Chapter Two

"Oh god," Rodney muttered as he sank into the deep cushion of the booth he'd managed to acquire. "Kill me now."

If this is what his first day was like, Rodney was just going to quit now. Screw everyone and their expectations; he could not keep up this charade of happy smiles and insincere platitudes. If one more person tried to shake his hand today, he'd... well, Rodney wasn't quite sure what he'd do, but it definitely wasn't going to be pretty.

Thankfully he had sixty minutes—okay, technically forty-one after the drive here and the time it'd taken to get the waitress to take his drink order—in which he could relax and be himself. Chanel Girl had suggested taking lunch on the premises since it took entirely too long to navigate out of the building let alone drive from the isolated property, but damn it, Rodney needed a break.

This was far worse than he'd ever imagined. Rodney had thought he was above begging, but he was about ready to get on his hands and knees in front of General Asshat (or was it Ashley?) and apologize for the crude remark about the general's parentage if he could just have his old lab back. Not that it would help or anything, since Aisley—Aarons—whatever—hadn't been directly responsible for orchestrating his exile to this godforsaken place. It also probably wouldn't help because the fallout with the general didn't have anything to do with disparaging remarks, but Rodney really didn't want to think about that right now.

He perused the menu without much gusto. He should have opted for that greasy diner down the street, where he was quite certain the closest they got to using lemon in their food was with the scent of their dish washing detergent. He paged through several entries of anaphylactic shock before deciding he could probably be safe if he went with the twice fried meat with gravy. Already he'd had to order a soda to be sure the waitress didn't do anything obtuse like drop a lemon in it when he wasn't looking.

If he managed to make it through the rest of his first day at Vertrauen, Rodney would either have to bring his lunch and risk socialization in the R&D department's kitchen, or just break in the staff here to his special dietary requirements. The second sounded more appealing, especially since he had no idea how far he could push his boundaries with his new "team", and as petty as it sounded, Rodney really needed to take out his pent up frustration on someone.

He was used to being a force of nature to be reckoned with, even with the sort of military egos that government contracts attracted. Despite the fact that Rodney had been born a Canadian citizen, he had practically been raised by the CIA, NSA, and other offices within the United States government. Brilliance was brilliance, and he'd hardly had to pay any tuition when he'd started university at age fifteen. Such prolonged exposure to the bureaucratic system had earned him a lot of favors over the years, most of which paid off with him having his choice of projects and assignments.

Had being the key word.

This most certainly was not his first choice. Rodney scowled at the menu, watching his precious lunchtime minutes tick down as the waitress dawdled at the table behind him. For crying out—he was on a schedule here. As much as he was not happy with his current position, it didn't mean he wanted to show his protest with an extended lunch hour on his first day.

Thankfully she took the snapping fingers to heart and appeared at his shoulder with only the hints of an annoyed glower. "Does your chef use lemon on this—dish?"

She peered at the item he pointed out on the menu. "Chicken fried steak? I don't think so."

"Well, make sure," Rodney grumbled and thrust the menu at her. "Like I told you with the soda, I'm deathly allergic to citrus, so the slightest hint—"

"I'll make sure," and somehow she miraculously didn't grind her teeth, although Rodney had a feeling that twitching eyebrow meant she wanted to. "Anything else?"

"That's it."

She withdrew, as he wasn't sure if it could be considered fleeing since she wasn't racing for the kitchen. Rodney melted back into the cushions of the booth and let his eyes drift shut. Less than forty minutes and he had to go back there. Oh, how did his life suck—

"Charming."

Sadly, Rodney was pretty sure he recognized that voice and reluctantly cracked an eye open. "Shempy?"

"Shempy—I thought we left off on Sparky."

"I've downgraded you to one of the Three Stooges."

"Is that a good downgrade or a bad downgrade?"

"Is that a—" Rodney spun in the booth to face the smirk of the stupid flyboy from the start of his day from hell. "What do you care?"

"I think we may have gotten off to a bad start," and Sharpie extended his hand again. No longer bound by the rules of Vertrauen niceties Rodney let the gesture hang, like he should have back in the man's office. "Make up?"

"I will not 'make up' with you, you, you—road-raging adrenaline junkie!"

"A man tries to run you over one time and you never forgive him?"

"Once is generally enough in my book!" Rodney huffed and pointedly turned back to glare at the ticking clock. Even his lunch hour wasn't sacred.

"Hey." A hand tapping his shoulder had him nearly jumping out of his skin.

"Don't!" Rodney twisted again, so he could spear Sherry with a burning gaze. "Don't do that!"

If possible, the smirk became more lopsided. "Sorry."

"What's your problem? Is attempted murder not enough for you? Do you need to compound it with stalking?"

"I'm an equal opportunity offender like that I guess."

"You guess... you guess... just who the hell are you?"

"You mean you already forgot?"

"No, I—don't you go trying to twist this around—stop grinning! It's not funny!" If anything that just made the grin wider, and Rodney felt heat rush to his cheeks. "Just mind your own business!"

"I was."

"You were not! I was sitting here at my table, minding my own business when you saunter in and decide—"

"I got here first."

Rodney snorted an annoyed breath and narrowed his eyes. "So?"

"So I didn't saunter in, I was merely saying—"

"You know what? This conversation is over!" Rodney announced loudly and untwisted his body so he could cross his arms and glare ahead pointedly.

"You sure?"

"Positive."

"Okay."

The clock continued to tick by, slow as molasses now, and Rodney decided that right now he really hated his life.

All right, so perhaps baiting McKay hadn't been exactly the best way to try and rebuild a working relationship with the man, but it's not like he had been much help what with his abrasive personality—and darn it, it was fun.

He had continued to pointedly ignore John for the duration of his meal. Whenever John had glanced over his shoulder, McKay was either shouting demands at the waitress or was hunched over his plate, muttering complaints about everything from the cut of meat to the speed in which the waitress delivered the check. There was a possibility he might be the most disagreeable personality John had come across yet, and that was saying something considering the rich, self-important types he had grown up around.

John drained the last of his Coke and left probably a more than generous tip, but he felt the waitress probably deserved it for managing to hold onto her patience with John's newest co-worker. Helmet tucked under his arm he made his way out of the restaurant, and was met by a blast of warm air upon leaving the air conditioned building. It may have been mid-September, but was still hot. Had it not been for his stint in Afghanistan, and especially his impromptu trek through the desert with Holland in a hundred and fifteen degree heat, John might have agreed with the rumblings about it being unbearably hot. It was, however, uncomfortably warm, so much so that John left his jacket back at the office as the sun climbed higher in the sky.

He probably should have looked for a job offer in a different area. The sprawling desert landscape, while very different from the Margow Desert, still had the tendency to dredge up memories without warning. This far from the city limits the desert overpowered the presence of human population, and John found himself slipping into those memories more often than he liked. He shoved his helmet on, perhaps more forcefully than necessary, and tried to focus back on the rest of the day.

As he started up the engine, the familiar roar and rumble brought a smile beneath the visor. There weren't too many things he could honestly say he loved, but even seven months down the road John still had not tired of the wild purr of the engine. He pulled out of the parking lot, quickly accelerating to a speed that whipped and stung at his bare arms, and the hints of a smile widened into a grin. It was as close to flying as he could get while still staying on the ground.

By the time he reached the VerTech parking lot, John felt a little more like himself, the ghosts chased back to that familiar corner of his mind. With a friendly wave to the guard, he headed towards his usual parking spot, a small distance from the building itself but shaded by one of the many trees that made up the elaborate landscaping to the main parking lot. He'd discovered the virtues of parking in shade one day after nearly burning himself on the hot leather of his seat being left out in the afternoon sun.

He had just started to pull into the spot when an angry yip and flash of bright blue in his peripheral vision forced him to slam on his brakes. He jerked forward as the bike screeched to a halt and a tiny blue Honda Fit whipped into the parking spot. Heart pounding from the near miss, John kicked the stand and killed the engine. He recognized the car from this morning, and even if he hadn't, the smug smile that emerged from the driver's side was unmistakable. He scrabbled at the straps securing his helmet, not wanting his rant to be muffled when he started to lay into the arrogant man.

It took a few moments to free himself from the helmet, which McKay used to calmly collect a few items from his passenger seat. By the time John had not so gently set the helmet on the seat, McKay had a bright blue VerTech welcome packet tucked into the crook of his arm and his chin lifted indignantly as John stormed into the other man's personal space.

"What the hell was that?"

"I think it's what you Americans call 'parking'."

"You nearly hit me!"

"Oh? Not so fun on the receiving end, is it?"

"That's not funny!" There was a hell of a difference between a near-miss on a motorcycle and a near miss in a car. Harley's tended to lack those handy safety features such as air bags. John snarled, taking a step in closer.

To his credit, McKay didn't shrink away... much. "I don't know. What is it they say about revenge being sweet?"

John felt his fist curl inward of its own accord and his shoulders knotting up with tension. This was ridiculous. "What the hell is your problem?"

"My problem?" McKay sputtered. "You started this!"

"Cutting you off in traffic does not equal trying to run me over!"

"You tried to run me over first!"

"I didn't see you there!"

"Well," McKay crossed his arms and tilted his chin up a little higher, "neither did I. All that black and chrome, you just practically blend into the desert background."

John's fingers flexed, nails digging into his palm, and a small voice in the back of his mind whispered that perhaps he ought to walk away, as he was very obviously being baited. He forced himself to uncurl the fist, but couldn't stop the spat, "You're an asshole, you know that?"

"Yeah, well from where I'm standing, I don't think you're in the position to start casting stones."

"You just stole my parking spot, McKay!"

"I don't see your name on it."

"It's understood!" John waved his hand at the other cars. "No one else parks here."

"Oops," McKay shrugged casually, "first day mistake. My bad."

With a jaunty wave, he withdrew, perhaps sensing his imminent beating. John didn't move to follow, but the peace he had found on his short ride had been thoroughly squashed into a simmering frustration. Some people, it seemed, were beyond hope. That was fine, he just hoped whatever kind of work he and McKay had to do together would be brief, and (for John's job security) purely e-mail based.

Apparently this was the first day that would never end. In fact, if Rodney actually believed in time vortexes, he'd definitely be living in one that was steadily shuffling backward. Because, oh look, everyone and their mother was trying to shake his hand again. He really should have thought about inventing some sort of disease that would make people hesitant to come near him. Something airborne, something uncomfortable.

Rodney tried to plaster his grimace/smile on as he took a seat next to Langham. He wanted to slip into a back corner and commiserate with himself in private. However the first part of this meeting was dedicated to welcoming him "to the team" which made him the center of attention. To make it worse, not only was the entire meeting room almost packed with every member attached to the X-302 Project, but that stupid test pilot had decided to take a seat front and center and was shooting Rodney that same smug, shit-eating grin.

"Dr. McKay will be reporting directly to me," Langham continued to drone on, "and will probably be floating among each of your teams as the need arises."

Barely audible, Rodney heard someone snort derisively. He followed it to the source, the nervous little Czech engineer who had wanted to shake his hand just about as much as Rodney had wanted it shaken. Thank god, at least they weren't all sycophants.

He tried to tune Langham out to the best of his ability. Blah, blah, blah, invaluable expertise (well duh), blah blah blah, unique experience and insight, blah blah blah, I'm a windbag who likes to hear myself speak, blah blah blah, now since we're all here let's talk about the latest modifications to the PDE engine—

Oh, wait, that might actually be interesting.

He dragged his focus back to the matter at hand, as the British man—Grady? Grodin?—piped up. "The changes you suggested last week would probably help out any flight in the mesosphere—but there's still the problem of the power source."

"Wait, wait," Rodney interrupted, earning a testy look from Langham, "you've already started building the prototype and you're making changes to one of your main engines?"

Out of the corner of his eye, Rodney could see Sheltie leaning back further in his chair, looking like he was enjoying the proceedings more than Monday Night Football. In contrast, the rest of the people in the room sat up straighter in their chairs.

"Dr. McKay—" Langham sounded aggrieved.

"Just curious," Rodney said innocently. "First day and all, still catching up."

"Why don't you just sit back and listen for today?" Langham suggested with a tight smile. "I'll assign someone to help acquaint you with the designs and our progress."

"Thank you, Langham, but this isn't my first single-stage-to-orbit rodeo. I'll have you know that I was one of the lead consultants on Lockheed Martin's X-33—"

"Wasn't that project cancelled?" Pretty-Boy-Pilot interjected. "I think I recall hearing something about the fuel tank failing during one of the tests."

"Only because the designs were ahead of the technology at the time," McKay shot back, "and I don't see what that has to do with this."

"Just saying, if you're going to try to use your previous projects as an argument, you should probably use the successful ones."

"I would like to point out that: A) they were able to fix the problem after the project's cancellation; and B) Exactly how many space-faring vehicles have you designed in your time, Sheeple?"

"Gentlemen," Langham interrupted, "I think we should get this conversation back on topic."

Rodney wanted to argue, because how dare Shefford try to insinuate that Rodney didn't know what he was talking about. He had been working on these kinds of projects probably while Sheply had still been doing keg stands with the other frat boys.

"Sheppard, why don't you help catch Dr. McKay up on the project?"

"What?" They both asked, horrified.

"Yes," there was no denying the smug smile on Langham's face, "you spend every morning going over the designs, don't you, Sheppard? A second set of eyes probably wouldn't hurt."

"But—"

"Now that that's settled," Langham ignored the interruption and turned back to the room, "you'll all be receiving some new design tweaks from the boys downstairs. And before you ask, Sheppard—yes, they've corrected the error with the inlets."

The pilot settled further into his seat with a frown, but didn't say anything. For his part, Rodney settled back and listened to Langham drone on, eyes roving over the memo he had been handed, detailing some of the changes on the pulse detonation engine. The size was too small, he noted to himself with a frown. There was no way they'd be able to carry enough fuel for it to work correctly.

There was something very strange about this project.

The minute hand on the clock in John's office was edging just past the fifty-nine mark when his cell phone gave off a sharp trill and buzz. He paused in packing for the night as the phone rattled along the desk from the vibration function. He finished stuffing the stack of memos into his bag and reached across the desk to grab the phone, twisting the display around to see who was calling.

The person wasn't in his phone book, but he recognized the number's area code from an intimately familiar region of Virginia. He stilled completely, the vibration tickling his palm as the tiny device continued to chirp insistently. John knew he should answer the call, but he was already hearing a thousand disappointed conversations that had been rehashed every day of his youth. He wasn't sure if he wanted hear them aloud, or even if he would trust his voice to work.

Eventually the phone silenced and stilled, and he slowly set it on the desk. He didn't look at it once as he methodically finished closing up his office for the evening. It was the third time the number had popped up on his caller ID, and he was still just as confounded as the first time. The surprise was starting to wear off and be replaced by a morbid sense of curiosity—laced with an undercurrent of suspicion. John had been pretty certain that chapter of his life had been closed years ago, and he had no idea why either of them would want to reopen it. There had been no messages left in his voice mail on either of the previous calls. John took that to mean that the caller's desire to actually open the line of communication was still weak at best.

John slipped into his jacket and moved to grab his phone from the desk when it gave off its ethereal hum, announcing the presence of a new voice mail. He swallowed heavily, and with only a moment's hesitation shoved it into his bag before grabbing his helmet and practically fleeing from the sudden oppression of his office. He was taking the long way home tonight.

The atmosphere was smokier than Rodney liked, and the crowd noise way too loud, but he needed a drink after the-day-that-would-not-end. He generally disliked beer; it was too bitter, weaker than decent liquor, and one time Rodney had been convinced someone had actually served him someone's urine sample rather than the supposed alcoholic beverage. However he had to drive home, which was a ways away from this bar, so anything harder was out. He opted for a dark lager with the hopes that it might be palatable. As soon as the bartender set the tall glass in front of him, Rodney took a long drag from it, eager to chase away the desert heat and the tension knotting up his back.

"Rough first day?" The man next to him asked.

"You have no idea," Rodney said into his beer. It had a sharp bite, but it was cold and he could already feel the knots in his shoulders easing some. "It was like it would never end."

"Ah well, it should get better."

Rodney snorted. "Uh huh, sure. That's exactly what they say about your first day in hell."

"I'm sure it's not that bad—"

"What do you know?" Rodney gave his fellow bar patron a glare. "It's not like you have to work there."

"No," he agreed quietly. "I don't."

"It was one long boring day of endless paperwork and shaking of unsanitary hands that have been who knows where doing who knows what."

"So, nothing exciting happen?"

"Unless you count being molested by security or nearly being run over during my morning commute as exciting. Otherwise no."

"Pity."

"Whatever," Rodney mumbled and took a large gulp of his beer. "Why don't you just go away? I don't want to talk."

"Fine," the man bristled and shoved an object into McKay's hand.

Rodney accepted the neatly folded pair of glasses.

"You wouldn't want to lose these," he warned before slipping off the bar stool and melting into the crowd.

Rodney reluctantly returned the glasses to their unfamiliar perch on his nose. "I hate my life."

Bach filled the air in the cramped cabin of Rodney's Honda Fit. Part of him had wanted to opt for a larger vehicle such as one of those new Chargers from Dodge, something that had a lot power under the hood and would turn heads in the parking lot. However, common sense had won out and he had gone for the practical, fuel efficient Fit.

Hunched over the wheel, he continued to weave through the morning traffic. After getting home from the bar the previous night, he had tried to immerse himself in all the literature he had received on the X-302, the successor to a barely mentioned X-301 that had been scrapped years ago for unspecified reasons. The glider was one of the many contracts that Vertrauen had with the Air Force, but it was the only plane being constructed at the corporate headquarters—just one of the many peculiar things about it.

He scowled into his rearview mirror at the car blaring its horn at him. He was running late this morning as he had nearly forgotten the glasses and had to return to his apartment and climb all three flights to grab the stupid things. He returned his eyes to the road and cranked up the stereo system in an attempt to let the soothing sounds of Bach chase away the nervousness dogging him.

He spied his exit ahead and carefully merged into the lane as the overpass lifted and turned. Another glance to his rearview mirror revealed a lone figure on a motorcycle quickly gaining speed. Rodney narrowed his eyes.

He let his foot off the gas, the car's speed slowly decelerating as it climbed the exit ramp. When the motorcycle and its driver tried to cut around him, he slowly drifted over, effectively cutting him off. Even over the loud sounds of Bach he could hear the angry roar of the Harley's engine as it moved to cut around the other side. With an evil titter of laughter Rodney jerked his car in the opposite direction.

This continued until Shrimpy was carefully giving him a very rude gesture while still managing to keep two hands on the bike's handlebars.

When they merged onto the highway, the cycle gunned its motor and cut around the slow-moving Honda. Not one to be outdone, Rodney slammed his foot on the gas—

—and nothing happened. The engine gave a whine in protest and picked up its speed slightly as the black and chrome monster rapidly shrank with the horizon. Rodney wrinkled his nose in disgust. He should've gotten the Charger. Practicality was overrated.

John looked up as his "student" entered, all scowls and snarls.

"Good morning, Sunshine," he greeted happily and raised his coffee mug in salutation. "About time you showed up."

"Just so you know," McKay crossed his arms as he stood stiffly in the middle of John's office, "I don't like you."

"Really?" John took a cautious sip of the scalding liquid. "I thought you just tortured people on the freeway as a way of showing your affection."

The scowl melted into a smug expression. "That was just fun."

"Yes, well, glad you were able to extract your revenge," John said airily and set his mug down on his desk.

"Me too."

"You know, you're not an easy person to get along with."

"I'm not here to 'get along' with you, Slappy—"

"It's Sheppard."

"What?"

"My name is Sheppard, John to my friends—which you're obviously not, so we'll just stick with last names, huh?"

The scowl reappeared. "Fine. Whatever."

"Fine," John shot back and moved to the work table on the far side of the office where he'd spread out all of the schematics of the X-302 that he had. He also had a printout of the latest changes in hand, but had yet to go over them. "So, what exactly do you want to know?"

McKay hovered in his spot near the door nervously as if he were afraid John might take his head off if he ventured in closer. Suppressing the urge to sigh, John beckoned McKay over to the table.

"Promise I won't bite."

"I know that," McKay snapped, but he stiffly shuffled to stand next to John and peer at the designs. "It's... not a bad design. Conceptually I mean."

"Yeah," John agreed and let his fingers drift over the thin draft lines. His favorite part of the X-302, even more than its sleek design, hands down, were the four different kinds of engines. There were two standard turbojet engines, two aerospike engines, one rocket motor—and the new one. He tapped the drawings where they had modified the design on the pulse-detonation engine. "This guy, he's interesting."

McKay adjusted his glasses and tapped the face of his watch as he peered over the drawings. "Tell me about it—there's no deflagration-to-detonation transition—exactly how do they plan on starting the detonation, much less sustain it so they can reach escape velocity?"

"Good point—this is one of the new changes." John quirked an eyebrow as he looked at the designs. "Lightens the load, but you're right, there's no mechanism for firing it up. How exactly is it supposed to be functional?"

"Magic?" McKay snorted, and John found his mouth quirking up into a half-smile. "And these last minute changes, it makes no sense. Is that how things usually operate around here?"

"Unfortunately," sighed John, his smile disappearing as he looked over the new engine. "It's driving Dr. Murphy up the wall."

"Murphy?" McKay frowned. "I don't think I met him."

"He's the head flight test engineer. On vacation for two weeks."

"This late in the project?"

"Yeah." John crossed his arms as he shifted the weight from one foot to the other, "he said you've got to take time when you find it. We're still at least six weeks from the first ground test on the engine."

"Huh," McKay hummed noncommittally. "The design on this engine is familiar."

"Really?"

"I was working on something like it back at—" Curiously, a dark shadow descended over the scientist's face and his jaw shut with an audible clack of teeth. "You know, this just figures."

"You were working on something like this?" John asked curiously. "Where?" The murderous look shot in his direction had him holding his hands up in surrender. "Okay, touchy subject, obviously."

"You have no idea," he muttered dangerously. "The literature said that the project has been in development for years."

"Yeah," John said, "it's an offshoot of another project they were working on a few years back. Not much to find on it, though."

"Vertrauen is notoriously tight-lipped on its designs and projects, even with the Air Force."

From the angry and tense set of his shoulders at the mention of the military, John had his suspicions that perhaps the Air Force was part of the sore subject. Apparently John wasn't the only one who had been burned. "They're pretty tight-lipped with everyone."

That earned a curious look. "Really?"

"There's a system that they're working on that's supposed to help out with the g-factor of the speeds they want this thing to reach."

"Good for you," the scientist pointed out, "seeing as how you'll probably lose consciousness if the specs on the speeds are anything to go by."

"I'd agree with you," John tapped the designs again, "but they don't see fit to share with Test Flight what that might be."

"Well that's stupid," McKay spat. "If you crash mid-flight they lose their precious project too."

"Good to know you care." John smirked.

"Oh, shut up," McKay groused. "How close are we to the first test on it?"

"Currently maiden flight isn't scheduled for three months."

"Right in time for Christmas," McKay remarked sarcastically. "Wonderful."

"It'll probably be next year. Murphy's not signing off on anything until they stop making changes."

"That's still an alarmingly short period of time."

"I know." John frowned at the drafting of the engine. "So, Dr. Killjoy, where would you like to start on this?"

McKay glowered at him, and seemed to unconsciously mirror John's stance as he crossed his arms in defiance. "The beginning usually works."

John checked the urge to sigh, and jerked his head toward the designs. "The beginning it is then."

The design on the engine had looked familiar to Rodney for a reason—it had been his. He was working on the engine on the project that had landed him in this stupid place to begin with. He didn't know for sure how Vertrauen had managed to get a hold of the design that had been under Air Force lock and key, but he had his suspicions. Everything else on the X-302, though, was different.

It galled Rodney to admit it (if only to himself), but Sheppard definitely knew his stuff. He was obviously an experienced test pilot as he carefully examined each aspect of the design and the implications of each system on what might happen in the air. The focus on details was especially was important for someone who would be putting his life in the hands of a department that clearly did not have its act together. Boeing certainly didn't make sudden, drastic alterations this late in the game.

He ducked inside the air-conditioned interior of the take-out place near his apartment, once again wishing he had some sort of culinary talent. He could construct nuclear devices, understood some of the most complex forms of physics known to man—but somehow baking something more complicated than a frozen pizza eluded him.

He made his way through the tiny lobby and was almost hungry enough to push his way past the person in front of him, when he realized that the black leather jacket and messy mop of hair was familiar.

Sheppard thanked the lady behind the counter as he accepted the large brown bag of food. He turned, spotted Rodney, and froze. "McKay."

"Sheppard."

"Fancy running into you here."

"'Fancy' is not the word I had in mind."

Sheppard shifted the food from one hand to the other, and gave a long look to the rest of the restaurant. "Picking up Chinese food?"

"No, they do my laundry." Rodney rolled his eyes. "Of course I'm picking up food!"

Sheppard frowned and gestured helplessly. "Please tell me this doesn't mean we have to, you know, eat together—"

"Oh, god no. Just keep walking."

Sheppard nodded and quickly made his way out as if he were afraid Rodney was going to change his mind and suddenly want to split some Kung Pao chicken. He watched as the pilot disappeared out of the door before walking up the counter, idly wondering if Sheppard's presence indicated that he lived somewhere nearby. Hopefully not, it was bad enough to have to spend an hour each morning with the man going over the designs. Running into him outside of work anymore would just be awkward.