AN: I think there was some confusion that thirteen was the final chapter – even though it would've been a nice ending spot, there was still some moments I wanted to visit with the team. A bit more insight into the emotional fall-out, so this chapter and fifteen will visit those areas. The final chapter will be coming in the next few days. I'm sorry the updates slowed but once they gated back to Atlantis (what – was that 10?) anyway, it became new material because I had to change things to fix a plot hole. So, add in that my chapters tend to be 3-5k, it takes a few days. I do appreciate you all hanging in there with me, and thank you gaffer, Kylen, Linzi and Shelly. Not only helping me with edits, suggestions and support, but also putting up with my whining (and yes, I've whined a LOT in the writing of this fic). So, stay tuned for the final (yes, it IS the final this time) chapter where we'll see our team back on Atlantis.
Chapter Fourteen
Hindsight was a funny thing. On one hand – it let you see clearly, in painful detail, every mistake you made to get from here to there. On the other – it never changed what happened. Sheppard tended to think that hindsight was a product of malcontent – pointing out mistakes while never offering a do-over. And looking up at Landry's barely contained anger, John kind of wished for a do-over.
With the exception of Ronon and Teyla, both of whom were in the infirmary sleeping away an alcoholic stupor, SG-1 along with Rodney and himself, were sitting at the briefing table. Frankly, John was amazed Landry had allowed them to sit – but then he figured the General's concession came because of the civilians on both teams.
The General sat at the head of the table staring off through the viewing glass; he swiveled to face them, before shaking his head and swiveling back to look out at the Stargate. Finally, with a barely controlled voice, he asked, "I was under the impression that I warned all of you not to do anything stupid. In fact, I'm a hundred percent sure I did. So tell me, what part of this -" he waved at their dejected figures. "Is not doing anything stupid?"
Mitchell cleared his throat. "General, I know this sounds incredibly lame, or trite, even stretching, but - it wasn't our fault."
Landry's face reflected pure enjoyment, but of the kind a vulture has in swooping at his prey. "Wasn't your fault?" he echoed. With calm precision he withdrew the arrest report, and John figured there wasn't a hole big enough for all of them to sink into. "Complaint of drunk and disorderly conduct – attacking a man; how is this 'not your fault'?"
"Sir, it's…" Carter paused, and looked over at Rodney. McKay shook his head and covered his face with his hands. "…a long story."
Landry leaned back in his chair, and smiled with a feral grin. "I have all the time in the world, Colonel."
"In that case, General -" Jackson leaned forward, a mixture of sheepishness and exasperation on his face, and Sheppard guessed the man was as good a person to try and explain it as any of them. "We left the SGC for Mike's Pub at 1900 as planned…
"Does anyone know where we parked?" joked Mitchell, scanning the parking lot.
"Parked?" Teyla was scanning the area, uneasy. John figured it would be a bit weird, never having seen this type of vehicle and now being faced with rows and rows of them. Then again, she hadn't seen a mall parking lot during December – on a weekend, no less.
The truly funny thing was, Sheppard was pretty sure he mimicked her expression, but for different reasons. He looked at the blue, red, yellow – silver. The parking lot was a sea of colors, dotted with the occasional black truck or sports car. Like all the other sights, he drank it in, and thanked God he could see again.
McKay squinted in the setting sunlight. "These are like the transports on Nokomis," he explained. John knew none of them were comfortable at the reference but it was the easiest way to explain. "Except, remember the autopilot that…surprised me?"
"Impressed you," interjected Sheppard.
Rodney rolled his eyes towards the sky. "Whatever. We don't have that. You have to do the work yourself."
"We're all gonna fit in one of those?" Ronon asked skeptically.
"No, I'm taking mine, and Mitchell will take the rest of you," Carter explained. She surveyed the group. "Teyla, Teal'c and Ronon – I'm parked over here."
"What," Rodney blustered. "You don't want to spend more quality time with me?" He put a hand over his heart. "I'm wounded."
"Mitchell," Landry called, breaking into Sheppard's reverie. He'd been listening to Jackson, and had stopped paying attention to the room.
From the flushed look on Mitchell's face, John hadn't been the only one. "Yes, Sir," answered Mitchell.
Jackson had stopped and now stared uncertainly at Landry. The general nodded his way and said, "As – thorough – as Doctor Jackson can be, I'd like to keep this more succinct. The fight, if you please?"
Disgruntled, Jackson folded back into his chair, and twitched his ice pack over his cheek. When Mitchell looked Jackson's way, John noticed he shook his head and mouthed to Mitchell 'he wants you' and Sheppard didn't think he was imagining the almost sibling like glee the archeologist took from being bumped.
Clearing his throat again, Mitchell straightened, letting his ice pack fall from its precarious perch on his head. "Right – we arrived at the bar…
When they walked into Mike's Pub, the music was blaring to the point of causing everyone to shout over the noise. Teyla and Ronon looked uneasy, and John figured right away it was their long history of relying on hearing to help identify trouble. He was having his own issues with the music – the fact that his hearing still felt like it was on speed. Hypertuned and not filtering near enough background noise out of his mind.
The door opened up to a foyer, then the room curved around a recessed pit where the bar with stools was located. On the higher level above were booths. Sheppard was staring at all the people; the television airing a football game. Mitchell tugged at him, giving up on hollering over the music of some new artist John couldn't name.
"Hey, baby," a man crooned.
Sheppard was about to explain he wasn't anyone's baby, when he realized the guy meant Teyla, and was leaning half over him to get to her. John was on the verge of telling the guy to buzz off, when her eyes surveyed the man in slow motion and she said frostily, "I am not your baby."
"But you can be," he smiled crookedly.
There for a second, John almost felt sorry for the guy, but then he tried to grab for Teyla. Sheppard found himself caught between the two, when Ronon stepped forward. "Is there a problem?" he rumbled, looking pointedly at the man while he addressed Teyla and Sheppard.
The man stepped back, and John got to breathe again. Jesus. "No, no problem," the man assured.
"So – that's what caused the fight?" Landry exclaimed, satisfied to finally get to the crux of the matter.
"Not yet, Sir," Mitchell explained, looking disgruntled. "Ronon scared him off."
"I see," Landry replied tightly. "So, what did cause the fight?
The ice pack Mitchell had dropped earlier was warming on the table. Sheepishly, he shrugged. "Nothing yet, Sir – I was getting there." He picked up the ice pack and pushed it back against the knot above his hairline. John winced a little at the memory of how he'd gotten that one. Tables and heads – neither one gave much leeway. Mitchell had looked better.
Sheppard had guilt. He knew that SG-1 wouldn't be in this position if it weren't for his team, but at the same time, he was still enjoying watching people. Watching them interact. Their expressions, body language – all the things he'd been deprived of doing for two months.
Of course, it was getting a little harder with his right eye swelling like a lemon. His own ice pack, handed to him by a stern Doctor Lam, sat on his lap. He couldn't quite bring himself to cover up his sight even if the damn thing hurt like hell.
Rodney had moved to a lower position – head now cradled in his hands on the table. John wondered if he was even following the retelling and figured McKay was probably practicing self-preservation.
"Sir, if I may?" Carter asked.
Landry pursed his lips together, and his eyes surveyed the table. Mitchell and his ice pack, Jackson every now and then wincing and touching his split lip. Teal'c sitting impassively solid next to Mitchell – then to the other side where Carter sat to McKay's left, and John on Rodney's right. Carter had escaped with the least amount of injury. Even drunk, the men had been leery of 'beating up' a woman. Shame, too, because Carter didn't have the same issues. McKay had a sore hand – split knuckles, but he wasn't using his ice pack, either.
"Go ahead, Colonel – but this time, a bit more to the point, shall we?" Landry drawled.
She nodded tersely. "Yes, Sir. After we got to our table…
John couldn't believe he'd agreed to this. Mitchell had guided them to one of those circular booths, and somehow John was squeezed between Teal'c and McKay. Ronon had finagled an outside position, while Jackson got the other one. Teyla was on Mitchell's other side and Carter on Rodney's right. It took cozy to a whole new level.
The waitress sidled up, and Sheppard did a double take – was she even old enough to be in a bar? He realized that it'd been a long time since he'd been in a place like this.
"What'll it be, guys?" she asked, perkily surveying them each at a time.
Teyla narrowed her eyes. "I am not a guy."
"That's what started the fight?" Landry said, perplexed but also with hope in his eyes. "Hell, that's not even an insult."
"No, Sir," Mitchell replied. "That wasn't what started the fight."
The General's irritation was rising. "I asked for an explanation – not the cliff notes for the entire night, people. The point, please."
Teal'c looked up from the table. "General, I believe I can lend some assistance," he said, solemn but attempting to smooth the situation. "Ronon and Teyla had not sampled beer before -"
"What is this...beer?" Teyla asked, looking carefully at the mug of pale liquid bubbling in front of her.
Mitchell took a sip, and wiped his mouth. "It's a drink – look, we're all fine, right? Ronon – come on guys, it's our treat, drink up. Tastes good, right Sheppard?
"Very," agreed John as he nudged McKay, who was taking a long gulp of his own. "Slow down, Rodney – I don't want you to pass out on me."
"No way," hissed Rodney. "I'm doing everything I can to forget the last two months ever happened."
Sheppard leaned back, draping his arm on the back of the booth. McKay kind of had a point. Maybe drinking into oblivion wasn't a bad idea. He sipped his own mug, and watched as Teyla tried hers, smiled – then grimaced, but she took another drink, and each one grew progressively longer until the mug was empty. She smiled pleasantly at Jackson and said, "More?"
John shrugged when the man looked at him. Why not – it wasn't like they had to get up and face the Wraith in the morning. This was the only down time they'd had in so long he couldn't remember, and for once, there wasn't any danger lurking to pounce if they let their guard down. His team deserved to cut loose, even if it was only for one night.
Jackson slid from the seat, and asked for a count, before wandering off to the bar in the center to order another round. John's was still half-full and he wasn't in any rush. This was pretty much as close to heaven as he could remember being. Ensconced by his team, and even SG-1, so good company – a mug of cold beer, loud music in the background. And so many people to watch.
"Why isn't there any of this on Atlantis?" Ronon asked.
All six remaining faces blanked. Ronon looked around. "What?"
Landry exploded. "He mentioned Atlantis – in a bar?" The General's head was shaking back and forth. "I can't believe I let you take them to a bar," he said, staring now at Mitchell. "So, that's what started the fight – someone said something about it to Ronon, and he threw a punch?"
Sheppard took umbrage at the implied insult that Ronon was a wild cannon. "No, Sir – fortunately, no one overheard his statement. We explained it wasn't a topic for a bar, and that's when Jackson arrived with the mugs."
The look on the general's face would have been comical – something John could even appreciate, given his recent state, but it wasn't so comical when he gripped the arrest sheet tight enough that it crumpled in his hands. "I see," he said. He smoothed it out, and placed it carefully on the table. "Then what, someone please, please, tell me, caused the fight?"
Teal'c shifted his legs under the table. "I believe, General, that it was not any fault of ours – in fact, the arresting officer chose to believe the worst because of the condition we found ourselves in."
"And that condition would that be?" Landry was maintaining his composure…barely.
"Three of our party were – inebriated, while the remainder of our group were -" Teal'c paused, and looked at Carter, then Jackson. When Mitchell inclined his head towards Teal'c and nodded, the Jaffa finished, "Standing over the instigators shouting 'hell yeah' I believe."
John thought it was pretty cool for the guy to lump himself in with the rest of them. Actually, Teal'c hadn't said anything to the effect. It'd been mostly Sheppard, McKay and Mitchell. Jackson and Carter had been extricating Teyla and Ronon from their fallen opponents.
Cops could be short-sighted that way.
It was almost a smile that twitched at the edges of Landry's mouth, but the general reined himself in before they could believe the worst was over. He snorted, and pushed the paper back. "Fine, that explains why you eight were arrested – but it still doesn't explain how it started."
Sheppard figured maybe it was his turn. "It was Teyla, General."
The man nodded, and looked at him. "I see. If you would be so kind, Colonel, and tell me how she instigated the fight?"
John couldn't figure out if Landry believed him or not, but he felt kind of bad for shoving the blame on to Teyla – because it really wasn't her fault. "Well -" he cleared his throat. "It wasn't exactly Teyla, it's just…she was in the middle of the reason…"
"What Colonel Sheppard is so ineloquently trying to say, is that it's my fault," groaned McKay, speaking clearly from his position with his head still cradled in his arms.
At that announcement, Landry looked genuinely surprised. "You, Doctor McKay? You expect me to believe you started the bar fight?"
McKay raised his head, looking hung over and irate. "Oh, come on – is it that hard to believe I've got it in me?" he snapped.
"Actually – yes," Carter said with a grin. "At least I wouldn't have believed you were capable until I saw it for myself."
The General's mouth pursed as he considered them. "I consider myself a patient man – at least I did. Now would someone, please, tell me what caused the fight?" Landry fixed each one with a look that made it clear their time was up.
Rodney frowned at the ice pack near his hand. "Fine, fine – as if it matters now. When we were leaving, Teyla was…slightly intoxicated –
The drunk man from before stumbled intentionally into Teyla, carrying both bodies to the floor. John knew that ordinarily, Teyla would've had the guy pinned in less than a minute, and probably wishing for his mother in two – but, interesting fact 2,001 John had learned since gating to the Pegasus Galaxy - Athosians really can't handle their alcohol.
Before Ronon could start world war three in Mike's Pub, John reached for the guy, and yanked him off Teyla – hard. "That's not a very nice thing to do to a lady," he warned the guy, dusting off the drunk's shirt and then grabbing the man's collar in his hands. "So, apologize, and we'll forget this ever happened, hmm?" Maybe Sheppard was feeling a little testy, and was just hoping for the guy to give him a reason.
"Forget what, you jerk," the man retorted, knocking Sheppard's hands loose. He turned away from John, and leaned down with a lecherous grin. "Come on, lil' lady, let's you and me find a nice quiet booth -"
John went to pull the guy back around, but Mitchell grabbed his arm, holding him. Sheppard turned to shake him off, and realized that Carter and Teal'c were dealing with a pissed Ronon – in both senses of the word – when McKay's voice made them all freeze.
"I believe he asked you to apologize," Rodney said, overly polite. "I realize," now McKay's voice lulled into patronizing, "that you were undoubtedly born from Neanderthal stock, but even you – yes, you – are capable of polite behavior required in common society and all those nice little social mores that keep you out of prison. Right?" He squinted at the man, and John had a sinking feeling that McKay had a few too many beers, as well.
"What?" the drunk asked, annoyed and confused.
Big words, little man. Big words, John thought. That was his McKay.
Rodney looked sloppily at John, and he had a bad feeling about it, when he watched as if in slow motion, Rodney's arm pull back and snap forward, punching the drunk right on the nose and sending him staggering backwards. The man wasn't Ronon-large or anything, but he wasn't Zelenka-small either, and when he tripped on Teyla, he windmilled back and wound up crashing into another table, sending a Ronon-large guy's drink spilling onto his girlfriends expensive looking white dress. The guy took in his girlfriend's disgusted face, and turned to Sheppard and McKay, and the rest of them – and the grin that snaked across his face sent a thrill of alarm twisting through his gut. Or maybe that was adrenaline -
Mitchell looked at John. "Oh, shit."
"That's it?" Landry exclaimed, dumbfounded. "The fight started when Doctor McKay decided to practice chivalry, and protect Teyla's honor?" He put his hands on the table and shook his head. "Why didn't you say so?" Landry pushed back from the table, and lifted the paper, peering at it. "I'll take care of the legal mumbo jumbo – but all of you, and I mean all -" Landry fixed his glare on Mitchell, Carter and Jackson. "Will be suspended from anymore bar visitations, is that clear?"
Mitchell looked out from under lidded eyes and croaked, "How long, Sir?"
"Until I say so!" barked Landry, striding out of the room.
No one moved for a few moments – John couldn't figure if it was a mixture of not quite believing it was over that easily, or if their muscles had seized from sitting for too long. Truthfully, it was probably both. He climbed to his feet, stifling a groan, and pulled on McKay. The Daedalus was shipping out in the morning, and they still had to pack while shaking off the after-effects of too much beer, and too many bruises.
SG-1 struggled to their feet, and Jackson peered at Sheppard. "You guys going to be okay, or should I call -"
"We're fine," John assured him. He couldn't subdue the grin. "In fact, I owe you guys." Before the fight, Sheppard hadn't realized just how much he'd needed it. All those weeks of walking around on eggshells. With himself, with everyone around him – no real outlet for excising those dark emotions. Sure, they'd thrown a bowl here and there – thrown a ball against steel walls – but nothing compared to throwing a punch at some drunk bastard who was stupid enough to get in your way after coming out of what they'd survived.
Jackson merely shook his head. "I don't get you pilots."
Because Mitchell was nodding with a knowing grin of his own, and clapped a hand on Jackson's shoulders. "You don't have to get us, you just have to like us."
"Er – right. Sam, that artifact, I really need you to figure out that power conversion -"
"Tonight?" Carter asked, exasperated. "Daniel, I'm going to sleep. Hopefully, I'll be able to get more than two hours."
Mitchell waved at Teal'c, "Let's go get some early breakfast, and head 'em off at the pass, what'd you say, big guy?" He looked at John. "You two up for some waffles?"
Rodney groaned some more, and John looked at his watch. Four hours till they had to be on the Daedalus. Waffles, say their goodbyes, pick up Ronon and Teyla – "Sure, why not. Come on, McKay – some waffles are just what you need to settle that beer-laden stomach."
"What I need to settle it - by causing me to throw-up, you mean," Rodney replied. "Seriously, I'm gonna be sick."
Green wasn't a good color for McKay. John lifted a sad eye at Mitchell and said, "We'll find you later."
There were understanding smirks from the two, but everyone filtered out of the briefing room, leaving Sheppard to help Rodney to their quarters. Once he got McKay to his bathroom, he ran cold water over a rag, and handed it to his sick friend. Rodney had heaved up most of his stomach contents, and was now leaning on the wall, having hit the flush button with clumsy movements. "I'm never drinking again," he swore to the wall.
"That's what we all say," John acknowledged. "Yet – here we are."
Rodney pulled the rag away from his face to focus on John. "You're not sick."
John shrugged casually from where he was leaning on the doorjamb. "I was too busy watching everyone else to drink much." Sheppard could think of a million reasons to just shut-up now and not say anything else, but then again, he also figured McKay probably wouldn't remember this conversation tomorrow.
The rag covered McKay's face again and he nodded. "Right. If only I'd used my intelligence to do the same."
"Maybe it's two eyes versus a one eye kind of thing," Sheppard offered. "Anyway – you okay? I've got to go pack, and check on Teyla and Ronon."
Rodney's head bobbed under the rag that he'd unfolded to cover his entire face. Good enough. John headed towards his quarters, suddenly glad Rodney had needed to skip breakfast with Mitchell and Teal'c. It was just as late - or early, depending on your perspective - as it felt. Four-hundred in the morning. The Daedalus would ship out at eight, and he had things to do before they left.
Enjoying the time alone, John wandered the few doors over to his own room, and instead of packing, sat on the bed. He realized that this was the first time he'd actually been alone since being healed by the device. Yesterday. It was now technically yesterday. He knew, just as certainly as he knew that the moon orbited the Earth and that not all Jaffa were bad, that he would mentally track each day until he'd lived an equal time post-recovery as he'd lived blind.
John had been on the brink of living the rest of his life blind. Rodney had been that close to being sentenced to a life of insistent tremors, only dulled with heavy muscle relaxers that made the rest of his body slack – and with limited vision. He shook his head – for that matter, they'd all been close to living life in an underground city and losing Ronon to a screwed-up penal system.
The bar fight wasn't anything more than a manifestation of their frustrations – well, his and McKay's. Teyla and Ronon hadn't been in much shape to do anything more than blindly – and wasn't that a kick in the pants – go along. SG-1 was just unfortunate enough to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Sheppard felt more than a little bad for dragging them into their emotional baggage, but God, that fight had felt good.
He'd felt alive again. Strong – almost normal. John was surprised that McKay hadn't drawled, in his bad imitation, 'Do you feel lucky, punk?' because he knew that's how they'd both felt. That edge of uncaring 'bring it on' to the world. Recklessness born of being to hell and back; and Nokomis qualified as hell if any place did. Nokomisian society was going to implode, and he was glad they wouldn't be around to see it. Too many societies were making the wrong choices in their fight to outlive the Wraith – yet John had to admit, no one had come up with an idea that held promise. What that said about their odds of defeating the Wraith…
Time was ticking, and John had to pack his own gear, and also Teyla and Ronon's. He had an idea that they'd be beamed from the SGC straight to the Daedalus's infirmary or their quarters. Either way, those two members of his team weren't in any condition to pack their own bags. It'd only be a change of clothes, anyway. They'd known the trip would be short. If it hadn't worked –
Well, according to Elizabeth, they would've been returning on the Daedalus, but Sheppard still had his doubts about that. He was relieved it'd never come down to testing it. As he pulled his uniform from the wire hanger, John had a sudden idea – something to assuage his guilt at causing SG-1 so much trouble. He picked up the phone. "Sergeant?" he asked. When the voice on the other end acknowledged he was there, John continued, "I've got a favor to ask -"