Vegas Blues: I See a Darkness4
"Nothing is what you think it is."
John sat at the bar. Drinking. The song Paint It, Black was rocking in the background, perfectly matching his sour mood. He was mulling over McKay's offer yet again. It circled his mind, never leaving. Having that black mark expunged from his record. But not from his soul. Starting over anew in the Air Force. God he missed flying. Working under the aegis of McKay, however. And by extension Woolsey. Taking orders from a trumped-up scientist and a lawyer. He shook his head. Expletives in his mind. Hunting down aliens in his spare time.
He snorted. It sounded like a television series. A sci-fi tv series. The kind of show to be found on cable where it would gain a small but devoted and passionate audience, if the lead actor was already known to the sci-fi community and popular. He could see it running for a few years before the guys in charge dragged it down and destroyed it by relegating the lead character to the background and introducing an awkward love interest for the second lead. Then going on a power hungry rush and firing actors and running a once great show into the ground for no good reason except to pursue their own supposed artistic endeavors. To change direction so radically the fans would refuse to follow. He'd seen it happen before. Many times.
But he could imagine a different fate for a television show about a down and out detective, much like himself, hunting aliens for a secret government agency in the middle of nowhere. An action adventure comedic show, that was the ticket! As long as the lead actor had more control over the situation, over the producing and the writing and maybe even got to finally direct a few episodes for a change. And being in charge he could always make certain that everyone was treated well, was treated fairly. That everyone cared about the show and the characters, as much as the fans did. And he could even invite new writers, people who shared the same ideas, the same vision even if they were unknown and ingenues when it came to the business but who wrote brilliant stories in the same vein.
"Can I join you?" John looked over as another man sat on the stool next to him. Ordered the same drink. A shot of Scotch. He appeared weary, brown hair askew, trim beard a little ragged. Blue eyes scouring the bar until he spotted a bowl of pretzels and pulled it closer to himself. "Tough day?"
John recognized him. Moira's artist guy. "Yeah, you could say that. Evan Lorne, right? Moira's um, um, friend?" he finally decided on the word.
"Yes, in a manner of speaking. Sheppard, right? The detective."
"Yeah."
The two men drank in silence. Munched on handfuls of tiny pretzels. Each locked in their own dismal thoughts, listening to the song in the background. Both gestured at the same time. The barmaid filled their glasses. Frowned at John but smiled invitingly at Evan.
"You ever find that, that thing? The one I did the sketch of from the skull?" Evan asked, watching the barmaid sashay down the counter to another customer. Little tight black skirt hugging her rear.
"In a manner of speaking." John paused. Frowning. "You were Air Force once. Right?"
Evan met his gaze. "Yeah. What did you do, check up on me?"
"It's my job. I was, too. Once."
"Oh. Ever miss it?
"Sometimes. The flying."
"Yeah. The flying. Not the rest, though."
"Why you'd quit? You were discharged, right?"
Evan scowled. "For disobeying orders. You?"
"The same. Then I totally fucked up. You?"
"I refused to fire on civilians. I'm not supposed to talk about it." He gestured. Their glasses were filled again. He waited until the barmaid had left them alone. "How did you fuck up, exactly? For not killing when you should have?"
"No. For killing when I shouldn't have. Long story."
The two men fell silent again. Brooding as they drank, ate pretzels. John wondered why he had come here, to Beckett's of all places. It wasn't one of his usual haunts. Nor was it like him to open up about his past to a total stranger. He pondered this as he stared at the rows of alcohol lining the bar. Every kind of escape could be found here, at least of the drinking kind. "How's the doc?" he asked at last.
Evan shrugged. "Mending, Moira said. I don't really know him. She said he's been through worse, though."
"We all have," John agreed.
"You need to stay away from her," Evan said suddenly. Even as he smiled at the barmaid who was again giving him the eye.
John eyed the other man. "Who? Moira? Why? You got dibs on her or something?"
Evan smiled. "Something like that. I don't want anything to happen to her. Like it did to Beckett."
"Neither do I."
"So stay away from her."
"I don't take orders well."
"Then take it as a request, then."
"I'm sure Moira can make her own decisions."
"Yes, she can, and they usually turn out to be bad ones. The wrong ones."
"Like hooking up with you? Yeah, I can see that."
Evan met his gaze. Frowned. "Just don't get involved with her."
"She's not my type anyway."
"Good." A pause. "That thing. It was real? A real alien, I mean?"
"Apparently."
"Wow. Did you actually see it?"
"Sort of."
"Sort of? What the hell is that supposed to mean?"
"It means I'm done talking." He stood. Threw money on the counter and left.
John sat in his apartment. Going over those old case files yet again, but his mind was a blank. No, not a blank, but focused on his past. The things he'd rather not think about. The things he had buried. All the way back to the murder of his mother, to the horrific crash in Afghanistan. He swore, shoved the files across the table. Reclined and rubbed his eyes. Slouching on the couch, waiting for the inevitable headache. But like those memories of his recent past, the ones he wanted to remember it didn't invade his head. Hovered at the fringes of his mind, indistinct. Elusive. Not that he wanted the headache but he did want his full memory restored.
He picked up his phone. Considering the option of finding some cheap female company to distract him. To wile away the evening. But he hesitated. Thinking of Moira again. Of Evan's warning. He smiled. More amused than angered. He set down the phone. Pulled out the sabertooth he had snatched from the pawn shop. He turned it over in his hands, looking at it. Ran his fingers over the smooth, polished bone. Curved to a wicked point. Surprised he hadn't scratched himself on it yet. He smirked. Thinking he should have asked Evan how Moira was in bed. What she was like. What she liked. But he'd rather discover that for himself. And he knew, he just knew she'd be different with him.
He snatched his phone. Hesitated. Brought up her number. Waited. It went to voice mail.
"Hey, Moira...it's me. John. John Sheppard. Detective John Sheppard. Give me a call when you get this, okay? It's um, it's about the case." He set down the phone, shaking his head as his own awkwardness.
He leaned forward to examine the files once again. The reports, the gruesome photos of the drained victims. To force himself to remember.
Unfortunately the wrong memories came to the surface.