Chapter 12

John dreamt of white ribbons; white ribbons like the ones his mom would stitch all the way around the edge of her old dress, to make it look different because she couldn't afford a new one. She'd let him play with the ribbons, if his hands were clean, and he'd sit at her feet, winding the long slippery loops around his fingers as she set her tiny stitches and told him the same stories over and over again. White ribbons meant home and safety and someone who loved him as much as anyone could love or be loved.

They slid away, unwinding themselves from around his wrist, trailing in whispering caresses over his back and across his shoulder, fading into the ghosts of a long-gone past. And as they went, the wreaths of sleep cleared from John's mind and his lungs expanded to take in a wakeful breath and let it slowly out to try to hold onto the moment, before he had to move on and face the life that was right here, right now.

His eyes still closed, John became aware of the garden around him - the damp earth, the rustle of the maize in the gentle circulation of air. He was warm and, though the ground was firm beneath his body and his right arm was squashed, he was filled with a sense of comfort and rightness, which was wrong in itself. How could anything be right? How could anything ever be right again?

Just another minute, with his eyes closed; just another minute to stave off reality, to fortify himself with this strange feeling of peace and contentment before he moved and then the pain in his body would wake to raging life and the pain in his mind would be worse.

The fabric of John's shirt slipped back and forth along his draped left arm - Mitchell's shirt, he reminded himself. Back and forth, back and forth in a long, slow rhythm, a counterpoint to John's suddenly speeding heart. Back and forth. His own breathing grew fast and shallow. Back and forth. His arm rose and fell. It rose and fell and didn't stop and John screwed his eyes shut even more tightly and his throat closed and ached in renewed grief. Rodney was dead. He'd seen that, clearly. He'd held the cooling body in his arms. He was dead and there was no way, just no way that his chest was rising and falling. It would never do that again.

John pulled back from his friend's body and flung himself over to turn away from the sight that he'd have to face again all too soon. He curled his limbs in tightly and covered his head with his arms and hid in the darkness. And though there was work to do and life must go on, for another short while he let the grief take him.

oOo

Radek fell off the workbench.

"Do prdele! Sakra! That hurts!" Radek sat up, his head spun with vertigo and he slumped to the floor again, his shoulder colliding with something hard. "Kurva!"

He flicked a hand for some light, but nothing happened. He tried the other candle, but his branch smacked into another hard object. "Do prdele! Co se to sakra děje?"

Somebody yawned.

"Ford?"

"Huh? Hey, woah!"

There was a metallic bang and a thud, some loud cursing and then Ford's voice again. "Dr Zee? What the hell?"

"Aiden, Radek!"

"Down here, Teyla," said Ford. "Fell off the bench somehow."

"Are you alright? Aiden, if you have broken just stay still. We will glue you back together."

"No, er, I think I'm fine. Just feel really weird."

"I too have fallen." Radek flicked for a light again and nodded his head, which usually worked to light his central candle. Still, nothing happened. "My candles. They are not working."

"Can everyone please keep the noise down? I'm trying to sleep."

"Mr Woolsey, it is time to wake up," said Teyla. "Aiden and Radek have fallen."

"How careless." Woolsey's precise voice was interrupted by a cry and another thump, followed by a pained, "Ow."

"You have fallen also, Mr Woolsey?" Radek couldn't help a certain measure of satisfaction creeping into his voice.

There was a pause. "Apparently so."

Ford sniggered.

"Somebody needs to turn the lights on," said Woolsey. "Or get to the door."

"The lights will not work," said Radek. "The power is too low. I will open the door."

He reached out to orient himself, but his head spun again and his branches banged into booming metal surfaces. Trying to stand would be hazardous in this state. He dragged himself across the cold, hard floor, grunting and slapping and totally uncoordinated. "Ow." There was a flicker of light.

"You made it Dr Zee?"

"My head has made it, yes." Radek shuffled further forward and pushed open the swing door, letting in a flood of bright, bright sunlight. "Ow." He closed his eyes.

"Oh, my."

This was strong stuff from Woolsey, who never seemed to swear, no matter what. Radek risked a peep through slitted eyes. There was something pink lying in his lap. He tried to brush it off with one of his candles, but it moved. What was it? His eyes were streaming and he tried to wipe them clear, but the pink thing smacked him in the face.

"Aiden! Richard!" Teyla's voice trembled. Had she fallen off the bench too?

"Hey, look! Hey, I'm… look! Just look!" Ford was totally unintelligible. Probably chipped right through whatever intellect a teacup could retain.

"Never mind, Ford," said Radek. "I will glue you back together." Or he would once he'd worked out how to walk again.

"No, Radek, I'm fine! We're all fine!" There was a bang and a thud. "Or we will be, once we've got used to being us again. Hey, yeah! I'm me, you're you!" A whoop echoed around the metal kitchen units.

Radek blinked again and looked down at himself. He twitched his base and two long tubes wriggled in front of him. He waved a candle and a pink spider danced. He shook his head and fluffy strands waved in front of his face. Then he closed his eyes.

"Radek? Are you alright?" How did Teyla sound so calm? How could she even speak at all?

Radek swallowed and gulped and managed a faint, squeaking, "Yes."

Then he opened his eyes fully and he lifted his two hands and placed them on the top of his head, fingering the wispy strands of his hair. He ran them down the sides of his face, over the arms of his glasses, over his lips, his neck, his chest and down to his thighs, but not all the way to his toes, not because he'd been rigid as a candelabra but because his back had never been that flexible even as a man.

He was a man. A man with a human body once again, with two hands and two arms and two legs and a body and a head and hair and, presumably, all the other things under his clothes were all present and correct. But he'd be checking later.

"We are back," he said.

"Yes, Radek." Teyla lowered herself carefully to the floor beside him. "We are back."

There was another loud whoop and then Ford burst out of the kitchen, his arms windmilling for balance. He fell and skidded over the floor of the Mess Hall and then bounced up, undeterred and flung himself toward the corridor.

"It is to be hoped the infirmary staff have woken up too," said Radek.

Woolsey crawled out from between the units and arranged himself on the floor next to Teyla. He straightened his tie and tucked in his shirt. "I feel very… long," he said.

Teyla bent forward and touched her forehead to Woolsey's and then to Radek's. "Welcome back, my dear friends," she said.

oOo

He was lying on his back, which was a thing he didn't usually do for very long because it made his back stiff. Not to mention the fact that he'd been told, in the past, that he was more likely to snore if he slept on his back. Although it had been so long since that had made any difference whatsoever, in terms of having a partner, or even having another human form within several miles radius of himself, that if he wanted to sleep on his back and snore then he'd damn well do it.

But hang on, though, this was all wrong. He had slept next to another human form, just last night. And the night before. He'd slept next to John. And John hadn't complained about any snoring. Which might have been because Rodney had slept on his side, facing John for most of the night. Because he needed to make sure John was okay. And because, at least by the second night, he'd realised he wanted to press himself to John's back, put an arm around him and spoon him just as hard as anyone was ever spooned. He hadn't done it, of course. And that was another thing that was all wrong. Rodney decided there would be copious and frequent spooning in his future, if at all possible. And other things.

There was something else he was missing, though. More than one something. There was a whole area that was hazy and vague; and that, for Rodney, just didn't happen. He kept his intellect honed, razor-sharp and every stray thought had a place to go, even if it was just in the tangled mess marked 'emotional stuff'.

He humphed and grunted and curled his fingers a bit and felt, not the bunching of slightly sweaty bed sheets, but the grit and rootiness of bare earth. He humphed and grunted a bit more in a generally 'what the hell?' kind of way. Nobody stepped in to enlighten him, however, unless you counted the twitchy, hitchy noises that were coming from a couple of metres beyond his left ear. How could he be expected to make any sense of this situation without taking a more scientific approach? Observation and data gathering, that was what he needed.

Rodney opened his eyes and sat up.

"Hm," he said. No caffeine withdrawal, no heavy-eyed up-too-late tiredness, not even any particular rumblings of hunger. Although one of those tiny Portugese custard tarts would go down a treat right about now.

And he was in the garden. Weird. Something snuffled. Maybe there was an animal in here with him. Yes, that'd be just typical. Just when he was feeling really good, a huge, dangerous animal would come along, thinking, 'Oh, one of those tiny Canadian Rodneys would go down a treat right about now.' And where was John when he was about to be attacked and eaten?

There was another twitchy, snuffly sound.

Oh, there he was.

"Oh," said Rodney.

And then, "Oh," again, as he touched the dried blood that covered his chest. And then another, "Oh," as he noticed the body of a stranger with its dreadful, shattered features.

And then he remembered it all. "Oh."

He pulled aside the fabric of his shirt and touched the perfect, unblemished skin beneath. He had been shot. He'd definitely been shot and then he'd fallen down here and… he'd died. He had, he'd really died. And John had found him, and…

"John!"

Rodney rolled and scrambled as fast as he could to the trembling, curled-up form.

"John!"

He gripped a hunched shoulder and shook it.

"John, it's me, it's okay."

John's forearms were pressed tightly to the sides of his face, his fingers interlinked behind his head. He'd shut out the world. But he wouldn't shut out Rodney. Not now and not ever.

Rodney prised apart the shuttered elbows until he could see John's face, red eyes and nose against pale, damp skin, his black lashes spiked with tears.

"John, it's me, I'm here, I'm alive. Open your eyes, dammit!"

His eyes opened. And Rodney's heart twisted at the pain he saw in their dark, red-rimmed depths.

"John," he said softly. "It's okay now. I'm back."

There was blank incomprehension, total disbelief, then the faintest spark of hope.

"Rodney?"

Rodney's heart twisted again at the rasping, worn-out croak. "Yes. Yes, it's me."

Then, when he'd expected 'Why?' or 'How?' or denial or even fear, instead he was engulfed and surrounded by John. John's arms were around him, John's body against his, John's hands were in his hair, on his neck, on his face and John's words were in his ears, over and over and over again, "I love you, I love you, Rodney, I love you." And then John's lips - his cracked, salt-tasting lips - were pressing frantic kisses to Rodney's cheeks and his eyes and his nose and his mouth and he was lost in John, entirely in John's need and the remnants of his grief and his desperate, frantic joy.

And Rodney opened his heart fully to this man that he'd known for such a very short time. He opened his heart and his arms and gathered him close and rocked and soothed and returned John's love with his words and his body until at last they sat, John's head upon Rodney's shoulder and Rodney's head upon John's. And, for now at least, to hold each other close was enough.

John sniffed, wetly.

"I hope you're not dripping on my shoulder."

John chuckled and sniffed again.

"You are, aren't you? Ew, that is so gross." Rodney pulled out a handkerchief. "Here." He pulled away just enough, retaining his grip on John with one arm.

John looked at the handkerchief. He really was a mess. Like a little boy who's just woken from a nightmare.

"I'm not blowing it for you."

John's lips twitched in a small smirk. He released Rodney, took the handkerchief and blew his nose, with a loud, totally unromantic honk.

"Nice," said Rodney. "You can keep that."

John stuffed the handkerchief in his pocket. "Thanks."

Rodney rearranged himself so that they sat side-by-side, one arm still around each other's shoulders, one arm free. They'd need to move at some point, but just now contact was still necessary.

"So, what do you think happened?" said Rodney.

"Ancients, I guess," John replied.

"Hm." Rodney scratched his nose. "They finally relented."

"Yeah, well. I may have er… given them some shit."

"Oh." Rodney rubbed his chin. "Really? I gave them plenty of shit, but it didn't help."

"No. Well, maybe it had to come from someone else." John's mouth twisted and his eyebrows arched. "Yeah, anyway, so…" He looked sidelong at Rodney. "Looking pretty good there, Dr McKay."

"What?"

John nodded, his eyebrows doing something which Rodney was pretty sure eyebrows couldn't normally do.

"What?" He reached up and touched his face again. "Oh."

"Hm."

"Oh. Wow. I hadn't even... Um. Wow." Rodney gulped around the rock that had materialised in his throat. He developed a sudden interest in the cabbages over his right shoulder and his chest heaved. Oh God - his turn for the red-eyed, snotty look. There was a hand on his chin, turning his face back toward John's.

"It doesn't matter to me," John said. "I mean, I'm glad I can do this." He leant forward and pressed a soft kiss to Rodney's lips. "But I loved you anyway."

"Oh." Rodney sniffed and wiped his eyes on his sleeve.

John smiled. "Having a monosyllabic day, Rodney?"

He returned the smile and the kiss. And then, because this was a much better way of saying how he felt, he carried on kissing John. He knelt up to get a better angle and cupped his hands around both sides of John's jaw so that he could really go to town, nibbling and exploring, diving into the heat and urgency of John's hungry mouth.

John pulled away, gasping.

"What's wrong?"

"Can't breathe." He pulled Rodney's handkerchief from his pocket and blew his nose again.

"Well, that's spoiled the mood."

"Has it?" John looked up at him, his eyes still puffy, his skin blotchy.

"No." Rodney finger-combed the hair back from John's forehead. "I don't think anything could ruin my mood. Except maybe that." There was blood on the sleeve of John's shirt.

John plucked at the fabric. "Oh, that was just a graze. But it's gone." He held up his left hand and waggled it around. "And that was broken when I crashed the Jumper."

"Broken? You crashed the Jumper?"

"It ran out of gas."

"Oh. Yes, well, I suppose it would. We'll have to get used to that. You're okay, though?" He ran his hands down John's arms and then his sides and thought about checking other places too.

"I'm fine, Rodney. And, you know, I'm not sure if we'll need to get used to having no power. I was hoping the Ancients might have done the job properly."

"The ZPM? You think…" Rodney swallowed his words. Because never mind power. What about his friends? What had happened to Radek and Teyla, Aiden and Woolsey? And everyone else, all those people that he hadn't been able to revive at all? Had the Ancients brought them to life again? What if they were still just objects? What if the Ancients had only saved him so that he could suffer further? What if the city was dead?

"Rodney, breathe."

John's face was in front of him. He nodded, his lungs snatching ineffectually at the air.

"In and out. Slowly. With me."

Rodney focussed on John, on the way his eyebrows rose and fell as he encouraged Rodney out of his panic.

"Better?"

"Yes. Yes, thanks." He rubbed his forehead, massaging the tension between his eyes. "But we need to go and see, right now."

John grabbed Rodney's hand and pulled him to his feet. Then he towed him out of the gardens and into the city, grinning over his shoulder, before he began to run.

"Slow down!"

"Run!"

"Why?"

"Because we can!" John laughed and hollered and even if the city still had no power, wherever John went, the empty hallways would still be filled with light for Rodney.

"Hey, look!" He stopped running, thank God, pointed at a heap of something on the ground and crouched down next to it. "Hey, there, buddy. You okay?"

Rodney dropped to the ground next to John. The heap of crumpled limbs was a soldier in a black and grey uniform with the Atlantis patch on one arm. He groaned.

"Do you know this guy?"

John moved aside so that Rodney could see his face, lying slack against the floor, his eyes half open. "It's Major Lorne. He was an umbrella stand. Hey, Major! Major!" The eyes rolled toward him, but there was no other response.

John picked up Lorne's wrist at the pulse point. "I think he'll be okay. Did you even have an umbrella?"

"No."

Lorne groaned again.

"Poor guy."

"Wow, he looks awful," said Rodney.

"He's been an umbrella stand for, what? Nearly ten years? He's not gonna look great, is he?"

"I suppose not. What do we do?"

"Uh, I guess we should…"

John was interrupted by the distant, uneven pattering of feet. It grew slowly into the hurtling smack of army boots, interspersed with yells and whoops. Then Aiden Ford sprinted around the corner, saw them and tripped over his own feet, skidded and rolled to a messy halt.

"Ouch," said John.

Ford righted himself cheerfully and leant against the wall, breathing hard. "Dr M! John! Look!" He spread out his arms, listed to one side and fell over. "I'm back! We're all back!"

Rodney leapt to his feet and hauled Ford upright, grabbing hold of his lapels. "All of you? Everyone? Are you sure?"

"Think so! There's people lying about everywhere! Most of 'em are kind of… like that." He flapped a hand in Lorne's direction.

Rodney let go of Ford's lapels and sat down heavily, his head dropping into his hands. They were back. All the people in Atlantis that had been punished on his behalf had been brought back to life. He'd never let anything harm them again. He'd make them individual shields if he had to. And he knew how to do that now. If he'd only had the power, he would have made them already. "Power!" He wiped his eyes, wishing that he'd had a spare handkerchief. "Power, John!"

"On it, McKay."

Both of John's hands were flat against the wall. He had pressed his body close and turned his head, his eyes tight shut, the pressure against his cheek making his lips pooch out on one side. Rodney wanted to kiss them back into shape.

"What are you doing?"

John didn't answer. But slowly a silly, happy grin spread across his face and at the same time all the lights in the corridor flickered to life, at first in a dim, white glow and then rising into full, vibrant illumination.

Ford had staggered to a window. "Look! Look at the city!"

Rodney looked. And against the cold winter sky, Atlantis was lit up from within, all of the towers shining out with light and life. The moss and the creepers were gone from the soaring walls and the city gleamed - a marvellous, mythical place of steel and silver. A hand slipped into his and squeezed. Rodney squeezed back.

"How did you do that?"

John shrugged. "I just said 'Hey, what's up?' And Atlantis did the rest."

"Really? You can talk to it?"

"Her, Rodney. Definitely a her. And yeah, I can talk to her. I told you the city liked me."

"And…" Rodney licked dry lips and croaked, "and the ZPM?"

John took both of his hands and faced Rodney directly. His hazel eyes, soft with warmth and love, met Rodney's as he smiled. "McKay, congratulations. You're the proud father of triplets."

"Three? We have all three? Really?"

"Yeah. Wanna go see 'em?"

Rodney nodded. "Yes, come on!" He tugged John after him, and if he didn't actually run, he certainly walked very briskly.

oOo

"Come on now, Helga. Off you get." John pushed the hen gently to one side, collected the egg and put it in his basket. The chicken regarded him with a disapproving eye and clucked sadly. "None of that," said John, shaking an equally disapproving finger. "Go on, now, get out and play with your buddies." He shooed the hen out from her roosting spot and she scuttled off to join the others, squawking and pecking at the grain he'd scattered. "Drama queen," muttered John.

"Halloooo down there!" The call drifted down from the upper level of the garden.

John stood up and waved. "Hey, Rodney!"

Rodney galumphed down the path John and the marines had made, which linked Rodney's garden to this new covered area where he'd installed the animals. And galumphed was definitely the right word, John thought, watching Rodney's unsteady, but enthusiastic progress. His arms pin-wheeled and he jumped down the steeper steps looking like he was about to fall head over heels. John went to meet him at the bottom of the path. The ferns had grown in well and there was a little stream trickling down between them.

Rodney came in to land, puffing and red-faced. He shrugged off his jacket but it got stuck on one arm. John gave it a sharp tug to release him.

"What are you grinning at?"

"You," said John. "Your face." He kissed the tip of Rodney's nose. "The fact that I love it. And you."

"Oh." Rodney kissed John's left eyebrow. "I love yours and you too." They had an agreement to avoid lips if they wanted to get anything done in the near future. "What are you doing down here?"

John held out the egg basket.

"Huh. There's a proverb about that."

John shrugged. "They can always lay more."

"I don't know what you see in chickens. Other than the eggs, of course." One of the hens, Gillie, pecked at the toe of Rodney's boot and he pushed her away. "Are you coming home for lunch or staying on the farm?"

He always called it that now, after John had brought the animals up from the General's place. And the General too, of course, who'd chosen an apartment with a balcony overlooking the Marine's training ground, from which he could criticize their formations or shout encouragement, as the mood took him.

"I've fed Ronon. And the sheep. Just got a few more eggs to find." Rodney followed him as he wandered over to a huge prehistoric-type shrub and bent down to look beneath its drooping leaves.

"Is that one of mine?"

"Yeah."

Rodney had found the Ancients' seed bank together with their propagation machine, which developed them quickly into mature plants. The place was getting like a jungle, John thought, crawling into the dark green cave; it gave the chickens far too many places to hide their eggs. There were bound to be some in here somewhere.

"It's hard to reconcile," said Rodney, his voice muffled by the intervening plant life.

"What is?"

"You. Yesterday you were a black-clad, P-90-toting figure of authority, going through the Gate as if you'd been doing it for years, guarding your little group of scientists like an avenging angel. Today, you're back to being a farm boy."

"What can I say?" said John, retreating with three more eggs. "I like variety." He picked bits of leaf out of his hair. "And I love the P-90."

"Yes, we know, it's your new favourite toy." Rodney held Gillie in his arms, absently stroking her feathers.

"Nah," said John. "You'll always be my favourite toy." He enjoyed the eye-roll and 'chuh' which meant Rodney was trying to cover up his inner mushiness. John knew all his tricks. And anyway, the chicken-cuddling cancelled out any 'serious scientist not given to levity' vibes he was attempting to give off.

"Come on, Sheppard. Time for lunch."

Rodney bounced up the first few steps, bounced back down to release Gillie to rejoin her friends, and then ascended in a dignified manner, as if cuddling chickens just wasn't something men like him did. Not that there were any other men like him.

"Briefing at fourteen hundred hours," said Rodney over his shoulder.

Feigning military efficiency wouldn't help. Not when John knew any number of techniques for reducing him to a pile of gooey marshmallow. He'd allow Rodney the illusion, though.

"I checked out the MALP telemetry already. Looks cool."

"What an excellent summary of the wide-ranging dataset resulting from high level scanning and analytical equipment," snarked Rodney.

"I do my best."

"Anyway, cool is the word. We'll need our winter gear."

They reached the top of the stairs and Rodney carried on about P54 7-whatever, going through all the things he'd say in the briefing later anyway, so John didn't have to listen, but all the same, he listened as hard as he could because they were passing the stand of corn, which was nearly all harvested now. He still couldn't pass the spot without a shudder.

Rodney linked an arm through his. "I'm here, you're here, we're all fine," he said, as he always did, because he was as good at interpreting John's silences as John was at seeing through his many and varied expressions.

"Yeah." John squeezed Rodney's arm. "I know." But he didn't think the memory of Rodney's cold, still body would ever really stop haunting him.

Rodney hadn't wanted John to take Mitchell's body back down to the village. Or at least he'd wanted John to wait, until the Marines were a bit more together and up to providing him with an escort. And, though he hadn't admitted it, John had been worried about the reception he'd meet with, turning up with the town hero lying dead over his saddle.

But in the end he'd gone, slinging Mitchell's body over the butcher's roan, who also needed to get back to the village before John was labelled a horse thief. However, the death of the villagers' favourite hadn't been received with as much dismay as he'd expected. News had travelled, even in the snowbound countryside, and the villagers had been angry that they'd been duped into joining a lynch mob by Mitchell's lies. There had been no abduction or rape or murder in the surrounding villages, but certain tales had begun to emerge that cast the so-called hero's actions toward their own young girls into an unfavourable light.

So the Mayor mourned his son alone and the villagers became a little wiser.

And John and Rodney ate their lunch in the Mess Hall, sitting at a table with their friends: Teyla, who smiled at John as she drank her tea, never coffee; Radek, who, if a cloud passed over the sun was still known to occasionally fling his arms wide and snap his fingers expectantly; Ford, who retained very much the personality of the cheeky teacup; and Woolsey, who arrived punctually at midday for his meal and departed at twelve thirty, timed precisely to the second.

oOo

Rodney lit the lamp, which John still insisted on using and still insisted on calling Steve. Everything worked on Atlantis now, from the Gate to the control chair to the least, tiniest light fitting. But John wouldn't give up Steve, the old paraffin lamp. "It'd be like throwing away a friend," he said, whenever Rodney suggested it.

He didn't say anything now, though. Just yawned and began to undress, which Rodney would never tire of watching.

John flung his shirt into the wash. He'd be all in military black tomorrow. Rodney wasn't sure which John he found the most alluring - the scruffy farmhand with rips in his jeans or the recently-promoted Major Sheppard, uniformed and alert for trouble. Although, realistically, the John getting undressed in their shared apartment was by far the most alluring and definitely the most accessible.

John pulled off one sock and flicked it into the washing basket and then paused. "What?"

"Just admiring the view."

John grinned. "Hurry up and get ready and we can admire each other's views in comfort." He smirked and waggled his eyebrows. "You can go in the bathroom first."

"Why?"

"Because I want to do some stretches before bed and I won't be able to if you're watching."

"But I like to watch." The play of lamplight and shadow over John's muscles even outweighed the beauty of three glowing, golden ZPMs.

"Just give me five minutes."

Rodney huffed crossly, because cross huffing always made John laugh. But he took his turn in the bathroom, giving John more than the requested five minutes, because he got distracted as he was brushing his teeth by the recollection of a text he'd once found buried in the library archives, which described the precise resonant frequencies and type of crystal required to begin the growth of a new ZPM. Then there was toothpaste running down his chin and splattering onto his shirt and he remembered that he was in the bathroom with John waiting outside for him, which was far more important than ZPMs. He pulled off his pasty shirt and finished brushing his teeth.

John sat on the bed, his back to the bathroom door. And Rodney appreciated, once again, the golden glow of light on his tanned skin, not just for the lust it evoked but for the fact that John's back was smooth and free of scarring and that he was safe and here and they were together.

Rodney frowned. The angles of John's shoulder blades were merged into his rounded back, his neck bowed so that the back of his head was barely visible.

"What's wrong?"

He didn't respond.

Rodney was beside him in two, quick, worried strides. He saw what rested on John's lap. Then he sat down.

"This was on your desk," John said.

"Hm. I was going to throw it out." Rodney fingered the edge of the parchment and his eyes ran along the spider-crawl of black uneven ink.

"I didn't know you'd written this." His voice was bleak.

Rodney shrugged. "It was Teyla's idea." He had been so deep in despair. So deep that he hadn't even realised; despair and self-hatred and anger all festering inside his lonely mind.

John read aloud: "And the scientist despaired. For who would ever love a hateful, hideous wretch such as himself?"

Rodney put his hand on John's. "It's over now. You're here."

"Andyou were never hateful or hideous and I love you." John let the sheets of parchment slide from his lap. He turned and put his arms around Rodney and kissed him.

Rodney held John close and kissed him back, skin to skin, heart to heart, soul to soul.

But John pulled away, his hand to Rodney's chest.

"What's wrong?"

"Change it," said John. "Change the story."

Rodney nodded. He snatched a pen from the nightstand and picked up the sheets of parchment. And he read:

Once upon a time there was a beautiful city of glistening spires and graceful towers that could rise from the land or the ocean and fly through the starry heavens.

Then he crossed all of the rest out and wrote at the bottom:

And John and Rodney lived there together, happily ever after. The End.

"Good enough," said John.

The parchment fell to the floor once more, and Rodney made sure that John's life was happy indeed.

The End

There we are. All finished, and 'happily ever after' as promised. I hope you enjoyed the tears and the smiles. Thank you very much for joining me for this Atlantis fairytale. I think more along the same lines are needed so I'll look forward to you all joining me again! Please review if you liked my story!