The climax is approaching! Will John wear a puffy ballgown and be twirled about the ballroom by Rodney? Er… no. But plenty of other things will happen!

Chapter 9

Waiting was hell. It always had been, since the time the General had first risen high enough in the ranks to stay behind the lines of his men in a command tent, isolated from the battle by his status. To watch the troops in the distance, to see the slow wheeling of their manoeuvres or the uneven rush and pause of a skirmish line when there was nothing active for him to do, nothing but give remote orders that would inevitably extinguish some of those tiny specks of life - it was hell.

Waiting for the weather to break was another kind of hell, without even the far-spread vista of battle to observe through the circle of his field glass. What would he give for a glass that would show him John? What would he give to know what was happening to him; and how much more than that would he willingly sacrifice to know that John, the son that he had never had, was safe?

But still the snow fell and John would not thank him for setting out to rescue him at risk to his own life. So the General waited. He carried out the usual morning round of farm tasks, cared for the barn-bound livestock and then checked his supplies once again, cleaned and oiled weapons that were already cleaned and oiled, counted ammunition that he had already totalled down to the last round.

There was a flurry of taps at the kitchen door and the General's hand jerked so that some of the bullets he'd been tipping back into their box rolled across the table.

"Who's there?"

"It's me - Beauchamp."

What could have brought the bookseller all the way up here in such conditions? The General scooped up the strayed rounds, slid them into their container and opened the door.

"General! Can I come in?"

"Yes, of course."

The bookseller stamped the worst of the snow off his boots and entered the kitchen.

"Sit down, M Beauchamp. I'll put the kettle on. You must be frozen stiff."

"Yes, yes, but I had to come. And don't bother with the kettle. You don't have time."

"What?" Hammond paused, the big, iron kettle in one hand. "What's wrong? Do you need help?"

The bookseller shook his head. "No. Listen to me. You need to pack up and get out, now. Captain Mitchell's coming."

"That preening pigeon? Why should I go anywhere for him?"

"Because he won't be alone. He's bringing Warden Bonnard. And some of his orderlies."

The General put down the empty kettle. "Bonnard? What business would the warden of St. Haringley's have with me?" He eyed the weapons on the table, uneasily.

"The Captain's cooked up a plan to have you declared insane. I heard him, last night, in the inn. They're coming here to take you, this morning!"

"He can't do that. He's got no grounds."

"Wake up, General Hammond! He's got fifty or more people who'll swear up-and-down they heard you raving like a madman about lost cities and wrathful wizards the other day. And there'll be plenty who are more than happy to embellish that little tale to get on Mitchell's good side. You need to go. Get John, wherever he is."

"I told the truth!"

"It doesn't matter. You won't win against him. Not alone." Beauchamp pushed back his chair. "Look, you know I'd help if I could. But…" He tugged at the ends of his scarf. "I have to think of the shop. If Mitchell knew I'd come here, I'd be ruined within a fortnight."

"It's time someone stood against that man."

"Yes, well…" He edged toward the door.

"Thank you for telling me, Beauchamp."

"I'm sorry I couldn't do more, but… Good luck, General."

He left, skidding and floundering his way down the side of the barn, heading for the fields rather than the lane; a wise move if Mitchell was coming soon.

The General squinted against the blank, white sky. That was high cloud up there - not likely to shed any more snow on them for now. But it was still piled up into drifts all along the roads - the wagon would be useless. He had no choice, however. He'd load up Ronon and be away within the half hour.

oOo

Radek struggled up the stairs with his two burdens, lifting them up one at a time and then hopping up himself, slithering on his front, his flaring base waggling behind him until he could work his way further onto the step. Then he repeated the whole process - again and again and again.

"Got yourself a couple of girlfriends, there, Doc?" The rim of Ford's saucer appeared over the edge of the top step.

Radek lifted one of the candlesticks onto the next step and then did the same for the other. "You could help, instead of making foolish comments," he snapped. "And for your information, this is Sergeant Markham and this, I think, is Peter Grodin." He scrambled up another step. "Have you dusted the Mess Hall?"

"Yes, sir!" said the teacup. "Well, some of it. The bit they'll need, anyway."

"I suppose that will have to do. And has Teyla found a cloth and polished the silverware?"

Ford tipped from side to side, carelessly. He'd tip over completely in a minute, and how someone made of china had stayed relatively intact for so long, Radek had no idea. "Don't stress, Dr Zee. It's all in hand."

"It had better be. This is our last chance, Ford. Our last chance to regain our lives and the lives of everyone here."

The teacup helped him get the two candlesticks onto the top step. "It'll work, Doc. Have you seen those two? They were holding hands! And, yeah, I know you can't tell, but I'm guessing McKay's just as goo-goo eyed as Sheppard."

"But it is love, Ford? True, self-sacrificing love? Because nothing less will do."

"It will be, Doc. If it's not yet, it will be."

Together they shuffled the two candlesticks toward the Mess Hall. A romantic, candlelit dinner for two, with all of the care he and Ford, Teyla and Woolsey could put into it - would it work? Would it tip the two men over the edge of liking and attraction and plunge headlong into love? No. No meal, however well-cooked or softly-lit could do that. But it might help.

oOo

It had been a bit weird, going from room to room, sorting through total strangers' wardrobes, but eventually John had found a white shirt and some black jeans that he thought would probably look okay. He couldn't check in a mirror because, as Rodney had said, there were no mirrors anywhere in Atlantis. John had come across the broken shards of more than one when he'd been looking for something to wear - something to wear to dinner; with Rodney.

They had been making their unsteady way back to the transporter earlier when Rodney had suddenly lunged into a shadowy corner and emerged with the struggling candelabra in his grasp. He'd demanded food to be brought instantly to his quarters but the candelabra had flared up, quite literally, and the two had embarked on a slanging match, man against antique, in which Radek gave as good as he got.

John had stepped in, taking the candelabra from Rodney's grasp with a smile that had taken the wind out of the ranting man's sails, and setting Radek on the floor. He wasn't sure how they'd progressed from that point to an offer of a five-course dinner, but it had certainly pacified Rodney.

Rodney had been in the bathroom for ages. John fiddled with the cuffs on his shirt. He undid them and rolled the sleeves up. He ran his fingers through his hair, flattening it down a bit. It pinged up again. He tucked his shirt into his jeans. Then he pulled some of it out again so that it wasn't tight against his skin. Then he pulled it all out and it was crumpled so he tried to smooth out the crumples. Maybe it had looked better tucked in.

Rodney came out of the bathroom and John forgot about his own clothes completely.

"Wow, you look, er… wow." Could people normally feel their pupils dilate? John was pretty sure his had just expanded to the size of cartwheels. His dinner date was wearing a dove grey suit that showed off his broad shoulders and chest, with a cornflower blue shirt, open at the neck. John suddenly had too many hands and didn't know what to do with any of them. They twitched together and then one of them scratched the back of his neck while the other dangled foolishly. The fabric of that suit would be smooth and silky. He could run his fingers down the lapels and then undo just one more button on Rodney's shirt, so that -

"John?"

"Huh? Yeah?"

"I was saying that your look might best be summed up by that word too. I mean, I know I scrub up pretty well, but, really… wow."

Rodney's fingers gripped and released the hem of his jacket as if he didn't know what to do with his hands either. What did his face look like behind that obscuring barrier? Were his eyes as wide as John's? Were his lips parting, just slightly? Was his tongue flickering out, running along their softness and then disappearing once more into the warmth and darkness of his mouth?

"Pants are a bit tight," John mumbled.

"They're uh… they're um…"

"What? I can change 'em if you don't -"

"No! No, don't change! I mean, yes, they look a bit tight. But uh, they're tight in all the right places, if you see what I mean."

John huffed an embarrassed laugh and stared at his toes. It'd taken him ages to find shoes that fit.

"Yes, well, we can carry on this shuffling awkwardness later. Let's get to the food!"

A hand grabbed his and he was towed, laughing, in Rodney's turbulent wake.

A little corner of the Mess Hall glowed with candlelight. The table was covered with a white cloth and set with gleaming silverware, wine glasses and an unlabelled bottle; there was even a vase filled with the drooping tassels of maize flowers.

"Hm. Not bad," said Rodney.

"Come on, Rodney, give the little guys a bit more credit. I don't know how they get anything done at all."

"Oh, they manage well enough." Rodney sat down. "Oh. Should I have pulled out your chair? I would've for a girl, but you're not a girl, so…"

"I can manage my own chair, McKay. Hey, Ford! This looks great!"

The teacup bounced up onto the table and spun around in his saucer. "Woolsey's getting all steamed up over his soufflés, and Radek knocked over the last bottle of elderflower, so you'll have to have the parsnip. Better get back!" He leapt down from the table and his clattering receded.

"Eesh." Rodney shuddered. "I thought we'd decided to use that stuff as drain cleaner." He grabbed the wine bottle, unstoppered it and took a grimacing sniff.

John held out his glass. "I'll give it a shot."

A stream of yellow liquid dribbled into his glass. "Just don't expect it to be up to the standard of the officer's mess," said Rodney.

John waited while Rodney poured himself some wine. "I wasn't that kind of officer. You had to be one of the Ruperts to get in there."

"Ruperts?"

"Yeah. Guys who were born to it. Ruperts. Or Alexanders. Tarquins. That kind of name."

Rodney raised his glass. "To non-commissioned officers."

"I'll drink to that." John took a healthy swig. A sweet, earthy taste spread through his mouth, closely followed by a bitter, acrid fizz that scoured the back of his throat and made his teeth itch.

"A smooth little number, isn't it?" said Rodney.

John winced and shrugged. "I've had worse."

Rodney's glass disappeared into the melee of his face and then emerged, the contents depleted. "Is your General a Rupert, then?"

"No, he climbed the ranks the hard way. Took a seat with the Ruperts the day he made Major and none of them spoke to him for six months."

"The delights of a feudal society."

John shrugged. "It's what we've got."

The first course arrived on a squeaking trolley, laboriously pushed by Teyla and Radek - cheese soufflés, which weren't a dish that John had ever encountered before. He savoured the light, savoury texture, while Rodney inhaled his in a few bites and then talked without seeming to need much in the way of a response from John, which was fine by him.

Rodney told him about Atlantis; how magical it had been to find the Ancient city intact, and how the expedition had claimed it as their own and explored it and brought it to life. He told John how the Stargate worked, how they could travel from world to world, just by stepping through. He spoke of the dangers they had faced, the discoveries they (mainly he) had made and the work that he had planned to do and had tried his best to continue, living alone in an empty city.

John listened, but he watched as much as he listened. Rodney took off his jacket and undid another of his shirt buttons. He rolled up his sleeves and his hands fluttered, his fingers snapped, his whole body became animated as he spoke, his energy and enthusiasm crackling in the air like an electric current. John didn't need to see his face to feel the intensity and passion of the man. He didn't need to see that the blue eyes sparkled or to watch as words and more words tumbled from his lips.

How suddenly John's life had changed. He'd wanted more than the village and the valley and the farm had to offer. He'd wanted to be 'out there,' living his life, filling it with whatever adventure he could find. This man was an adventure in himself; this man in his lonely city, bringing a strange kind of life to his few companions, creating beauty out of the darkness by planting his gardens, inventing clever devices from limited resources. Punished and confined and reduced to a shadow in a shadowy world, still he'd carried on, striven to do what he could, carried on working and trying and pushing against the encroaching night.

"Creme caramel," said Rodney, slurping up a spoonful of the soft dessert. "Not that there's any actual cream in it. It's made from a protein-fat combination I synthesize in the labs. The same goes for the cheese."

The sweet richness spread across John's tongue as well as the bitter edge of caramel. "It's good."

"Aha, he speaks! I was beginning to wonder."

The dessert wobbled as John took another spoonful. "You seemed happy talking enough for both of us."

"Hm. Yes, well, there are those who would say I talk too much. That I monopolise the conversation, in fact."

"It's fine by me."

"That works out well then, doesn't it?" Rodney tipped back his glass, emptying it again. "You could say, or rather I could say and you could listen, that we're the perfect match!" He gestured wildly with his empty glass, but then faltered, placed the glass down on the table and fiddled with the stem. "Or of course you might not, because who am I to say? I mean, what do I know about matches? Apart from the ones you light. And anyway, you might not agree, because I've been wrong about that kind of thing before, even though I'm right about almost everything else or at least I think I am, but then I ended up in this situation because I was wrong so maybe I am now and you're sitting there thinking 'Jeez I wish this idiot would just shut up,' but you're too polite to say, although I think if something really needed saying, you'd probably say it and not let politeness get in the way, or maybe you'd do the soldier thing and just shoot me or -"

"Rodney."

"Yes?"

"Shut up."

"Oh." The syllable was small and hurt.

With just two words, John had reduced the flood to a drought. Rodney's shoulders were slumped, his animation gone. The soft, warm cocoon of candlelight had become an uncomfortably isolated atoll in the vast darkness of the city. But if they were shipwrecked and marooned, they were shipwrecked and marooned together. "Hey," said John.

Rodney's hands cradled his fragile wine glass. "Yes?"

"You're right."

Candlelight flickered on the churning distortion of Rodney's features. "About?"

"Us." John reached out and ran a finger over the back of Rodney's hand. "We fit. Together."

The heap of disappointed scientist sprang into enthusiasm with an almost audible ping. John's hand was grabbed and held and he was being dragged up from the table. "Come on! Come with me!"

He laughed and followed.

oOo

"There! Look!"

Moonlight shone through the great stained glass window, casting shimmering points of gold across the floor of the Gateroom. The silhouette of the Stargate and its long, oval shadow framed the rippling, shifting pool, so that the Gate appeared to be floating on a sea of light.

"See? It's always like this when the moon's full, if you come at the right time." Rodney watched John's face, the way the light played across his skin, outlining his profile, picking out highlights in the ruffled spikes of his hair.

"Cool."

"It is, isn't it?"

John's hand was warm in his; a warm and bony, long-fingered, competent, workworn hand. He tugged it, and John followed him up onto the platform and across the glittering floor, so that they stood beneath the arch of the Gate.

"It's even better standing… What?"

John's brows described a surprised arch of their own, his lips slightly parted. He reached up. "I saw… I saw your face."

Rodney's breath hitched. "Just a trick of the light."

"No. No, it wasn't. I could see you. For a split second."

John's hand was so close. Could he, would he reach in? Reach through the barrier, tear it away, free Rodney from his punishment?

Rodney caught his wrist and held it, as tightly as he held John's other hand. "Don't. Don't - it'll hurt you."

The hand fell, but Rodney altered his grip so that he held both of John's hands in his own. And he looked at the man that stood so close to him; so very close and real and warm and alive, after so many long, lonely years when Rodney had plunged into his work rather than admit his loneliness.

The yellow and gold panes in the window coloured John's white shirt, the collar casting a blue shadow where the top two buttons were undone. All through dinner, Rodney had wanted to undo another of those buttons. Just one more. All the while he'd been talking and talking, that button had drawn his eyes like a magnet, and the tapering strip of skin above it had pointed like an arrow at his target. He released John's hands and, his own shaking, did what he'd imagined. Fumbling, he pushed one edge of the button through its narrow hole, and the fabric spread to reveal another few inches of John's tanned, haired, skin.

John did nothing, his hands at his sides, while Rodney ran a fingertip down one side of the vee of the opening and then back up the other side, all the way to the bump of John's collar bone. He'd lean forward and place a kiss just there, if he could, right on the thin, delicate skin over the long, narrow ridge.

Instead he let his hands fall to John's waist and slid them up and under the hem of his shirt to place the flat of his palms against John's sides. In and out, a quicker, hitching rhythm moved his hands apart and together. He'd touched John before, touched his skin when it was fever-hot, when he'd had to cause him pain. Now he touched for pleasure, to give and to receive. But still John said nothing.

His dark eyes were wide, his full lower lip gripped between his teeth. Then it was released and his tongue moistened his lips, in a flicker of reflected light.

Rodney whispered, "Is this okay?"

A nod and a breathy, "Yeah," and Rodney slid his hands higher, higher, across the smooth skin, encountering the bump or ridge of a scar here and there - the army had not been kind to John's body. Then John's forearms brushed along the sides of his own, skin-to-skin and he shivered, and shivered more as John pulled out the tails of Rodney's shirt and pushed the fabric up so that he could slide his hands around his waist.

Rodney's fingertips roamed through the scratch of hair to find the hard buds of John's nipples and he ghosted his touch across them, watching as John's eyelashes fluttered, feeling the sharp, quick rises of his chest, the push of John's hips into his own.

"No, wait." John's mouth suddenly thinned and his hands were gone from Rodney's willing skin. He stepped back, turned away, but then stopped and abruptly faced Rodney once more. "I can't."

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I shouldn't've… I'm sorry." Rodney spun around and took a few quick strides toward the stairs, away from the glimmering moonlight and back into the shadows. He didn't want to see John's face - to see the doubt, the distaste, the dislike.

"No." There were hands on his shoulders; two warm, competent hands, turning him back toward the light. "Rodney. I want to. Really."

His throat was too tight, too painful to speak.

"I just… I can't, without knowing. And once I know, then, yeah, you know, I'd like to, but…"

"What?" Rodney rasped.

"The General. I have to know he's okay."

"Oh." So, John was worried about his friend, mentor, whatever. And once he'd satisfied himself of the General's safety, what then?

John's hands slid from his shoulders, trailing down his arms and then flapping uncertainly. "And then, we could, uh… maybe, do stuff?"

"Stuff?"

A hand crept up to rub the back of John's neck as he stared at the floor. "Stuff like, uh…" He looked up, then away again, toward the Gate. "See, uh, I like you McKay. I like you a lot, so… uh..." He tailed off.

There was a growing feeling in Rodney's chest which could only be described as mushy. John's black hair drooped over his face so that just the much-chewed lower lip was visible. "Wow," said Rodney. "You're really bad at this, aren't you?"

John sniggered. "Yeah." Then he jumped when Rodney snapped his fingers between them.

"I've got just the thing!" He grabbed John's hand and towed him up the stairs to the control deck. He liked grabbing John and towing him places. It would be nicer to grab him and tow him back to his quarters, and then grab him some more in all kinds of extra grabby ways, but this would have to do for now.

Rodney tapped at one of the consoles, and then slapped it a few more times until it came to life with a very faint glow, which he dismissed from his mind, because he knew what it meant and refused to acknowledge it.

His fingers skittered over a keyboard attached to the Ancient controls. "Here we are, uplink to the satellite. And, let me see, that should do it."

"What?"

Rodney enjoyed manhandling John through one hundred and eighty degrees, so he could see the hanging screen. "You see? That's Atlantis."

The image was dim and John leant forward and squinted. "From above?" He looked at the ceiling as if expecting to see a big eye watching him. "How?"

"It's a satellite, in geosynchronous orbit. It was used to monitor our surroundings, cloak us if anyone got too close. So, where's this village of yours?" Rodney adjusted the controls. "There. Is that it?" He pointed at the scattering of lights clustered together.

"Yeah, that'd be it. The farm's further up that way, though."

Rodney zoomed in where John pointed. "Hmm. Not much to see. I'm guessing your General's in bed."

John stepped nearer to the screen. "Can you get it closer?"

Rodney obliged.

"No." John shook his head. "No, that's not right."

"What?"

John's body was tense, the muscles on his arms cording as he clenched his fists.

"What's wrong?"

"See there?" He pointed to the dark square of a chimney. "We never let that go out, not all through the winter, and not much in the summer. But see? No smoke at all. And look, the barn door's left open. Something's wrong."

"But he must have made it back," said Rodney. "He had the horse and the wagon. He would've been fine." John would never forgive him if the General hadn't made it. The old man hadn't wanted to go; he'd offered himself again and again when Rodney led him away from John, alone in the brig. But in the end, he'd gone. Rodney had given him no choice.

"Try the forest," said John. A muscle in his jaw twitched.

Rodney moved the camera's focus along the moonlit track from the farm and over the dark boughs of the forest, scattered with patches of white where the light shone through to snow-covered clearings. He caught a flicker of movement. "There!"

"Zoom in!"

The moonlit image was vague and the odd perspective made it difficult to interpret. Rodney fine-tuned the controls, sharpening the focus.

"It's him! He's on Ronon."

"He's heading away from the road toward us. So, he must have got home and now he's coming back - what does he want to do a stupid thing like that for in all this snow?"

"He's not stupid. He's coming back for me. And if he's tried to make it through the snow, he'll have had a damn good reason."

"I'm not sure he's going to make it much further," said Rodney.

The horse stumbled, floundering through the deep snow.

"He's being stalked." John's voice was hard and he gripped the edge of the console, his knuckles white.

"Where? I don't see anything."

"There - either side, and behind him. Wolves."

Rodney caught a glimpse of movement in the trees, and then another.

"I have to go to him. Rodney, I have to go now!"

There was no denying it any more. No hiding from himself what he felt for this man. If John went it would tear a hole in Rodney's heart. But he'd said he'd let John go, and he'd meant it. And he wouldn't go back on that now.

But at the time, when he'd said it, Rodney had thought he didn't have a chance - that all he would have would be a few days of John's company to remember through all the long, dark years ahead; that there was no hope of anything else. Now, just as it looked like perhaps John might have feelings for him, he was going. Would he ever come back?

"Go," said Rodney.

"Can I take the Jumper?"

Rodney nodded.

And John turned and ran for the stairs.

He would go and not come back. Why would he come back to this dark, empty city? He'd only known Rodney a couple of days; he'd forget. It would be like a dream, or a nightmare and he'd wake up to his normal life and carry on with it and forget about Rodney.

John stopped and turned around. And then he was gripping Rodney's hands, hard, and looking straight into his eyes. "I'll come back."

Rodney nodded. "It- it doesn't have much power left. Be careful."

"I will. Thanks."

Then he was gone, his pounding feet retreating up the stairs. He would fly away; fly free. And Rodney wouldn't begrudge John his freedom. Because he loved him.

He could watch on the monitor. He could watch John land and rescue his General and take him home. And he could carry on watching as homely lights sprang up in the farmhouse windows, as smoke curled from its chimney, and then, if he waited, he could see the sun come up over the fields, casting long blue shadows over the rumpled snow. And John would come out, and feed the animals and perhaps he'd walk or ride into the village for supplies and greet his friends or even greet a particular friend who he'd smile at and embrace and then Rodney would know he'd been forgotten.

But he wouldn't watch.

The screen was flickering anyway, the ZPM so depleted that it couldn't sustain the satellite feed. Rodney powered the console down.

He returned to the Mess Hall. The candles were guttering. One of them failed and a thin spiral of smoke rose toward the ceiling. The dessert bowls were still on the table and the empty bottle of wine and the empty glasses - as empty as Rodney's heart.

"Radek?"

His voice fell into the silent space, small and alone.

"Teyla?"

Were they all in the kitchen? He pushed through the swing door. A single ceiling-light flickered on and off, catching the scene in a jolting series of stills, like a stop-motion cartoon running too slowly. But there was no movement in the frozen images, no life, no animated figures scuttling here and there, and no small voices interrupting the slow, metallic toll of water dripping into a sink.

Rodney whispered, knowing he would receive no answer. "Woolsey? Ford?"

There, amongst the stacks of dirty pans, stood the clock, its hands pointing straight down, its round face devoid of life. And there, surrounded by the debris of vegetable peelings, was the candelabra, tipped on its side, its candles burnt away to nothing. And on a tray, was the coffee pot, two cups and saucers next to it, one of them with a small chip in its rim. Rodney curled his hand gently around the side of the pot. Its contents were still faintly warm.

"Teyla?"

She didn't answer.

Poor Rodney. He's more alone than ever. Sniff.

Chapter ten will be out on Friday.