A/N: Life is one crushing defeat after another until you just wish Flanders was dead – Homer Simpson. Which has absolutely nothing to do with the fact that you people are awesome! I just felt like quoting Homer.

15

It was like gutting a fish, a massive, alien fish made of metal with guts of wire. John regretted every mechanical organ he removed, but couldn't understand why. He didn't even know what the hell it was he was working on. Not a car. Definitely not a car. More like a plane or... ship. Space ship – sounded about right. What kind though? It was too scorched, banged, and ripped up to give a more specific name to.

On the other side of the skeletal heap, the thick bodied old man leaned down to reach beneath the console and pull out a mess of transparent wiring like liquid worms. He wiped his oil smeared brow and looked the cluster over.

" Sorry Johnny," he said. " This puppy's shot to hell. Ain't no way we're getting her back together."

John tossed the part he was holding back into the mess. " Son of a..." Except that he shouldn't have felt regret. The ship didn't matter. Him being alive mattered.

No, the ship did matter. Or something about it. What happened to it. What did happen to it?

Gramps planted one hand on the ripped seat, and the other on the console top. " Putting it back together isn't the answer, Johnny. It's a waste of time. You've already got what you need up there in that head of yours."

John wiped his hands off on his shirt – his torn, scorched, and bloody shirt that had him quickly looking up.

Gramps sighed. " You can't hold back like this, Johnny. It ain't good for the head. You're gonna have to recall sooner or later."

John looked imploringly at his grandfather, and swallowed. " Why? Why is it so important? What does it matter? It's over. I'm home. I'm – I'm remembering things... important things. Remembering this," he slammed his fist into the console and didn't feel it, " won't help."

Gramps leaned forward. " But that's the thing, kid. It will help. The reason, Johnny. It all comes down to the reason. You know why it ain't right to make the objects light up for strangers?"

John looked away, hiding his fear, failing to hide a shudder. " Because... They can use them... against us?" he looked back at Gramps nervously.

Gramps pressed his lips into a firm line and straightened. " More than that, kiddo. It's like giving a stray dog food, it'll follow you home. You give folks what they want, the wrong folks, and they always want more. Makes things worse. If you remember, Johnny, you can use that, just in case since they're already greedy SOBs. You might not see the last of 'em, you know. Well, more like you never know." Gramps tapped the side of his gray-haired skull. " You got what you need up here, Johnny."

John cringed. He wanted to leave this ship, this place... But not Gramps. He felt safe with Gramps, always had, he just never admitted it.

The older man came around the seat and embraced the younger man. John was shivering, frightened, wanting to vanish out of existence. He didn't want to recall, not if it would do something to him, set him back, make it all worse again.

Every time he recalled, it was the memory of pain that came first.

John gulped. " It's uh..." he chuckled nervously, " a little scary in my head right now, Gramps. Especially when I start to think about... you know..." John felt heated drops running down his back. Gramps increased the strength of his embrace. He'd always been a big guy, a head taller than John, thick in body, with rough and calloused hands from working on cars. John felt fragile in the elder man's arms. Too tight of a hug, and he would shatter. But Gramps seemed to know this, and in truth always had. The man liked to hug – bear hugs for friends, but gentle hugs for wife and grandson. John wasn't into touchy/feely, but Gramps had always been the exception, because with arms like his, John knew he was safe.

If Gramps never let go, John wouldn't have mind. He longed for the things that made him safe, even if it seemed a little childish.

Gramps lifted his large hand to the back of John's head.

" You can do this, kiddo. You need to do this."

John nodded into his grandfather's broad shoulder. Maybe he was recalling wrong. Even now, Gramps seemed so large. Then again, maybe that's how he had always been, at least in John's eyes.

He missed Gramps. He missed his dad. Hell, he missed everyone, even the people still with him. He wanted it all back.

" Slow and steady, Johnny," Gramps said. " It's not over yet."

SGA

John awoke with a quiet gasp. A rather pleasant gasp filling his lungs with oxygen that didn't stink of urine. He blinked the film from his eyes and stared at the metallic ceiling hovering over him.

He knew where he was. Took him a moment but... He lifted his arms, his free arms, and rubbed both his eyes. Yes, definitely knew where he was. No pain, no being restrained. A good place, nice place. Home? Yes, home, he was home, had to keep reminding himself. Thoughts of home flitted through him, and he sighed contentedly.

" Colonel Sheppard."

John jumped and snapped his head around. Beckett stepped back with both hands raised.

" Sorry! Sorry, son. Didn't mean to startle ya. Just saw ya awake and wanted to see how you were feelin'."

John smiled. He knew that face, a named face, and recalled the name. " Hi... Carson."

Beckett smiled back. " Hi lad. How are ya? Any pain, discomfort?"

John had to take a moment to assess himself. An ache, mostly in his head, but subdued and manageable. No real pain today.

John shook his head.

" Excellent. No need to ask, but it might be safe to assume you're hungry. Already have someone bringin' you food." Carson placed the stethoscope to his ears, and lifted John's scrub shirt for a listen to his heart and lungs. " Some oatmeal," Carson said. " With toast and a protein shake. You need some meat on ya, lad. Ribs aren't meant to be that visible. Speakin' of which..."

He dropped the stethoscope to let it hang from his neck. He removed the shirt and undid the bandages around John's chest. He was careful about probing the ribs. No pain, just twinges of discomfort John nodded to every time Carson asked. Carson talked of X-rays, and wrapped new bandages, hiding the uncomfortably visible bones. When finished, he handed John the shirt for him to put on himself.

" John, you've been makin' good progress. Your little adventure durin' the lockdown and three days of movin' about – I'm thinkin' you're ready to further your walks. Say other than the infirmary and in a wheelchair? Granted you won't be goin' alone, not for a wee bit longer. You've still got plenty of strength to regain and I'll not have you takin' any chances, or any spills. But you keep up what you're doin' and you'll be back to your quarters in no time."

John nodded. Quarters, a good thing. His room. He wanted to see his room, couldn't recall what it looked like. Perhaps he would go there, to recall. Recalling wasn't so bad now, and he wanted to remember more. It brought nice feelings, remembering, as though he were accomplishing something grandly important.

The infirmary doors opened, and Rodney walked in carrying a tray and looking annoyed.

" You know what's funny?" he said. " How we can repair something when we still don't know how it was broken in the first place. Sort of like that time my cousin stopped by and her four year old managed to switch the language on my TV. Those two preschoolers who dare to carry the title of scientists managed to combine three separate lockdowns and couple it with a schizophrenic power surge – and they have no idea how!"

He passed the tray on to Beckett, and John watched in wide-eyed hope as Beckett placed it before him. John looked at the food, looked at Beckett, back to the food then back to Beckett. The Highland doc nodded reassuringly. No vocal permission now. But like John needed permission, he knew that, he just couldn't hold on too the knowledge permanently. It was like an oiled down fish that every time he grasped, it wriggled, squirmed and flopped out of reach until he grabbed it again. Basically the recent story of his life. It was odd, and scared the hell out of him, the way his thoughts did their own thing, teasing him with minor control, but calling the majority of the shots. A thought called on his own volition would start a chain reaction of thoughts popping like fireworks in his brain, or sometimes whirling like a pinwheel – round and round they go, stopping where they wanted, not where John wanted.

But there was control. At least he had that much. He vaguely recalled a time where there had been no control, and thoughts erupted with or without him – mostly without him.

It explained the headaches.

John dove into the food, shoveling oatmeal into his mouth, a part of him hurrying before Beckett changed his mind. Another part of John knew that that was ridiculous, and berated himself for thinking it, hollowing out his chest with guilt. Then the first part would fill it with the cold ice of fear that Beckett had seen that guilt, and knew John had thought something he shouldn't, and his second half berated him harshly again, making his stomach clench.

John's surroundings did a little tilt-o-whirl thing. He twitched his head, shaking the turmoil from his brain, and completely forgetting what it was he'd been thinking only two seconds ago. Something about guilt, and food...

He had food, so didn't try to recall. Probably wasn't important anyways. Still, he was getting tired of this on again/off again amnesia deal. At least Beckett had assured him it would pass, and John had finally got it nailed to his brain that Beckett could always be trusted when he assured something.

Rodney continued his tirade concerning incompetent science teams and hair-trigger Ancient technology. John listened and actually enjoyed listening. In all truth he knew that normally he'd be tuning Rodney out by now, letting his mind wander to thoughts of surfing or things he needed to get done by the end of the day. But that was before the physicist's griping had become another building block to the reconstruction of his memory concerning home.

It made him feel... good, simply put. Although he wouldn't remember what was talked about three minutes later – not that he really cared. He just enjoyed the normalcy of it.

While ranting, Rodney watched Sheppard scarf the food and down the drink.

" Isn't he done yet?" Rodney said, interrupting himself to do so. Carson narrowed his eyes dangerously.

" Ask him yourself, lad. He's right there where he can bloody hear ya."

Rodney drummed his fingers on the bed rail, staring intently at John. " Well?"

John wiped his mouth and nodded, until Beckett stepped forward and pushed the plate of toast toward him.

" Actually, John, I think that would be a no."

John eyed the toast, wanting it, but wanting even more to move about beyond his current confines. Rodney solved his dilemma by taking the plate and holding it. " He can eat it along the way. Just get him showered, get him dressed, but most importantly, get him showered because I'm not walking around with a man who smells like the infirmary."

Carson lowered the rails to let John get out of bed on his own. There was still effort to it as he slipped his legs from beneath the blankets to plant bare feet on the cold floor. He was slow to stand, and grabbed Carson's shoulder to steady himself until the blood stopped rushing to his head, making shadows pulse in his vision. He twitched his head to clear it, locked his knees, and took the clothes Carson handed to him.

With a quick pat on the shoulder, Carson escorted John to the bathroom, having him put plastic over the cast, but gave John free reign beyond there, waiting outside as John recalled how to work the Atlantis showers.

John stood there, hugging the clothes to his chest, feeling his heart pounding through them against his arm. He had to strip, go naked, and the thought was making his stomach recoil without reason. He set his clothes aside on a rail, and with a quick glance over his shoulder to assure himself that he was alone, began the slow and arduous process of removing the scrubs.

Through the growing discomfort of it, it struck him as odd. He'd undressed before. Then again, he'd been back in new clothes immediately after. Having to remain in the buff far longer was making his heart pulverize itself on his sternum. He only had the scrub shirt off and he was already cringing with back curved and muscles quaking. He was having second thoughts. So he wasn't smelling like roses, who really gave a crap? A shower could wait...

Except that Carson probably wouldn't let him leave until it happened.

He contemplated leaving the boxers on. Perhaps it wouldn't be so bad if he wasn't completely naked. Except he would have to remove them eventually anyway...

A knock on the door made him jump.

" You all right in there, Colonel?" came Carson's voice. " I don't hear the water goin'. Ya need any help?"

John gulped, shook his head, realized the futility of the action, and sounded out a small, hoarse no.

" All right. But you tell me if ya do."

" Y-yeah..." John replied, shuddering, feeling horrible cold oozing from his core to coat his skin. The hot shower would fix that, he knew. Spiting this odd new phobia of his, he finished undressing and quickly stepped into the shower as though someone might walk in and see him at any moment. Like with just about everything else in Atlantis, the showers could be activated by panels or thought alone. John thought them on, and the sudden assault of the heated spray took him by surprise. He jerked back, spine hitting the wall, heart hitting his ribs, and legs giving out on him, slowly lowering him to the floor to pack himself into the corner as the tepid water beat on him. He covered his head and squeezed his eyes shut.

Bad idea.

It was different, of course it was different, warm and gentle. But his brain didn't care.

They'd called it... decontamination. A stone room, gray as slate and cold as... as... a glacier, a glacier in Antarctica. Water ripped from large hoses, direct spray white foamed with pressure that was flaying John alive. It pressed him to the wall, to the floor, pummeling like a stream of fists and pushing like unrelenting hands against broken ribs, a broken arm, and a bruised spine. John sacrificed his hands to protect his head, ducked his chin to his chest to protect his throat, screamed and begged for them to stop. But they couldn't, because John was an alien, filthy, crawling with alien diseases. It was decontamination and everyone had to go through it before being taken to a room.

A cell.

He was going to prison.

The hoses stopped, the pressure eased away. John's body felt like it had survived a ten man beating. He couldn't move even with terror and fury shrieking at him to get off the floor and return the favor of pain to these bastards. He opened his eyes and that was as far as he got. He was involuntarily inclined to lay there and watch water ribboned with blood slip down the rust-grated drain, fluid gurgling and choking away like the death rasp of a beast. Blood and water ran from him in rivulets, dripped from him like the last remnants of rain, soaked in the cold to aid the pain until his whole body shook.

But this was different. It was warm. It was gentle. With one hand against the smooth wall of the shower, John rose back onto quaking legs, breathing fast with back still curved in a cringe. His hands were shaking, but he couldn't help that, just like he couldn't help the way his heart hammered relentlessly. He grabbed the soap with one hand and washed, wincing when he came to the wounds on his back, the lingering bruises, the still tender ribs that sickened him to feel – like the bars of a cage. He swallowed back bile and kept his mouth clamped shut, not even allowing himself the luxury of a pathetic whimper. He would get through one stupid shower, recollections and pain be damned.

He washed his hair, rinsed, stepped out, and dried off as fast as he could, dressing even faster and ripping the plastic off the cast.

It was indescribable; being clean, being dressed. Water continued to drip from his hair to soak the collar of his shirt and the back, but he didn't care. He sat on the floor to pull on his socks and boots, then just sat, resting with arms over his upturned knees.

Another knock at the door, another jump, and Carson's voice sounded.

" Colonel?"

John ran his hand back and forth through his wet hair that flicked out misty sprays of water, and sighed. He felt drained, like he could sleep the whole day and the night through. But he wanted out, wanted to recall better things than what his wayward mind was having him deal with. There were happier places he needed to visit along memory lane.

" I'm good," he called, and forced himself with a grunt to his feet, reaching out to the wall to steady himself on gelatinous legs. His shirt hung extra loose from him, and his belt had to have an extra hole put in to keep his pants up. He was decrepit, weak, and it was only now just hitting him. He'd known, always had, of his appearance, but there was a fine line between being aware and knowing full on. It was an emotion thing, and one pretty easy to ignore when pain was ripping through a mind too busy being torn to shreds to care about looking the opposite of healthy.

He cared now, so lingered until Carson knocked again.

" You're gonna give Rodney an aneurysm if ya take much longer, lad. Best hurry it up."

John grinned when he heard McKay's reply.

" Seriously, what if he fell or something? Just open the door. You're the doctor and it's not like there's anything you haven't seen."

" I may be the doctor, Rodney, but the man has a right to maintainin' his dignity. Colonel?" Carson was starting to sound worried. John shoved abashment over his physical situation to the back of his mind enough to open the door and step out.

Rodney threw his hands up. " About time! Come on, let's go. Oh, and you may not want your toast anymore. I think it's grown some kind of Atlantean mold."

Carson rolled his eyes. " It's fine, Rodney. And you can go now. Just make sure the Colonel eats lunch and doesn't get overwhelmed. And be nice."

Rodney started in shocked offense. " I am nice!" He looked at John pleadingly. " I've been nice to you, haven't I?"

" I meant to everyone, Rodney."

Rodney took the toast from the plate and handed the plate to Carson, and the toast to John. " I make no promises what so ever." Then headed out. John followed, finishing off the toast.

Rodney led the way and John shadowed him without a word. He remembered wanting to go somewhere, just couldn't recall where exactly. With the toast gone, John was able to shove his hands into his pockets. They passed people – faces – some wholly familiar, some barely, and some he didn't recognize at all. They either nodded or spoke greetings, with the soldiers saluting John. He nodded and saluted back since that's what he was supposed to do. Acting the part of polite, even wringing out a smile that was as pathetic as he felt.

He was a wretched... thing, just asking – no, begging – for pity Maybe people didn't notice, maybe they were just good at not showing that they noticed, playing polite in return. What did it really matter in the long run? John could regain what he'd lost, and it wouldn't be the first time. Yet shows of weakness were dangerous. People liked to use them, act on them while they could... laugh at them. And there were so many faces looking at him, noticing without seeming to.

But these were his people. They wouldn't do that. Well, some might, the ones that didn't like him. Would they? What would they do? How would they act? When would they act? Matter of time, only a matter of...

John twitched his head and scowled. No! No one on Atlantis would do that. This was Atlantis, his people, and they would never do that...

His heart was beating hard, and he wondered if it ever slowed. He played the polite part well until he felt the facade try to slip when his body started up a non-stop bout of shivering. Rodney was saying something, and John hadn't heard a word.

They veered toward a door, and the tension started to drain from John's muscles. A thick barrier between him and the faces. Then they walked in, tension snapped back, having him go rock rigid, at the sight of devices scattered like debris over tables, some even gathered in boxes broken and gutted. John's jaw dropped, his eyes went wide, and his heart shrank and shriveled to a prune in his chest.

" It isn't the rec room," Rodney said, heading toward the counter where his lap-top sat. " But when you've got work to do, you've got work to do. But I promise we'll head over for a little movie time, maybe even watch that football video of yours, see if that doesn't jog a few memories."

Rodney glanced over his shoulder at John and stilled. " Sheppard?"

John wanted to turn and run, and he probably would have on pure instinct if Rodney hadn't said his name. Rodney; who John knew to trust – or was supposed to trust – like with Carson. Rodney wouldn't hurt him. So why was he here? Duh, right, Rodney's domain, his personal dungeon, his fortress of solitude, and on and on. But why had Rodney brought him? Work. Something about work. John couldn't remember, or maybe hadn't been listening. What work? What kind? Why was he needed? Was he needed? What the hell was going on!

Rodney's eyes went round as the mess hall dinner plates when John's breath started coming faster.

" Oh crap!" Rodney yelped, and hurried over to John. He took him by the shoulders and gently guided him from the room.

" Sheppard – uh, John – look at me."

John did when the lab doors slid shut and the devices were out of sight, even if they weren't out of mind.

Rodney looked panicked, and that raised John's fear another two degrees.

" Listen, we're only here because I need to check something. Real quick, I swear. No touching anything, no activation. The only thing I'm asking is for a little patience to do this one thing, should only take a second. You know what? You can even wait out here, not long, like I said. Then we'll go to the rec room, or the mess hall – where ever you want. I just gotta do this one thing to make sure we don't get locked in some dark hallway that has you wandering off again. All right?"

John wanted to deck himself. He was being ridiculous. Of course Rodney hadn't brought him in to light up ancient contraptions that could very well blow them into next century. Why had he even thought that?

Because that's normally the only reason he brings you to the lab. Logic really wasn't playing to John's side. But it didn't matter. Rodney said no gadgets, and John was going to believe him against his own will. He nodded. Rodney visibly relaxed and patted John's shoulder.

" Good, great, lovely, excellent." He then turned and headed back in, John following, spiting his fear, his memories – pretty much himself. He was in control. He only wished he had better control over his heart to keep it from pounding so viciously.

Rodney shot a quick glance back over his shoulder and stumbled, turning. " Colonel! I thought you were going to wait outside?"

John shook his head. " I'm fine."

Rodney, nervous, going a smidgen pale, swallowed. " Um... You sure – about that? Seriously, only a second. You don't have to be in here..."

" I'm fine," John said again, eyes roving over devices and his heart making it difficult to keep his breaths steady.

Rodney eyed John, then sagged, sighing heavily. " Carson's going to kill me. All right, come here then." He took John by the bicep and carefully pulled him to the table with the lap-top. He pulled up a stool and pointed at it. " Sit."

John dropped onto it. Rodney turned his attention to the little computer and began clacking away.

John had never realized how much he enjoyed that sound. The clacking, no need to activate anything – it wasn't so bad now. He looked at each of the dormant items

Was it safe now to activate them? Must not have been, or Rodney would have asked him to. But he was on Atlantis where activation was necessary.

" Is it safe?" John asked.

Rodney kept clacking, fingers dancing, and eyes squinting at the screen. " Huh? Safe? Is what safe?"

" To activate."

Rodney leaned in close to the screen with the corners of his eyes creasing in a deeper squint. " Activate what?"

John blinked in surprise. Rodney was supposed to know this. He was supposed to know everything. " Uh... these – things..."

Rodney turned his head to give Sheppard a look as though he'd grown horns and a tail. " You want to activate this stuff?" Rodney's expression changed to suspicion, and he straightened, narrowing his eyes at John. " I thought you weren't up for it?"

John's mouth moved, problem was he didn't have the words to go with the motion. That wasn't what he'd been trying to get across. " I... uh... There was a reason..." Yes, the reason. McKay knew the reason, or should have known. " I wasn't supposed to because... because... I don't know why, I just wasn't supposed to. It wasn't safe or something. I wasn't supposed to activate, so I didn't, but... I can't remember why. There was a reason I just..."

McKay continued his questioning stare that got John squirming and looking away.

" Ooookaaaay... I said you don't have to activate anything, Sheppard. I've got my little ATA gene pal to help me out with that." He reached forward and picked up the nearest item. It took concentration that had his brow furrowed, but the object lit up, emitting a soft hum. John startled, and pointed a shaking finger at the thing.

" Sh-sh-should you be doing that? Is it – really safe?"

Rodney's 'Sheppard's acting like a freak' look returned. He swung his hand around, bringing the object in close.

" It's harmless, see? Totally safe..."

Rodney held the item out toward John, within reach. This was wrong, wasn't supposed to be happening, too soon. The reason... Rodney had forgotten the reason. He was doing what he wasn't supposed to, what John fought so hard never to do.

They were screwed.

" No!" John shouted, knocking the device from Rodney's hand while at the same time leaping from his seat so fast and trying to backpedal that he tripped over the stool, both him and it clattering to the floor, his back hitting the leg, inciting an onslaught of agony. He arched his back with a groan, and rolled onto his chest with eyes squeezed shut and mind whirling beyond his control.

He felt a hand on his shoulder. " Sheppard?"

John's eyes snapped open, his heart shot up into his throat, and the pain was forgotten when he scrambled to his hands and knees. In his maddened haste to rise, he faltered and fell back, hitting the wall of a counter. He yelped with more pain, and when a hand touched his arm he pulled himself together into a protective huddle, waiting for the vice grip that would rip him away and toss him sprawled to the floor. Then the switch would come tearing into his flesh, or that cold device tearing into his brain...

" Colonel?"

... except no one from that place ever called him that. John peeled his eyes open and looked into the taut and lined face of Rodney McKay.

Humiliation squeezed Sheppard's chest until he couldn't breathe. He'd done it again, like he had with Carson, and like he had during the lockdown.

He'd given into delusion, and it was laughing in his face.

John dropped his head onto his knees, and his arms at his side to hang limply. He moved his head back and forth with eyes tightly shut. " I'm sorry, Rodney," he breathed. " I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I am so freakin' sorry..."

" Why?"

John lifted his head enough to look at McKay, and exhaled a shuddering breath. " I'm a coward."

McKay's gaze darkened and his jaw clenched. " Like hell you are. Come on, get up." He took John by the arm and pulled. John complied, preoccupied with wondering if Rodney was mad, and what he'd done to make the physicist so upset. Halfway up, McKay righted the stool and guided John to it, urging him to sit. Rodney then grabbed the next nearest stool, dragged it over, and planted himself in it, facing John.

" Sheppard," he said. " Pay attention. You're confused. Your brain's been fried, your memories mashed, and none of it's settled down yet. At least that's how Kace makes it sound. But what it pretty much comes down to is that you've walked barefoot through hell, survived, and therefore have every right to a small panic attack now and then. Once your brain stops doing its trippy little nightmare dance, it probably won't be a problem anymore. Until then, it is a problem, one that isn't your fault. And that doesn't make you a coward."

Rodney looked down at his hands gripping his knees, and let out a long, slow breath. " I'm really not the comforting sort, you know?" He snorted. " What am I saying, of course you know. Or you will, eventually, again. Usually I'm the one being comforted – or told to suck it up or whatever." He returned to looking at John, locking his gaze. The anger was gone, replaced by something more placid, more... understanding. Or maybe John was just reading the expression wrong.

" I wasn't quick on the uptake, and I'm sorry for that. I wasn't getting you, what you were saying. The reason."

John perked. " The reason. What is it? Was it to keep them from using... the things?"

Rodney nodded. " Yeah, to keep them from using the things. Kind of an unspoken policy among us gene carriers; don't make the pretty, shiny Ancient toys even prettier and shinier for the strangers, or they'll never leave you alone. You activate one, get it to work, next thing you know they have a map of galaxies at their disposal or they're sending you at the forefront of battle wearing a personal shield and blasting everything away like it was a game of Centipede." Rodney exhaled another breath, this one sharper. " Kace told us about why that Harl guy did the things... he did... to you. And about how you didn't give in." Rodney looked back down and began rubbing his legs from thigh to knee, curling his fingers when he got to his knees. " Had I been there, I probably would have called you idiot, said what you were doing was stupid, urged you to light one little toy up just to get the goons to leave you alone for a few hours. But that would have been lil' 'ole selfish me talking. I don't like seeing people get hurt, especially if they can prevent it."

He clasped his hands together in his lap and looked back up. " But then that would have made me the idiot." He twitched a nervous, weak smile. " Because they would have kept on abusing you just to have you light up more. Or doing stuff to me. Did I ever tell you about what happened to me and Ronon on the Hive ship?"

John twitched in alarm at that. " Y-you were on a hive ship?"

Rodney creased his brow. " Yeah, don't you remember? You were there, kind of. Not on the Hive ship, you just knew we were on there."

John started to recall. Hive ships with hyperdrives, about to take off, still with Ronon and Rodney. After that, John's brain automatically shut the memory down, though he didn't know why.

" I remember..." he said. " Yeah... I remember."

Rodney nodded. " Thought you would. Remind me to tell you about it some time. I will say this – me and you – we could probably head a support group for torture victims. I had the brains, the knowledge, they wanted it, I fought, and of course they had to hit the soft spot by doing crap to Ronon. Or were about to when Ronon grabbed the nearest stunner and brought hell to the wraith. Long story, so again remind me later to tell it."

John doubted he would remember, but would try. He wanted to know.

" The thing is – or you might say – thanks to my crap-hole adventure on Elm Street with a butt-load of Freddy clones, I can't hold it against you for holding back, even if I thought it would have prevented pain. Which, I now know, it wouldn't have, only increased it. Cowards don't hold back, John. They give in as soon as they can, reasons be damned. You did what was right, what you needed to do, so no way in hell are you a coward, so don't you dare call yourself one. Or weak, don't you dare call yourself weak. Or a failure. Derogatory terms are my field of expertise. Speaking of which, I'd – um - also like to apologize for all those times I bad mouthed you for wanting to sacrifice yourself all the time. Because doing so has officially made me a hypocrite. I'm just as idiotic as you it seems, which proves my point of you being a bad influence on us all."

John felt every muscle loosening, his shoulders sagging, his body slumping with pure relief. " So... there was... a reason?"

Rodney nodded. " Yes. You did good Sheppard."

John smiled. He had been right, and the effort had been worth it. " It's safe now?"

" Yeah, it's safe. But you still don't have to light anything up. Let me finish this, then we'll head to the rec room, kick back, and celebrate by putting a little meat on your bones with popcorn, sodas, and ice-cream. Well, maybe just popcorn, can't push it with you. Oh, and get some ice for your back." Rodney winced. " How is it?"

" Better," John replied. True, in a way. It didn't hurt, just throbbed uncomfortably.

Rodney grimaced. " Beckett is so going to kill me."

SGA

Talk about a vacation. Habitual caution nagged at Kace to keep his mind open to the empathic ambient, but he was getting conditioned to being around people that harbored no real opinions toward him, negative or positive. Mistrust was minimized compared to what Kace was used to, and though rumor had spread of there being a telepath in the city, no one ever directly acknowledged him as being that telepath. It seemed they were quite used to having foreign folk in simple clothes wandering about – namely Teyla's people, which most assumed Kace to be one of.

Mistrust still lingered, here and there, mostly from Ronon and that Caldwell man. Other than that, he was just another soul flowing in a sea of minds only he was aware of. So he allowed himself to lower his own guard, focus on the outward instead of what went on inside, and only falling back into routine when emotions of any kind became strong enough to create ripples too big to ignore. Even then, he would catch the ripples out of curiosity, but not enter any minds to satiate that curiosity.

Kace had also been getting the best sleep he'd ever had, without having to resort to sleeping outdoors on a hard ground miles away from a city. He knew, without a doubt now, that he was safe in this city. No deep intrigues, no devious plots, and no interest in trying to keep the solitary mind reader sticking around. Small consideration involving convincing him, maybe, but these people weren't about sacrificing what was right just to have a better tactical advantage. They weren't going to force a man to do anything against his will.

If Kace wasn't careful, he might end up taking permanent residence. Except that wandering was in his blood. He gave himself another week tops before the need to set his feet back on the road went from an itch to a rash. He'd tried the settling down in one place thing before. No matter how nice that place – how safe – the road had a loud call that Kace couldn't ignore.

Which was why he wandered the city so much, with no particular direction, just to see where his feet took him and what he discovered along the way. Part of the charm of being a wanderer was the discoveries made. He'd been to so many worlds, the galaxy might as well have been one big planet in itself.

He contemplated trekking this planet's continent. World of the Ancients – had to be something to discover here.

His feet brought him past the room with the moving picture screen. He cast a glance inside on catching the familiar aura of vague confusion rolling out like a draft. He slowed on seeing Sheppard sitting on the long, cushioned chair with legs drawn up and casted hand resting on his knees. His other hand was preoccupied squeezing a clear bag of water and tiny ice-chunks. He was staring at it without seeing it, turned in to his thoughts. Kace back stepped to lean against the entrance, and did a quick scan of Sheppard's thoughts.

Very unpleasant. Devices, lashes, and that horrid decontamination made even worse by broken bones and bleeding wounds. The images interchanged, but lingered, going back and forth between each. In decontamination, Sheppard was still lean, fit, so he'd just arrived to the prison.

Sometimes – in the name of sanitation – the guards would pull another mandatory decontamination. Remembrance of it led Sheppard to those as well, and Kace watched the successive decline of Sheppard's body. It made Kace queasy, so he backed his brain out. But the images of thin skin rubbed raw to bleeding were branded forever into his head.

Kace pushed off from where he was leaning and walked in. He plopped down beside Sheppard and stared at the screen depicting some sort of odd battle with two armies poised for attack, tossing some sort of oddly shaped ball, then attacking, wrestling, and tossing men aside all to make a grab for that weird ball. Fascinating, really, because whenever a man fell, he got right back up again. So it couldn't be called a contest of death, more like a contest of strength.

Nausea, anger, confusion, and fear throbbed around Sheppard, brushing along Kace's own conscious. Kace stretched out his legs to cross one ankle over the other.

" There's nothing to figure out, Shep," he said. " Selfish men do cruel things to get what they want. The only thing you did wrong was exist at the wrong place and at the wrong time."

The bag sloshed, the ice swirling around like debris caught beneath the rapids. " I know."

Kace didn't doubt that. " But you're still trying to figure it out. Word to the wise, Shep – don't. Don't ever try to figure out men like Harl or that bug-brain Gorek. You'll never figure 'em. They're your opposite, Shep. And they aren't worth understanding."

Sheppard dropped the bag onto the chair to free his hand and begin rubbing the side of his head, ear to crown. The nausea increased until his body started shuddering. " I can't stop thinking about it," he said, and gulped. " It won't get out of my head. Why won't it get out?" An agitation he'd been fighting to keep back spilled into him like a deluge. He kept attempting to change the subject of his thoughts, but they always tipped back to the recently recovered memories of torture.

Kace sighed. " Because you're recalling. I've always noticed it's the thoughts we fight to get rid of that stick around the most. I'd like to say that once that stuff's out, it's out for good, except that it isn't. You won't be forgetting it again, and there'll be more to come. You just have to remind yourself that it's over. You're home, you're safe... Then you need to distract yourself, push other thoughts into your mind. It shouldn't be too bad if you can do that."

Sheppard nodded, still rubbing his head, shuddering, and very prepared to jump out his skin thanks to ragged nerves and a pounding heart.

" Where's Doc McKay?" Kace asked. This hadn't been a good time to leave Sheppard alone, though Kace was the only one to understand that.

" Getting food."

Kace nodded. " Good. No offense, Shep, but you really need it."

Sheppard dropped his head onto his knees. He inhaled deep, and exhaled sharp with another shudder. " I don't want to remember anything else. Not what Harl did... to me. I can still feel what it was like... sometimes. It makes my skin itch and... it makes me ache." Anger flowed from him like desert heat. " It makes me want to kill Harl. With every memory, every time it pops in my head, all I want to do is go back and ram that – thing – into his own skull, let him know what it's like, then put a bullet in his brain. But he's not good enough for a fast death. It has to be slow. It's gotta hurt worse than it's hurt for me. Except... I'm not like that. I don't really do the revenge thing. If it ever came down to it, I'd beat the hell out of him to my heart's content, but I'd never shoot him. Not unless he tried to shoot me first."

Kace smiled. " You're not a cold blooded killer."

" I don't like to kill..."

" You like to defend. Save lives. Don't like seeing bad things happen to folks. I couldn't read your mind thanks to that scrambler, but I got at least that much from you. I always knew you were a good guy, and didn't deserve what was being done. And you didn't deserve it. But the way I figure it, Harl will probably be his own undoing. I've seen what's in that man's head, and even as we speak he's digging his own grave. It's only a matter of time before someone tosses him into it."

" That's not enough."

" But it's going to have to be. Am I right?"

Sheppard nodded. " I don't do revenge." He then raised his head to look directly at Kace. " I never thanked you for helping me."

Kace shrugged with indifference. " Eh. It was implied. You've had pretty strong gratitude vibes pouring off you like a rain storm every time you've looked at me. So no real reason to say it out loud."

Now it was Sheppard lifting his shoulder with nonchalance. " It should still be said. I'd be dead if you hadn't taken me with you." He returned his gaze to the screen, but not his attention.

Kace held back on looking into Sheppard's mind and beating him to his own thoughts. Sheppard needed to speak and find his own voice. For some, speaking out loud had a way of clearing the head, putting chaotic thought into a semblance of order until true order was obtained.

" Why did you?"

Kace smirked. He didn't even have to read Sheppard's mind to see that question coming. What was surprising was the intent behind the question – pure, natural, curiosity, unmarred by the suspicion that Kace wanted something in return. The scrambler really did have a way of whittling the brain down to an almost child-like state.

Kace chuckled. " I've probably told you this more times than even I can recall – so don't hold it against you that you can't recall yourself. I liked you, Shep. Still do. I admired your tenacity, your stubborness, and the fact that you didn't try to kill me the day I got shoved into your cell. Terrified and ready for a fight as you were, you kept your peace, and I was able to keep mine."

Sheppard squinted, remembering and remembering hard. It almost looked painful, and it was, creating a throbbing in his skull as he forced his own head to cooperate and pull a memory out of the chaotic muck.

" I remember..." He practically ripped the memory from himself, and winced for it. " Something you said... about... suffering. About – being in it... together?"

Kace all out laughed at that, rocking back and lifting his leg to slap his knee. Sheppard observed it in wary confusion, and Kace caught the sense that Sheppard had thought he'd said something wrong – or embarrassing.

Kace patted the air. " No, no, no... it's not you. I just thought... Just thought you'd never remember any of that." Kace wiped his eyes when the laughter settled down. " But, no, you're right. My mom's fault. She was a shining example and bad influence rolled into one. Shep, I'm not a man who feels there needs to be a reason for everything. I do what I do, half the time not wanting to explain, the other half not getting it myself. I mean you of all people should get that. You go by reasons, but it's simple for you – right versus wrong, and going for what's right. But the bigger difference between me and you is that you acknowledge it. You do what's right because it's right, and that's reason enough. While I go all cryptic. But deep down inside I'm probably going by the same reasoning. Therefore, I guess you could say since I'm too stubborn too, that I helped you because it was the right thing to do."

Kace's answer siphoned from John floods of mental turmoil, and he actually smiled.

" I'm guessing," Kace said, " No, I'm certain you would have done the same for me."

Sheppard chuckled softly. " As long as you didn't try to kill me, rob me, or back stab me, probably."

" Actually I probably would have blackmailed you into taking me or something. I don't take chances. You were easy to trust being so messed up in the head and all."

Kace caught McKay's rambling mind before the scientist even walked through the door, carrying two trays in both hands. Sheppard snapped his head around and unfolded himself to plant his feet on the floor and sit back.

" You wouldn't believe what they're calling this garbage," he said, handing the tray to Sheppard. " Tuna noodle casserole. Looks more like something my cat would puke up."

Kace blanched at the image in Rodney's head. " Lovely simile, Doc McKay. Makes me glad I already had a meal."

McKay gave him a dark and withering glare. " What did I say about personal mental space and invading it?"

Kace lifted both hands innocently. " Sorry. That image was a practical shout and I couldn't resist."

McKay settled himself down between Sheppard and Kace, picking up his fork to mix the casserole around. With it were those long green vegetables, a bowl of even more vegetables with that creamy stuff called salad dressing, another bowl of fruits, and a bottle of water. Sheppard was dining on the same, but with water and some sort of thick, pink substance.

McKay looked up at the screen and slouched. " This is still on? I thought it'd be long over by now. Or maybe I was just wishing so hard I thought it might actually come true. I should have hid the thing while Sheppard was still out of it."

Now it was Sheppard doing the withering look directed at McKay.

Kace gestured to the moving pictures. " So what is it, anyways? Some sort of gladiator competition? A neat and tidy way to do battle?"

McKay took a sip of water before speaking. " It's called football. It's a sport on our planet."

" Sport. Like a game?"

" Exactly, one of the more popular forms of recreation – watched and played."

Kace nodded in sudden understanding. It explained why no one was being killed. " Kind of brutal for being nothing more than a game, but then again I've seen worse."

McKay pointed at the screen with the hand holding the bottle. " You think this is bad? You should check out hockey."

SGA

A/N: Coming soon... Action! Killer Umbrellas! Exquisite. – Homer Simpson.

No, I said action, not killer umbrellas. Although... No! No killer umbrellas... yet. Doh!