The ship was reassuringly quiet as Young made his way to the shower room with a bundle of clothes tucked under his arm. Most of the crew was asleep, which was just as well. Taking a shower was going to be awkward enough without a potential audience. The design of the shower stalls on Destiny really didn't do much to promote privacy. And no, Young had never been self-conscious about his own nudity before - the military trained that out of you pretty quick - but it was different in Rush's body. He hadn't even taken a thorough look at himself yet. He certainly didn't want to give anyone else an eyeful.

At least he didn't have to do this with his head pounding and his shoulders aching. He had taken his first dose of TJ's medicinal powder a few hours ago, and now he was almost pain-free. There was just that hint of a languid, floating sensation that he imagined could be very pleasurable at a higher dose, but he was sticking to his one pinch every four hours, thank you very much. He'd leave the 'clinical trials' to the science team.

Young unfolded the spare SGC uniform he had uncovered in the supply room - it had previously belonged to Corporal Gorman, and looked like it would fit Rush's small figure fairly well - and hung it over the glass partition of the shower stall. Then came the first of the awkward steps to getting clean: undressing. Young swallowed and stared down at himself, trying to figure out where to start. He decided to take off Rush's boots first out of sheer cowardice. But once his socks had also been discarded, he had to man up and get serious about this. He hastily slipped out of Rush's vest and then pulled both t-shirts over his head all at once.

And that was where things started to go downhill. Because Rush's chest was nearly hairless, which he found he liked, and Rush's flat stomach was really quite nice. Young pressed his hand to his abdomen and traced the outline of lean muscles under soft skin. Rush was skinny, but he was stronger than he looked. Young had known that for quite a while. But it was a different thing to be able to feel the evidence with his own - okay, with Rush's - fingertips.

But he was letting himself get sidetracked. Flushing slightly, he unbuckled Rush's belt and shoved down his jeans and underwear without delay or ceremony. He then kicked Rush's clothes off to one side and stepped into the shower, promising himself that he would not get distracted again.

The warm mist felt as delicious against his bare skin as always, and that was comforting. Not that he had really expected bathing to be all that different in Rush's body than in his own. Except for the whole minefield of being naked while inhabiting a body he was perversely attracted to, of course, which he was not thinking about.

While continuing to not think about that, he began to massage the mist into his skin, starting with his scalp and working his way down. This strategy worked great until he got to a certain point, and then he paused, staring helplessly down at himself. Because there was Rush's cock, soft and uncut and nestled amidst curling brown hair, and it looked so very tempting. Young's fingers itched to touch and explore and experiment. If only he weren't hampered by this inconvenient twinge of guilt.

And why should he feel guilty, after all? It was mostly Rush's fault that he was in this situation. Rush had broken the stones. Rush had either delayed or destroyed their ability to return to their own bodies. Rush had betrayed him. So was Young supposed to abstain from any kind of sexual release forever, out of politeness? It seemed absurd, viewed in that light. Rush really had no right to fault him for anything he chose to do with this body.

Tentatively, Young reached down to take Rush's cock in hand. It was already beginning to stir, responding to his growing excitement. He used his thumb to nudge back the foreskin and swipe over the head, and he drew in a quick breath at the sensation. Wow, okay. Sensitive. Young blinked a few times, feeling his pulse speed up. He adjusted his grip on his hardening cock and tried a few quick strokes. He winced. Too rough. Rush required a slightly gentler touch, apparently. He tried again, and this time… oh yes, that was perfect. That rhythm was divine, and if he gripped himself just so…

Young groaned softly and leaned his back against the glass. He arched his back and gave himself up to pleasure, abandoning any notion of maintaining boundaries between himself and this borrowed body. He was so sick of denying himself in one way or another. He was going to take this, and he was going to draw every last ounce of enjoyment from it.

Rush's erect cock was long and slender and pretty, just as Young would have predicted. It was almost elegant, if something so carnal could be described in such a way. He loved the feel of it in his… well, in Rush's hand. That set him off thinking what it would actually feel like in his own larger, stronger hand, but no, it was better not to think about that right now. This was weird enough already.

He increased the speed of his strokes, but it still wasn't quite enough. He began to move his hips instead, thrusting up into his fist. Yes. Oh fuck. That was brilliant. The little noises that escaped him made him feel even more desperate, because that was Rush's voice and he had never heard Rush sound so vulnerable or needy. Those gasps and whimpers were exquisite. And he wasn't supposed to be thinking about Rush, he wasn't supposed to be thinking about Rush, but his mind went there anyway and god, the images in his head would terrify him if he wasn't so damn turned on. Images of Rush writhing under his hands and crying out with pleasure. Rush sprawled out, open and inviting. Rush trusting Young, for once in his damn life, to do something other than hurt him. And Young wouldn't disappoint. Young would give him more bliss than he knew what to do with. Young would…

Young sucked in a sharp breath and threw back his head, vibrating with his release. Then he sagged back against the glass partition. There were spots floating before his eyes and a buzzing in his head and a tingling energy all over his body. He focused on these physical sensations rather than on any of the forbidden fantasies that had just intruded upon his climax. He was going to shove those firmly back into the dark recesses of his mind where they usually lived, exiled and unacknowledged. Because while his attraction to Rush wasn't anything new, present circumstances made it even more inconvenient than usual.

He just hoped that the stones could be fixed and things could revert back to normal soon. In the meantime, he'd take TJ's advice and start a new course of study. Maybe that would have a dampening effect on his libido.

Rush leaned back against the headboard of his bed and acknowledged the utility of keeping out of the way for a while. In fact it was no hardship to concentrate on his own interests rather than face the tedium of administration and all the little stressors that came from other people's unreasonableness. He had gladly sorted through the devices in his newly opened shed and concluded that they all belonged to one larger machine – that they slotted together somehow to produce one unified effect.

He had his suspicions about what he was building, but he reserved final judgement until he had it complete. In the mean time, assembling a ridiculously complicated alien device out of its constituent parts with no blueprint but for a vague feeling of what fitted where... it was an absorbing challenge that he was happy to have the time to work on.

He massaged his temples with his fingers, trying to stave off the inevitable return of his headache. His right hand throbbed from where he had lost his temper with himself this morning and slammed it against the wall. While he had to give it to this brain that it did in fact get there eventually, working with it was like being a salmon trying to swim up a waterfall. The fucking effort involved, he'd had no idea. The waste of time. The frustration. He could not stay like this.

And he was so fucking tired. He was tired like the marrow of his bones had been replaced with dust and the flesh on him was lead. He was tired like the air was sump oil and it was labour to breathe. He opened his eyes in the mornings and thought 'no, God, not again.' He couldn't understand where this was coming from, because as far as he knew this body was fit and healthy, younger than his own, and ought to be spilling over with vitality. He should not be so drained.

But he was, and potential lynchings aside he refused to be driven out of his own quarters by any threat, so although he kept off the crew's radar willingly enough while he was working, he returned often to his room to sleep. They only had to come by frequently if they really wanted to find him. For a beating, or whatever.

None had done so, so far. Three days in, he was beginning to relax his vigilance a little, dare to entertain the possibility that none would. So the knock on the door as he was lying down to rest was unwelcome. His heart rate kicked up a little, but not much. It was too heavy for fear.

He opened the door.

"Rush."

"Young."

Of course it was Young. He didn't wish to speak to Young or think of him, so of course he was to be forced to do both.

The man looked like he'd made himself very at home in Rush's body. He'd found a uniform approximately his own size. Judging from the darker splotches around the collar, it had probably once been Gorman's. He was clean shaven, with his hair tied back in a twist of broken bootlace. What made you think you could shave without my permission? Rush thought, rousing from his state of squashed apathy for a moment of blessed irritation.

The hair was damp too. Young had showered, in his body, and wasn't it an absolute certainty that he had not been as circumspect about it as Rush had? Young was a bull in a china shop where finer feelings were concerned. Even if he thought them pretty he wouldn't be able to prevent himself from trampling them, and the chances were he wouldn't give them that much thought. He would hit them because he loved to hear them smash.

Well, I hope you liked what you saw. Rush's mouth quirked up. A sliver of amused glee uncoiled in the pit of his stomach unexpectedly, lightening the weight on his back, because you're stuck with it.

Young raised his eyebrows at the smile, and yes, perhaps they had stood watching each other for a little too long, but it was still remarkable to see each other like this. It was still worth looking.

Rush stepped back and gestured him to come in. "What can I do for you?"

Young's sceptical smile was so much an echo of his own that it gave him deja vu. He took it to mean 'now you ask', and it was reassuring to know that life went on. Some things were constant, and Young's disapproval was one of them.

"Tell me you have the stones fixed?" Young walked in, moving more like himself now. He sat down on Rush's bed as though he owned it, and obviously part of him did. They were bleeding together at the edges, Rush and he, becoming one flesh - a marriage with none of the fun.

And that wasn't a track Rush intended to follow any further into the wild, particularly when it did not fill him with quite the degree of horror he had been hoping for. Disengage, and fast.

"I think I told you already, Colonel, that isn't possible." He held up a hand to forestall Young's anger. "Instead I've been working on another of our other long term problems."

"Which is?"

That had put the chill back in the conversation all right. Just as well. "I've discovered a device I think may be a precursor of the Goa'uld sarcophagus. It's in pieces at the moment but I think I can make it operational before long."

Young shook his head. "Those things make you psychotic."

Which was almost identical to his response to the chair – rule it out because of the obvious dangers without even thinking about the potential benefits. The man was such a coward.

"I'd have thought you'd have been willing to take that risk if it meant a cure for Doctor Park. And Lieutenant Johansen, of course"

Young stiffened into immobility, even his unconscious movements stilling. Got you, Rush thought, with something of an internal smile. See. I can offer you good things. I'm well worth keeping around. Just don't ask me to work on a way to get myself replaced, because I'm not doing that. I'm not.

Young's deep sigh didn't have quite the same sepulchral ring it had in his own voice. He folded his hands in his lap and leaned forward. "TJ's condition, and Lisa's... they're not urgent right now like the stones are."

Now Rush was amused again. "I never thought I'd see the day. You're putting mission priorities ahead of individuals? It seems my body's doing you some good."

"Rush." Young stepped on the banter as if it was a snake, impatient, all business. Oh, and they had reverted to this, had they? This was not a man who was ever likely again to offer to play chess, or attempt awkward small talk early in the morning on the first bridge shift of the day. It gave Rush a pang that he despised in himself. One little misdemeanor and suddenly he was being treated like a criminal again? He tightened his lips to prevent them from curving down, as a great sullen swell of resentment replaced his awareness of loss. He lifted his chin and looked Young in his eyes. They were dark as black coffee, but many degrees colder.

"Maybe ordering you to repair the stones is never going to work, because you'd just break whatever the science team is doing anyway. But I am ordering you to at least work on getting us two detangled, because you can't want this any more than I do. Maybe there your own damn self interest will keep you in line."

This had always been the problem between the two of them. What on Destiny made Young think that he had the right to tell Rush what to do? Young seemed to imagine that just because he was in charge of his thugs he was therefore in charge of everything else, but Rush had worked all his life to be out of that system, and he did not ever intend to be subject to it again.

"Oh by all means. I'll make every science decision contingent on your orders in future, shall I? 'Oh deary me, it's going to blow up. Never mind, Young said to do it so we'll do it anyway, damn the torpedoes-'"

"What the hell is your problem?" Young stood up, stepped in close. Time paused in a moment when they were both aware another fight was just a heartbeat away, just the width of their skin. Rush's borrowed heart beat fast and strong as his body came alive around him.

Then Young backed off, shaking his head. "I'm the only thing standing between you and a lynch mob right now Rush. How about you start working on that just to humour me, okay?"

Rush's 'problem', if anyone could call it that, was that he did not react well to threats. He had been beaten, and robbed most of his life, but he had never let the bully win. He was not about to start now. Nevertheless he also did not have time or energy for another brawl right now, and one of the two of them needed to act like a reasonable man. He let out the breath he had been holding, turned slightly aside. "Whatever you say."

Young eyed him suspiciously, wrongfooted by the apparent concession, but toned his aggressiveness down a notch. Rubbing the back of his neck, breathing slow and deliberately, he regarded the floor as if he was inspecting an underling's bunk for dust. Rush was just about to suggest that he might like to bugger off when Young raised his head again and took a pair of glasses out of his top pocket.

"I didn't actually come here to fight."

"Well, I know you've a lot of experience in doing things you never intended to do." Rush twisted the knife because he could, but Young didn't rise to the bait. His smooth, closed off, closed down expression didn't give Rush the satisfaction it should. Why was everything so fucking complicated with this man, when Rush's analysis of the situation still said it was simple?

"I came to offer a swap." He tipped the glasses in Rush's direction. "I guess these fit you now. I was hoping you'd let me use yours."

Rush took them delicately, anxiety worming a tendril through the briar patch of his anger. He hadn't expected this. What did it mean? Neanderthals like Young hardly needed glasses – he surely didn't read for pleasure. So... was it some kind of overture? One of those bizarre social things that people did that he had often meant to read some anthropology to try to understand, only there were always more important things to do with his time. Those things that people expected you to know, without ever telling you how they worked or what they signified.

Yet there seemed no harm in it. He fetched his own spectacles from the nightstand and passed them over. Possibly he was overreacting and the man did have paperwork and administrative drudgery of that sort to attend to after all. "You're behind on your reports?"

Young looked him over as if he had read all of Rush's unflattering thoughts on his face. But he just took the glasses and sighed. "Something like that."

After he left, Rush tried to turn to mathematics for comfort, sweeping clear the wall by his bed and selecting a perfect new piece of chalk in a pre-maths ritual that should have left him feeling calmed, clear, and brimming over with a kind of disciplined anticipation. What mystery of the deep foundations of the universe should he model today? What principle should he examine and turn over and discover the rightness and the beauty thereof? The streaks of starry phosphorescence that curled from Destiny's prow, for example, what made them? What determined their shape? the same structure that underlay the curve of the petals of a rose? Of a seashell? It seemed a good place to start.

He worked for half an hour, not without results, but without satisfaction. At the end of it, with little more than a single line of equations, he threw the chalk down and flung himself disconsolately on his bed. It wasn't that he couldn't get there - he knew he could - but the fun had gone out of it. Admittedly the first half an hour, if it wasn't a blessed relief to thoughts that had been pent up too long and were trying to explode his skull from the inside, could sometimes be an exercise in getting traction. But he should have been able to feel himself engage with the problem by now - should have felt the solid coupling to a train of ideas, and the driving excitement to see where it lead.

And he didn't. It was hard work and he was tired. Maybe he should sleep and hope that tomorrow when he woke this grinding fatigue might have finally lifted - hope that he hadn't sacrificed the very thing that gave his life meaning in his attempt to keep it.

Fucking Young and his fucking brain. He might have known it would be substandard. He might have known he couldn't endure life as one of the enemy, a man who represented everything animal in life that Rush had transcended and left behind.

Maybe it was that thought that followed him into sleep and gave him uneasy dreams as he curled around the slow ache of his hand and faced the thought that he might be doomed to stay like this for good.

~

His dreams are incoherent. Little snatches of the past like photos pinned to a stranger's album, remembered voices like a radio on in another room, pictures without sound. He's little and the classroom is packed, and the kid behind him keeps peppering his back with spitballs, and he wants to turn around and smack the guy one, but he doesn't. He just keeps looking at the triangle on the board and trying to figure out how the teacher got to where she got to from the things she told them, because he can't make it work out at all.

"Everyone understand that?"

There's nodding all around, and he feels kind of sick because he's the only one who hasn't got it, and that must mean he's the stupidest guy in the school, but he puts his hand up anyway because he wants to know. "Can you... can you go through it again?"

She shares a smug little smile with the kids at the front, and maybe she thinks he doesn't know that's part pity and part contempt, but he'd have to be dumb as a rock to miss that. "Everett, maybe you should try to pay attention more. Now for the benefit of those of you who are not slow, we'll move on to the next question."

He spends the next quarter of an hour in a fume of shame and rage, feeling every laugh and sidelong glance like a nettle sting. So he decides he'll show her, and at recess he goes to the library and looks it up, figures it out on his own there in the quiet. It's not that hard really, she just explained it badly. He feels a little better knowing he's prepared if anyone ever asks that question again, though of course they never do.

~

It's a new school. It's smaller and grubbier than the old. After the divorce, his mother works too hard and now there's not enough money to live in the good part of town. He'd finally got to grips with the old school, knew all the cliques and the gangs, who to avoid, who to knock down on sight and who to share his lunch with. The teachers had almost begun to stop being surprised when he passed his tests. Now he realizes he should have known a new school meant all of that to learn again. He should have prepared before he even arrived. He keeps his mouth shut for the first four weeks, observing, and that's what people remember of him for the next four years.

He's too much of a swot for the stupid kids and the smart ones laugh in his face. Everyone seems to want him to get into football, but he can't see the point.

~

"Sweetheart," says his mother, gray curls squashed under a spotted headscarf that he doesn't like because it makes her look old. "Why don't you go out?"

And it is beautiful outside. Fall on the cusp of evening and the air is cool. The moon and the sun are in the sky together and he can guess where Cassiopaea and Ursa Minor will be once the tawny desert gold of sunset wears into black. A lot down there's an abandoned gas station where the kids pick blackberries and the girls smack their purple lips with wicked relish when they see him watching, and that's... all different kinds of sweet.

But he shakes his head over it regretfully, because if he doesn't make this revision plan and complete the card index of books he has to read and annotate for his finals he's not going to get through and that doesn't bear thinking about.

"You know, if your heart is set on the military, the army would take you without all of this..." she waves a calloused hand at his textbooks. "All this. I just worry that you're setting yourself up for disappointment, trying to do something you're not..."

"I don't want to be in the army, mom. I want to be a pilot. They don't let you in without good grades."

"It's very hard to be a pilot, sweetheart. What if you're just not..."

Not good enough is what she wants to say. He knows that because he's not stupid. It's not what you want to hear from your own mother but hey, no point in getting upset, right? It doesn't matter what anyone thinks as long as he finally arrives where he wants to go. He's prepared to knuckle down and work hard and keep proving himself for as long as it takes.

~

He's in a grey field that stretches out to the horizon on every side, and he's swallowing stones. They aren't large stones - they fit in the cup of the palm of his hand. They taste of dirt. After a while, the first ten or so, it doesn't hurt any more, but the weight of them inside is… it's not unbearable, yet, but he knows it's going to be. Soon the mass of them will be more than he can contain and it will tear through, and then he'll fall. He'll fall forever because this abyss has no end to it. You can always slide further down.

"You're not the man for the job Colonel. Everyone can see it."

~

Rush awoke tireder than ever. Scratching meditatively at his stubble, he stared up at the ceiling, unwilling to pick again at his paradigms in fear that they would all unravel like a safety net and he would fall through. After profound reflection, one thing was clear enough. At present, he utterly despised his life. He had probably better get up and get on with some work.