Chapter Nine

John's apartment was bigger than Rodney's, although it seemed about the same size with the amount of furniture and personal possessions crammed into the space. McKay's apartment hardly had any sort of personal touch and seemed to only contain whatever pieces of furniture the corporate housing had deigned appropriate for the space. John had pulled out most of what he had in storage, and filled as much space as he could in an attempt to make his new home as non-military as possible. His golf gear was neatly tucked into a corner, almost forgotten after the hectic past few weeks.

It was the surfboard that John had mounted on the wall that had captured Rodney's attention. "Exactly how many waves were you planning on surfing in the desert?"

John was too tired to offer up any cracks about catching a few dunes, and instead headed for the linen closet located outside the half-bath. With one hand he sorted through the mismatched linens, feeling every bruise mutter in protest as he shifted restlessly. Frasier's pain pills had thankfully dulled the worst of it, but there were still a few muted protests from his shoulder. Eventually John found the set of twin-sized sheets and an extra blanket, and tucked them under his good arm. As he turned around, McKay was looking at him with a queer expression.

"I'm not taking your bed," he insisted, although he looked a little pained at the thought.

"I'm not offering it."

"Well, that's kind of rude. I mean, you were the one who insisted that we have this little sleep-over, denying me my actual bed—"

John handed over the linens without preamble, hoping to stop the onslaught of words.

No such luck.

"—with a mattress I have a prescription for, mind you. The least you could do is offer."

"Rodney," he said tiredly.

"Just looking at your couch throws my back out for a solid week—"

John pointed to the door at the far end of the apartment, and the action gained the desired effect as the ramble died off. "I have a guest bedroom."

"...oh." Rodney shifted uncomfortably. "Well, uh, good. Just so we're clear."

"Crystal," John muttered, ushering him toward the spare room.

"Why are you doing this?" Rodney asked suddenly.

"Doing what?"

"This." Rodney gestured helplessly. "You didn't need to do any of it. Especially after getting tossed over a balcony because you were in the wrong place at the wrong time. I really don't understand."

John was still having a hard time figuring out exactly how the prickly scientist had gotten under his skin, so there was no way he would be able to explain it to someone else. He eyed the door frame leading to the spare bedroom that he had co-opted for a study, wondering if he needed to answer at all.

"I mean, I'm not sure when we stopped hating each other—"

Funny, John didn't either.

"Because... are we even friends?"

"Yes," he answered without hesitation. That was a little funny, because he should have needed a few seconds to at least think about it.

Rodney blinked, confusion and exhaustion warring on his features. "How did that happen?"

"I don't know," John replied tiredly, hoping that McKay might take the hint and wrap things up so they could both get some semblance of rest.

"I mean, I'm not exactly winning any prizes for my social skills, as much as that pains me to admit. But really—"

"Rodney."

"What?"

"Go to sleep."

"Right," Rodney returned quickly as he shuffled awkwardly into the room. John had already started back toward the master bedroom when a hesitant question caught him by surprise. "Did you just call me 'Rodney'?"

He paused. "Yeah."

"When did you start doing that?"

John didn't know the answer to that either. Maybe he was just exhausted, but knowing why didn't seem that important. It just was, and that was fine by him.

Rodney awoke in a strange bed, with an angry gnome pounding away in his head and the worst cotton mouth in history. He blinked, bleary-eyed, and trying to regain his bearings. The room was crowded, stuffed with bookshelves, a computer desk, and a few posters and pieces of art that had yet to be mounted on any wall. The lumpy twin bed he lay on was crammed into the far corner of the room, as if it were an afterthought to the haphazard decorating scheme. An out-of-place end table served as a nightstand, and someone had been thoughtful enough to leave a fresh bottle of water sitting on top of it.

After ensuring that the safety seal hadn't been broken and that indeed it was a new bottle, Rodney cracked it open. He gulped down several swallows until the worst of his thirst had been quenched. The angry pounding began to recede to a dull ache that was centered in the back of his head. Fingers slowly explored his scalp, and he winced when he discovered the large goose egg.

Hazy images of struggling with a figure in black and a worried face hovering in his field of vision filled his mind, and he quickly dispelled them because they were just making the headache worse. Instead he eyed the bookshelves, stuffed full with a colorful assortment of comics, graphic novels, cheap paperbacks, textbooks on subjects ranging from aeronautics and military history to advanced math, with a few Garfield collections tossed in between. It was like staring in a funhouse mirror of his own bookshelf; the tastes ran along similar veins, but there were odd twists that kept the images from being identical.

Bottle of water in hand, he staggered out of the house of mirrors into the rest of the apartment. He gave a long look to the surfboard mounted to the wall like some sort of trophy as he made his way into the living room.

"He awakens."

Taking care to not upset his shaky equilibrium, Rodney turned until he found Sheppard sprawled out on the couch, hair slightly damp from a shower (but still standing tall and proud like a good soldier) and—bright-eyed and bushy-tailed as he furiously tapped at the buttons on a video game controller. Dear god, Sheppard was a morning person. That just figured.

"How you feeling?" He pressed a button on the controller before looking away from the television screen and eyeing Rodney carefully.

"Awful," Rodney grumbled and took another tentative sip of his water. "I feel like I got hit by a Mack truck."

"From the size of the guy, I'd say that's not much of an exaggeration."

Rodney hovered where he stopped, unsure if he was allowed to take a seat or if he should just keep standing. He didn't know if Sheppard's goodwill would last much longer, and Rodney should probably take his exit before the welcome was worn out. It was probably safe for him to go back to his own apartment. Lorne and his people would have had enough time to do a thorough sweep, he thought as he swayed a little. Although there wasn't much he could do there but sleep some more or start to clean up the mess that had been left—and he really wasn't in the mood to clean right now.

"Sit down before you fall down." Sheppard rolled his eyes and indicated an easy chair next to the couch.

Gratefully, Rodney collapsed into it, trying to ignore the way Sheppard kept watching him like he was expecting Rodney to crack. "What?"

"Nothing," he muttered, pressing a button on the controller and resumed his gaming. "I called both of us sick in to work, hope you don't mind."

Vertrauen was not something Rodney wanted to think about this early in the day. He settled into the seat further, draining the last of the water as he tried to focus his attention anywhere but at the other occupant of the room. "Langham'll love that."

"Yeah, I really don't care what he thinks."

"Somehow, I got that impression."

"You know what they say about first impressions."

"Like how my first impression of you was nearly on my front bumper?"

"Not exactly," Sheppard snorted softly, mouth lifting up into a wry half-smile as he shook his head.

His eyes were still riveted to the woman leaping around rocks and chasms on the television screen. Rodney tried watching the game, but the shifting 3D perspective on the screen sent his head spinning, so he just focused his attention on the carpet instead. The sling had been discarded at some point in the night, but Sheppard held his arm in a way that made it obvious that it was bothering him.

"Your arm hurt?" he asked quietly.

"Just the shoulder. Frasier gave me something for it last night. It might be wearing off." Sheppard didn't seem too concerned about it, which made no sense. "You up for eating anything yet?"

Rodney shifted, knowing that it was an innocent question, but it seemed like more than that. It wasn't that he didn't know how to accept a friendly gesture, but there was always a price to pay eventually. Nobody did anything for free. Hell, Rodney was only working at Vertrauen because of the circumstances that had arisen after the fallout with Ashley... Aisley... whatever.

He fiddled with the bottle in his hands, wanting to say something intelligent and scathing, but he just couldn't work up the energy. He was tired, he was hungry, his head hurt like nobody's business, and he really didn't understand what Sheppard was expecting to get out of all of this. It had to be something, because no one in their right mind would be okay with nearly getting killed because of their irritating co-worker.

"Hey," the voice was soft, "it's okay if you're not."

Something in the kind, soothing tone made him snap. "All right, that's it."

"What's it?"

"We are not doing this."

"Rodney, I don't—"

"I thank you for the bed and for the rescue, but seriously, I don't know what you think you can get out of this."

"Get?"

"Yes, get. I mean, sure, I've got a nice amount of cash tucked away if you're trying to buddy up for that. But you don't really look like you're wonting for much except maybe an interior decorator or something. Maybe you're afraid that the resident safety expert will up and leave—"

"Rodney..."

"—and you'll be left with the trained monkeys who keep changing security protocols willy nilly, probably right up into the middle of maiden flight if Langham has his way."

"McKay..."

"Well, don't worry about that because I've got reasons to stay beyond keeping your somewhat suicidal streak in check, not that they're any of your damn business—"

"Damn it, Rodney, stop for five seconds—I don't expect anything, okay? It doesn't work like that."

"What doesn't work like that?"

The half-smile was a little strained, as if Sheppard had a hard time spitting out anything other than a sarcastic, glib response. "This friend... thing."

And that made no sense because they couldn't be friends. There was no big singular event he could pick out where they suddenly saw past their differences and recognized each other for who they were. That only happened in crappy Hallmark movies, and Rodney's life was far too unhappy to be trapped in one of those. The empty water bottle crumpled in his hand, and he realized belatedly that he must have been squeezing it during his running monologue.

"Just... stop worrying about it so much, okay?"

"But why?" Everything in life had a quantifiable variable, and if he could just grasp onto some small reason maybe he'd be able to somehow find a way to explain this to that eternally questioning part of his brain. "I think there are a lot of people who are nicer to you. Why be friends with me?"

"I don't know." Sheppard shrugged one shoulder, grimacing with the movement. He returned his attention to the television screen, but seeing as how his fingers weren't tapping any of the buttons, Rodney had his doubts if he was actually playing the game. "Look, you should probably eat something before Carson gets here. He's probably going to have a fit as it is. No need to give him any more ammunition."

"Carson's coming?"

"I have to go pick up my bike from the bar. He's using his lunch break to take me since I really didn't think you were up for driving."

Since the world hadn't quite figured out how to settle into one even plane, that was probably sound reasoning. He needed to say something intelligent, or at least something more intelligent than asking pointless questions. The gnome in his head was starting to pound a more aggressive rhythm, which was making it hard to concentrate.

"Maybe you ought to get some more sleep." The suggestion was quiet but firm. "You don't look so good."

"Concussions suck," he muttered in agreement, letting his head fall back to the soft cushion of the chair. "Don't mind me, I'm just gonna... lay here."

"Sure."

His mind started to drift, curtain of blissful sleep starting to drop, but something tugged him back to the world of the waking. He cracked open an eye to see that Sheppard was still playing his video game. He was hurting like hell, but that really didn't give him cause to be ungrateful, even if it was what was comfortable and he couldn't quite wrap his head around the implications of what all these grand gestures meant. "Um..."

The fingers on the controller paused momentarily.

"Thanks?"

"Don't mention it." The gaming resumed and Rodney stared for a few moments longer before letting his eyes drift back shut. "It's probably going to take a few days to sort things out upstairs. It's not a bother, y'know, if you need a place to stay..."

It was a struggle, but he managed to open his eyes into slits. Sheppard was still staring intently at the television, posture rigid as if he were waiting for the other proverbial shoe to drop. Rodney took in a deep breath and let it out slowly.

"It's probably safer than risking what passes for clean in those hotel rooms," he muttered in reply, catching a brief, quicksilver smile before his eyes drifted shut again. He had to be getting soft, so he added, "But only marginally so."

"Only the five star treatment for my guests."

"Quiet. I'm trying to sleep here."

"Funny." The grin in Sheppard's voice probably wasn't a good thing. "That's what everyone says after a night in my bed."

Rodney couldn't suppress the agonized groan. The concussion must have been wreaking havoc on his once sharp mind, because he totally should have seen that one coming.

John really needed to stop underestimating the wrath of Carson Beckett (especially when his health was involved). The Beckett vein was already starting to bulge as John shifted his helmet under his good arm and valiantly tried to school the pain from his features as he jostled the now overextended muscles. His miraculous save the night before had pulled a rotator cuff, and a full night's rest and the pain pills Frasier had given him had led John to overestimate the use he could get out of the arm.

"You shouldn't be driving that death trap with a pulled shoulder. You could have torn it!"

"It's just sore," John protested. "No further harm done."

"I'll be the judge of that." Carson snatched the helmet as well as the keys to John's apartment. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"I really needed to get my bike" didn't seem as plausible an excuse now as it had when John had begged a ride off of Carson that morning. He ducked his head, wondering that maybe if Rodney was awake and grouchy he might be able to shift the healer instincts in that direction.

"Oh, no," the Scot maneuvered himself in front of the door, "I want to know how this happened."

"Well, you know when I said I was fighting with the guy who clocked Rodney?"

Carson nodded.

"I may have left out the part where he threw me off the second story."

"You what?" Carson exploded. "That is not a little detail! How the hell did you survive? Do you have a pair of wings I don't know about?"

"Almost did," John grinned, but it quickly melted away as the Beckett Vein started bulging in full force, "er, if I hadn't caught myself that is."

"Jesus," Carson practically wilted against the wall. "You two are going to make me old early."

"It's not like I asked for flying lessons."

"But you did walk into a hangar with an overloading engine."

"I didn't have a choice—"

"You always have a choice, John," Carson snapped. "You have a choice whether or not to risk your life."

It had been quite a while since he'd been on the receiving end of this lecture. In fact, the last time he had heard it, had been when Mitch—

The thought of his dead friend and the Afghan sands where he'd died dried up any protest John had. Carson seemed to notice the shift in his demeanor and stepped forward, face smoothing out into concern so deep it was almost smothering. John turned away quickly, not caring that the jerky movement upset his tender shoulder.

"Let's see if Rodney's up."

"John—"

"I don't want to talk about it," he ground out.

"Will you ever?" The question wasn't exactly an accusation, but it didn't hold a lot of hope.

"No," he answered tersely. "It's my business."

"Fine," Carson said brusquely, "let's get inside and make sure your fool self hasn't made that shoulder worse."

The change of subject should have made the tension drain out of him. The sound of helicopter rotors in his mind should have silenced, but if anything the noise only grew louder.

"But John?"

He looked at Carson, wishing that they could just go inside already. "What?"

"Whatever it is won't go away by burying it."

"Talking doesn't help."

"No one said you needed to talk." Carson didn't look at him as he unlocked the door to the apartment. "Just... find a way to keep it from haunting you."

"I'm not haunted."

"Then why are you as pale as a ghost?"

He shoved the Scot aside, intent on escape. Rodney was still passed out on the chair where they'd left him, so the conversation quieted in deference to the slumbering scientist. As Carson tended to his shoulder, John couldn't help but let his gaze drift to the frayed black band on his wrist. It was fairly innocuous, held no sort of connotation to the random observer. Some days John hardly noticed it, he had grown so accustomed to it being there.

On days when the murmurs of ghosts grew into loud whispers, it transported John back into the searing Afghan heat where the weight of a dying friend slung across his shoulders steadily grew heavier, where he stared at two empty coffins being shipped back stateside, and the burning chill of the Antarctic wind refused to chase it all away. With Rodney's quiet snores and Carson's soft admonishments filling his ears, the past seemed both simultaneously close and almost tantalizingly out of reach.

Sunday found the local diner almost jam-packed, with several small groups trying to recover from a hard Saturday night or families trying to catch a quick meal before rushing off to church. The bar was too packed, so Rodney was forced to grab a booth in the far corner just as it was deserted by a loud group of patrons before the busboy had even finished cleaning it. He eyed the puddle of syrup distastefully, as well as the "rag" the busboy used to wipe down the table.

He busied himself with pretending to look at the menu until he heard the squeak of someone settling into the leather in the seat across from him. He waited an extra few seconds before lowering the menu to glare at the new arrival. "You're late."

"You took a booth." A dark brow was arched in response. "I needed to make sure you weren't being watched."

"Well, Detective, I'm sure they would have just assumed that you were checking up on your charge."

"It's reckless."

"I don't give a damn," he murmured quietly, "I'm sick of this."

"How's your head?"

"It still hurts. And thank you for bringing that up by the way," Rodney sneered, lowering his voice for the next part. "I hope you know that impersonating a police officer is against the law, Major."

That earned him a frown. "We heard the call on the phone—"

"You tapped my phone?" He was expecting that sort of thing from Marrick's people, but not his own.

"We had to make sure you were all right."

"Your concern is oh so touching," he slapped the menu down, "and would have been a lot more handy say, oh, when someone was trying to crack open my skull."

"That was unexpected—"

"A lot of this assignment is unexpected," Rodney snarled, "especially the fact that my protection, and I use that word loosely, is useless."

"McKay—"

"No, Lorne—"

"No names," he whispered harshly.

"You used my name, it's only fair!"

"You're getting loud."

"It's the concussion talking," Rodney shot back. "You know, the one I got from the thug in my apartment stealing my personal laptop and tearing the place apart?"

"And planting things."

Rodney grew quiet, glancing around suspiciously as if he didn't believe that his handler had truly secured their meeting place before sitting down. "So there is a bug?"

"If there wasn't before, there definitely is now. Siler found one in each room, even one out on the balcony."

"Oh god," Rodney moaned as he ran a hand through his hair, unable to hide the fear starting to grip him, "this is just... I can't live like this. How much longer do I have to keep up this stupid charade?"

"Hopefully not much longer. I think the break-in is a good sign."

"Of brain damage?"

Lorne's expression softened. "Does Frasier need to take another look at you?"

"No," Rodney spat, "I think I'm good. Between her and my own personal Scottish mother hen, I think I have all the medical help necessary."

"Are you sure?"

"I wouldn't have to be sure if you were doing your job."

"McKay—"

"I am not cut out for this sort of thing. I'm a terrible liar. It's why I never win at poker, my eye twitches, gives away everything."

"You've done well so far. I don't think they suspect anything."

"Oh really? Is that why that Neanderthal excuse for chief of security won't stop watching me like some bird of prey?"

"They're hiding something."

"What led you to that conclusion? The inexplicable purchase of an entire power grid? The miraculous scientific advancements they've made over the past few years? The strange new elements they just so happened to discover in some unspecified location of the planet? The mysterious informant who told us so before he was killed by 'the mob'?"

"Which is suspicious, yes—"

"But not proof," Rodney stated firmly, because he knew where the conversation was heading. "Still no proof despite the millions of pictures I've gotten."

"Speaking of pictures..."

Rodney pulled the glasses off his face and practically tossed them across the table for inspection. "You can see for yourself, our ninja didn't hurt your precious little camera."

Lorne picked up the glasses, eyeing them critically. "If he did it would take us a while to get you another pair. It was hard enough to source these without tipping off anyone."

Grumbling, Rodney removed his watch and exchanged it for the glasses, placing them back on his face before any of the other restaurant patrons might get curious. Lorne poked and prodded at the watch, before finally popping out the tiny memory card hidden underneath the digital display. "Looks like it's okay."

"Glad you approve."

Lorne heaved a deep sigh. "Can you try to cut back the sarcasm a little bit? It's not like any of us wanted to put you in this position."

"Really? Because that's not how it looked when I was dragged in front of that kangaroo court of generals looking for a scapegoat."

"That was for show."

"It would have been nice to let me know that beforehand!"

"Look, General Hammond said he needed to be sure. We still don't know where the leak is—"

"That's not my problem!"

"It is if whoever Vertrauen has on their payroll tips them off that the contractor they've been courting for years, who they've finally gotten, is actually a spy from the Air Force."

"Spy is such a nasty word."

"Exactly what do you call what you're doing?"

"Corporate espionage—it sounds much less cloak and dagger, and far less likely to get me killed."

"It's the exact same thing."

"That's not helping."

"And what would help?"

"Not having to go back there tomorrow," Rodney muttered, thankful that the place was busy so the noise could hide his growing agitation. "Which from the look on your face, obviously is not an option."

"No, it's not," Lorne shifted the oversized laminated menu in front of his face as a passerby's stare seemed to linger too long. "And you should think about limiting the time you spend with Sheppard."

"Excuse me?" A hard lump started to form in the pit of Rodney's stomach that he was hoping was due to hunger.

"Let's just say that hanging out with him isn't going to help your chances of getting in their good graces."

"What exactly do you mean by that?"

"His military connections alone make him persona non grata as far as they're concerned," Lorne explained, his quiet voice muffled by the menu. "You're not in there to make friends, McKay."

"I know that," Rodney snapped, pretending to peruse his own menu with a practiced noninterest, "and we're not friends."

"Really? Because he certainly seemed to think so."

He stiffened, because the conversation the other morning was still fresh in his mind, even if the bruises from the encounter that brought it on were starting to fade. He stared at the daily special, some sort of heart attack on a platter. "Look, I don't see what this has to do with anything."

"He invited you to stay at his apartment." It was not a question but a statement of fact.

That was none of Lorne's damn business. Rodney bristled, slamming the menu down on the table at the implication. "You're not seriously suggesting what I think you are!"

"Look, you don't have to be romantically involved with someone to have personal feelings compromise your judgment."

"Even if we were friends or more or whatever you're trying to imply, my judgment is not now, has never been, nor ever will be compromised—especially by something as pedestrian as personal feelings."

"Really?"

"I'm a professional."

"Not at this."

"Then maybe next time you guys should hire James Bond to do your dirty work!"

"We would have, but it turned out he was a fictional character."

"Oh... shut up!" He snapped the menu back up to hide his growing agitation. "Did you have anything useful to add to my repertoire of knowledge on this snafu of an assignment or is it just wild accusations this morning?"

"Just be careful. They're keeping an even closer eye on you."

"Oh goodie, because it was only ridiculously smothering before."

Lorne remained silent for several long moments, letting the conversation lapse to Rodney's absent minded finger tapping on the tabletop. He had just started to beat out the opening chords to Beethoven's Ninth Symphony when Lorne seemed to come to the conclusion that he indeed had nothing more to add on the subject. "I'll check in later this week, just to be sure."

"I'm getting a little tired of pancakes."

"I'll figure out something." Lorne set the menu down suddenly and slid out the booth quickly. He paused on Rodney's side of the booth, trying to hide his features in a fake cough. "Just shake your shadow."

"My shadow—?"

Lorne melted into the crowd of a departing group of hung-over partiers before the question was even finished. The answer seemed to appear out of nowhere and was standing at his shoulder, approach as silent as aforementioned shadow. "Hey, Rodney."

He couldn't help but jump a little in surprise, and futilely swatted at the figure's good shoulder with his menu. "Don't do that!"

Sheppard just grinned and slid into the seat opposite him, looking entirely too awake and alert for this hour on a weekend. "Sorry."

"This is seriously getting annoying."

"You'd think after sleeping in my bed you'd be a little more welcoming to my presence."

"...stop bringing that up!"

"C'mon, you know you liked it."

"Do you take some sort of perverse pleasure in making my face turn red?"

"Yes."

"I hate you."

"That's what they all say."

"Seriously, are we joined at the hip or something?" Rodney protested. "Can't I go one place without you showing up?"

Sheppard shrugged one shoulder, the other held stiffly against his chest. Apparently the sling Beckett had insisted on had disappeared between the apartment and here. "I was hungry."

"Get your own damn diner!"

"I was coming here before you ever showed up."

"I'm trying to stake some independence here. We've been stuck together all weekend," he grumbled. "Partly because you hid my car keys."

"Carson said no driving—honestly I'm not sure how you found them this morning."

"Hang what Carson says—and I'm crafty like that!"

"You want me to tell him that? And are we carrying on two conversations at once?"

"Do it and I'll tell him you took your bike here and you've ditched the sling again. And yes we are."

"Snitch—this is getting confusing, let's stop."

"Takes one to know one—and fine."

"That was strange."

"Stranger things have happened."

"Like what?"

Sheppard offering Rodney a place to stay, fighting off an attacker, getting hurt and nearly killed in the process were some of the slightly odd things about this weekend. Him extending a hand in friendship after all of that still made no sense, no matter how much Rodney tried to figure it out. His eyes were riveted to the menu, Lorne's words ringing in his ears. Maybe it would be easier if he somehow nipped this friend thing in the bud. It was confusing as hell and he certainly had enough on his mind without another added burden. The only person at risk in this stupid assignment was supposed to be Rodney.

Unfortunately, at some point during their extended, completely manly and platonic sleepover it appeared that he and Sheppard had mind melded, because the pilot sighed heavily and shifted his elbows on the table as he squirmed in the bench seat. "It's a little late for take backs, Rodney."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Please, it's written on your face." Sheppard rolled his eyes as he brought his menu to bear, ready to fend off anything resembling an exchange of those human emotions that his Vulcan kind detested so much. "Get over yourself."

"Hey! You can't just sit yourself down at my table—"

"Are you going to kick me out?"

Rodney squirmed, because he should... but damn it, he didn't want to. Heat flared to his cheeks as he wondered if this was what Lorne was referring to. Surely one breakfast table incident wasn't an indicator of lack of control. Instead of pondering it further, Rodney snapped his fingers at one of the waitresses passing by. "Hello, some service here?"

"Look, I'll leave if it's really that big of a deal."

"It's not a big deal it's just..."

He trailed off as his summons finally managed to bring one of the harried waitresses over. The tense silence was broken by their terse orders. Probably sensing the atmosphere, their waitress slipped away quickly without any attempt at making chit-chat.

"Just what?" Sheppard prompted.

"Nothing," Rodney muttered, "forget it."

"Fine."

"Fine," Rodney agreed, but neither of them had a menu to hide behind any longer, and that only seemed to increase the awkward atmosphere. Rodney fidgeted in his seat, leather squeaking as he struggled to find a comfortable position. The silence was too much, and he found he had to break it somehow. "I really suck at this."

"You could have fooled me."

"Oh, like you're a prize debater yourself, Sheppard!"

Sheppard blinked, looking stonewalled all of the sudden. "I have a first name."

"What?"

"And it wouldn't offend me if you decided you wanted to use it."

Rodney shook his head, unable to follow the leap in logic. They hadn't been discussing names, they had been discussing... actually, he wasn't sure what it had been about. That was the problem with talking around a subject. It made it hard to figure out what the original track had been when the conversation suddenly derailed.

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

Damn that eidetic memory, giving him reference at the least opportune moment. He swallowed the sudden dryness, really wishing for a menu to hide behind. He couldn't return the gesture, because his very limited experience on the subject had taught him that things like friendship were based on trust.

"I can't." He wished he sounded less stricken when he whispered the words, or didn't feel quite so lost.

He had learned a long time ago that trust wasn't something he could afford to hand out to anyone. Rodney hadn't wanted an assignment where he had to spy on a dangerous company, and he certainly didn't want a buddy to worry about on top of himself. He knew how he had wound up with the first, but for the second he had no clue.

Sheppard was probably reading too much into the past few days, that was all—especially considering the fact that Rodney was lying to every person who worked at Vertrauen, including John...

...damn it. Sheppard.