Chapter Thirteen

Vertrauen had a private airfield located on the far side of the company grounds, safely away from the sparkling tower so there was no fear of collision. The X-302 sat on the tarmac as Sheppard ran through his pre-flight checks. Rodney could only watch from the window overlooking the airstrip and listen to the chatter between flight control and the pilot. Even from the distance, the glider made an impression. Its presence was almost overpowering, the massive wingspan making the man inside the cockpit look like a kid trying to drive his parents' Buick. On paper, the sharp angles looked sleek and cool, but up close Rodney could swear the glider actually looked predatory.

He propped his chin on one hand as he continued to watch, letting the conversation between Sheppard and ground control wash over him. He was twitchy from the four cups of coffee he had chugged this morning, trying to shake off the fatigue from his sleepless night. By six in the morning, he had grown tired of waiting and went to the office where he could triple-check everything on the engine and the programming to make sure Langham hadn't tried to pull another stunt like he did with the PDE's first test firing.

There was nothing more Rodney could do but stand here and watch through the window. He wished he could blame the churning in his gut on the vending machine lunch he had barely choked down, but it probably had more to do with the millions of morbid thoughts dancing through his mind. Of all the different ways that damn pulse detonation engine could backfire, of how the delicate programming on the inertial dampeners could add pressure to the cockpit rather than relieve it, of the wind shear and its effect on the glider so high up off the ground, or just any of the tiny little things that could cause a normal plane to careen out of control.

Yes, Rodney was paranoid, and he had every reason to be—but usually his paranoia was restricted to things that could go wrong with him personally. This paralyzing grip of uncertainty and helplessness centered around someone else was so very strange and new and very, very wrong.

"She's a beauty."

To his credit, Rodney didn't jump when Langham joined him at the window, and he didn't give into the temptation to grill the man on what he had been doing so close to the station with an uplink to the plane. As he said, paranoid, but with good reason.

"You want me to tell Sheppard that you just called him a girl?"

Langham sputtered for a moment before thumping the glass ineffectually. "I was talking about the X-302."

"Oh. Right." Rodney's faux confusion didn't seem to convince Langham, and remembering his real purpose for being here, he forced himself to bite his tongue on any follow-up sarcasm. "I honestly can't believe you pulled it off."

"You signed off on everything."

"That doesn't mean I'm not amazed by the speed in which you implemented everything." It was unnatural, if the term could be applied to something as nature defying as humans taking flight. "It's... very impressive."

"And there's a lot more that we're hoping to accomplish after this project proves itself."

"Can't wait." He tried to muster up enthusiasm, but really couldn't pull it off.

Rodney was to the point where he had just about given up on getting anything but the second-hand information that they were willing to feed him. This entire thing was a waste of time—Rodney would never get the evidence that the Air Force would need to prove that Vertrauen simply wasn't so brilliant that they couldn't pull all of these solutions out of their proverbial ass, and it was equally unlikely that Hammond's people would ever find out who had set him up to take the fall in front of Aisley.

"Let's see how this project pans out." Langham gave Rodney a brief, assessing look. "You've certainly proved yourself a worthy asset to the company."

That sounded... vaguely hopeful.

"I'm just doing my job." Humility was not a standard Rodney McKay trait, but it was easier to project than patience for answers that could never come.

"It sounds like they're ready," Langham announced at the same time the X-302 began to start down the tarmac.

All Rodney could see of Sheppard was his outline, as he was decked from head to foot in flightwear that was closer to an astronaut's getup than a traditional pilot's. Then again, the flight plan would take him—er, the X-302—up to just skim the atmosphere. Theoretically they could break orbit with the fourth engine, but with the whole military contingent frowning at the back of the room, including good old Simmons, caution seemed to be exercised at this point.

That, or Murphy had finally put his foot down, which was good, because someone aside from Rodney needed to be concerned about the welfare of the pilot inside of the expensive plane. A blue flame from the turbojets flared from the tail end of the X-302 as it picked up speed, and soon it was lifting off the ground, taking it and Sheppard away from the safety of the tarmac.

If speeding down the open road on his Nightrod was liberating, then actually taking flight was pure unadulterated freedom.

There was nothing like the feeling of his stomach dropping the same time that he escaped the clutches of gravity and took to the air. The tarmac, the control center, and the hangar beyond it disappeared as he climbed higher and higher, until the only thing that he could have seen, if he weren't flying in the opposite direction, would be the glittering tower that housed the offices of all the corporate bigwigs.

His mind was sharp, focused on the task and the displays before him as he increased his altitude. Most of his attention was on the actual act of flying, of trying to adjust to the reality of what he had only controlled in a simulator. He could hear ground control speaking in his ear, and he moved through the various maneuvers requested.

The X-302 responded beautifully, and he cut through the sky like a king. Everything seemed to be performing perfectly thus far, and the next system to test was the inertial dampeners. Following the voices in his ear, John yanked up on the yoke, gravity pulling at him like a jealous lover.

The increased g-factor also increased the chance of g-induced loss of consciousness, one of a pilot's worst fears. John hadn't actually experienced g-LOC personally, but he had gotten close on one of the first fighters he had been testing when he had taken a turn almost too tight for his body to handle.

Between 2g and 3g like John was at right now, his limbs grew twice as heavy and it was a feat of strength to keep his head erect and stay focused on the controls, but it was as the turn accelerated him into 4g when things had started to turn hairy. All of his blood began to pool in his legs, making them feel heavy, full; and he was sure that the white specks he had seen were due to the lack of blood reaching his brain. It was when the color faded from his vision and suddenly narrowed into a dark tunnel that John had known he was in trouble.

He hadn't actually lost consciousness, but his body had become so unresponsive it was close to the same thing. The loss of control had been almost as paralyzing as the actual experience.

"You can switch on the inertial dampening system whenever you're ready, Sheppard."

"Will do."

Steadying his flight path, he used one hand to flip the necessary switches to activate the system. The effect wasn't sudden, more of a gradual decrease in cabin pressure until John no longer felt like he had even left the ground. Only the slight, almost distant rumbling of the jet engine reaching his ears seemed to indicate that he was even in the air.

"Okay, that's definitely new," he muttered into his mask.

"New? New as in good or new as in very bad and we need to bring you down right now?" Ah, there was Rodney. John thought he had been far too quiet up to this point.

"New as in different," he clarified, still trying to adjust to the sensation of steadily climbing altitude without the oppressive effects of gravity. In future models, there was talk of making the whole thing automated, but John was thankful for the control this time around.

They continued to follow through the flight plan, and so far everything was performing as promised. Handling was smooth, almost too smooth as the inertial dampeners negated most of the force effects that John relied on to tell him when he was turning and where. It was almost like he was sitting in the simulator, where the slight lurch in his stomach was caused by the seat tilting ever so slightly. He was deep into a turn, yet there was no centrifugal force trying to pull him against his seat and melt his spine.

"Sheppard, you're overcompensating, back off a bit."

John slowly eased off the yoke. The displays indicated that he had been pulling 6g, but it had felt more like applying the brakes on a slow-moving car. "Okay, this is really weird."

"Yes, I'm sure all your blood not being pushed to your extremities and your brain actually getting oxygen for a change is very disconcerting."

"You always know how to lighten the mood, Rodney."

"I'm just saying this should be an improvement—"

"How is everything looking from down there?" he interrupted before Rodney could get started on a tirade. This entire thing was very new, and the last thing he could afford was a distraction because McKay needed to get in the last word.

"Good," came the terse reply.

"We'd like to move into testing the next set of engines," Murphy's reedy voice came across the headset. "Do you think you can compensate adequately?"

"Let me try that last maneuver one more time." A quiver of excitement ran through him, but John had to squash it down and focus on the displays. "Just to make sure."

The term "shakedown" was an absolutely horrid one that conjured all sorts of thoughts of parts not fully riveted down so that they all came apart suddenly at the least opportune moment. Rodney decided that after this whole maiden flight was done, he would track down whoever had been responsible for coining the term and shake them down and see how much they liked it.

He stood next to the computer terminal, arms crossed tightly against his chest as if he were standing sentry over the uplink to the plane. Langham had entered politician mode, and was trying to curry favor with Colonel Simmons and the rest of the brass. He barely caught the eye of the heavy-set Texan general, and quickly averted his gaze back to the display.

Having Hammond so close by was almost nice. Almost. The general seemed to like Rodney about as far as he could throw him, but the man had been the only one to look behind the crazy allegations of Rodney trying to sabotage his own experiments. Of course, he had probably also heard about the unfortunate loss of Rodney's expensive spy glasses, and the irritated glower he occasionally shot in the scientist's direction was probably not pasted on for effect. Rodney was trying to make up for it by sneaking in whatever information he could get past the keyloggers and desktop sniffers. The paltry amount of mostly useless information that could fit on the USB drive wouldn't be enough, but he was trying.

Without warning, every hair on the back of Rodney's neck began to rise as a cold shiver ran up his spine. Maybe he was getting better at this whole spy—damn it—corporate espionage thing, because he didn't need to turn around to know that Marrick had made an appearance and was now giving Rodney the stink eye.

It should have been freeing to know that Marrick couldn't do a damn thing in such a crowded room, especially not with Hammond watching... but he just felt trapped. There was no way he was abandoning his self-assigned post at the computer terminal, because with how Sheppard had been talking on his bugged balcony, and in all likelihood was still eyeing that confounded door, Rodney didn't put it past these bastards to try something. There was an emergency remote flight on the X-302's onboard computer that might be able to land the plane if absolutely necessary—and with the speeds and altitude Sheppard was currently flying, the human body was very fragile.

Rodney adjusted his stance, ready to stand there for the long haul.

A surreptitious glance over his shoulder revealed Marrick pulling Langham aside for a private conversation. Hammond didn't seem to think anything of this, eyes glued to the displays indicating Sheppard's progress. If only Rodney had been equipped with a bionic ear, he could listen in on whatever the two were discussing. But then that same spine-tingling dread crawled up his back, and Rodney realized that he didn't need any superpowers to deduce the subject of their conversation.

His breath caught in his throat and he was so focused on trying to appear absorbed in the proceedings of the flight, that he actually missed all the indications of them shifting to the last phase of the test.

"Firing up pulse detonation engine now," Sheppard's voice came across the comm loud and clear, confidence threaded with a barely restrained boyish excitement.

Rodney might have smiled if he hadn't been digging painful craters into his palms with his nails. He had been over everything at least three, probably four—okay, in all honesty, at least five—times. Six if he was counting that final check of the software and specs in the control room itself.

He had to remind himself to breathe as he watched the power levels stay within the optimal range. The rate of detonations on the working model of the engine far exceeded that of the first test firing, and while Rodney had written every safety protocol known to man (and invented perhaps a few more), it was hard to trust his own work when a hard stare was boring into his back.

God... he was so in over his head.

As high off the ground as John was, speed almost seemed relative. Looking out the canopy didn't really provide much in the way of a frame of reference, as the ground was so far below it just lazily stretched on by. According to the instruments, right now he was approaching mach three and pulling about 9gs. With the inertial dampeners engaged, all of the physical cues had been dulled so it almost felt like taking a leisurely stroll through the park.

The power it was cranking out was astounding, making the plane seem as though it were skimming through the atmosphere like a duck on the surface of a pond, and he hadn't even begun to start pushing the engine. At forty-nine thousand feet and climbing fast, the X-302 was putting every plane John had ever flown, and probably even those he'd only heard of, to shame.

The distinctive thrum of the engine followed him higher into the stratosphere. Eighty thousand feet off the ground, and he could see everywhere. Through the cloud cover, John could catch snatches of the Pacific coastline, his mind filling in the blanks that would normally be labeled on a map.

The barely breathed "wow" didn't reach his ears, but obviously it had reached the control room, because Rodney had somehow snatched a communication line again. "What, what is it?"

"This is just..." Cool didn't begin to cover it. Awesome was too pedestrian. Amazing wasn't adequate.

"Just what?"

From the tension in his friend's voice, John wasn't sure if he'd truly appreciate the sight beneath him—at least not without a few rounds of Jose Cuervo. If John didn't need to keep his attention on the controls, he would have gaped in wonder with every fiber of his being. It probably didn't touch the view astronauts got from orbit, but John wasn't complaining.

"Just... wow."

It figured. Here Rodney was on the ground trying to make sure no one sabotaged the bane of his existence so Sheppard didn't die in a fiery crash, and the pilot was whispering in wonder like a little kid. Yes, yes, he was traveling at an altitude and speed that almost no humans could touch, but could Sheppard perhaps try to dial back the childlike wonder so that Rodney didn't feel like a heel every single time he tried to bring focus back to the very important test going on?

On the bright side, Rodney was fairly sure that Langham and Marrick's focus had shifted away from him. He had never really understood what people meant when they talked about people walking across their grave, but he now found the description particularly apt. The cold sweat that had beaded at the nape of his neck had already dried due to the control room's recirculated air, and the phantom spidery legs stopped crawling along his spine. Rodney could only assume that meant he was no longer being studied closely.

The control room was stifling, so many bodies crowded together, that he really wished he could just slip outside and wait for Sheppard to land. However, Rodney had appointed himself with one job. That lone task was to make sure that damned glider remained untampered with so it could land without incident, and he was determined to see it through.

There were deep gouges in his palm from where the nubs of his fingernails had dug, and he'd been forced to change positions before he broke the skin and drew blood. He should have been able to hear his heart hammering in his ears, felt the blood pumping through his veins, because there were few times he had been quite this terrified. None of the typical flight or fight responses were rearing their heads. Instead he just felt sick.

He wasn't sure how long he stared ahead blankly when he should have been taking mental notes on the glider's performance, but at some point Sheppard was asking for clearance to land. Rodney's legs nearly gave out from under him; the console he'd been protecting was now being used to keep him upright.

However, Rodney was paranoid, and he didn't leave his self-assigned post until the glider had safely taxied back to its original position and its pilot was detaching himself from the various safety equipment tethering him to the cockpit. Excited calls were ringing through the room and talks of the entire X-302 team invading the nearest watering hole echoed around Rodney's ears.

He almost managed to escape in the crush of excitement sweeping over the room, but Langham snagged his arm just before he could reach the door that would lead Rodney out to the tarmac. "Dr. McKay, a word."

Rodney's pasted on smile hardly wavered as he turned to face his supervisor. "Yes?"

"I know I said this before, but I wanted to reiterate how much help your expertise and insight has been in getting us to this point."

This was the moment that Rodney knew he had been working there too long. In a little more than three months a compliment that usually would have had him thrusting his chest out and preening like a proud peacock now made him instantly suspicious and wary. "I was just... doing my job."

"And an impressive one at that." Langham's smooth, smarmy voice almost made Rodney's tightly wound nerves come undone. "Your references weren't lying."

Rodney had a reference sheet a mile long, each ream of paper full of glowing commendations on his work ethic and his brilliance—but he had never provided them to Vertrauen. The fake smile remained in place as he nodded. "Well, that's good."

"Don't be late tomorrow morning."

"What?" Rodney blinked at the lack of a segue.

"Too much 'celebratory' beer might make it hard for you to wake up."

After Rodney's last foray into heavy drinking, that sounded about as fun as ramming his head into a brick wall. Oh wait, that's exactly how that night had ended. "I'll be on time."

"Good." Langham's smile was tight now, almost anxious. "There's something I'd like to show you."

Before Rodney could ask exactly what that was, he was practically tackled by an overly exuberant John Sheppard, whose spirits had not yet left the high altitudes that the X-302 had reached.

John wasn't what people would consider a man of many words, but trying to describe the exhilaration of flying the X-302 to the sourpuss next to him might have taken a novel's worth of explanation. "It was just... just..."

Rodney was still sipping on the large glass of water he had ordered at the beginning of the celebration, occasionally glancing at the time on his cell phone.

"Are you even listening to me?"

"What?" The glasses had slipped down almost to the tip of Rodney's nose, and he barely flicked a glance in John's direction.

"I was just saying that's when I smote the dragon Trogdor and rescued the prissy Princess Meredith from her tower of sarcasm."

"I knew you could do it."

"Then I had to turn down her marriage proposal because it turned out she was actually a man and that's not legal in Arizona, and wow, you're really not listening."

"Fascinating," was the noncommittal hum.

"I could probably go and say something sacrilegious to Canadians like Celine Dion is overrated, and you'd just agree with me."

"You know it."

"Pi is exactly three!"

"...what?" The cell phone smacked resoundly against the table. "I thought you said you had a bachelor's degree in math!"

"I do," John couldn't resist smirking, "but welcome to the conversation."

Rodney sputtered, and John snatched the cell phone out of his hand before he could get absorbed in its fascinating display of the time of the evening. "Do you have a hot date tonight or something?"

"No." Rodney tried to snatch the phone away, but John held it just out of his reach. "I'm just expecting an important call."

"From who?"

"None of your damn business!" Rodney stretched as far as he could in the booth without actually standing, and nearly toppled over as he lost his balance. He glared at John, annoyance simmering under the surface. "Give me my phone."

"Fine." John tossed the phone at him without much consideration for aim, and it smacked the scientist in the chest. "If you're going to be such a killjoy maybe I'll go join the engineering department in their jello shots."

"Real men don't take jello shots!"

"Whatever helps you sleep at night, Rodney." John rolled his eyes and pushed away from the booth. It was stupid for him to remain in the dark corner waiting for McKay to shake off his funk and join the rest of the world in a little bit of hard-earned revelry. If he couldn't, then John would just go join the rest of the happy people at the bar.

It had been a long time since John had such a natural high, and he wasn't ready for Rodney Buzzkill to dampen the mood. Even if the fact that Rodney wouldn't loosen up and join in the festivities...

...wasn't John's business.

"I'll have a lemon shooter on your behalf."

"Oh, ha ha."

John gave him a tight smile before elbowing his way up to the bar. It remained frozen in place as Zelenka slapped a hand on his shoulder and offered to buy some unpronounceable drink that could have been native to his home country. At least John hoped it was a drink, because the actual translation was as lost on him as Zelenka's weakening grasp of the English language.

He allowed the first drink, and politeness forced John to down the burning shot. As the rest of the engineers lined up to share their drink of choice with John, he realized that he had proceeded into dangerous territory without his trusty wingman to pawn the shots off on.

He twisted in his spot at the bar, intending to wave Rodney over to join the rest of the party, but there was only an empty table where he had left the physicist. John quickly scanned the bar, but couldn't see the tell-tale grimace among the patrons. The bawdy atmosphere drowned out most conversation, so perhaps McKay had received his mysterious phone call and had taken it outside in order to hear it.

"I don't like this," Lorne said as he pulled out a wrapped package from underneath his light jacket. "There are too many of your co-workers here."

"Well, I have to keep up appearances," Rodney snapped, holding out a hand expectantly. "If I didn't come to this stupid little celebration someone might wonder."

Lorne didn't look convinced. "Yes, you're the raging socialite."

"Shut up," he growled, snapping his fingers impatiently. "Now hand it over."

"You think you can avoid crushing this pair in any bar fights?"

"I'll do my best!"

Reluctantly, Lorne handed over the package. "You have no idea how hard it was to find you another set."

Impatiently Rodney tore away the packaging to reveal a new pair of the specially made glasses. He held them up to eye level, and after several moments snapped off the temporary glasses so he could actually see unhindered. "I assume they work the same?"

"Just pair it up with your watch. Should be the same passkey as last time."

"The battery life on these things are horrible, just so you know." Rodney wrinkled his nose in distaste. "Bluetooth is an energy hog of a technology."

"Then maybe you and your new employers can invent a pair of spy glasses that won't be so inconvenient."

"I'm just saying that I'm the only person on Earth who has to recharge his seeing eye glasses every night," Rodney grumbled and slipped the new pair into his shirt pocket.

Lorne turned to the side and ducked into the shadow of the bar as someone walked by. After a few moments he turned to look back at Rodney. "Is there anything else?"

"Hammond was at the test today, so he can give you any pertinent info on that."

"That's not what I was talking about."

"Well, then what? The only thing that might be of interest is whatever they're showing me tomorrow."

"Any idea what?"

He gave Lorne a look. "Please. That requires them to not be vague and entirely unhelpful."

"It could be something."

"Yeah right," Rodney snorted derisively. "It's probably just another stupid last minute addition they're going to want to add to the X-302."

"It's still something," Lorne insisted.

"Whatever," Rodney muttered, "I'll get your pictures to you on Saturday. Fat lot of good they'll do you."

"We could reschedule for tomorrow night."

"I can't. I'm busy."

"You?" Lorne eyed him skeptically. "I find that hard to believe."

"I can have plans!"

"With who?"

Rodney looked away momentarily.

"Sheppard?"

"And Beckett," Rodney tacked on. "It's just a hockey game. They're a little obsessed with sports bars. I'm thinking of staging an intervention."

"I don't like it."

"What? Is hockey too Canadian for your American sensibilities?"

"No, I mean I don't like delaying." Like always, Lorne didn't seem to want to waste time for lame jokes or idle chitchat. "The less time you have those pictures the better."

"You mean the less time you have to risk not getting them," Rodney snapped.

"Well, there wouldn't be a risk if you'd just follow protocol."

"I am following protocol: I'm chumming up with all the little sycophants here."

"We were scheduled to meet elsewhere."

"Well, change of plans! Roll with the punches, Major!"

Lorne shot him a glare for the slip-up, but Rodney could hardly care. "It's a good thing Hammond was listening when you were making your party plans, otherwise I wouldn't have known what was wrong when you didn't show up."

"It's not my fault you're hard to contact," Rodney sniped back. "After all, you're the one who insists no cell phones, no names, no anything that might make communication, oh, you know, possible!"

"Damn it," Lorne's voice remained quiet, but was laced with frustration and barely checked anger, "we've been over this a thousand times. They can intercept just about any message."

"Then don't blame me if things are difficult."

"Maybe it would be easier if you were more careful."

"Please, I'm Mr. Careful."

"Yes, that's why I had to risk exposure to get you a replacement camera for the one you broke."

"That was not my fault!" Rodney seethed. "I'm not some grunt trained for combat situations. I'm a scientific genius."

"Your genius seems to be taking a leave of absence lately."

"Yes, well, that tends to happen when I'm put in a situation where I'm in over my head!"

Lorne shushed him. "Are you trying to make a scene?"

"Maybe!" They both glared at each other, Rodney's nostrils flaring like a bull getting ready to charge and Lorne's gaze narrowing dangerously. Finally, Rodney relented, puffing his cheeks out in one angry huff, crossing his arms and looking away. "I want another deal."

"Another deal?"

"Like the one you're doing for my sister."

"Do you have another relative stashed away that you just suddenly remembered needed protecting?"

"No, I just... it's for Sheppard."

"What?"

"Look, he's talking too much. I caught him nosing around that stupid vault door of theirs the other day, and he's not listening to me when I tell him to back off."

"And?"

"And? And? And he's going to get himself killed!"

"That's not our problem."

"The hell it isn't!"

"Sheppard wasn't part of the deal—how can we even be sure he's not on their side?"

The thought of John Sheppard as a double agent made Rodney snort. "Oh, come on. He's practically a Boy Scout."

"No, McKay."

"Look, I'll be able to concentrate a lot better on what needs to be done if I don't need to worry about him getting fitted with a pair of cement shoes."

"I can't do it."

"Well, why not? You guys have someone watching out for Jeannie!"

"Your sister doesn't work for Vertrauen, and she's also not causing trouble."

"You have to—"

"No, we don't."

"He's one of you people!"

"He's retired."

"What does that change? Come on—"

"McKay, I'm not going to tell you again. I already warned you about your judgment being compromised."

"Compromised?"

"There's way too much riding on this for you to risk exposure. Sheppard's not your concern."

"He's my friend!" It was supposed to guilt Lorne into agreeing to the protection but once said aloud, the truth behind the vehement statement smacked Rodney right between the eyes. He couldn't think about that now, maybe later he'd bang his head into a wall for letting this happen. Right now he needed Lorne to see just how imperative it was for him to agree. Rodney took a step in closer. "And he's also the only person who's actually done anything resembling protection since I took this stupid assignment—"

Lorne matched Rodney step-for-step, and soon they were inches away, both seething. "I am keeping you safe—cleaning up the messes you keep leaving behind because of your friend butting in."

"Leave him out of this!"

"You brought him into this whole conversation!" Lorne punctuated the statement by poking Rodney in the chest, hard.

"That hurt," Rodney growled, poking Lorne back.

Lorne grabbed the jabbing hand with a little more force than necessary. "Knock it off—"

"Hey!" Speak of the devil. Rodney had to give it to Sheppard, the man had perfect timing. "Let him go."

Lorne quickly dropped Rodney's wrist and gave him an angry glower as he slipped away. Rodney barely made out the muttered confirmation of their Saturday meeting before he melted into the shadows. Rubbing his wrist, Rodney tried to ignore the way Sheppard was hovering at his side.

"What the hell was that about?"

"Nothing," he muttered.

"Yeah, because it totally didn't look like you were about to be shaken down."

"Leave it alone, Sheppard," Rodney muttered dangerously. "I'm not in the mood."

"What's going on with you?"

"Me? Why aren't you taking belly shots or whatever inside?"

"You've been gone for almost half an hour."

"Why should you care? You're not my keeper!"

"I'm guessing that was the call you were waiting for," Sheppard said darkly. "Who was he?"

"You don't need to know."

"Is it money?"

"Excuse me?" Rodney tried to feign innocence.

"The trouble you're in—and don't try to tell me that you're not, because I can tell when you're lying." Damn lousy poker skills. If Rodney could manage to bluff, then maybe Sheppard would just back off. As it was, his friend's face just clouded over in a mix of concern and anger. "I can't help you if you don't talk to me."

"Then you can't help me."

"Damn it, Rodney—"

"I know it's a difficult concept for you to grasp," Rodney snapped, "but there are some things you're better off not knowing."

"And what about you?"

The naked concern was so smothering he had to turn away and start back for the bar, and felt more than saw Sheppard jogging to catch up with him. He wrenched away his shoulder when a hand was laid on it. "Leave me alone."

"Rodney..."

"No," he growled, "just do me a favor and for once in your life, mind your own damn business!"

The hand withdrew, and Rodney tried to ignore the almost wounded look he was fixed with. If he tried to apologize, he would lose the last shreds of his tattered self-composure. He was on his own and it had to stay that way.

He refused to let anyone get killed for trying to help him.