Chapter Three

The Geek Squad was updating the simulator today, and as it was nearing three in the afternoon, it was time for John to resume his daily battle with the vending machine in the R&D wing. Without any work to distract himself with as he wound through the maze of corridors, John's mind drifted to the voicemail he had finally listened to last night after picking up dinner. He figured his random encounter with McKay had probably addled his brain because John really hadn't had any intention of listening to the message. It had been short, brief, and while curt, it had not been as condescending as John had expected.

He should have known it would have been Dave calling and not his father. The Sheppard men were cut from the same cloth: stubborn, righteous when they were convinced they were in the right, and unwilling to listen to reason. In John's case, it had cost him his military career. In Patrick Sheppard's case, it had cost him any hope of a normal relationship with his estranged son.

What was the killer was that even though John was nearing forty and hadn't touched a dime of his father's money since joining the Air Force, he found himself wishing that things could be different. The rift between them seemed too wide to bridge anymore. So many things said in the brashness of youth that John wanted to take back, but now too many years had passed. However, the angry words exchanged over his mother's casket would forever be burned in his memory, and he wasn't sure either side could completely forgive the other party.

John and his father came from two separate worlds, and they always would.

"Blasted machine!"

John watched as his irascible co-worker pounded an angry fist against the vending machine. Apparently he and McKay were allies in one thing. "Problems?"

That earned him a brief scowl. Despite his depressing musings, John felt a smirk starting to form. If anything could distract John from his problems, it would be watching McKay puff out his cheeks like a demented chipmunk.

"You know, McKay, if you were in need of some cash, all you had to do was ask. There's no need to try to shake down the poor machine for quarters."

"Shake! That's perfect!" McKay gripped the machine on the sides and gave it a good rattling. "Damn it! Give it up!"

"I really hope that's not your standard pick up line." He got another glare for that. "Although if it is, it might explain why you're always so crabby. All work and no play makes Meredith a dull—"

"Don't you have something better to do?"

"Nope. It's break time."

"Well, break elsewhere. This machine is occupied."

John scrunched his face up in mock disgust. "Oh, c'mon, McKay. That's nasty."

"What?" He paused in his molestation of the evil vending machine to give John a sideways look, before his expression narrowed in contempt. "Okay, that's just juvenile."

"That's my middle name."

"I don't doubt it!"

"Why don't you just let the machine go? I'm sure it won't press charges."

"Go. Away."

"Nope. It's a free country."

"You know, this just makes sense. The perfecting ending to this stupid day!"

"What's got your panties in a twist now?"

"Aside from the fact that this piece of crap is denying me my Twinkies and you're standing there heckling me like a bad standup comedian?"

John shrugged.

"I just finished talking with Langham about the engine!"

"Oh, and how did that go?"

"How do you think it went?" Rodney snarled and punctuated his anger with another pound of his fist to the glass separating him from his Twinkies. "Vague and entirely unhelpful!"

"Par the course here."

"Of course it took forever to track him down."

"He's a busy man."

"Where the hell he goes off to sometimes I wonder. However, when I finally managed to get a hold of him, I ask him how he expects his precious, wonderful engine to run without fuel—"

"I see you're using the tried-and-true vinegar method of catching flies."

"—and he has the gall to tell me to 'be patient'."

"Not your strong point?"

"Shut up," McKay snarled and gave the machine a good kick. This seemed to backfire as he yelped loudly and grabbed the appendage and began hopping around in a circle.

John just watched him, not even bothering to hide his amusement now. "So that was it?"

"Why am I even talking to you?" McKay squeaked as he nearly toppled over from his off-kilter balance.

"Because Evil Vending Machine is not a good conversationalist."

"Point," he admitted grudgingly. "That hurt."

"I'm sure you got it as good as it got you."

"It still has my Twinkies!"

"Well, I wouldn't give them up if you kicked me either."

"Something tells me you give 'it' up pretty easily."

John winced. He walked into that one. "Okay, point to you."

McKay finally found his balance by leaning against his current nemesis and started to massage his foot through his shoe, an action that didn't seem to be helping the pain much if the continued grimaces were anything to go by. "Well, after I kindly informed him that he was never going to make orbit if he didn't stop pussyfooting around and give us, and by us I do mean me, something to work with—"

"Very endearing."

"What are you, the peanut gallery?" Rodney sneered. "He finally broke and admitted that the boys 'downstairs', wherever the hell that mythical place is, are apparently experimenting on some new fuel source."

"What?" John snapped. "Why the hell haven't they told anyone?"

"They're probably still trying to find some way to brand their name on it before introducing it to the untrustworthy public known as their highly paid employees."

"This doesn't sound good."

"Another unknown for you to test with your life. Yeah, I wouldn't exactly be thrilled if I were in your place."

"I'm not." John pursed his lips. He had a feeling Murphy hadn't been informed of this, as it most certainly would have come up in their last meeting. "This thing is never going to get off the ground if they keep this up."

"This is the most insane project I've ever worked on," McKay ranted. "There's trying to keep a secret, but this is ridiculous. I mean, I'm supposed to be a brain child on this, but I know just as much as you."

"Maybe they're just afraid you might tell someone."

McKay's arms flailed a little as he lost his balance against the machine, and John felt a brief, sudden urge to reach out and steady him. However, he came to his senses at the last moment and the wild-eyed scientist caught himself on the corner of the vending machine, apparently forgetting that he had hurt his foot as he set all of his weight down on it without incident.

"It was just a joke," John insisted. Seriously, McKay needed to calm down. As frustrating as it was, their employer would eventually let everyone in on the fuel thing. VerTech had too much money invested in the X-302 to let it sit on the ground.

"Who would I tell?" McKay cried. "My cat?"

"You have a cat?"

"No, I had to leave it behind when I left Nevada because my stupid complex doesn't accept pets."

"Yeah, my place is bad about that too. I kind of wanted a dog."

"Figures you'd be a dog person," McKay muttered and pushed himself away from the vending machine angrily. "I miss that cat too. It's nice to have someone to come home to."

"Why didn't you just bring it then?" John asked bewildered.

"Because part of VerTech's tantalizing little package was finding me housing." Huh. That sounded a little familiar. "Although I specifically requested a first story apartment so I wouldn't have to hike up three floors after a long hard day of number crunching!"

"I got a first story," John smirked triumphantly and rocked back on his heels.

McKay's nostrils flared as he seemed to remember that he in fact did not like John at all. "So to sum up, crappy day, topped off by the fact that this stupid machine ate my dollar, and I'm this close to having a hypoglycemic attack and I had to borrow the dollar from the smelly Czech guy because I don't carry cash on me—"

John eyed the machine as the rant continued.

"—and all I wanted was some freaking Twinkies before my blood sugar crashes and my brain melts out of my ears!"

John bypassed the ranting man and aimed one well-placed kick to the side of the vending machine. It shuddered briefly and dropped the hostage Twinkies. He grabbed the snack cakes and tossed them to the still muttering scientist. "Here you go."

"And furthermore—wait, what?"

John popped a few quarters in and tapped out the code for a bag of Skittles. Like with the Twinkies it almost started to release his prize, but clutched onto it at the very last moment.

"How did you—?"

John repeated the maneuver, shaking free his Skittles. He grabbed them and tore open the pack, grinning brightly. "Practice."

McKay sputtered, and John slowly ambled back towards his office. As he popped a handful of candy in his mouth, he couldn't quite remember what he had been mulling over on the way to the machine. There was the mysterious new fuel to keep John's mind busy, as well as the hysterical image of McKay sputtering like a fish out of water.

Rodney had somehow managed to make it to day four, and decided to finally brave the horrors known as the staff kitchen. He had brought a meal in a can as he wasn't sure if he was ready to trust the community refrigerator. Humming to himself impatiently, he stood in front of one of the microwaves as it ticked down the seconds to mealtime.

"Ach, that stuff is horrible for you."

Rodney slid a glance to his left to find the source of the voice was some strange, funhouse Scottish mirror twin of Sheppard, complete with his own dark mop of wildly erratic hair. Rodney's lip twitched in annoyance and he turned his attention back to the microwave.

"Full of enough preservatives the mortician won't have much work to do when you keel over from the clogged arteries," he continued in his thick Scottish brogue, as if Rodney might actually care about his opinion.

He slid his empty can of artery clogging beef stewed goodness a little closer without breaking his gaze with the microwave. "Nobody asked you."

"Are you new around here?"

Rodney pursed his lips together and continued to watch the seconds tick down.

"I only ask, because I know most of the people who eat down here—"

"Yes," Rodney ground out as the microwave chirped as the timer reached zero, "it's my first week. Now if you'll please? I need to work on my first heart attack if you don't mind."

He grabbed the superheated bowl, but snatched his hand back as it nearly burned the skin off his fingers. Rodney sucked on the abused flesh and glared petulantly at his lunch.

"Oven mitts," the nosy individual imparted as he passed over a thick piece of cloth, "they generally help."

Rodney gave him a measuring look as he accepted the oven mitt. The man returned the look with one that wasn't completely unkind, and grabbed his own lunch without disaster. Rodney pursed his lips as he carefully pulled the bowl out of the microwave. He slid another glance to the side. "Thanks."

He got a nod in return. "Pleasure chatting with you, lad."

Rodney shook his head and carefully balanced his overheated stew and looked for a place where he might blend in with the wall. Next time he'd bring some work with him, that way people might take the silent cue to leave him alone.

The light tingling of a bell signaled John's entrance into the dry cleaners. He had brought his dress blues in earlier this week when he'd found them by accident hanging in the far corner of his closet. Their dusty state sent a strange pang through him. In an attempt to forestall the gnawing in the pit of his stomach, he had brought them in. He had no occasion to wear them anymore, but to see them neglected—

"What are you doing here?"

John snapped out his reverie at the angry question, not even realizing the storefront had another occupant. He blew out a quick breath as an indignant scowl was directed at him in full force. "Hi, McKay."

"This is so unfair—it's the weekend. The least you can do is let me have two days without having to stare at that frizzled excuse for a haircut."

"It's a pleasure, as always."

"Don't lie!" McKay snapped and crossed his arms, as if he were considering trying to block John from reaching the counter. "Now, what are you doing here?"

"I'm picking up my dry cleaning, McKay, what do you think I'm doing?"

"No, no, I mean here. What are you doing here? This is my dry cleaner!"

"They're allowed to have more than one customer. It's generally how businesses stay open."

"But it's my dry cleaner."

"Didn't your mother ever teach you to share?"

"No! I mean she tried, but that's not the point—"

"There's a point?"

"The point... the point is I shouldn't have to share with you!"

"Are you afraid that he might wash our clothes together and you'll get Sheppard cooties?"

McKay's cheeks puffed out in anger and he pointed a finger at John. "Stop following me!"

"I'm not following you!"

"First you take my Chinese restaurant, now my dry cleaner! Next thing you know you're going to take my grocery store!"

"Oh, see that's the problem. I was under the impression that all of these were public places. I wasn't aware that you raised a flag and claimed them in the almighty name of McKay."

Someone cleared their throat, and both looked up to see the owner of the store holding up a huge bundle of clothes. "Here's the first half, Dr. McKay."

McKay glanced at John, and after a moment dropped his hand and stalked over to grab the pile of clothing, nearly staggering under the weight. Something akin to sympathy reared its head, and John took a step forward to help.

A quick glare shot in his direction stopped him cold. "Don't."

That's right, John had almost forgotten who he was dealing with. He held up his hand in a placating gesture, and McKay snorted and tried to balance his metric ton of laundry.

"What? Did you bring your entire wardrobe?" There was a flash of embarrassment that crossed McKay's face, and John pursed his lips. "You did?"

"Not that it's any of your business, but the idiots I bought my washer and dryer from lost the order, so I've had to resort to drastic measures until they deliver it next week."

"Just ordered... how long did you say you've been in Tucson?"

"I didn't." McKay roughly shoved past him, losing a shirt in the process as the pile swayed dangerously. "Now move. I have to take these to my car."

John grabbed the errant shirt and opened the door for McKay. The bewildered look he got in return didn't do anything to lessen the awkward atmosphere.

"Why would you—?"

John rolled his eyes. "It's a door, McKay. I'm just being nice."

"Why?"

"Good question." John stepped to the side as the other man and his mountain of clothes shuffled out the doorway. "Don't forget your shirt."

The small, immature part of his mind had wanted to drape it over McKay's head. He ignored it, and instead gently placed it on top of the pile. The wide-eyed befuddled look remained in place even as John shut the door. He shook it off and gave his ticket to the man behind the counter.

The jingling chime signaled McKay's return, and he felt more than saw the other man's presence at his side. "Thanks."

"It was nothing." John stared straight ahead.

"Right." There was an awkward shuffling and McKay withdrew to a safe distance. John didn't break his stare, and politely thanked the owner and paid his bill when his uniform was brought out.

He carefully folded the bag over his shoulder and started his way back out, catching McKay's incredulous stare. "What now?"

"That's an Air Force uniform."

"Very astute of you to notice."

"But you work for VerTech. How can you—"

"I'm retired now," John ground out.

"Oh," McKay's voice dropped to a quiet, almost empathetic note as if he somehow understood the meaning behind the extra emphasis on 'retire'. Which was stupid because there was no way he could possibly know or understand the conflicted betrayed-yet-longing feeling that snuck up on John whenever he looked at the uniform.

He started to move out when a hesitant question reached his ears. "How long has it been?"

"Nine months now."

"Lifelong career?"

"Yes," he answered tersely.

"I'm sorry," McKay said, and sounded like he really meant it. Apparently there was another layer underneath the prickly exterior that he liked to show to the world. There was definitely more to him than could be seen from first glance. "Do you miss it?"

The question was soft, uncertain, and almost sounded like he was asking himself the same thing. A wave of he-didn't-know-what rushed over John, and he wasn't sure why, but he found himself answering just as softly. "Every day."

Rodney was deeply engrossed in trying to apply Newton's law of universal gravitation to the X-302's specs when something jostled the paper in his hand. He shot a dark look at the source of the disturbance, the Scottish busybody from the previous week.

"Do you mind?" he asked peevishly.

"Not at all." The Scot flashed him a warm smile. "Nice day isn't it?"

"It was."

The Scot didn't seem to take the subtle hint and began to lay out his meal on the tiny section of the table not taken up by Rodney's research and notes. "My name is Carson Beckett. I don't think I mentioned that last time, did I?"

"No," Rodney said sourly, "you didn't."

"Well, that was rude of me. My mind must have been elsewhere."

"Back in Scotland with the rest of the flock?" Rodney shot back.

Beckett's lips twitched into a small smile. "Maybe a little."

"Look, Carver—"

"Carson," he corrected patiently.

"Carson, whatever. What exactly do you think you're doing?"

"Eating lunch." Beckett wiggled his Tupperware container full of leftovers. "The elderly lass across the hall makes too much at night. Says she hasn't gotten the hang of cooking for one. Not that my cooking's bad, but I'm not one to turn down a home-cooked meal. If you ask me—"

"I didn't!"

"Oh?"

"No, I didn't ask you to come over here and sit and start talking about lonely old ladies who are trying to seduce you with their leftovers—"

"Laverne is a sweet lady, old enough to be my mother. That's highly inappropriate."

"So is inviting yourself to eat lunch with someone who is clearly busy."

"You looked a little lonely."

"I'm not."

"This is your second week here and you haven't said a word to anyone."

"I say plenty, and all of it very important and relevant to work."

"There's more to life than work, Doctor..."

He trailed off, clearly expecting Rodney to fill in the blank. Rodney did not feel inclined to oblige him. "Look, I'm not here to make friends, Beckett, so why don't you save the pity act for someone else? I think Minnows from Accounting needs some cheering up."

Beckett just bobbed his eyebrows in a fashion that was disturbingly similar to Sheppard when he seemed to think he had some brilliant dim-witty response to whatever cutting remark Rodney had just made. Great, just what he needed. Two of them.

"I'm going back to work now," Rodney announced, then pointedly began to page through his notes for the specific kinetic energy on the X-302.

To his great dismay, Beckett remained seated, and idly began to chat about the projects in the biology wing of R&D, his mother's foot fungus problems, and other inane subjects. By the time Rodney had finished his frozen dinner, he was ready to welcome Sheppard's snippy comments or Zelenka's incoherent flailing in Czech.

He gave Beckett a brief, irritated glance and quickly gathered his notes. "I'm leaving now."

"See you tomorrow, Doctor."

"No, you won't!"

That was it. Rodney was going back to the restaurant. Maybe they'd accidentally drop a lemon in his tea and put him out of his misery.

The restaurant wasn't necessarily a bad idea, but Rodney had to be careful what he took out of the office, so it was mostly theorems and formulas that were incomprehensible to the layman. The waitress from his first week took one look at him, perfectly executed an about-face, and was not seen for the duration of his meal. Some people couldn't take a little honest criticism, seriously. He'd only suggested that it would be faster for her to go ahead and strangle him rather than letting that foul yellow fruit touch his plate as a garnish.

Whatever. If she couldn't handle his sparkling personality, then it was her loss. Of course, it sucked that he was going to have to break in a new server and give him or her the whole citrus lecture again. Not that it had sunk in too deep with the first girl, but still—

He scrubbed a hand across his face as the variables blurred together, which made the image resemble a preschooler's doodle rather than a gamma function. He peeked through his fingers at the blurry image, wondering if his niece would be old enough to be doodling nonsense.

Not that he had ever met her but his mind had been drifting to Jeannie a lot lately, stuck in his apartment at night, unable to speak his mind or vent his thoughts without fear of someone listening in. Not that he ranted aloud too much before moving to Tucson, just the occasional tirade to his very attentive feline companion when one of the idiots at Area 51 made a mistake of galactic proportions. He was starting to feel like he was trapped in his own mind. That concept had never scared him before this place, but he wasn't sure how much more he could take.

He couldn't talk freely in case someone was listening. He could have typed it out, but a discreet scan had found a keylogger on his company assigned laptop, so that obviously was being monitored. He even had suspicions about his own personal laptop even though it had never been out of his sight. Even if it hadn't been tampered with, he was acutely aware that Vertrauen had furnished and supplied him his apartment. It was very likely the phone was tapped, and he would not be one bit surprised if Marrick had assigned one of his cronies to watch Rodney's internet usage.

Rodney didn't want to use the term "lonely", but he actually missed some of the interactions he'd had with people at Area 51. These days it was just him and his computer, maybe him and a random patron in a restaurant, or maybe those joyous occasions when he ran into Sheppard without warning—

"We really have to stop meeting like this."

Rodney let his pencil drop as he groaned aloud. "Admit it. You take candid pictures of me with your cell phone and paste them all over your bedroom wall."

"Nah," Sheppard slid into the booth across from Rodney, because that's what stalkers did, "just a tiny little shrine in my kitchen."

"Please tell me you're joking," Rodney squeaked.

"I'm joking." Sheppard rolled his eyes. "You need to learn to lighten up."

"Well, I would, but I have reason to be concerned when I see you more than any other person on the face of this planet—"

"We work together."

"I work with a lot of other people but I don't run into them at the Post Office!"

"I was picking up some Commemorative Panels for my stamp collection."

"You're a dirty liar," Rodney accused, "who is changing the subject."

"McKay, I'm not stalking you."

"You showed up here!"

"There are like three restaurants within driving distance from the office, one of which is a McDonald's with questionable sanitation practices. Chances are it's going to happen eventually."

"Eventually! Not constantly!"

"Has anyone told you that you're a little paranoid?" Sheppard asked.

"You could have easily gotten your own table. It's not that crowded here right now. Why do you insist on bugging me?"

"Because it's fun."

"I despise you."

"The feeling is mutual."

"Why are you trying to eat lunch with me then?"

"Because I'm bored."

"That's not an excuse!"

"Because it pisses you off."

"Jerk."

"That was weak." Sheppard reached out and grabbed one of the notebooks that Rodney had laid out on the table. "Whatcha working on?"

"Hey, hey, that's sensitive material!"

"McKay, we're working on the same project. We compare notes every morning."

"...right."

Sheppard peered at the notebook, hummed noncommittally, and turned it almost completely sideways as if it would suddenly make sense to his beer bonging frat brother brain. "Interesting."

"You have no idea what is says, do you?" Rodney snapped and snatched it back. "You better not have smudged the equations."

Sheppard was like a two-year-old, though, and simply picked up the next item within grabbing distance. He held them up to the light, as if trying to illuminate some great mystery about the pair of glasses. "So I notice you weren't using these just now."

Rodney's stomach lurched and he tried to think of some excuse to cover his flub. His mind was blank, which was stupid because he was genius. He should be able to think of a convincing lie instead of sitting there dumbly, eyes widening in panic—

"Hey, sorry." Sheppard carefully set the glasses down on Rodney's side of the table, a baffling amount of sympathy present in the soft statement. "It's nothing to be ashamed of."

"What?" Rodney squeaked.

"You're no spring chicken, McKay. Bad eyesight is just part of getting older, especially with how much you have to stare at a computer screen."

"Um, yeah," Rodney fumbled and quickly put the unnecessary accessory on, "the eye strain is getting bad these days."

"You should probably get out more. Go see a game or something instead of sitting naked on your couch watching reruns of Doctor Who and eating Cheetos."

"Okay, first off, how the hell do you know that?"

Sheppard blanched. "Oh god, I was just making that up."

"Your imagination is scarily accurate, and for the record, I was wearing boxers."

"Bypassing that because, no—" Sheppard didn't bother hiding the tiny shudder. "I'm just saying maybe it wouldn't hurt to go see a movie or something, stop being such a hermit."

"What do you care?"

"I don't," he said it lazily, but his gaze had sharpened a little at the question, "it was just a general suggestion."

"Well, it's not like I know anyone here."

"Other than me."

"What? Are you suggesting we actually willingly hang out with each other?"

"No. I was just saying..." he trailed off, clearly unable to figure out where he had been trying to go with the comment.

Rodney stared.

Sheppard stared back.

After about thirty seconds, Rodney finally squirmed. "This just got awkward."

"Yeah, I think I'm going to grab a spot at the bar."

"Please do."

"By the way," Sheppard tapped the equation that had been throwing Rodney off all morning, "you inverted these two variables. Might be why you're having trouble finding the constant."

Rodney looked at him, and then studied the indicated section. Doing a quick calculation, he realized that the pretty boy was right. He glanced back up, not bothering to hide his astonished gape.

"Got a BS in Math while I was at Stanford." Sheppard grinned and gave Rodney a two-fingered wave. "Really helped me understand the functions of all those pretty buttons when I started test piloting billion dollar planes."

Sheppard finished retreating as fast as he could without it being considered an all-out-flee, and Rodney practically deflated with a relieved sigh. What the hell had just happened?

By the end of his second week, Rodney had started to form a routine of sorts. He would somehow, inexplicably, chance across Sheppard at some point during their morning commute. They would proceed to try and cut off each other, pulling into lanes on top of one another, and generally being a menace on the road until Sheppard grew tired of the vehicular heckling and gunned his engine, leaving Rodney in his dust.

In response, Rodney would steal his parking spot whenever the pilot left for lunch, regardless of whether McKay himself left the company grounds or not. He had given up on being able to have a lunch without interruption. If he went out to eat there was a fifty percent chance he'd run into Sheppard. If he ate lunch in the kitchen there was a hundred percent chance that Beckett would plop his sheep loving self at the same table (although he occasionally brought extra leftovers. And Rodney had to admit, Laverne could cook.)

He was now working with the Czech—Zelenka—and the rest of his department as they crunched numbers and went over the new modifications to the plane's many systems in excruciating detail. He hadn't gotten to spend any time with the new engine, but he was hoping he would make his way there soon. Whenever he asked Langham about it, he was just directed to another part of the project.

After lunch, when the incompetence of Zelenka's batch of trained monkeys was about to use up the last of his patience, Rodney retreated to the vending machines for solace and caffeine. After a battle of wills, he would emerge victorious and somehow manage to hold on to his sanity for the following two hours.

Then he would return home. After running into Sheppard at the grocery store (he had so called that), Rodney decided to start ordering in as these random encounters were starting to get borderline ridiculous. His life was one endless cycle of traffic-Sheppard-traffic-work-traffic-home.

In short: it was dull as hell.

Rodney stared at the laminated menu as he eyed the daily special skeptically, his feet barely touching the ground from the tall diner stool. What the hell was a pig-in-a-poke? Deciding to not tempt fate, he ordered some pancakes and bacon and sipped at his mug of coffee.

"Is it paranoia when you're pretty sure someone's out to get you?" He twisted the mug in his hand as he took another cautious sip. "Can't even talk to myself out loud at home since I don't know if someone's listening or not."

There was a somewhat sympathetic grunt from the diner next to him.

"Nothing spectacular has happened yet. The closest I've seen on the new thing is the constantly changing designs. I'm getting the run around, and quite frankly, playing the corporate politics game is about to steal my last grain of patience."

Getting no reply, Rodney took another long sip of his coffee. "In fact, the most interesting thing that's happened to me is that I'm apparently being stalked by a bored test pilot. It's starting to get a little scary, quite frankly. I swear he shows up everywhere—"

A weight dropped into the stool next to him, an elbow lightly jostling his as it jockeyed for position on the counter. He let out a loud groan. "Speak of the devil."

"Talking to yourself again, McKay?"

"Not that it's any of your business, but no."

"Hrm," Sheppard hummed softly as he perused the menu. "What should I get? Pancakes or the tilapia?"

"I want you to know this is starting to get to the point of disturbing, Sheppard."

"Okay, French toast it is then."

"I'm filing a restraining order!"

"Maybe you're the one following me. Ever thought about that?"

"You got here after me!"

"So you're preemptively staking out my favorite haunts? Maybe I should be the one to get a restraining order."

The diner next to Rodney let out an amused snort.

"Oh, who are you laughing at?" He shot a glare at the quietly chuckling patron. He muttered to himself as he stared ahead resolutely. "Seriously, how does this keep happening?"

"Once I figure it out," Sheppard said, nose still buried in the menu, "I'll be sure to change it."

"You could've sat on the other side of the diner."

"And miss an opportunity to see your impression of angry goldfish? Never."

Rodney felt heat rush to his cheeks and he narrowed his eyes at the individual next to him.

"See, there it goes."

"You are despicable."

"I'll have the French toast," Sheppard said to the cook and set the menu down. "And I'm not doing this on purpose."

"It's freaky."

"Yeah, well there are worse things in life," Sheppard commented lightly.

"Oh, I know," Rodney took another sip of his coffee, unable to disguise the unease in his voice as his mind drifted back to the thoughts he'd been having before Sheppard's arrival. "Trust me, I know."

He was too busy staring ahead to notice the startled, concerned look his statement elicited from his co-worker, or the contemplative narrow-eyed look from the diner sitting on the other side of him.