of bourbon. She held the bottle neck in her hand; the rest laid strewn across the cabin in a thousand tiny pieces. Her shoes were wet with the sticky liquid. John's eyes found hers from behind the sight of his Beretta.

"Still shooting your way out of all your problems, I see," she accused, throwing the remaining glass at his feet. She was more inflamed at losing the remaining alcohol than startled.

John lowered his gun and looked at it, his hands suddenly shaking. He quickly threw it on the seat beside him and sunk down beside it. What am I doing? he thought to himself, trying to rub away the frustration that was manifesting in his forehead. He was in no state to be operating a firearm; he was lucky the bullet hadn't struck her.

"You know what, I surrender," he submitted. "I don't want to argue anymore. You were right. You win."

She remained standing, still keyed up from their quarrel.

"Stargate Command put in place certain rules and regulations for a reason," Sheppard continued. As he listened to the words escape his mouth, he felt like someone had taken over his body and was speaking for him. "Until now, I didn't appreciate the meaning behind them."

"I don't believe I'm hearing this," Elizabeth answered, sitting slowly on the opposite bench. "Not from you. Suddenly you're a believer?"

"Suddenly you're not?"

"I didn't say that. Where's this coming from?"

Here they were, one year after they had started this expedition together, in a complete reversal of roles: Elizabeth, the upstanding diplomat, all sense of propriety shed before him, and John, the maverick pilot, for the first time in his life clinging to the system's rules.

"I don't want to hurt you anymore, Elizabeth. But I don't want you sacrificing yourself for me again, either."

"Meaning what?"

"Meaning I'm feeling reckless enough to do something stupid about it," he muttered. He got up, staggered to the mechanism that shut the Jumper's rear ramp, and waited expectantly.

Elizabeth got the message. It was her time to leave. "I can take a lot of abuse," she explained, stopping astride him. "You can malign my character and impugn my judgment, but don't ever criticize me for caring about you."

"Caring about me was the worst judgment call you ever made," John said soberly. "But don't worry, you won't have to make any decisions as your surgeon's little Stepford wife."

Elizabeth blinked against the sting. "This is the part where you say 'I'm sorry.'"

"This is the part where you say 'goodnight'."

She looked him up and down, disbelieving that the man she saw before was the same one she had given her heart to. She feared that man was gone. After tomorrow, she would be, too. She picked up her chin and put on that well-practiced face of restraint.

"Good-... goodbye, Major Sheppard."

He picked up on the finality of her words. They hurt. "Goodbye, Dr. Weir."

As soon as she had stepped clear of the ramp, John closed it. He clasped his hands atop his head, pacing the cabin. Suddenly he kicked the seats to his left with fury — once, twice, three times. I hope you're proud of yourself, you asshole, he thought.

John gathered up his tablet. He slumped in the pilot's chair and threw the device on the console.

Are you sure you want to do this? he asked himself, staring blankly at the computer. His earlier assessment had been correct: it was reckless and it was stupid. She would never forgive him.

But it was the right thing to do.

"Hell yes I do," he pledged aloud. John opened a blank word document and began typing.


Elizabeth stumbled off the ramp. She jumped at the sound of it closing behind her, but she forced herself to keep going. She felt sick to her stomach, and she was sure it wasn't the booze.

She didn't know what tricks he had up his sleeve, reckless or otherwise, but she was certain he was plotting something. She needed to deny him the opportunity to enact it. When she got back to her quarters she'd send one email and cut him off at the pass.

Her feet brushed against something. Reaching down to the Jumper Bay's floor, she snatched up a wadded up piece of paper — she suspected one of the many pieces of trash littering the PJ's floor. She must have accidentally kicked it out.

As she unfurled the paper, she realized it wasn't a document but rather a photo. With each fold opened, another one of her team members smiled back at her: Ford, Rodney, Teyla, Carson, John, and even herself. She recognized the scene instantly. The photo had been taken the day after their arrival in Atlantis, during the celebration that marked their partnership with the Athosians, their very first allies. An avid amateur photographer, Dr. Perrot had insisted on capturing the moment they had first become a team.

She studied the photo more closely. Everyone appeared so joyous; she couldn't help but smile herself. The then-Lieutenant Ford looked excited to be there, a sentiment that hadn't waned since. Rodney stood rigidly next to him, worried that he had consumed lemon in the Athosian kabob he was holding. Carson beamed with pride while Teyla was ever the picture of a graceful leader.

John stood slightly apart from the them, still reeling from his part in Colonel Sumner's death. She'd attempted to console him earlier that night, as even then she had been able to tell his brave face was only that. So she had stuck to his side the rest of the evening, unwilling to abandon him to misery. She stood on his opposite side, stouthearted.

She smiled as she recalled what he had said to her that same night: "You do realize I can get us into all sorts of trouble, right?" He had had that damned mischievous glint in his eye.

It was hard to believe that moment had been one year ago.

Noticing a different set of creases in the photo, Elizabeth brought it closer to her nose. These creases were not random but split the paper equally in four. Someone had taken great care and had folded it reverently, almost lovingly. Despite that, it looked like it had been manhandled, crumpled, even waterlogged, like it had been dragged through a war.

"Oh my god," she whispered, realizing. "John's anniversary present."

Quickly she flipped the paper over. What she found confirmed her theory.

In John's faded handwriting, a note read:

"To the woman who as it all, and who made it all happen:
Thanks for taking a chance on a stubborn screwup.
Happy one year.
-J"

Elizabeth staggered from the Jumper Bay and headed for her quarters. She made it no further than fifty yards before sliding down the wall to the hallway floor, photo pressed tightly to her heart.

TBC


Author's note: Just a couple chapters left, plus an epilogue, I think. I've been struggling with the ending for ages, so still trying to work it all out. Thanks for sticking with it this far.