Young stood over Rush's unconscious form and waited to feel the bitter, hollow ache that always filled him in the aftermath of his rage, but it didn't come. Instead, he merely felt subdued and a little shaky. The unfamiliar anger that had manifested as a buzzing along his spine and a crackle of energy across his skin had dissipated entirely. He was tired and bruised, and he could still taste blood from the cut on the inside of his cheek, but his mind was quiet.

The fight had been a revelation. Despite his own extensive training, Young had expected the advantage to be with Rush. But Rush's reaction time had been uncharacteristically sluggish. In fact, from Young's perspective, Rush had almost seemed to be moving in slow motion. Young, on the hand, had never been so quick on his feet. He had had no muscle memory to rely on, but the rapidity of his thoughts had more than compensated for that handicap. He had been able to assess and to strategize on the fly, absorbing information and converting it to action so quickly that it felt more like reflex than conscious movement. It had been desperate. It had been exhilarating. It had been just a little bit like flying.

Now that it was over, Young was no longer quite sure how to feel. He only knew that he felt unlike himself. And maybe it was better not to examine his emotions too closely right now. This numbness in the wake of exertion was rather nice. In fact, he hadn't realized quite how overactive his borrowed brain had been until this moment, when it finally took a breather.

He stepped away from Rush, grunting softly as he put weight on his ankle. That was going to be sore for a few days, and so would his jaw where Rush had caught him with that ill-advised punch. But other than those minor hurts and a slight worsening of his headache, Young had emerged from the fight relatively unscathed. He was certainly feeling better than Rush was going to when the bastard woke up.

Young made his way slowly to the table and pulled out a chair. It might be petty of him, but he wanted to have the height advantage for the impending conversation. He dropped into the chair with a soft sigh, threaded his fingers through his hair, and stared grimly at Rush. At Rush in his body. At Rush crumpled against the wall in his body. Jesus, this was a mess.

He didn't want to think about Eli's face as he babbled about his mother, panic and grief and anger all mingling together in his voice and turning it shrieky. He didn't want to think of the same scenario playing out over and over again, the same heartbreak written over the faces of every member of his crew. He didn't want to think of the collective despair that would inevitably turn to fury and hate. The last mutiny had been nothing to what Young was facing now, and as for Rush? Well, his life expectancy could probably be measured in days if the science team couldn't undo what he had done.

"You know, you're really fucking stupid for such a smart guy," Young muttered. He braced his elbows on his knees and propped his chin in his hands, gazing at the still figure across from him. His hair slipped into his eyes, but he didn't brush it away. The sensation of soft, feathery strands brushing against his face was beginning to feel almost normal.

"I wish I knew what you were thinking sometimes," he continued in a low voice. "I can't make sense of it. I thought we were in this together. 'Side by side, for the benefit of everyone.' Those were your words, Rush. Your words. And I was really starting to believe them."

The worst thing about all of this was how much it actually hurt. Now that his post-combat apathy was fading, Young couldn't help focusing on all the pretty-sounding promises that Rush had so casually ground into the deck plating under his boots. It went deeper than the anger, this sense of betrayal. It revealed how much Young had valued their fragile, fledgeling trust, and how much he had wanted it to flourish into a strong partnership. Well, he should have known better than to give into the soft, sweet lure of hope, especially where Rush was concerned. Disappointment had been inevitable.

A groan issued from the source of Young's current problems, and he sighed. It was time for another one of their fun little chats, in which Rush would justify his actions by throwing all the blame back on Young, and Young would have to grit his teeth and count to ten and resist the urge to throttle him.

Rush groaned again and curled into himself. Still feeling that knee to the groin, no doubt. Then he twitched, drew in a sharp breath, and opened his eyes, staring directly at Young. Young returned his gaze calmly. Rush blinked rapidly, brows drawn together in a look of such profound confusion that Young almost wanted to laugh at the sight. He was sure his face had never been half so expressive throughout the entire course of his life before Rush got a hold of it.

At first, Young attributed Rush's apparent shock to the fact that he had lost their fight. But when something resembling wonder joined the confusion in Rush's eyes, Young had to reevaluate that assumption. It dawned on him suddenly that Rush wasn't surprised that Young had beaten him. He was surprised that Young hadn't killed him.

Oh, for fuck's sake.

If Rush still couldn't trust Young not to fucking murder him at a moment's notice, then it wasn't all that surprising that he didn't trust Young in smaller matters, either. Young knew the blame for that was all on him, but goddamnit, would they never get past this? Would the dust of that barren world where he had left Rush cling to them forever?

Young stared into Rush's eyes, thinking of alien planets and primary school bullies, and felt something give within his chest. God, but Rush looked pathetic right now. And it was so much worse this time, because Rush was wearing Young's face, and Young hated to see that poignant mingling of pain, fear, uncertainty, and awe spread across his own features. So it was in a surprisingly gentle tone that Young finally asked, "What were you thinking, Rush?"

Rush blinked again. He struggled up into something closer to a sitting position, his back to the wall and his limbs folded awkwardly inward. His arms were crossed tightly over his chest, as if he might unravel if he let go. "I told you," he murmured. "I couldn't risk Telford-"

"Telford could only have taken my place if I had used the stones, genius," Young interrupted him. He kept his tone as light and reasonable as he could manage, but some of his frustration managed to creep in. "I was planning to send a proxy to sort things out, make sure that you got a fair hearing. Anyone coming through from Earth would have had an armed guard to make sure they didn't try to mess with the stones again. We could have handled it Rush. I told you I would handle it."

Rush's brow knitted in confusion again. He squinted at Young as if not quite sure he was really seeing him. "Proxy?"

"Camile," Young said. "She was going to get the IOA to back you. It might surprise you to know that she's bristling with righteous indignation on your behalf."

"You don't say." Rush sounded unconvinced.

"It's true. Although I expect all that indignation to find a new target when she finds out about this."

Rush winced. "I had no choice. Even if Telford hadn't replaced you, would you have disobeyed a direct order if, for example, General O'Neill had used the stones to demand your compliance?"

Young shook his head, then absently carded his fingers through his hair. Rush's eyes followed the motion curiously. "General O'Neill is not an unreasonable man, Rush. I doubt any of this was his idea. So yeah, I'd welcome the opportunity to talk to him about it. I'd love to hear his comments on the practice of forcibly ripping people from their own bodies over nebulous concerns about their 'probity.' Fuck, Rush. If that becomes a regular thing, everyone on this ship is liable to be exiled from their bodies at a moment's notice. We're none of us saints."

Rush's mouth quirked to one side in a brief acknowledgement of the truth of that statement. "So now what?" he asked softly.

"Now you undo whatever it was you did to those stones."

Rush shook his head. "Can't be done, I'm afraid. My program replaced the code at random. There's no untangling it."

"You'd better hope that's not true," Young said, finally allowing his voice to take on a harder edge, "or life on this ship is going to get pretty unpleasant for you pretty damn fast."

Rush looked like he knew it. He seemed to shrink still further into himself, and his expression went blank, as if he had turned his gaze inward. Was he remembering the taste of bile on his tongue and the dirt under his fingernails and the seemingly endless rain of blows on every exposed inch of his body? And was he already concocting some new scheme to undermine the bullies in his life?

"Rush," Young said softly. Rush twitched and shot him a complicated look that Young couldn't decipher. He seemed suddenly more alert, and Young could practically see the wheels turning behind his eyes. Not a good sign. "It could already be common knowledge, you know. Eli can be discreet when necessary, but he was pretty worked up when he left. The rest of the science team know, at any rate."

"Yes, but it doesn't have to go any further than that if it hasn't already," Rush said hastily. "It would only damage morale."

"Which will happen anyway if the stones can't be fixed," Young pointed out. "And do you expect Eli and the science team to keep quiet forever about the real reason they're broken?"

Rush apparently didn't have an answer for that.

Young sighed and rubbed at his aching temples. "I'll tell Eli and the others to keep this under wraps for now, if it isn't already too late. I'd stay out of their way for a while, though, if I were you."

"If you were me." Rush murmured, lips curving into one of his sarcastic little smiles.

Young felt an answering smile tug at the corners of his own mouth. "Yeah."

For a moment they held each other's eyes, and Young felt like they might have reached a point of tentative understanding. They were united by this shared predicament, this fish-out-of-water experience they were both living through, and maybe they could use that to find their way back into some semblance of the alliance they had shared before.

But then abruptly, Rush's smile morphed into a sneer. "Well, you're not me, Colonel," he said, somehow giving a silken texture to Young's gravelly voice. "Don't think that just because you wear my skin, you know anything about me. You don't."

Young snorted in disgusted amusement. Right. Okay. After what Rush had put him through today, he wasn't going to let that fly. He was still angry, still hurt, still grieving over broken trust and shattered promises, and he had been so very patient up until this point. But now he was done. "You know what?" he snapped, rising to his feet. "You're absolutely right. I don't know a goddamn thing about you, Rush. If I did, I wouldn't have trusted you alone with the stones today. But I kinda thought we had this thing going where we actually talk to each other before we make decisions that affect the whole crew. I guess I just wasn't listening closely enough back when you said our 'differences' were behind us."

He ran his fingers through his hair distractedly, feeling this body's buzzing temper come back to life. He had to fight to keep from shaking with it. It almost made him miss his own cold, black rages - at least they could be put to good use. "But you, Rush," he continued, working to keep his voice under control, "You don't know me either. If you did, this wouldn't have happened, and we wouldn't be having this conversation right now."

That was it, he needed to go. Young didn't want to hear Rush's response or find out what kind of contemptuous or recalcitrant expression he was projecting onto Young's own face. He just wanted out of Rush's presence, out of this pointless conversation. He made his way to the doorway, taking it slow but refusing to limp on his twisted ankle.

Just before he left the room, thoughts of playground fights and desperate resolutions flickered through his mind again, making him hesitate. He stood in the doorway, torn between his desire to escape and that faint yet lingering impulse to repair the bridges that Rush had just torn down. In his indecision, he looked back at Rush.

Rush was watching him intently, his face unreadable. Right. Well, Young hadn't exactly been expecting contrition.

"Quick question," he said, forcing a casual note into his tone.

Rush's brows went up. He lifted a hand and waved it in Young's direction, inviting him to continue.

"When you were a kid," Young asked, "did you own a book bag with a broken strap?"

The instantaneous transformation of Rush's expression would have been comical if Young hadn't had personal insight into the memories and emotions responsible for it. As it was, Rush's stricken and deeply confused appearance was less satisfying than Young had anticipated. "Y-yes," Rush stuttered out after a pause, and then his eyes narrowed sharply. "Why-?"

Young shrugged. "Just curious."

Rush looked like he was gearing up to ask more questions, but Young was not in the mood. He offered Rush a grim, humorless smile and then left the room. He had better uses for his time right now than to waste it on his errant chief scientist.