Chapter Eight

Rodney was not drunk.

Maybe a little tipsy, but not drunk like Sheppard kept saying.

It was perfectly normal for him to spend a car ride in his own passenger seat trying to remember the words to the Macarena, after all it was his car, and he could make up whatever rules he wanted. It was also within the realm of ordinary for Rodney to not remember exactly which building in the apartment complex was his. After all, they all looked the same, and obviously Sheppard knew the way because he corrected Rodney's course as he started to head towards the community pool.

The stairs had been a little tricky. Rodney didn't remember the steps being so high, and he had wound up using the railing like a mountaineer's rope, scaling the stories with caution and care. The peanut gallery behind him had not needed to chime in false encouragement or try to speed the process up by taking his elbow. He was perfectly capable of climbing his own stairs, and did not need to be walked to his door like a teenage girl coming home from her first date.

"You nearly walked into the pool, and you know Carson would have my head if I let you drown because you developed an independent streak all of the sudden."

And the sarcasm in that response was more than called for.

"Just keep going. You've got like four steps left."

"'m tired."

"We're not taking a rest break, it's a whole four shuffles to your door."

"Geschtapo."

"Move it, McKay. Some of us plan on going to work in the morning."

Well, Rodney wasn't planning on skipping. He had too much work. Too many questions still unanswered.

"Look, there we are, top of the steps. Was that so hard?"

It kind of was, but Rodney wasn't going to tell him that. He shuffled toward the door, hand dipping into his pants pocket, fingers feeling only the soft cloth lining his slacks instead of smooth metal. He used the other hand, digging into the opposite pocket to continue his search, but it too came up empty.

"That's odd," he mumbled, shoving both of his hands in his back pockets, fingertips groping for the missing items.

"What are you doing?" Sheppard sighed.

"I think I lost my keys."

"You mean these?" Sheppard held up the ring dangling with assorted keys. "The ones I've had since we left the bar?"

"Gimme those." Rodney held out his hand expectantly.

"You're awful pushy."

"I need to open the door—need keys to open the door."

"It'll take me like two seconds—"

"My keys."

"Whatever," Sheppard muttered and forked over the desired objects. "Just hurry up, I really do want to grab a few hours of sleep before tomorrow."

"Go then." Rodney shuffled through the various keys until he found the shiny shaped piece of nickel that would let him into his humble abode. "I don't need you here for this."

"You tried to perform the Macarena in a moving vehicle."

"So?" Rodney asked testily as he unsuccessfully tried to jam the key into the lock. For some reason it wouldn't fit. Which was odd because it worked this morning... "What's wrong with this thing?"

"That's your car key."

Oh.

"I knew that." He held the key ring back and began to shuffle through his choices again.

"Need a little help?"

"I am a grown man, and I can open my own door without ashishtance."

"Ashishtance? Really?"

"Shut up."

A muffled trill filled the night air, and Rodney paused in his searching to try and identify the noise.

"It's my phone," Sheppard muttered, digging into the pocket of his jeans. "Who the hell would be calling at this hour though..."

He finally managed to free the phone and peered at the caller ID, face darkening with a conflicted frown, almost as if Sheppard was both hopeful and suspicious at the same time. Or maybe Rodney was (a little) drunk and projecting his own feelings. For the life of him, Rodney still hadn't figured out why Sheppard was putting out such an effort tonight. The only possibility he could come up with was perhaps gratitude for helping with the engine/suicide run, or he wanted to make sure Rodney stuck around so the engine wouldn't blow up when it was time for Sheppard to climb into the cockpit.

There was a tiny (drunk) part of him that sort of hoped there was no ulterior motive, lack of logic be damned.

"I have to take this." Sheppard certainly did not seem overjoyed by the prospect. "Don't let me stop you."

Rodney shrugged and continued to flick through the different keys. It would be easier to figure out which one was correct if he didn't have to keep trying to stare through the stupid glasses. He plucked them off his face and his focus improved considerably.

"What? I can't hear you." Sheppard shouted into the phone, pressing a finger into his ear as if that might improve the sound quality of the call. "Hold on, let me see if I can get a little better reception." Sheppard turned to look at Rodney. "I'll be right back."

"Yeah, whatever."

Sheppard shook his head, and made his way down the stairs toward the uncovered landing between floors. Halfway down the stairs he called over his shoulder, "Let me know if you ever remember how to work your keys."

Rodney found it was extremely difficult to simultaneously try to work the confounded keys and flick Sheppard off, but he gave it his best shot. Finally, though, finally he found the correct one and it slid into the lock on his second attempt. Holding onto the door, he tried to turn the lock, but the knob was already twisting under his hand. Which was really odd because Rodney had always been a little paranoid about locking his door each morning.

He pushed the door open, the entire place awash in darkness except for the light streaming past the blinds that covered the balcony's sliding glass door. He nearly tripped on something he had apparently left out that morning, and he barely caught himself on the wall. He was also going to need to start picking up after himself. Leaving doors unlocked and things strewn about the door—not exactly the safest of practices.

His night vision wasn't the best, so the prospect of tripping through his mess to reach the bedroom wasn't appealing and—wait, light switch.

Rodney groped along the wall, hand finally meeting the switch. He flipped it on, momentarily blinded by the sudden brightness. His eyes adjusted to the light and he was greeted with chaos.

All of his research papers were strewn about the place. The chairs to the table in his dining room were tipped over in someone's haste to tear the rest of the place apart. Almost nothing was left untouched, from the pillared candles VerTech's interior decorators had set up on the bar separating his kitchen from his living room to his collection of DVDs that had been crammed into one of the now-off-kilter bookcases in his living room. There were even several large gouges in his couch, stuffing spilling out as if someone had been looking for something hidden within the cushions.

He blinked, gaze drifting down to the object he had tripped over. It was the lamp shade, partially crumpled from where his foot had crunched it. The base lay on its side on his end table, clear on the opposite side of the room. Rodney gently pushed the lamp shade aside with his foot and ventured further in, heart hammering in his ears.

He had to move carefully, as he slipped on one of the loose pieces of paper on the floor and nearly lost his footing in the process. "What the hell?"

His bedroom door was wide open, and a flicker of movement caught his eye. He started moving forward, until he realized the shadow moving in the darkness was actually a silhouette of a person. Seeing as Rodney lived alone, shadowy figures rummaging around his bedroom probably wasn't a good sign. Neither was the fact that aforementioned shadowy figure was now trapped as there was only one exit out of this place.

An exit that Rodney was currently blocking.

Rodney was drunk, mental reflexes slowed by the alcohol, but he wasn't stupid. As soon as he figured out what was happening he was backpedaling, trying to get out of the way as the figure emerged from the bedroom. At first, his alcohol addled mind identified the figure as a ninja, covered head-to-toe in black. Of course, Tucson, Arizona was not notorious for its ninja attacks. The American Southwest was not exactly a hotspot of Japanese culture, and aside from that, he was wearing a ski-mask, which was not exactly the appropriate garb, and—and this was not the time to be thinking about this because the ninja/bad guy/intruder was still moving, straight toward Rodney in fact.

His feet couldn't move fast enough, the black robed figure bearing down on him. There was something tucked underneath the man's arm, and with a fast oncoming sobriety due to the spike of adrenaline Rodney was able to recognize that it was his personal laptop. "What do you think you're doing with that?"

Not exactly the brightest thing to say to the man in a ski-mask, but that was Rodney's laptop. He had years of research, papers, and theorems on the hard drive. He had backups in storage, but not of his most recent stuff. Someone was about to steal his thoughts and that was unacceptable.

Rodney made a grab for the laptop, but forgot about the papers on the floor. His foot slid out from under him. He supposed it was his saving grace as he avoided the elbow that probably would have smashed his face against the wall. He slid along the floor, wildly groping for something to stop his fall. His fingers grabbed a hold of the closest thing, which also happened to be the arm of his attacker.

Dark, angry eyes narrowed behind the mask, but unfortunately Rodney's alcohol-dulled reflexes prevented him from being able to avoid the next blow. A blossom of pain to the back of his head was accompanied by an explosion of stars behind his eyes. The world descended into such a dizzying mix of color and pain that it was actually a relief when darkness rolled up to greet him.

In retrospect, John really should have let the call go to voicemail. Just like growing up, Dave cut through all the conversational niceties and went to the heart of the matter. A matter John was trying very hard to avoid until the last possible moment. It was one thing to start talking to his brother again, but this... this was too soon.

"No," he said into the phone again, firmly, "no way."

"John, you said you were ready to put the past behind you."

"I didn't mean at this very second," John shot back. "Look, I want to try to... to... I don't know, I don't think this thing with Dad is fixable—"

"John—"

"Look, just because you and I are talking doesn't mean that he's even ready for it."

"It was his idea."

"Bullshit."

"Do you think I really want to be caught in the middle between you two again? It's bad enough I'm forced to play middle man—"

"Then let him make his own damn invitations," John spat. "And that is exactly why the answer is no to Thanksgiving."

"You're being childish."

"I'm not being childish, it's way too soon—for both of us—to spend a forced holiday together."

"He wants this."

"I'll believe that when he has the guts to pick up the phone himself and do his own dirty work."

"And exactly how many times have you called him."

John stilled, because damn it, that sort of twisted logic almost made sense. Almost, because they were still dealing with Patrick Sheppard, and to say that things between he and John were strained was putting it lightly. Angry, ugly accusations echoed in the back of John's mind as his mother's still face stared up at him.

"I'm not calling that son of a bitch and you know that," John growled. "If he wants to talk, fine. If he calls, I'll pick up the phone and hear him out, but I'm not flying all the way to Virginia so I can walk into an ambush."

"He's changed, John..."

Light suddenly streamed from above, and John glanced up to see that McKay had apparently gotten the door open. Finally.

"I'll believe that when pigs fly," he returned, leaning against the railing as he watched the open doorway. It remained wide and open, practically welcoming anyone walking by to stroll on in. John frowned. McKay was a little too paranoid to do something like that. Maybe he was drunk enough to the point where he let down his guard.

"I know it's next week, but surely even the slave drivers at Vertrauen Technologies gives their prestigious test pilots Thanksgiving Day off."

What almost sounded like a shout came from the apartment and a familiar prickliness made the hairs on the nape of John's neck rise. "Dave, I think I need to let you go."

"We're not done yet—"

"I already told you," he ground into the phone, "right now is not the best time for this conversation."

"Then when is?"

"Not now. Look, something's going on—"

"Something's always going on, John. Apparently whether you're in the military or not."

"Damn it, I don't have time for this," he snapped into the phone. "I will call you back tomorrow—"

There was a loud yelp, followed by what was unmistakably a crash. Without another word to his brother John ended the call and pushed away from the balcony. Maybe McKay had just slipped on something while trying out his new version of the Macarena, but that wary tingly feeling at the base of his spine dismissed the glib explanation. "McKay, what the hell is going on up—"

A dark figure burst through the doorway, the light spilling out behind him obscuring any recognizable features in shadow. The broad, muscled shoulders and a frame that rivaled John for height dispelled any notions about the man being McKay. The tingling in his spine gave way to a cold dread that settled in the pit of his stomach.

He started for the steps, intending to stop the figure before he got too far away, but he was already moving, trying to bypass John. A quick flash of silver tucked under his arm let John know that his intentions in the scientist's apartment had been anything but pure.

And if John knew anything about geeks, it was that you didn't touch their computers. McKay was going to be pissed. "Oh, no you don't!"

He grabbed a hold of the retreating figure with a two-fisted grip, applying all his force to the move. The figure stumbled backward and John loosened one of his hands to grab at the mask hiding the man's face. It was the wrong thing to do.

His opponent twisted his massive upper body, so that he could use the arm not busy holding onto the laptop to lash out toward John. Sheppard's ears rang as an elbow drove into his cheek, but he pushed the pain away and groped until he managed to grab a fistful of the intruder's shirt.

"That's not yours," John hissed through clenched teeth. "Now give it back."

The only response John got was that same free elbow trying to drive back into his stomach. It landed hard, air whooshing out of the pilot's lungs, but he held onto his grip even as he staggered backward, dragging his attacker with him.

John had almost caught his breath, ready to shift his tactics, when he realized that he wasn't so much as dragging the other man but actually letting himself be pushed into a worse position as the man drove his body weight into the action.

John's lower back met the railing of the stairway landing hard, the metal biting into his back as if it were a second opponent. There was definitely going to be a bruise there in the morning. The distant clatter and crack of something hitting the pavement below told John that his cell phone had become the first casualty in this fight. It looked like Dave was going to have to wait to finish chewing him out.

Face grim with determination, John tried to dig his heels into the cement of the landing and with all of his strength shifted his death single-handed death grip to a hard two-handed shove as he tried to free himself from the trapped position. "Get off."

A low, harsh chuckle met his demand, and John redoubled his efforts. His attacker shifted, movements limited by the laptop he held in a death grip. However the movements he did use were calculated, forceful, and had the mark of a trained killer. It was the type of thing John picked up on instantly because it was a very military style of fighting, not that of an ordinary thief.

And like that he shifted tactics, because there was something very wrong with this situation.

He snarled, giving no quarter as he twisted and used his hands to brace himself against the railing as he lashed out with his lower body. One leg moved to entwine around his opponent's, anchoring them together as John used his other knee to drive an angry thrust into the unprotected stomach.

The laptop clattered to the ground as the black-swathed figure doubled over. However he now had the use of his other arm, and was already using it as a fist rocketed into John's ribs. He was unable to contain the groan, but his mind was filing the pain away to be dealt with later as he freed his hands and shoved back. They grappled, twisting and turning until they had switched positions and John had pinned his opponent against the railing.

He didn't bother checking the grim, satisfied smile as he leaned forward, thrusting an elbow under the other man's chin.

"Who the hell sent you?"

Dark glittering eyes that had been narrowed in concentration and fury widened momentarily in surprise at the question. John might not be a braniac like McKay, but he wasn't stupid. A man with fighting skills as honed as this was likely acting on someone else's orders, but why the hell someone would break into McKay's place was beyond him.

The pressure against the other man's windpipe increased two-fold as a curtain of fury descended over John. "I asked you a question!"

Once again, his only answer was a deep throated chuckle, somewhat strained by the pressure on the dark figure's throat. And thinking of McKay reminded John that he had heard a painful yelp before his opponent had appeared in the doorway. It had better have just been a yelp of surprise. John's quick glance over his shoulder was his first mistake, as it gave his opponent an opportunity to break the hold on his throat. Two meaty hands dug into John's shoulders, and once again they were grappling, dancing on the tiny landing as each fought for the upper hand.

John's movements were punctuated with adrenaline and anger, which led him to his second mistake—letting the influx of rage control his moves instead of channeling it into the blows. He swung hard, and the other man grabbed his fist, twisting John's arm behind his back. The angle gave the man all the leverage needed to drive John back to the railing, this time the metal marking his stomach as the brute shoved all his force into John's trapped arm. The abused muscles protested, and he grit his teeth to keep from crying out.

His modicum of control snapped back into place then, and John relaxed every muscle in his body. This seemed to confuse his attacker because the grip on his shoulder loosened. Wasting no time, John rocked back, using his skull as a battering ram, feeling it connect solidly with the other man's chin.

He twisted around in time to see the eyes behind the ski mask narrow dangerously and a massive shoulder drive right toward him. The force caught him in the chest, hard enough that when his back met the railing, instead of stopping him, he tipped over.

Freefalling was a lot like flying, except there was absolutely no control over his descent, as he was completely at the mercy of gravity. It was a wild tumble, with John's hands flailing desperately, trying to grab a hold on something other than air. If the engines stalled on him while in the cockpit, John at least had things that he could do while he plummeted toward the ground. He felt strangely naked in the uncontrolled descent; he had no instruments to help him, no stick to pull up on, and no parachute to deploy.

He jerked to a stop as one of his hands managed to grab a firm hold of one of the thin bars lining the railing. The motion almost wrenched his shoulder out of its socket, and he didn't bother biting back the cry this time. He groped wildly with his other hand until he managed to get it on another bar, providing a more solid anchor to his position. His hands were already slick with sweat, and he could feel his grip loosening even as he strained to pull himself up.

Through the bar's railings, John could only watch as the masked figure scooped up the laptop. He was barely spared a glance as the thief checked his pilfered item for damage before sprinting down the stairs. It was just as well, as John had more pressing things to worry about at the moment.

He tried to heave himself up again, his muscles quaking with the effort to try and fight the effect of gravity on his body mass, wrenched shoulder sparking with pain. He managed to hook an arm around one of the bars, metal digging into the crook of his elbow as his weight tried to drag him back down.

"McKay!" He shouted, because the damn door was still open so surely he would be able to hear. "Some help would be greatly appreciated!"

John managed to hook the other elbow around another railing, relieving his aching hands of the pressure, although the new angle did little to ease the angry twitching in his shoulder. With the exception of John's labored breaths and the distant sound of traffic a few streets away, the night was silent.

"McKay!" He called again, this time a little more desperate as his feet dangled in the air helplessly, metal biting into the arms gripping the railing.

Only the ragged breaths he drew met his request, and a new fear that had nothing to do with a two-and-half story fall worked its way up from his gut. The scientist was not a quiet person, and even drunk should have already offered his opinion on the whole laptop theft situation about fifteen times already. He didn't know the meaning of 'shut up'.

"Rodney!"

There was still no answer, and John's struggles began anew. He was fueled by a purpose beyond himself now. Heaving all of his strength, he gripped the railing with his forearms, and levered his knees up until they met the underside of the landing. His abs flexed and groaned with the effort, but the new position allowed him to shift his death grip to a better position for climbing.

Very carefully, his entire body almost shaking with the effort, he managed to pull his torso higher to a position where he could lever one of his knees to the narrow space between bars. The other knee soon followed, and he shakily pulled himself over the rest of the way and collapsed into a heap onto the safety inside of the railing.

And it was still quiet, aside from his heaving, ragged gasps for air, but the silence was a bad thing in this case. He heaved himself up and lunged forward, making it about two steps worth before collapsing into the railing, still trying to regain his equilibrium. His shoulder was not happy with the spill, but he couldn't take the time to catch his breath because that angry tingling in his spine told him something was really wrong.

Tamping all of the pain and breathlessness to the back of his mind, he climbed up the stairs as fast as his abused muscles would allow. Bursting through the open doorway, at first the only thing he could see was the mess. The intruder had been thorough, and practically ripped the entire apartment to shreds. John's eyes tracked from upended chairs and overturned lamps, and when he finally saw the prone form he had to force himself to breathe.

In his haste, John nearly slipped on the novel's worth of paper that was strewn about the floor. He dropped to the other man's side, two fingers automatically searching for a pulse. The steady throb that met his touch was almost as relieving as having solid ground under his feet. He continued to lightly probe for injuries and when his hands found a large lump on the back of the scientist's head, it elicited a groan. Immediately, John's hands stilled.

"Looks like you're still in there." And if the response was laced with more relief than sarcasm, no one said anything.

The scientist's eyes fluttered, revealing a dazed expression as he began to regain consciousness.

"That's it, Rodney, wake up."

"What?"

When the scientist had a hard time figuring out where to focus, John snapped his fingers in the air. "Hey, hey, look at me."

"Shepp'rd?"

"Yeah, it's me."

"Whu... happened?"

The confused look wasn't evaporating, and the queasy feeling in John's gut returned. "Do you remember anything?"

"Ninja," he slurred, "attack."

"Nin—no, there was no ninja. Just a thug dressed in black."

"Oh," Rodney's eyes began to droop, as if he were having a hard time staying awake, "that's nice."

"Hey, no, none of that." John lightly jostled the other man, also jostling his shoulder in the process. His request of "stay with me" was a little more filled with pain than John would have liked.

"No th'nks..."

"Damn it, Rodney, no. Stay awake!"

"Why?"

"Because you've had enough alcohol to kill a small animal and possibly a concussion on top of that. I'm thinking that's not a good thing."

"Yeah," he agreed tiredly, "probably so."

With his good arm John reached into his pocket for his phone, only to remember that it had met its demise on the pavement during the struggle. He cast a desperate look around the ruined apartment, finally spotting a phone with its receiver knocked off the hook, beeping its protest in a loud monotone. "Do me a favor."

"No."

"I'm going to call the police—"

That seemed to disturb the injured man more than the fact that he was injured, and John laid the hand from his good arm on Rodney's shoulder to keep him from trying to sit up. "And the EMTs."

"You can't—"

This from the hypochondriac? No, that bastard could not have scrambled Rodney's brain that much. "Just stay awake for me, okay? I'll make it as quick as I can."

"No..."

"McKay..."

"Yer bossy..."

"Only when I need to be." He summoned what he hoped was a cocky grin. "Why don't you recite the periodic table or something to stay awake?"

"Go 'way."

"C'mon, McKay, I need to make that call."

"Fine, you do that," Rodney's eyes started to drift shut again, "I think I'm just gonna... sleep..."

"Don't—"

It was too late as he was already out again, and none of John's shoulder jostling or light taps to the face would rouse him. The only thing the movements earned John was an injured shoulder pulsing a steady, angry beat in time with his heart. The steady rise and fall of Rodney's chest was only a small comfort against the rising tide of concern threatening to overtake John as he found the phone and began to dial for help.

The world was spinning, languidly shifting in and out of focus as something bobbed in and out of his field of vision. Everything was a low, hushed murmur as voices conversed about something incoherently but in a very grim manner. He tried to bat at the thing hovering in his face, but someone just seized his hand and gently pushed it back down.

The murmur started to gain coherence and he caught the tail end of one of the voices talking, "...looks like he's coming around."

Rodney thought he heard a relieved "Finally!" from somewhere to his right, but his vision swam again and he had to close his eyes as a wave of nausea threatened to overcome him. A vaguely familiar voice spoke to him soothingly. The wave passed, and he cautiously tried opening his eyes again.

"That's it. Dr. McKay, look at me."

He focused on the, ah, it had been a face, bobbing in his field of vision again. The soft feminine features were not altogether the most unpleasant thing to wake up to, and the concerned brown eyes peered at him closely. "Pupils aren't dilated, that's a good sign."

Rodney tried to sit up, but his stomach lurched and he dropped back to the soft cushion with a groan...

Cushion?

He was dimly aware that the murmur of conversation had quieted as he identified that he was currently lying stretched out on his couch. Or what had once been his couch, he amended as he eyed a large rip near his head.

As he came closer to consciousness, he was able to recognize the next voice as Sheppard's. "How is he?"

"Terrible," Rodney groaned.

"There's no bleeding," the woman remarked, "and there doesn't seem to be any neck injuries. Dr. McKay, do you know where you are?"

"My apartment," he muttered, glancing around to see that Sheppard was hovering near the doorway with another individual in what appeared to be a police officer's uniform. His focus narrowed on Sheppard. "And you called the police?"

"Good one, Einstein," the relieved tone belied the sharp words. "Nice of you to join us."

"Did he get away?" Rodney couldn't help but let his eyes linger on the torn up state of his apartment.

"Oh yeah." Sheppard seemed to follow the line of logic. "Not for lack of trying, though."

Rodney frowned, unsure of what that meant, or why Sheppard's movements seemed so stiff as he and the officer walked over. Or for that matter, but it could have been from the hazy vision, why it appeared like the pilot was wearing a sling.

"Dr. McKay, I'm Detective Lorne," the dark-haired officer introduced himself with a stern look flicked in Sheppard's direction. "I'll be working your case."

He blinked, not sure if he was seeing things correctly, and then blinked again. "Detective Lorne?"

"Yeah," Lorne flicked open a notebook, not quite meeting Rodney's eye, "we came as soon as we got the call."

He bristled and carefully pushed himself up, much to the consternation of the woman attending to him. He glanced at her, the nametag on her EMT uniform identifying her as "Frasier". He wasn't able to contain the derisive snort. "You don't think this is a little overkill?"

"Overkill?" Sheppard pinned him with a look. "Someone attacked you."

"Well, uh," Rodney squirmed, "there is that."

"He also broke into your apartment," Lorne picked up the narrative, "stole a laptop from what Mr. Sheppard tells us—"

Oh, god, his laptop... he'd almost forgotten. He fingered his pocket and pulled out the glasses that had somehow managed to survive the scuffle fully intact. Small favors. Lorne kept droning on, ticking off various offenses as if that were going to make this whole business that much more official. The blissful ignorance of unconsciousness was sounding more and more tempting as time passed.

"Can't we just do this later?" he finally asked, tiredly. "My head is killing me."

"We have just a few questions," Lorne said, ignoring the stern glare Frasier was giving him and turned to face Sheppard. "You can go if you'd like. If we think of anything else, we have your number."

"I'm good," Sheppard responded.

"I'd really like to speak to Dr. McKay alone, if you don't mind—"

"If you don't mind," Sheppard shot back, "I think I'll stay."

"Now, sir—"

"Someone just tried to take off my friend's head." Sheppard stiffly sat on the armrest of the couch, gingerly moving his free arm to cross against the one held in what was a sling. It was an absurd image, but Sheppard appeared to be settling in for a long vigil. "I don't take kindly to that sort of thing. I'm also still a little ticked about the whole being tossed off the stairwell thing—"

"You what?" Rodney snapped with enough force to send his head spinning again.

How the hell had Sheppard gotten tossed off a balcony, and what the hell was with the sling? Trying to figure out why only caused his head to spin more. Be it due to concussion or alcohol, Rodney didn't care because he didn't plan on having either again after tonight. He was also a little confused about the "friend" thing, because he wasn't sure a few one-sided rounds of tequila shooters necessarily a friendship make.

"Is this true, he a friend of yours?" Lorne asked, giving Rodney a measuring, almost disapproving look.

"He's drunk, he doesn't know what he's saying," Rodney muttered, trying to bat away Frasier's insistent hands and the cold something-or-another she tried to press to his forehead.

"I had one beer, McKay," refuted Sheppard with a roll of his eyes. "And if your attempt at Vehicular Macarena wasn't enough to sober up a person, I think my adventures over the stairway railing sure did."

"How...?"

"I didn't figure you'd take too kindly to someone helping himself to your things."

Dear god, Sheppard had nearly been killed trying to save Rodney's damn laptop. A bout of nausea overtook him, and he had no idea if it was due to the hangover, the possible concussion, or something else entirely.

"I think I'm hung over, because this isn't making any sense," he grumbled miserably. He couldn't think about this right now, he really couldn't. "Can I get some water or something before we start this interrogation?"

Frasier managed to produce a bottle of water, and Rodney sipped at it tepidly. Lorne seemed disgruntled at Sheppard's insistence on staying, but there really wasn't anything Rodney could do about that. He kept his answers as quick and concise as he could, which was handy, since most of the experience was still a blur in his mind. And maybe if he just finished this as fast as he could then Sheppard would let go of whatever sense of obligation he was clinging to and go home before he fell off the couch.

"I guess that's it." Lorne flipped shut the book he had brought with him. "We'll give you a call if we find anything."

"Oh, I'm sure you will." Rodney took another sip. "Now, if you all don't mind leaving, I want to sleep until next week."

"I'm not sure I'm too comfortable leaving you here alone." Frasier paused in packing her things. "You have a concussion—"

"You said it was mild," he protested.

"—and how do you know that this guy won't come back?" Some of her professionalism slipped, and he could see real concern shining in her eyes as she looked from him to Lorne.

"I'll be fine," Rodney insisted, "ninjas rarely return to the scene of the crime."

"Which might work if you were attacked by a ninja." Sheppard looked like he was ready to collapse on the spot, but there was an undercurrent of worry to the sarcasm. Rodney found that baffling, but maybe it was the alcohol or head injury making him hear things that weren't there. "I don't think staying here is a good idea."

"Then it's a good thing I didn't ask for your opinion."

"I don't like it."

"What are you? My mother?"

"No, that would be Carson."

"Stuff it!"

"Rodney, you're lucky he didn't have a gun."

"Well, I don't think he'll come back with one just to prove a point!"

"I think he may be right," Lorne cut in.

"Who asked you?" Rodney spat. "Look, all I want is to lie down on my very expensive prescription mattress and sleep for the next twenty-four hours."

His head hurt, the world wouldn't stop spinning, and someone had tried to toss John Sheppard off a balcony because he'd been trying to make sure Rodney had gotten home without killing himself in an alcohol related accident. It was bad enough that he had been dragged into this, but there was no reason for Sheppard to be put in harm's way, horribly mistaken notions of friendship or not.

"What would a little caution hurt?" Lorne asked, putting extra emphasis on the 'caution'. "For tonight at least."

Rodney wanted to sputter in indignation, but that took more energy than he could muster at the moment. He tiredly glanced between the twin stern expressions on Lorne and Sheppard's faces, hating the fact that they were probably right. "I doubt I can find a decent hotel at this hour—"

And that's when Rodney heard probably the most ludicrous thing of the whole night.

"You can stay with me," Sheppard said.