Mitchell is making plans and the General could be in danger, but meanwhile, back on Atlantis, John is feeling better and Rodney gives him a tour.

Chapter 8

Rodney dumped his armful of clothes on the rumpled bed. The shower was still running and he'd been out scavenging for things that might fit John for a good half hour. Hadn't the idiot worked out how to shut it off? The pants he'd found slid off the bed and he picked them up, smoothing out the bedding as he dropped them back on the pile.

They'd shared the bed again last night. John hadn't needed him, not really. He could have gone next door. But when Rodney had said goodnight, John had just looked at him. So he'd got in. And when he'd woken up, John's hand had been resting on his shoulder.

The rush of water was joined by a strange moaning sound. Rodney started toward the bathroom. John had fallen. He must be in pain. The moaning rose and fell. Rodney stopped and listened at the door.

"And that's what you'll find if you go behind,

The guardhouse after dark!"

Oh. He was singing. Rodney listened for a little longer. Wow. It sounded like John had learned considerably more than weaponry and tactics when he was in the army. He began another verse, which detailed the exploits of an amorous captain who bestowed his favours liberally, with partners of either sex, if the lyrics were anything to go by.

"Come Alison, Annabelle, Harry or Pete, I'll kiss your toes and tickle your feet!"

And, judging by subsequent lines, the protagonist's repertoire was far from limited to kissing toes and tickling feet.

"We'll sing a chorus and raise a glass, to soldiers who take it up the- "

"John!"

The shower shut off.

"What?"

Rodney opened the door a crack and a cloud of steam swirled out. "Are you coming out of there any time within the next three weeks?"

"Yeah, in a minute. This is great, Rodney!"

"I can't believe you're never seen a shower before."

"Why would I? We have a tin bath. Or no bath. Those are the options."

"Well, come out soon. I've found some clothes that'll fit you."

The singing resumed. Rodney shut the door. He ran his fingers over his laptop, but nothing he'd been working on called to him, and he'd lost interest in the medical texts since John seemed to be recovering.

The bathroom door opened. A damp figure emerged from the clouds of steam, one towel around his waist, another over his head.

"That was amazing. Thanks, McKay."

"Er…" Rodney tried to clear the sudden tightness from his throat. "That's okay," he croaked. The towel around John's waist should be fired for inefficiency. It had slipped down; way, way down. The song lyrics repeated themselves in his head, over and over again.

"Rodney?"

"Yes, sorry, what?"

"I said, can you take a look?"

"A look? At what?"

John was sitting on the edge of the bed, his hair extra fluffy from towel-drying. He twisted round. "At my back. See if I can go without all the tape and stuff."

"Oh. Yes, of course." Rodney had peeled the dressings off before John had got in the shower and hadn't really thought much about it. It was that towel. And the song. And the dampness and warmth of John's skin.

"Rodney?"

"Yes, sorry, doing it now." He got the first aid kit from the bathroom, dumped it on the bed and knelt behind John. The long, ugly furrows were healing well, mostly. A couple of the deepest areas had a way to go, though. "I'll just cover up some bits."

"Okay."

Rodney cut some strips of tape and stuck them to the edge of the first aid box, so that they'd be ready when he wanted them. John picked up the pink shaver thing. "Do you want me to use that? Are you in pain?"

The shoulders in front of him shrugged. "No, not really. This thing's pretty cool, though. What d'you call it?"

Rodney stuck a dressing over the bite on John's shoulder. "I don't really call it anything."

"It looks like a worm." The curvy shaver thing popped up over John's shoulder, peered left and right and then hid itself again.

"I'm not calling it that."

"Or a pink snake."

"I'm definitely not calling it that!"

"No, that sounds like a-"

"I was thinking of calling it an analgesic wand." Rodney imagined it packaged in a box with a picture of his 'trust me - I'm a doctor' face. 'Dr McKay's Analgesic Wand.' Then he remembered that a picture of his face would make potential customers run a mile.

"Aw," said John.

"Or what?"

"No. A W. Aw. It doesn't have a lot of impact, does it? As acronyms go."

Rodney huffed. He liked it. And he'd invented the thing.

"How about PKD - pain killing device?" said John. "It sounds more… businesslike."

"You military types are all about the acronyms. There. Finished."

"Thanks."

John stood up and flexed his bitten shoulder, grimacing. The towel slipped a little more.

"Um… Hopefully some of these'll fit." Rodney prodded the pile of clothes he'd scavenged.

"Oh, yeah, they'll be fine."

And in typical 'I don't care who sees me naked' military style, John let the towel fall to the floor.

Something in Rodney's back twinged nastily as he performed an acrobatic corkscrew. His feet slapped to the floor on the other side of the bed. He jammed his hands between his knees and attempted to breathe slowly and deeply.

"You okay there, Rodney?"

"Uh-huh," he squeaked. "Um." He needed to think of something to say, fast; something that would force that brief glimpse out of his head. But the image was indelibly burned into his retinas - the V where John's lean, muscled thighs began, the dark, curling hair set within their frame and, the centrepiece, or rather centrepieces - John's cock and balls. Rodney's fingers itched to touch and he crushed them even harder between his knees, but the imagined tactile sensation still filled his mind - the firm, smooth muscle, the wiry curling hairs, the soft, delicate skin, hardening under his touch. "How-did-you-lock-it - the door - how-did-you-get-it-to-lock-me-out?"

"What?" The slide and crumple of skin and fabric stopped. "How did I what-now?"

Rodney breathed, in and out, slowly. "How did you get the door to lock me out? When I wanted you to have dinner with me?" He congratulated himself on speaking coherently.

"Oh. I don't know." John's voice was muffled, then clear again. "I just really wanted it to. Rodney?"

"Yes?"

"It's safe to look now."

Socked feet appeared in front of him. Rodney looked up, his gaze slowly travelling up the grey pants, ignoring any lumps and bumps, over the studded belt and higher, skimming shiny-black close-fitting fabric and up to where John hadn't bothered with the zipper and his tanned chest and those treacherous curly hairs lurked. And then higher still. John was smiling, his hair drooping forward in wayward bangs.

"Hey there, Dr McKay."

"Hello." His throat seemed to need a lot of clearing at the moment. Maybe he was coming down with something. Would John look after him if he was sick? His throat tightened again. "Um. You look ni- er… better. You look better. Less like uh…"

"Like something the wolf dragged in?"

"Hm. Er… sit down."

"I thought we were gonna go somewhere? I'm feeling okay."

"We will. In a minute. Sit."

John sat, leaning back against the pillows with one foot up on the bed. Rodney selected an item from the debris on his desk and handed it to John.

"What is it?" John turned it over in his hands. "Oh, hey, it lights up."

"As I thought," said Rodney. "You, my possibly werewolf friend, are the proud owner of the ATA gene!"

"Werewolf?" Colour drained from John's face. "They're not real are they?"

"Of course they're not real! You think we're living in a fairytale? Chuh!"

John pouted. Actually pouted. "You're talking to someone who never knew about showers, McKay. How the hell do I know what's real?"

"A fair point," Rodney conceded. The pout disappeared. So now he'd stop thinking about the feel of soft lips against his own. He really would stop. Soon.

"What was the other thing you said?"

"What? Oh, the ATA gene. Yes, you have it. Which means somewhere in the dark distant past, not shaggy fur and howling at moons but Ancient blood got into your family line. So, you can use the things they left lying about, like this city."

"Cool," said John. "I got the feeling it liked me."

"Did you?"

John shrugged. "Most people do." He chewed his lip. "Even when I don't want them to."

'Most people do.' How easy, how simple, to assume you were going to be liked everywhere you went. Rodney assumed the opposite and then got his insults in first, to save time.

"So, what else can I do?" asked John.

"Not a lot, as it happens. We've barely got the power left to keep the doors operational."

"Oh."

"But I'm sure we'll find something for you to do. After all, what are the last dregs of power for, if not to have a little fun?" Rodney glanced at the door, which was firmly closed. He hadn't heard the patter of tiny furnishings for a while, but they would certainly have been amazed at his words. Still, spending the last flicker of life in the ZPM on John seemed better than eking it out, or jealously hoarding it like a miser.

"What'll happen when it's gone?"

"Oh, I expect I'll manage somehow. Come on, let's go before you fall asleep again."

He took John to the library and watched his face light up with wonder.

John turned in place so that the light from the huge window played over his face and body, glinting off the flicks and quirks of his newly-washed hair, outlining the curve and stretch of his throat as he tipped back his head to gaze at the rising levels and the painted dome, far above.

"That is a lot of books," he husked.

"I'll forgive you that statement of the blindingly obvious," said Rodney. "I'm guessing your experience is limited to lists of army rules and not a lot else."

"The bookseller in the village had a few, but… There must be thousands here."

"Millions, including all those in digital form."

John tipped his head further back. "It's painted like the sky," he said. And then staggered and put out a hand.

Rodney's hand was in John's. He guided his friend to a seat. His friend. Was John his friend? His prisoner, his patient, his guest, his friend… his. But John wasn't his and wouldn't ever be his, because Rodney would let him go and then, when the ZPM had finally failed, he'd be alone.

"Damn." John bent forward over the reading desk, massaging his temple with one hand. "Thought I was over this."

Rodney opened his mouth, expecting eye-rolling, impatient, curtness to snap from his lips. Nothing came out. John's hand was still in his, returning his firm grip. And then Rodney's other hand reached out toward the floppy hair which hid John's forehead and he brushed it aside and placed the tips of his fingers against the furrowed skin beneath. It was cool and dry.

John would say something; something clever or silly or mocking. But he didn't. He raised his head, so that Rodney's fingers trailed down the side of his face, past his eye, over his cheekbone. He looked up, his expression of open, uncomplicated wonder not for the library, but for Rodney.

And Rodney's hand was still in John's and his fingertips still retained their featherlight touch on John's face, moving along the line of his jaw and then - would he really do it? - slowly, ever-so-slowly up over the curves of his chin to gently stroke the softness of his lower lip.

Neither spoke. Rodney had no words for the situation and, it seemed, neither did John. His fingers trailed upward to brush against John's cheekbone again and then he let his hand fall. "Are you okay now?" he murmured.

John swallowed. "Yeah," he whispered. "Yeah, I'm okay."

Rodney squeezed his friend's hand. "Come on, then. I'm going to show you the gardens."

He led John to the transporter and they crossed the city in a flash; and Rodney dismissed the power consumption from his mind, because John had to see this. Hand-in-hand, they stepped into a different world.

John looked down at the lush grass beneath his feet and ran his fingers around the curving tip of a large waxy leaf. "Wow, it's hot in here! What is this, McKay? How did you get all this to grow?"

Rodney unzipped his jacket and tugged his collar away from his suddenly damp skin. "Geothermal energy," he said. "There are hot springs under the city, which we'd already tapped when… well, when everyone was still here. I just brought all the earth in and diverted some of the pipes so I could get stuff to grow all year round."

"You brought the earth in?" John peered through the great, lush banks of shrubs. "How big is it?"

"Oh, pretty big. We're actually on the floor above ground level. I filled the whole thing with earth. It took a while."

"By hand? Without a truck or anything?"

Rodney shrugged. "I went through a phase of needing to do mindless grunt work. It lasted a while."

"I bet it did."

Rodney followed John as he pushed his way through rustling corn stalks, the tasseled flowers waving above their heads; then along past the ranks of tomato plants, red and yellow fruit dangling in trusses from between bright green scented leaves.

"Can I?" John pointed at the tomatoes.

"Go ahead."

He gripped a bright red, shining fruit between his fingers and thumb and twisted it until the stem gave way. Then he lifted it to his lips, inhaled its scent and took a bite, juice running down his chin. "Mm." John released Rodney's hand to wipe away the juice. "'s real good." He took another bite and this time juice ran over his chin where faint stubble was already beginning to emerge, and then dripped a long trail down his throat.

Rodney followed the drip until it settled in the cleft between John's collar bones. John took another bite and the little pool brimmed and then trickled over. Rodney couldn't help himself. He dammed the flow with a finger and followed the stream all the way back to its source, where John's lips and just the faintest whispering rasp of his tongue sucked the juice from his fingertip.

A crooked grin flashed. "What else can I eat?"

Rodney shuddered. "Whatever you want," he said. "Um. Ha. There might be some peaches?" This he had to see. Those peaches were the juiciest, sweetest peaches ever grown. To watch John eat one would be pure porn. "This way."

"No, hang on." John stepped over the feathery leaves of the carrots and through the tall stalks of kale.

Rodney followed and joined John by the window, which curved high overhead and back toward the wall of the tower, creating the ideal space for a greenhouse; if you wanted to spend months of back-breaking work filling it with soil. Which, at the time, Rodney had.

They looked down over the rest of his garden, hidden under a deep fall of snow. Flakes pattered against the glass and swirled down between the towers.

"Some of those drifts must be twenty feet high or more," said John. "I wonder what the forest road is like."

"Completely impassable, I would imagine," said Rodney. John was thinking about going. Already he was thinking about going. Did this mean nothing, then? This whatever-it-was between them? They'd found a connection, hadn't they? Or was John just enacting the part of the amorous soldier from his song? Would Alison, Annabelle, Harry or Pete do just as well as Rodney? He was showing John the best of the city, the best of himself. If it wasn't enough, if he wasn't enough, then perhaps John should go. "Come on, I've got something else to show you. You're going to really love this."

"Okay."

John allowed himself to be towed along, back toward the transporter.

"Unless you're tired. You're not too tired, are you?"

"No, I'm okay."

Rodney searched John's face. His eyes were still faintly shadowed, his skin just a little pale. His healing injuries were bound to be hurting by now. Rodney shouldn't be dragging him around the city. He should let him rest. John would need his energy if he was going to make the journey home. He could have a home here, with me.

"I said I'm okay, Rodney. What did you want to show me?"

"Oh. Yes. Come on."

Another flash of the transporter, another small drain on the ZPM, brought them to an area Rodney hadn't visited in a long time.

"Wow, that's… What is that, Rodney?"

"It's a Stargate," he said shortly. "It doesn't work. Come on, up here."

Up the stairs, that had once been so busy with the comings and goings of soldiers and scientists, through the control level, the consoles cold and dead, and then up the stairs and along another corridor, until before them, doors slid open to a huge, dark, echoing chamber. Lights flickered reluctantly to life.

"You wanted to fly," said Rodney. "These are flying machines." John wouldn't believe him. They looked like giant pipes, cut off at an angle; no swooping lines, no graceful curving wings.

But John released Rodney's hand and he placed both palms flat on one of the rounded surfaces. "This one," he said. "This one wants to fly."

"Oh. You're right, actually. I powered down most of them - drained their power back into the system. But this one has a bit of juice left in it."

John's eyes were fixed on the grey-green surface. He slid a hand along its length and then the hatch folded down for him and he went inside, still without speaking. Rodney followed and John stopped at the top of the ramp, looking around at him.

"Go on. Go ahead." Rodney ushered him forward and John made unerringly for the pilot's seat. He relaxed into its moulded form. Rodney perched on the edge of the co-pilot's chair and watched him. John's eyes were closed, but beneath his lids they were darting back and forth - communing with the little ship, no doubt.

This world had no flying machines of any type. John could probably drive a wagon, ride a horse, maybe sail a boat, but he would have no experience or knowledge of flight. "Maybe you shouldn't -"

"Yeah, I should." John's eyes snapped open. "Yeah, I really should, Rodney."

"But you don't know how to -"

"We've talked - me and this guy." He waved a hand around the ship's interior. "We have an understanding." He grinned, winked and laid his hands on the control panels, which immediately sprung to life.

They rose, imperceptibly and the only indication of movement was the scene before them, sliding away.

"Okay, John, but listen. You can take it round the city, but don't go much above the height of the main tower."

"Okay."

"I mean it, John, don't."

"Fine. Keep your hair on, Rodney. I know what I'm doing."

The screen went dark as they rose in the narrow vertical tube and then they were out and there was a lull in the snow so that the whole city was spread out around them. The ship plummeted and Rodney's nails dug into the padding of his seat.

"Woo hoo! I'm flying! Rodney, this is incredible!"

He glanced sideways to see John's broad grin flash. "Eyes on the road, Sheppard!" Towers whipped past to either side and then John brought the ship up in a steep climb. "Not too high!"

They levelled out and began a sedate, circling tour of the city. Even in the grey winter light it was beautiful, even without the brightness shining out from the towers, even half buried under strangling creepers and snow; the city was beautiful.

"What's it called?"

"What?"

"The city. It must have a name."

"It did. At one time. Before I ruined everything."

"It's not ruined, Rodney. Come on, tell me."

"It's name is Atlantis. Atlantis, City of the Ancients."

"Atlantis. I like it. Who were the Ancients?"

What could he say? Would John hate him if he knew? If he knew what Rodney had done? "They were just people, pretty much like us at one time. Then they, er, evolved I suppose you'd call it - left their bodies behind to ascend to a higher plane."

"Huh. Sounds dull. What's not to like about this plane?"

Rodney smiled. John had a way of summing things up quite nicely.

"Anyway," continued the new pilot, "it's not the Ancients' city anymore. It's ours. Woo hoo!"

He tumbled the ship into another dive, plunging down between the towers, looping around them, and then pulling up and up, higher and higher into the sky.

"John, that's enough."

"It's fine, Rodney. I can handle it."

"No, it's not that." A stabbing pain lanced through Rodney's skull. "Please, take it down. Please!" His face burned like fire and he slithered off the co-pilot's seat and crouched on the floor, unable to stop his cries of agony.

"What? Rodney? Rodney!"

Pain, pain and more pain. Rodney fell forward and collapsed into darkness.

oOo

John cursed himself for ignoring Rodney. He'd thought that it was just because it was his first time flying that his friend didn't want him going up high, but it wasn't that - there was something else, something that had made the man cry out in agony and fall to the floor of the little ship, the little jumper.

John brought it round in a tight turn, straight back to the central tower. He let the automatic system take over and crouched down beside Rodney.

"Rodney. Hey, c'mon, buddy. Wake up." He patted the slumped mound gently, but the unconscious man didn't stir. "What's going on here? What's happened to you?" He'd dealt with fallen men on the battlefield, but there had always been obvious wounds to be dealt with. "Um…" He picked up Rodney's wrist. His pulse fluttered rapidly under the pressure of John's fingers. His skin was cold and John had no coat or blankets or anything to put over his friend.

The jumper landed and the hatch lowered. He needed to get Rodney somewhere warmer, back to his quarters preferably. Could he carry him? John slipped one arm under Rodney's legs and another around his shoulders and began to straighten his legs, taking the weight gradually. Then he gasped in pain and lowered Rodney back down again. "No. No, that's not working. Dammit." Lines of fire had erupted on his back. He hoped he hadn't opened up any of the wounds again.

"Can't even see his face," he said, angrily. The swirling bulging chaos hid Rodney's features, but there was no blue, so John guessed his eyes were closed. "What the hell is this stuff, anyway? What have they done to you?" Rodney could speak and eat and see, so his face must all be there, hidden by this crazy illusion. John probed the confusion of flesh-colours with the tip of one finger. He jerked back, his fingertip stinging and burning. "What the hell?"

"Huh?"

"Rodney! Buddy!"

He began to stir and try to sit up.

"Just lie still for a bit. You're gonna be okay."

"How d'you know? Might be dying here. Probably am." He propped an arm beneath him and pushed himself up.

"Give it a minute, Rodney. Here." John shuffled beneath the struggling man and pulled his head and shoulders into his lap, gingerly leaning back against the base of the control console. "There. Just lie still. What happened to you?"

Rodney didn't answer for a moment. Then he muttered, "I'm not supposed to leave."

"What?"

"It's part of the punishment. To stay on Atlantis or close by."

A tight, angry knot formed in John's chest. "You're a prisoner as well as…?"

"Deformed, you mean?"

"No! You're not. Underneath, I'm sure you're not. And even if you were, it doesn't matter to me how you look."

"Well, that's nice of you to say, but there's a reason I got rid of all the mirrors. You don't have to pretend I'm anything but repulsive."

"You don't repulse me." John rested one forearm across Rodney's broad chest and put his other hand on his shoulder. "Are you okay now?"

"A little cold, but yes, I think so."

It was true, John didn't care what Rodney looked like. But he wished he knew all the same. What he could see of his hair was a soft, mousey brown and he knew his eyes were blue. But was his nose straight or crooked, hooked, or turned up? Was his jawline rounded or square? Was his mouth full-lipped or thin and slanted? John wanted to know, wanted to see. And to touch. "If I ever get to meet the bastards who did this to you -"

"Well, you won't. Not unless you spend years and years meditating so you can ascend, then, yes, if you'd like to kick their collective asses on my behalf, go right ahead."

"Ascend? The Ancient guys did this to you?"

"One of them did."

"And they, what? They evolved into some kind of super-energy-beings? They're meant to be better than us?"

"John, just leave it, please! There's nothing you can do."

This was wrong. This was all wrong. How could anyone deserve this? And not only Rodney, but who-knew-how-many other people, who'd been turned into random items of furniture and bric-a-brac because some 'Ancient' felt like it. Nothing he could do? John had been told that before, on the battlefield, and he'd almost always found something he could do. But Rodney was still a huddled heap on the floor. "We need to get you back to your quarters. Get you warm."

"Yes. And get some food."

"Yeah." John felt he had some eating to catch up on after a couple of days of light meals. "I tried to lift you, but I couldn't."

"You what? You total idiot, I bet you hurt yourself again, didn't you?"

His back was certainly more painful than it had been. "I'm fine."

"Chuh."

John chuckled.

"What? What's funny?"

"All your different noises - huffs and puffs and so on. I'm wondering, if you get really worked up, d'you breathe fire?"

"I expect some people would say I do. If they weren't furniture. And speaking of which, what's happened to our little scuttling friends?"

"Gone on vacation?"

"No. They're as stuck here as I am. I bet they're around somewhere. They can damn well make us lunch and bring it to my quarters." The weight went off John's stomach and thighs as Rodney sat up.

"You sure you're okay?"

"Yes. Come on, let's go."

John scrambled to his feet and steadied Rodney as he unfolded himself from the floor. The padded pilot's chair was still turned toward him. It would be easy to slip back into it and place his hands on the console and watch it light up again. Not now, though.

"Thanks," John said.

"Are you thanking me or the ship?"

"Both." Hesitantly, he reached out, not sure where his hand was heading. His pat on Rodney's arm was awkward and then he immediately stuffed both hands deep into his pockets. "It was really special."

So, John has learned more about Rodney's 'curse' and the pair are growing ever closer. But that ZPM is failing fast…

Thank you very much for reading. Please review!