hostage

As bad days went, Rodney McKay was having the worst kind. Trapped in a warehouse and looking into the barrel of a gun, he figured this day won the prize for worst day ever by a long shot.

Rodney gave the goon a hard glare from where he sat on the floor, his back up against some large plastic containers.

"You couldn't find a less clichéd place than this? A nice dark alley maybe?" Rodney asked, trying to keep the tremor out of his voice. The goon just kept watching him impassively.

Rodney looked up at the high ceiling of the warehouse. The lack of light coming through the small windows near the edges of the ceiling showed that night had fallen and Rodney had now been here all day. He should have expected to get caught earlier. You could only run for so long.

"Dr. McKay, it is wonderful to see you again." The accent was English accentuated with a touch of Russian from a woman who didn't exactly strike a threatening figure at five feet and five inches, two of which were heels. Her black hair was tightly tied back and she wore a well fitted black suit. She could have been on the way to some high-powered job, if it weren't for the gun she held steadily in her hand, pointed right at Rodney's chest.

"Markov. Where's Peter?" Rodney asked, getting up from the floor as the goon advanced to shove him back, but was stopped by Markov.

"Dead. I had my orders," Markov said simply. "It is not personal."

Rodney's mouth opened, the sound catching in his throat as he asked, "Why?"

"No loose ends. Those were my instructions."

Rodney's eyes widened as he looked at the nozzle of the gun. "So...what? You're going to kill me, too?"

Markov sighed and lowered the gun. "I don't want to kill you. Give me the disc, Rodney, and you can walk away from this."

Rodney let out a hysterical laugh, the anger, frustration and fear all blurring into one. "I'm sorry, but I find that hard to believe when I'm being chased by a bunch of corporate bandits who are killing all my friends and want me to hand over something I devoted three years of my life on! Excuse me if I'm not jumping at the chance to trust you," he snapped harshly.

The gun was back up and pointed at Rodney, but the adrenaline was pumping now and Rodney watched Markov steadily, heat coming off him in waves as he looked her straight in the eyes.

"Where is the disc, Rodney?"

Rodney didn't answer. Markov fired a shot that hit the container behind him, puncturing it and causing a flow of something that smelt acrid and chemical. Rodney flinched, swallowing hard and wishing his hands weren't shaking so much.

"Where is it?"

"My apartment," Rodney said roughly.

"Do not play games with me," Markov said coldly. "I had someone search your apartment and we did not find anything."

"Well, what were you expecting to find? Something taped to my fridge with a sticker that says 'top secret project - take me'?" Rodney asked bitterly.

"If you are lying-"

"What? You'll kill me? It's what you plan on doing anyway, isn't it?"

"Fine. We are taking a small drive and you will show me where the disc is."

Rodney rolled his eyes. "Well, why didn't you just say that in the first place? Would have saved me going ten rounds with Lurch here."

The goon stepped forward, fist at the ready to strike, but Markov once again intervened. She pointed the gun ahead of Rodney, motioning for him to move.

Reluctantly, Rodney started walking ahead. This was it. He was going to die. He was the last member of the project left alive and now he was caught, which was a pity because he wasn't done being proud about his recent achievement. Coincidentally, the same one that had people with guns chasing after him.

Of course, there was always one option. Run.

Rodney spotted the two red containers, not exactly stacked for safety on top of each other, just up ahead. Rodney walked along, his heart pounding and ignoring all instructions to be calm. When he neared the containers, he reached out swiftly and pulled on the loose plastic belt around the middle of the top container.

Secured together, both containers fell on the floor, startling Markov behind Rodney. Lurch tripped over one of the containers, landing on Markov and causing her gun to go skidding across the floor. Rodney picked it up and pointed it at the pair.

Markov and Lurch looked up at Rodney from the floor, the containers beginning to leak.

"I'm leaving now and you're not going to follow me," Rodney said, his voice less steady than he wanted it to be.

"You will not get far," Markov said.

"Well, I'll try anyway," Rodney said, taking cautious steps back.

He kept moving back, gun trained on Markov and when it seemed as though he was on his way to escape, a shot rang out through the warehouse. Rodney felt as though his arm had been hit by a sledgehammer as he was knocked back on his ass.

He'd been shot and he knew he was a dead man if they caught him like this. Rodney crawled away into a dark space behind some crates, Markov and Lurch's steps nearing.

He pulled himself to his feet, his arm feeling as though someone had drilled a large hole in it. Blood was dripping on the floor and he felt like he was going to lose the contents of his stomach any minute.

He stayed in the shadows and tried to breathe quietly, his body already weak and shaky. Rodney looked down at his feet as he leaned against the large metal crate, listening to footsteps searching for him. With difficulty, he pried his shoes off. With his good arm, he threw one shoe as far as possible, listening for the footsteps to change direction.

They did.

He moved as quickly and quietly as he could. All he had to do was find a way downstairs. The word 'doom' came to his mind. Through the large window up ahead of the line of crates, Rodney could almost make out the moon, fuzzy behind the greasy and dirty glass.

He grimaced down at the wound in his arm, cursing that he had nothing in his possession that could stem the flow of the bleeding.

Something shuffled nearby. Rodney brought up the gun in his hand, before he even turned to see Markov. She was still reaching for her gun.

"You are bleeding," Markov said. “How far do you think can go like that?”

Rodney kept walking backwards. He didn't know where he was going, but he sure as hell wasn't going to bleed to death in some movie-of-the-week warehouse. Too many people had already died.

"You know what I like about clichés? Predictable," Rodney said breathlessly. "Let me guess. Waterfront warehouse, right? Making, uh, well, getting rid of bodies that much easier, I suppose."

Markov was frowning at Rodney, like he was mad.

Rodney gave a small nod, the decision made. Then he turned around and ran for it, with every ounce of energy he still possessed and as he ran, he aimed the gun at the window ahead and began to shoot.

"No, you'll kill him, you fool!" Markov was shouting somewhere behind him, after a bullet had ricocheted off a nearby crate.

The window was filled with bullet holes when he reached it, spider web cracks spreading across it. Rodney threw his body at the window, eyes shut as it shattered and he fell with heart-stopping speed. There was a shock of cold and he was rushing down, down, down before his descent slowed and he pushed himself back up.

He forced himself to swim, though he wasn't even sure what direction he was going in. For a moment he felt as if the tide was carrying him somewhere and he was quite happy to just slip under it and disappear. But somehow, he rode it out and after what seemed liked forever, he was groggily opening his eyes and lying on the shore.

After an eternity, Rodney pulled himself up to his feet, stuffing the gun into the front of his jeans as he stumbled onto the beach. He had no idea where to go. He hadn't been in this town long enough to even know where the local grocery store was. That's why he’d always been so adamant about the lab vending machine to be constantly stocked.

Food. He needed food. And warm clothes. And shoes. A shave. A haircut. A bed. A warm bed. Rodney sighed miserably as he kept walking.

What to do next? He could call the cops, but the last time he had done that, Markov had found him and he'd nearly been committed.

He couldn't call Jeannie and put her in danger.

His wreck of a body was trembling, his stomach was tied into a knot and Rodney just about held back a groan. Up ahead was a house, the only one on the secluded beach. Maybe he could ask for help. Soaking wet, without shoes and a gunshot wound. Right, that would go down well.

But he still found himself going towards it. There was nowhere else to go and Rodney wasn’t in a position to be choosy.

It was a relatively small house, the interior completely dark. If he was lucky, maybe it was a vacation house and everyone was gone. Of course, they could be asleep and Rodney could be in even bigger trouble.

Rodney walked the perimeter of the house, finding a pair of French doors with a kitchen behind them. Even if there was an alarm, he could run in, grab food and run out. It would be simple.

Rodney took his gun out to smash a panel on the door, only, when his hand brushed against the door, it opened an inch.

Rodney thanked god for idiots and slowly opened the door. He crept over to the fridge and tugged ever so slightly on the handle. The door opened to reveal some beer, something that might have been a turkey leg, poorly wrapped in foil, and a copy of War and Peace.

Rodney frowned. The last thing he needed was to be in a lunatic's house. He reached for the turkey leg and the light came on.

Rodney spun around, gun out and aimed. Yep, he was becoming quite the pro.

Opposite Rodney, a man stood, staring him with a stunned expression. He looked as though he'd just woken up, standing there with bare feet, his hair in disarray, his dirty, faded blue jeans all crumpled, like his black T-shirt.

"What the hell is this?" he asked, staring at the gun.

"Look," Rodney said, his gut twisting and his blood sugar somewhere in the seventh level of hell. "I have had a really bad day and all I want is that turkey leg in your fridge, a place to stay the night and I'll be out of your hair by morning. Nobody gets hurt."

The man frowned. "Hey, if you're eating my turkey leg, I get hurt."

"This gun has bullets. They will hurt more," Rodney snapped.

The man seemed to think about it and frowned. "I wasn't that hungry anyway."

Rodney nodded, motioning with his gun for the man to hold his hands up. The man did so slowly, while taking in Rodney's appearance, his eyes traveling from the wet socks, the dripping black jeans and sand-covered dark green T-shirt. His eyes finally settled on Rodney's right arm and the lines of blood trickling from the gunshot wound.

"You got anything else to eat around here?" Rodney asked.

"Well, if you'd told me you were coming…" the man drawled.

"Sorry, should've called ahead," Rodney replied, swallowing down the waves of pain and nausea.

"You all right?" Rodney's hostage asked.

Rodney shut his eyes and shook his head. "Just, shut up. I'm trying to think."

"I will not shut up, this is my house," the other man almost whined.

Rodney opened his eyes and glared at the other man, his hold on the gun tightening. The man opened his mouth to object and then shut up.

Rodney came out from behind the counter and went to the doors, keeping an eye on the other man as he locked them. The man was still watching blood drip from Rodney's wound, leaving a small trail of red on the floor.

"You're bleeding," he said.

"I know," Rodney replied. "You alone?"

"Yeah."

Rodney nodded and pointed the gun at the entrance to the living room. "Move."

"Why?"

"So I can make sure there's no one else around, that's why. Now, move."

The man rolled his eyes, shook his head and sulkily turned towards the living room.

Rodney knew it was a bad idea to stick too close to the other man because all of a sudden he was spinning around and grabbing Rodney's wrist in an effort to push the gun away. They struggled like that for a while until Rodney felt the other man's thumb pushing deep into his wound.

Rodney yelled in agony as white heat shot throughout his arm and brought black spots in front of his eyes. His grip on the gun loosening, Rodney brought his fist hard into the other man's mid-section as the gun fell from his other hand. The man twisted away to go after the gun. Rodney threw himself at the man and both of them fell to the floor.

Rodney heard the hard smack against the floor before the man beneath him stilled. Rodney propped himself up on his good arm and looked at the pair of hazel eyes that were staring back, dazed and confused. The man frowned slightly and his eyes shut.

Rodney rolled to the side and reached for the gun, grimacing in pain as his arm throbbed. Next to him, the man lay unconscious.

Rodney groaned. Worst day ever.

Rodney panicked for a moment, wondering if he'd killed the man. For the time being, though, he just seemed knocked out cold, hopefully not in any kind of coma. Rodney sat kneeling by him, torn between calling an ambulance or just waiting for the man to wake up.

Rodney felt for a pulse and heard a small groan in return. He decided to give the unconscious man a few minutes before making the decision to call 911.

Risky as it was, Rodney got up and decided to check out the rest of the house. Gun at the ready, he ran up the stairs and carelessly burst into the three bedrooms one by one. Each one was empty, only one of them looking lived in with a bed that had sheets.

The house was very empty, like the owner had only decided to keep the bare necessities. When he returned to the living room, the man was still lying on the ground, his fingers twitching slightly.

Rodney picked up a cushion and knelt by his side, putting the gun out of reach. He gently slipped his palm under the man's head, feeling a small bump where he must have collided with the floor. Lifting the man’s head slightly, Rodney slipped the cushion under.

Or maybe he shouldn't have done that. What if he had just aggravated a spinal injury? Rodney grimaced at the unconscious man and shook his head. Tired and aching, he got up and fell back on the couch, setting the gun on the coffee table and settled in to wait and see if he'd just killed his host.

It wasn't much later that the man began to stir, emitting a low groan.

Rodney picked up the gun from the coffee table and watched his host come around slowly. He squeezed his eyes tight first, grimacing in pain and silently muttering an obscenity. Then as if remembering something, his eyes shot open and he sat up, a little too quickly, because his hand was going to his head.

"Good, you're not brain damaged, although, I have to question what else would make you tackle a man with a gun," Rodney said.

The man glared at him, his hand feeling around the back of his head.

"It's just a bump. I checked," Rodney said.

"Well, that was nice of you," the man said insincerely.

Rodney shook his head, regretting it when a wave of dizziness overwhelmed him. "Look, I'm not interested in hurting you. I just need a place to...lay low."

The man started to get up slowly and Rodney pointed the gun at him. "What are you doing?"

He received a frosty glare as the other man slumped down in the armchair opposite.

"Oh." Rodney sat back, resting his gun-toting hand on his knee, the gun still pointed at his hostage.

"So, how long do you plan on laying low here?" The question was accompanied by a dark, resentful stare.

Rodney swallowed, trying to think past the cold that had settled into his bones. "A while."

"And exactly how long is that?"

"I don't know," Rodney snapped, the pain in his arm almost unbearable. "I just...I need some time to figure out some stuff and then I'll be gone."

The man was watching him closely, his eyes on Rodney's wound. "Who shot you? Cops? Because, if it was, they'll probably find you here in no time."

Rodney offered up a tight smile. "Sorry. Not the cops."

He was given another long, appraising look. "What's your name?"

"None of your business," Rodney said flatly.

"That's kind of a long name."

Rodney rolled his eyes.

The man shrugged. "Hey, if you're going to be staying for a while, I just think we should get to know each other.” He laid his hand on his chest. “My name's John, I like ferris wheels, college football and anything that goes more than two hundred miles per hour."

"Well, John, that's nice to know, but I don't really care," Rodney said tightly.

John smiled, smug and irritating. "Just trying to break the ice."

"Please, spare me."

"So, None, you do this a lot? Break into people's homes, eat their food, crack open their heads?" John asked, with an absurdly innocent expression.

"Crack open their heads? Oh please, you've got a bump no bigger than a peanut."

"It's not the size that matters, it's the medical trauma," John drawled.

"Medical trauma? My arm is like Niagara Falls here. That's medical trauma."

"Yeah, about that. The couch is new. How about putting down a newspaper or something?" John asked with concern.

Rodney fell back with a sigh. There was no communicating with beach-brain idiots. He didn't care anymore. He was quitting, right there. He was going to happily bleed to death on John's couch and it would be over.

"You okay?" John asked.

Rodney shook his head, staring past John. "No," he said quietly. "I'm not."

"Who are you running from?"

Rodney arched an eyebrow, amused. "What do you care?"

John shrugged. "Maybe I can help."

"Why would you help a guy that has a gun pointed at your head?"

"Because then you might stop pointing that gun at my head."

Rodney shook his head slowly. "I'm not a killer."

"So, what's the gun for?"

"Protection," Rodney said, looking at the useless weapon.

"From?"

Rodney closed his eyes, his head beginning to hammer. "Long story."

"Apparently, I'm not going anywhere," John said dryly.

Rodney sighed. "I'm in trouble. Big trouble. Everyone's gone. I just need a place to rest."

"Where'd everyone go?"

Rodney's eyelids felt like weights. He wasn't sure what was pulling him under. Not sleep. Not even tiredness. Maybe he was dying. Good. His friends were dead, his shoes were gone and he was pointing a gun at some guy who thought he was funny.

"They're... gone," Rodney said reluctantly. "I'm the last one."

"You don't look so good," the voice seemed to wobble, like an underwater echo. He tried to open his eyes, but everything was spinning and the only way to stop it was to remain still, eyes closed.

"I don't feel so good," he murmured.

"Seriously, do you mind if I put some newspapers down? That's a real expensive couch," John's voice came from somewhere nearby.

Rodney tightened his hold on the gun, but somehow it didn't seem much tighter at all and all the willing in the world wasn't helping him open his eyes.

"Hey. Hey, you," John was saying from close by. "You know I have your gun, right?"

At this point, Rodney completely gave in and passed out.

Rodney knew he wasn't waking up in his bed for a number of reasons. The first was the fact that he believed in drapes. A window needed drapes to keep away that big evil ball of fire in the sky. This window had none.

Secondly, it wasn't often that he fell asleep under the covers. Most likely, he fell asleep on the couch or on top of the covers, in his clothes. Yet, at this moment, he was lying under the covers, naked as the day he was born.

Thirdly, everything from the past few days was now flooding back with grim clarity. He decided he wouldn't open his eyes. If he kept his eyes shut, everything would stay away. Everything would be okay.

"Hey...Rodney," a lazy, dry drawl came from his left. “I can tell you're awake, you know.”

Rodney swallowed and opened his eyes, squinting at the bright light flooding the room. What kind of crazy bastard painted their walls a blinding white? Oh yeah, the guy who couldn't tell the difference between a bookshelf and a fridge.

Rodney let his head fall to the side and John came into view, sitting back in his chair, feet propped on the bed and a smug smile on his face.

"You know my name," Rodney said hoarsely.

"Yes, I do," John said with a smile and tilt of his head. "Doctor."

Rodney spotted his wallet in John's lap, along with the gun. "You know, it's very rude to go into people's personal things without their consent."

"Like breaking into their house and holding them at gunpoint?" John asked innocently.

"Actually, your door was open," Rodney replied.

Another smile. "Just like your wallet."

"What else do you know?" Rodney asked, closing his eyes with a sigh.

"Well, let's see. You're Rodney McKay and according to your work pass, you're a doctor and you work at LabTech, so I'm guessing it's nothing to do with medicine."

Rodney opened his eyes, heart sinking. He looked across at John, the other man's face becoming serious once Rodney's gaze was on him.

"For a guy with a gunshot wound, there's not a lot of people looking for you. Can't help think that's a little weird. I tried calling LabTech, but couldn't get through to them."

Rodney clenched his jaw, his stomach tightening. "Why didn't you call the cops?"

John shrugged. "Guess I'm intrigued by a guy who knocked me out and then stuffed a cushion under my head, after pointing an empty gun at me."

Rodney wanted to scoff. There was no such thing as the good Samaritan. Only crazy Russian women with demented goons set on putting bullet holes in him. Rodney looked down at his arm where there was a clean white bandage wrapped around his bicep. He looked back to see John watching him closely.

"Did you do this?"

John shook his head. "Friend of mine."

Rodney felt a little panic. He didn't need more people getting involved in this situation. The more people that knew about him, the more in danger he was.

Perhaps noticing the panic, John added, "Don't worry. He won't go to anyone. He's a bit of an old kook. Used to take care of my dog, real crazy guy."

Rodney stared. "You let some crazy vet fix my arm?"

"Hey, he knew what he was doing. Besides, you'd rather go to the hospital? Anyway, consider yourself lucky. Your bullet wound was well on the way to being infected. He cleaned it all up and gave me some stuff you need to take. He also gave you a flea bath for free."

Rodney rolled his eyes at the smirk. "Yes. Very funny. Mock the dying man."

"You're not dying," John said with an amused smile as he threw the wallet and gun onto the nightstand. "Now, Doctor, how about you tell me what the hell's going on here?"

Rodney blew out a breath, anger always so close to the surface these days. "Look, I appreciate what you've done here and I'll be out of your hair as soon as possible, but I don't owe you an explanation."

John didn't look as annoyed as he seemed surprised. "Like hell you don't. You tried to steal my food. You bled all over my couch and you were going commando, which I didn't know until I was half done undressing you. You owe me plenty."

Rodney frowned and looked down at the covers. "Yes, um, about that. Was that really necessary?"

John rolled his eyes. "No, I just couldn't wait to get into your pants. Hey, you came in here with a gallon of ocean in your pockets. Besides, Henry made me do it."

"Henry?"

"The vet."

"Of course," Rodney said flatly.

John got up and headed towards the door as Rodney watched from where he lay. "I'm making breakfast. Henry says you should keep your strength up, so, maybe you should join me. Feel free to use the shower. There are clothes on the dresser."

Rodney frowned as John disappeared and then reappeared a moment later. "Oh, don't use the orange shampoo. That's my favorite."

Standing under the hot shower, he could almost pretend the night before had never happened. But as his hands went to shampoo his hair, the sharp pain in his arm was a vividly painful reminder.

Stepping out of the shower, he found a pair of blue jeans and a sand colored T-shirt laid out on the bed for him. Putting them on, he wondered why John had clothes that obviously weren't his. He didn't ponder on it too long, already thinking about Markov and an opportunity to get out of town.

John was cooking something when Rodney walked into the kitchen. The other man turned around, spatula in hand as he looked Rodney up and down.

Rodney held up his hands and John frowned for a moment, before looking at the spatula in his hand. John smiled. "Don't worry," he said. "It's not loaded."

Rodney brought his hands down and smiled. "Lucky for me."

John's eyebrows did a comical bounce. "Doesn't mean it's still not a lethal weapon. Hey, eggs okay?"

"Oh, um--"

"Good, because I don't know how to make anything else," John said, carrying on with his obliteration of the eggs.

"Well, in that case, yes, my favorite," Rodney said. He walked across the kitchen to go and lean against the door frame, breathing in the morning sea air that drifted in through the open doors. In the distance a man was walking his dog, looking lost in thought. He was the only one out there, making the beach look even more secluded.

"So, you live here alone?" Rodney asked.

"Yep." Rodney could hear John getting plates and cutlery out.

"And your dog," Rodney added, turning to look at John.

John frowned, stopping what he was doing. Then he seemed to recall something. "Oh. No. Not anymore."

John brought over the plates of food, nodding to the table. "Well, dig in."

Rodney looked at the scrambled eggs on toast, frowning and shaking his head. He looked at John, not quite sure of what to say. He had broken into John's house, held him at gunpoint and in return his wound had been tended to, he'd been given clean clothes and he was now being fed. He didn't know what to say and just stared at John, days of frustration turning into an overwhelming feeling of gratitude.

John gestured to the plates with a lift of his chin. "Go ahead."

Rodney nodded, still troubled. "Thanks."

Rodney was digging into his food enthusiastically when John brought over the coffee and sat down at the table.

"When's the last time you ate?" John asked.

Rodney thought about it. "Um, I dunno, two days? Maybe three."

"Wow." John pushed his own plate across the table.

Rodney frowned at him. "You're not eating?"

"I already ate," John said.

Rodney stared for a moment and nodded. "Thanks," he said, pushing his empty plate aside.

John leaned back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest. "So, Doctor McKay, you have any plans?"

"Further than staying alive?" Rodney asked around a mouthful of eggs and toast. "No, not really. But don't worry. I'll be gone by tonight."

John gave a nod. "Got anywhere to go?"

Rodney put his fork down and sighed. "Yes, actually. It's just a matter of getting there."

"Where's there exactly?"

Rodney looked John straight in the eyes. "I know you probably won't believe me, but the less you know, the safer you probably are."

John smiled, looking a little amused. "I can take care of myself."

Rodney smiled and gave a nod. "Yes. I'm sure you can. So, these yours?" he asked, pulling on the T-shirt he was wearing.

John shook his head, reaching for his coffee. "No. Just some stuff I had lying around."

Rodney gave John a long look, intrigued. "Oh."

John's eyes seemed to avoid his gaze and he got up from the table. "Look, I've got some stuff to do. Make yourself at home. Henry said you need to take it easy."

Rodney watched John heading towards the living room, his fingers idly rubbing a spot at the back of his head.

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

John turned and looked at Rodney. "What?"

Rodney looked down at the plate and then frowned at John. “All of this. You always this accommodating to people who break into your house and point a gun at you?"

John smiled, obviously amused. "No. Not all of them."

Rodney stared at John, trying to read the other man's green eyes, shining with the morning sun that was shining into the kitchen. “I don't understand.”

John's smile was accompanied by an arched eyebrow. “You don't really strike me as the criminal type. I'm guessing you don't usually carry a gun either,” John said, screwing up his face a little.

“And I suppose you're an authority on gun toting criminals,” Rodney said.

John's smile seemed to lose it's humor, without losing its shape. He just gave a simple nod. “Just go with it, McKay.”

Without another word, John turned and left the kitchen, Rodney watching him until he was out of sight.

While John was out on his errands for most of the day, Rodney couldn't help but look around. It was a small place, uncluttered to the point of being bare. The only things that provided any clue to John Sheppard were a few framed photographs.

In all of them, he and a friend stood together, arms around each other's shoulders as they both stood in...military uniform. Rodney stared at John's grinning face and grimaced. In hindsight, asking, what appeared to be a member of the USAF, if he was an authority on gun toting criminals seemed like a bad idea.

Rodney had one of the pictures in his hand when the door opened and John walked in. John looked as though he was about to say something, when he noticed the photograph in Rodney's hand.

"Sorry," Rodney said, a little flustered. "I, uh, I got bored."

John nodded, looking visibly irritated as he made his way over and took the photograph from Rodney's hand, putting it back, face down. "Look, I think you've got a problem."

"Well, I'm a little curious, but I wouldn't call it a problem."

John rolled his eyes. "Not this. You read the morning paper?"

"No, I was kind of busy marveling at still being alive," Rodney said.

John cocked a thumb towards the kitchen and walked off, Rodney following.

Rodney watched as John pulled a newspaper from under a pile of mail and proceeded to open it up. He was staring at the front paper for a while, before he turned it around and read out the headline, "LabTech Blaze Kills Five."

Rodney stared, mouth hanging open and his eyes fixed on a photograph of the burning building that used to be his work place. "Oh god."

"I guess that explains why no one's picking up the phone," John said quietly.

Rodney took the paper and just stared at the burning building where he used to work.

Rodney paced back and forth, as John sat watching from the couch, quiet and with a focused gaze. Rodney read the article, mumbling over the words in disbelief. Then he stopped in the middle and shook his head, feeling completely lost.

Seeing the questioning look in John's eyes he stilled. "I had nothing to do with this."

John nodded. "I know. You were here when it happened."

Rodney nodded, feeling only fractionally relieved. "Right. Of course. I was here."

"You think, maybe, you should tell me what the hell's going on? You know, since I made you eggs and all?" John asked, idly scratching his arm.

Rodney sagged and shook his head.

"I might be able to help you," John said, looking serious.

Rodney closed his eyes and sighed, slumping down in the armchair opposite John. "I doubt that somehow."

"You won't know until you've tried. Come on. Let me in on the big secret, McKay."

Rodney sat looking around the room, miserably. "It's a long story."

"Don't worry. I just look like I don't have an attention span," John said dryly.

"I'm pretty sure that the people after me are the same people responsible for the fire at LabTech," Rodney said.

John nodded. "I kind of figured that part."

Rodney shook his head and held up a hand. "What I'm trying to say is, they're dangerous. Really dangerous."

"If you're trying to tell me not to get involved, it's too late for that. I got involved the minute you stepped into my house," John said.

Rodney felt himself beginning to cave, his eyes fixed on the newspaper in his lap. He shook his head tiredly as he looked across at John.

John leaned forward. "Look, I want to help, if I can. The rest is up to you."

Rodney gave a laugh with an edge of hysteria to it. "Well, as charming as your savior complex is, I really don't think that's a good idea."

John looked visibly annoyed. "The place where you work got burnt to the ground. Three people are dead and you're walking around with a bullet hole in your arm. Next time, it might not be in the arm. What if they find you? What if they walk through that door, right now? You think they'll let me off the hook because I'm not involved? I think you better start thinking about who you can trust, Rodney, because if you don't, we could both be in serious trouble."

John got up and left, Rodney's eyes drifting back to the newspaper.

He wasn't sure when he'd fallen asleep, but it was evening when he awoke, and Rodney was still in the chair, newspaper having slipped to the floor. The house was quiet, no sign of John anywhere. Rodney walked outside and around the house, back towards the way he had come from the previous evening.

John was sitting on the sand, a small fire burning in front of him as he sat there watching the sunset.

John looked up when Rodney neared.

"I think it's time I left," Rodney said.

John nodded and then looked down at Rodney's bare feet. "Won't get very far without any shoes."

Rodney frowned down at his feet. "I hadn't actually thought about that."

John turned away for a moment, reaching into a cooler and pulling out a beer. Taking off the cap and throwing it into the cooler, he handed the beer to Rodney, grabbing one for himself too.

Rodney looked at the beer in his hand and sat down on the sand with a thump, John drinking next to him.

"So, are you on leave or something?" Rodney ventured.

"Or something," John replied, staring ahead of him.

"Oh?"

"Yep," John said quietly.

"What?"

John took a long swig. "I left the Air Force a while back."

"Mind if I ask why?"

John shrugged. "It was time to leave."

"Oh. I, uh, I thought maybe it had something to do with the guy in the photographs," Rodney said.

John turned to face Rodney, clearly stunned. "Ever think of minding your own damn business?"

Rodney thought about. "No, not really."

John looked amused. "We wouldn't have left the Air Force for each other. He wasn't exactly a prize catch." John's jaw clenched momentarily, before he seemed to force a smile and down more of his beer.

Rodney smiled, nodding. "You still have his photographs though."

John smiled. "Sure. But only because I didn't have any of the dog."

Rodney laughed at that. "Right. So, you're not in the Air Force. What do you do, then?"

John looked around him and Rodney wondered exactly how many beers had already been drunk.

"This is pretty much it," John said. "I call it Rancho Relaxo."

"And...you like this?"

John gave a sharp nod. "Sure. Sun, sea and sand. Most importantly? Surfing."

Rodney had to admit, he was beginning to see the appeal of staying around. Not that it was an option. "I'm sorry I got you involved in all this," he blurted out.

John gave Rodney a long appraising look. "I'm guessing you didn't plan on it."

"It's all a mess." Rodney sighed and drank. "I was, um, part of a project -- don't ask me what."

John nodded, his eyes looking at Rodney intently.

"We didn't know at the time that the source of funding was of slightly dubious origins, not that the LabTech suits cared. Then the FBI started sniffing around and before you know it, people involved in the project start dropping like flies. LabTech wanted to put a lid on the project, but the people that paid for it obviously wanted their goods."

John was frowning. "So, LabTech doesn't want the Feds finding out where the money came from and try to cover up the project. You think they torched their own lab, don't you?"

Rodney gave a nod. "One lab's nothing to them."

"How do you fit into all of this?"

"The people chasing me, I think they're the people involved in funding the project," Rodney said quietly. "They're after a disc. This project -- I was responsible for a very small, but vital component. Without it, the rest of the device won't work. Before leaving LabTech, I destroyed that part of the research, which pretty much leaves the device useless. All the other scientists involved in the project are dead, so-"

"They need the disc to make it work," John finished.

"Once they have the disc, I'm a dead man," Rodney said with a small forced smile.

"Why can't you go to the cops?"

Rodney shook his head. "I tried. I told them about one of the dead scientists. LabTech denied he'd ever worked for them. His apartment was empty when the police went to check it out. They thought I was crazy. You have no idea what these people can do."

"What about this place you want to go to?"

"Right. Well, when everything started to go to hell at work, one of the project supervisors let it slip that the device we were working on was probably stolen and not just someone else's unfinished project, like we were told."

"Stolen? From where?"

Rodney took a large gulp from the beer. "Well, they didn't go into details, but they said Cheyenne Mountain would probably like to get a hold of it."

John looked baffled. "Cheyenne? I'm guessing this thing you were working on doesn't have anything to do with tracking Santa."

"More like blowing him up, actually," Rodney said, drinking beer as John watched him silently.

Rodney shoved the bottle into the sand and lay back, watching the darkening sky and listening to the ocean waves. Yes. He could see why someone would want to stay here. Rodney closed his eyes, tired and worn out.

He could hear John opening another bottle, the sound of liquid as the bottle tilted when he drank and the sound when the bottle pulled away from his lips. There was an odd comfort in those sounds.

"I've got some contacts," John said. "Maybe they could help."

"No," Rodney whispered. "You were right before. You're already too involved. I couldn't forgive myself if anything happened."

"I'm touched you care." Rodney could imagine, practically hear, the smile on John's face.

"Well, you did make me those eggs," Rodney replied. "And besides, I don't think I want to deprive the world of John Sheppard."

There was no answer, but Rodney's face felt warm, like maybe the sun had come out. He opened his eyes and found John watching him.

"What?" Rodney asked.

John gave a small smirk that did strange things to his face. "I could have sworn you were hitting on me, just then."

Rodney propped himself up on an elbow. "Is that a problem?"

John laughed and shook his head. "Wow, I gotta say, you've got some nerve. You break into my house-"

"The door was open."

"-you crack open my head-"

"It's not even a scratch."

"-bleed all over my couch-"

"Did you really even like it?"

"-and now, you're sitting here, drinking my beer and hitting on me?"

Rodney smiled. "You didn't answer my question."

John turned away, shaking his head and then downing half of the beer before sticking it in the cooler. He moved closer to Rodney, so he was leaning down on an elbow too. He looked at Rodney for a moment, his eyes lazily drifting to Rodney's mouth.

"No," he said quietly. "It's not a problem."

Rodney gave a nod. "Good."

Rodney leaned forward, bumping his lips against John's, moving away just as John's mouth opened. John smiled, his eyes half-lidded. He moved in close, regaining lost ground and pressed his mouth firmly against Rodney's, his hand going to cup the back of Rodney's neck, keeping him in place. Rodney found his fingers stroking down John's throat as they kissed, slow and languid, until John fisted his hand in Rodney's T-shirt, pulled him closer and kissed with teeth scraping and nipping at Rodney's lips in something more hungry.

Rodney let himself be pushed onto his back, John's lips gliding over his, their tongues meshing together, breath like beer and stubble scratching against stubble. Rodney wrapped his arms around John's waist, holding his body close, a blanket of heat against him.

John broke away and looked down as they both caught their breath. "I have a bed, you know."

Rodney gave a thoughtful nod. "Really?"

"Yeah, the one you woke up in this morning," John said with a bright smile.

"Right, of course. Do you think maybe we should use it?"

John gave a serious nod. "I think that might be a good idea."

As John stepped into the bedroom, Rodney grabbed his hand and turned him around, walking into him and kissing him hard. John moaned into his mouth, obviously pleased, his hands going to Rodney's T-shirt and pulling it up and off in one swift movement. Rodney's hands busied themselves, unbuttoning John's shirt, John's mouth on his again, kissing, pulling away, biting, and kissing again.

Rodney pushed the shirt off, throwing it aside and took John's wrist, pulling him close, holding back the gasp as they touched, chest against chest, heated skin against skin.

As they fought to cover ground, claim territory of lips and tongue, John toed off his shoes, his hands undoing Rodney's pants, pushing them down as Rodney's hands reached for John's waistband. John pushed Rodney's hands away, breaking from Rodney's hungry mouth as he proceeded to drop his pants, stepping out of them as Rodney took a cue and stepped out of his.

John was staring at Rodney. "I'd forgotten about the commando thing."

"Well, in desperate situations, travel light," Rodney said with a grin as John shucked his boxers.

John grabbed Rodney's hand and fell back onto the bed, Rodney dropping beside him and then crawling on top. Outside it was dark now, but John's eyes still seemed bright and light as they looked straight through Rodney.

Rodney kissed him slowly, relishing the feel of John's hands as they moved down his back, fingers barely tracing patterns on his skin before they settled on his behind, kneading slowly, John's leg coming up slightly, the inside of his thigh pressed against Rodney's hip.

Without warning, John tipped him over onto his back, pushing his lips against Rodney's in a bruising kiss, gasping between open-mouthed kisses before his teeth latched onto Rodney's bottom lip and bit, not too hard, but hard enough that Rodney's hand shot to John's hair, grabbing it and pulling his head back.

John gasped and Rodney saw a flash of a wicked smile, as he licked at the beautiful ache in his lip. Rodney brought his head off the pillow and guided John down into a kiss, the other man licking Rodney's abused lip.

Rodney felt John shifting over him, as he mouthed Rodney's collarbone, while their hips aligned for their erections to fit tight and hard against each other. Just the pure friction of silky heat made Rodney groan and push his head back against the pillow. His hands latched onto John's ass, fingers digging into flesh, bringing him closer as John began a slow thrust and slide.

John moved against Rodney, slow, stretching out Rodney's frustration, making him urge John on.

John's mouth was breathing hard against Rodney's neck, sometimes his teeth nipping, sometimes his lips covering skin, sometimes just breathing warmly.

"You always this quiet?" John's question was a breathless whisper.

"I find the whole talking thing is nowhere as good as -- oh god -- the, the doing thing," Rodney panted back.

"Yeah? But the doing thing works for you, right?" John asked, his mouth near Rodney's ear now.

"God, yes," Rodney said, swallowing and squeezing his eyes shut, feeling John's mouth lingering only a breath above his.

John's lips pressed against Rodney's, light and not invading, his hand slipping between them and sliding down Rodney's erection, closing tight, moving slow. Then a little faster. And faster until Rodney's mouth opened up in a gasp, John's tongue slipping in and covering his moan.

Rodney gave a sharp intake of breath, his body stiffening for a moment as he came all over John's hand, wet and slick, John breathing hard in his ear.

His urge was to immediately fall into an abyss of boneless exhaustion, his body protesting any kind of movement, but John was still hard against him and Rodney could feel the other man's hand moving to satisfy himself.

Rodney put an arm around John's waist and rolled him onto his back, John grinning up from where he lay as Rodney took John's slick hand, linking their fingers for a while, before pushing it away. Rodney took John in hand, stroking slowly and firmly, watching the heavy-lidded look of unbearable bliss on John's face.

John swallowed hard, one hand fisting in the sheets and his other hand moving down his body to where Rodney was stroking him. Rodney felt John's fingers on his hand.

"What?" Rodney whispered. "Too slow? What happened to being Mr. Rancho Relaxo?"

John laughed, eyes still closed. "Screw that."

Rodney smiled, kissing the stupid grin on John's face, quickening his strokes, watching John's brow creasing just before he arched slightly and gave a small groan at the back of his throat, his hand going to Rodney's wrist and holding it down, tight in his grasp, as he came.

They lay still for a moment, Rodney lying on top of John, pressing his mouth in an unmoving kiss against John's shoulder.

John reached out to the bedside table a moment later, pulling the box of tissues into his reach.

"Hey," he said, bumping the box on Rodney's shoulder.

Rodney slipped onto his side and grabbed a few tissues, wiping himself as John did the same. John reached across the bed and threw the tissues into a nearby wastepaper basket, Rodney following his example and then flopped onto his back.

John sighed and turned onto his stomach, eyes closing as Rodney observed him.

"You do this a lot?" Rodney asked. "Sleep with guys that break into your house?"

John smiled, eyes remaining shut. "No. Just guys who crack my head open.”

Rodney snorted. "I did not crack your head open."

"Feels like it," John murmured.

"Please," Rodney said.

John opened his eyes, reached for Rodney's hand and guided it to the back of his head, pushing Rodney's fingers against an impressive bump.

Rodney grimaced. "Sorry."

John smirked and closed his eyes again, letting go of Rodney's hand. Rodney, however, let it remain, his fingers moving through the hair, down to John's neck, his shoulder and then back up all the way to his face, coming to a rest on his bottom lip, making John smile as Rodney's thumb idly brushed across the lip.

"Why did you leave the Air Force?" Rodney asked quietly.

John's smiled faltered, his eyes opening and shining darkly. John's hand wrapped around Rodney's wrist, pulling it down to the bed. "I'm not into post-coital confessions, Rodney."

"I'm just curious," Rodney said with a shrug.

John was quiet for a long time, his eyes on Rodney, his hand still holding on. "You ever do something you thought was right and then you got screwed over for it because somebody told you it was wrong?"

"Hmm, let's see, on the run from evil Russian woman who wants to kill me for a piece of the how-to-kill-someone-in-three-easy-steps jigsaw puzzle. No, sorry, I have no idea what you're talking about," Rodney said dryly.

John's mouth quirked into a smile, which Rodney figured was good, since it suited him. "I did something I thought was right, but the Air Force said I was wrong. So, I left. I didn't see the point of hanging around once I had a black mark on my record."

"I'm sorry," Rodney whispered.

John shrugged. "Not your fault. We all make our own choices. Who knows, maybe if I'd stayed, you'd never have gotten the opportunity to-"

"Yes, crack your head open. I know," Rodney said, smiling.

John smiled, closing his eyes and eventually drifting off to sleep, his hand loosening its hold on Rodney's wrist after a while.

Rodney inched closer to the other man, watching him sleep, his eyes traveling over skin that looked a pale blue in the moonlight.

“Thanks,” Rodney whispered, too quiet for John to hear, but loud enough for it to matter.

It was time for Rodney to make a choice now. Stay and endanger the life of a guy who had already done too much for him. Or take his chances and get back out there.

Rodney relished the warmth of the bed for another hour before he got dressed.

He was out on the beach having snagged a pair of boots that he was sure belonged to whomever had previously owned the clothes he was wearing.

As he stood watching the dark ocean, he wondered what the next direction ought to be. Behind him was John's house, a safe haven for the time being and in front of him was a whole lot of uncertainty.

Also, above him was a helicopter, circling the same area over and over, shining a light down on him at one point.

Rodney's eyes widened as he looked up at the helicopter. It was always going to be a matter of time before they found him, because they always found him.

Rodney began to run down the length of the beach and after a moment, he felt the helicopter fly right over him, low and loud. He watched as it landed down in front and Rodney began to run in the opposite direction.

After a few minutes, a gunshot went off and Rodney came to a halt.

"Turn around!" Markov's voice shouted from far away.

Rodney slowly turned around and watched as she made her way down the beach.

"Why bother running, Rodney?" she yelled at him. "I always find you."

Rodney tried to keep the panic at bay. "Yes, it's getting very irritating."

Finally, she stood only a few feet from him, the helicopter blades still spinning in the background. "I want the disc," she said.

"Well, we can't always get what we want," Rodney answered, trying to ignore the gun aimed at his chest.

Markov looked livid. "You are giving me the disc by the end of this night."

"Or what?" Rodney said, hysteria lacing his words. "You're going to kill me? You can't kill me. You need me!"

"I have had enough of this. There are ways to make you talk," Markov said, stepping back and gesturing towards the helicopter with her gun. "Just walk. My pilot has got you in shooting range. Try anything stupid and it will be the last thing you do."

Rodney shook his head belatedly and began to head towards the helicopter. He thought about trying to overpower her, but he could see the pilot, rifle pointed at Rodney. He should have stayed in bed. But then maybe John would be dead by now.

"I have to know something," Rodney said, feeling the poke of the gun in his back. "How did you find me?"

Markov snorted behind him. "And why would I tell you?"

Rodney sighed. "Because you've got me now."

Markov's laugh became a murmur. "Yes, I do. Just like I said I would. You want to know how?"

"If it's not any trouble," Rodney said flatly.

"Tell me, have you had any dental work in the last six months?"

Rodney frowned. "Yeah, I had a filling..."

Rodney stopped walking, his tongue prodding the filling in his tooth. Markov shoved the gun in his back hard.

"Keep moving."

"Oh, you have got to be kidding me! You put something in my tooth?" Rodney asked. "How?"

"Money, Rodney. Money," Markov remarked. “A remarkable tracking device developed at LabTech. Fitting, don't you think?”

Rodney rolled his eyes. “Yes. The beautiful irony's just killing me. That and the fact that even with a tracking device it took you a whole day to find me. What happened? Lose your map?”

Markov gave a small laugh. “You think I didn't know where you were? We would have followed you the minute you started moving. Also, I find night is better suited for this kind of work.”

Rodney gritted his teeth. “I'll take your word for it.”

“I am intrigued though, Rodney. Why did it take you a whole day to run? What kept you so long?” Markov asked.

Rodney swallowed, his heart pounding a little. He kept walking and tried not to think of John.

“Maybe I will have to find out for myself...” Markov gasped all of a sudden.

Rodney turned to look at her she stood there shocked, mouth open. She was frowning at Rodney in confusion.

"What?" Rodney asked.

Markov's eyes began to drift shut, the gun falling from her hand as she passed out, falling on the ground with a thump. Aware that there was a second gun on him, Rodney stepped back, hands in the air.

He looked to the pilot, unsure of what had just happened.

The blades stopped spinning and the pilot jumped out, tall and black-suited, a large rifle in his hand, pointed at Rodney as he walked down the beach.

Rodney kept his hands up, staying far from Markov.

"Don't move," the pilot warned as he neared, casting an eye on his accomplice.

"I didn't do anything. She just passed out," Rodney said.

"Yeah, right," the pilot sneered, bending down to pick up the fallen handgun. Something seemed to fly through the air, like an insect maybe, both men looking up at the sound.

The pilot grunted in surprise and his hand went to his neck from where he extracted what looked like a small, sharp dart. He frowned at the dart and then at Rodney, his gun going back up to point at Rodney before he fell back unconscious.

Rodney stared at them both.

"You okay?"

Rodney turned towards John's voice, watching him emerge from the dark shadows, barefoot and wearing just a pair of jeans, a rifle in his hand.

Rodney's eyes darted from the unconscious pair to John. "What the hell's going on?"

John held up the gun. "Tranquilizer darts. They're not going anywhere for a while.

Rodney stared at the gun. "What? Why do you have a tranquilizer gun?"

"Henry kept using it on people, so I took it away, to keep him out of trouble," John said with a shrug and smile.

Rodney laughed, shaking his head. Then he stepped over Markov and planted a kiss on John's mouth. "How did you know?"

John looked at the helicopter. "You kidding me? With the noise that thing makes? I saw it, saw you, got the gun."

"I take back what I said about the savior complex. I think it suits you."

John gave a smug smile. "Hey, remember you said you needed to go to Cheyenne mountain?"

"Yes."

John cocked his thumb towards the house. "Follow me."

Though Rodney quite preferred John without a shirt, he was now more adequately dressed for travel and Rodney looked over at him with a grin.

"So, you can fly a helicopter," Rodney said with a nod as they flew over a dark city.

"Piece of cake," John said with a smile.

Rodney looked back to check on their passengers, who were tied up and out like a light, slumped against each other.

"What are you going to do with the disc now?" John said.

Rodney shook his head, glancing back once more. "There is no disc. It's all in here," he pointed to his head.

John frowned, glancing at Rodney. "What?"

"I made the component and I still know how. There was no disc. I couldn't let them find out though," Rodney said. "They wouldn't have believed me. Probably would've killed me by now."

John's mouth opened in a half-smile of awe as he shook his head. "You're some piece of work, McKay."

Rodney grinned as the helicopter dipped. "You're not so bad yourself."

"Hey, you got any plans once we hand these guys over?" John asked.

Rodney nodded, prodding his tooth with his tongue. "I think I need to find a new dentist."

- the end -