heat

Rodney McKay was not a stupid man, so when there was a loud bang and the night bus skidded to a sudden halt, landing his neighbor's chicken basket in his lap, he knew something was up.

The old woman grabbed her chicken basket, glaring at Rodney, because, yes, he controlled the laws of motion and gravity and liked making people's chickens fly out of their hands. In fact, it was a hobby. Pity the woman probably didn't understand English, because those were the exact words he was biting back. He gave her a narrow-eyed smile that was more like a grimace. But then after a bout of food poisoning thanks to some Peruvian cuisine, a grimace was all he good muster in regards to anything.

Rodney looked out of the window and into the dark night, seeing a lot of dark and night mostly. And perhaps some darker shadows moving about in that dark night. Rodney pressed his nose to the window and squinted. Something hit the window hard, right over Rodney's nose and he jumped back, watching what looked like the barrel of a gun being waved around.

The old woman grabbed Rodney's arm, making a quick sign of the cross as she mumbled something Rodney was sure he didn't want to know. She was pressed close to Rodney, looking out of the window, fingers digging into his arm.

"Okay, ow, cutting off my blood flow, thank you," Rodney said, pulling her fingers out of their claw-like grip.

At the front of the bus, there was a sudden commotion, the opening of the door and the driver making a frightened plea amongst screams and yells of surprise and fear.

"Crap," Rodney muttered. He should have expected it. Night bus robberies weren't unheard of in these parts. He should have waited for morning, but no, everything had to be done in a tornado of panic.

Rodney looked over the tops of heads to see three men heading down, guns in hand and faces covered. Rodney quickly ducked down and opened up his one single holdall that sat between his feet and tried to rescue what he could before it became someone's else's property.

The masked man appeared by the old woman and pointed the gun at Rodney. Rodney nodded, holding up his hands and rising. The man pulled the old woman out of her seat and pushed her along. Then he caught sight of Rodney's bag and gave a jolt of his head towards it.

Rodney gave a compliant nod and picked it up, moving past the man and then feeling what he assumed was the gun jab between his shoulder blades.

Outside the bus, as they were lined up on the dirt road, Rodney hoped that the dark would stop the robbers from seeing past his healthy tan and seeing him as an opportunity to wheedle out money from his nearest and dearest. He was pretty sure his nearest and dearest would probably send thank you cards for getting rid of him.

There were three men with their guns trained on the passengers, a fourth one rifling through belongings and taking whatever was valuable, discarding everything else on the ground, like other people's things were worthless, unless they could pay for something you wanted.

The man reached Rodney and his unmasked eyes were taking a long look. Rodney didn't say anything. The man grabbed Rodney's bag and opened it up, turning it upside down and emptying it. Rodney's jaw clenched, but he kept his anger at bay. Being alive was better than being insulted.

The man proceeded to sift through, finding some money and immediately pocketing it. He ignored the toiletries and other necessaries, finding the cellphone and digital camera more interesting. Then he got up slowly and looked Rodney over again and Rodney could swear the man was smiling behind his mask. He brought up the digital camera, fiddling with it until a small light appeared. Rodney knew exactly what it meant when the man proceeded to take a picture of him. That was the universal language, right there. 'You're fucked' was pretty much recognizable anywhere in the world, no matter how it was said.

The man nodded to Rodney's watch. His lovely, expensive watch. Rodney took it off, wanting to drop it and break it on purpose, but handing it over instead as the man admired the dial.

The man than looked towards Rodney's pockets, giving another little nod. Rodney sighed and pulled his pockets inside out, bringing some money out with one of them. He held it out to the robber, with a look of disdain. The robber must have noticed because the next thing he did was pass the objects in his hands to one of his friends and then smack Rodney in the mouth with the butt of his rifle.

Rodney landed hard on the floor, his hand instantly going to his bloody and swelling lip. He got to his feet sluggishly, licking the blood from his lip and taking a deep breath as the robber moved to the next passenger, knowing he'd be back for more.

Or would have been back for more if there wasn't the sudden sound of a siren. Everyone turned to look down the long winding road and in the distance were lights. All hell broke loose. The other passengers panicked, someone shoved someone and it was a mass of dark activity as the siren neared.

Rodney felt someone grab his arm and he knew they were taking him with them and all he could think was 'fuck this, no way'. He resisted the grip, struggled enough to dislodge the other's man's hold on his weapon and grab it. He had no idea if he could fire it or even if the safety was off, but it was in his hands and pointed at his would-be abductor. The man gave him a steady stare, looked in the direction of the nearing vehicle and then ran to the jeep that was blocking the path of the bus, where his friends were already loading up the loot and starting the engine.

Their departure was even quicker than their arrival and moments later a police car gunned past, in pursuit of the robbers.

Rodney held onto the gun, just in case he needed it and stuck his other hand down the back of his pants, retrieving his passport, which still had his credit card in it.

Something clucked by his feet and Rodney saw his neighbor's chicken. He regretted there was no deep fryer around, because some comfort food would have been nice at this moment. Rodney shoved the passport into his pocket and bent down to scoop up the panicked foul animal. The old woman was standing with some of the other passengers as they spoke in a flurry of words that were lost on Rodney. Rodney inserted himself into the group and handed the woman her chicken.

The woman looked on in delighted surprise and took the bird, thanking Rodney, which he did understand, but didn't really care about since he'd just been robbed. He ignored her joyful reunion with the ball of feathers and went to gather up his clothes as he wondered if he'd ever get that next plane out of Peru.

They waited by the side of the road and Rodney had his suspicions that maybe another police car would turn up on the scene of the crime. Or at least another bus. After repeating many questions in English at different volumes, Rodney was able to ascertain there was going to be another bus. The next bus in fact, which drove past them in the early hours of the morning.

That was when he decided to walk to whatever the next pit stop was, a small village with people that quirked their eyebrows at his miserable appearance. There was blood on his T-shirt from the cut on his swollen lip and he hadn't slept properly in three days and the sun was annoyingly hot, so his shirt was now half stuffed in his pocket.

He needed food and a phone. Sadly, the village wasn't equipped for American Express. Though there was a fully functioning Xerox machine in the local drinking place along with a TV set that was showing some prime viewing material in the form of WWF wrestling. Rodney made sure to turn his nose up at it.

At the bar, the first question he was asked was. "American?"

"Uh, no, Canadian," Rodney said, in no mood to mock either the bar man or the Americans. "Look, I need to get to the nearest airport. Do you know if there's a nearby bus service or-"

"Yes, bus. Once in morning. Once night," the bar man replied with a smile. "You drink?"

"No, not right now. I've already missed the morning bus. Is there any other way, maybe you could give me directions or-"

"No," the bar man shook his head. "Too far. Only bus. Drink?"

"No thanks," Rodney said with a tired sigh. "I guess you don't have an ATM machine around here, do you?"

The man frowned, looking thoughtful. "There is American, with plane."

Rodney frowned back. "What?"

"Not far. Three miles. He has plane. Maybe he ride you," the bar man said.

Rodney stared blankly. "I really hope that's just bad English."

Three miles of dusty road and Rodney was sick of seeing trees and sweating like a farm animal. He was ready to collapse on the spot, when he finally caught glimpse of a large barn in an overgrown field, next to a long dirt strip.

Using his shirt to wipe the sweat from his face, Rodney walked on, promising himself he would never complain about cold weather again.

As he neared he could hear music drifting out of the barn, the heavy, sulky, melodic tones of Jim Morrison asking baby to light his fire. Even the song was too hot for Rodney.

When he reached the barn, a smaller door in one of the larger two was open, the music louder now. Rodney stepped inside carefully and immediately saw a large silver plane in the middle of the barn. The barn seemed to have been modernized to accommodate a second floor, stairs leading up to it from nearby and from where Rodney stood, he could just about make out a small office space past large tool boxes and mechanical parts.

He could also make out a pair of feet somewhere on the other side of the plane, bare and accompanying a pair of faded blue jeans. Rodney walked around the plane to find the owner of the appendages.

On the way, he surveyed the various parts on display, a few posters about movies with monsters and heaving bosoms, some posters on planes, a Johnny Cash poster and what looked like a basketball hoop made out of miscellaneous wiring.

Rodney arrived on the other side of the plane and saw what was probably the American. He had a large mop in his hand with an extended handle and was using it to clean the plane. On a nearby crate was a CD player and a bottle of beer. Rodney wondered if it was cold. He pulled his gaze away from the beautiful bottle and looked at the American in his grease marked jeans and sans shirt, body sweat-covered even though it was cooler inside than out.

After a while, the man stopped cleaning and turned to face Rodney. His brow furrowed into a frown, his eyes narrowing. He watched Rodney for a long time, but said nothing.

Rodney raised a hand. "Hi."

The man's eyes widened and he dropped his mop. "You speak English?"

"Yes, I find it easier to insult people that way," Rodney said, feeling rather frank.

The other man rushed to Rodney and embraced him tightly. Rodney would have objected to the sweat, but he wasn't sure if he was smelling his own or the other man's. And, oh yes, a half dressed man was molesting him.

The man pulled away and held Rodney by his shoulders. "You know how long I've been waiting to tell someone a joke I won't have to spend an hour explaining?"

"I'm guessing a while," Rodney said, removing the hands from his shoulders, though the excited man didn't notice because he was too busy glowing. "Look, um, I've just walked three miles to see you and I was hop-"

"Walked?" the man frowned. "From that little village down the road?"

"Yes, the village down the way more than three miles road," Rodney said irritably.

The man nodded. "Huh. Why didn't you just take a cab? They have a cab service, you know? Of course, they don't always tell people, you know, if you piss them off. You piss someone off? You look like you pissed someone off."

Rodney sighed. Why did it feel as though his day was about to get worse?

John Sheppard was having the perfect day. He woke up, had breakfast, read the paper, ran out on to the beach with his board and hit the waves. Then the waves grabbed the board and hit him back. When he came to, he was lying on the floor instead of the bed and the jury-rigged ceiling fan had stopped working. He stayed there for a while, wondering what to do with his day.

There were obviously the daily duties of running an airline, which consisted of sitting in his office, listening to the CD player with the desk fan on and reading a bit of Stephen King, maybe a bit of Philip Marlow. Of course, there were also the moments when he got paid to take to the skies. Nothing held a candle to that.

Finally getting up, John had gone for his morning run to a nearby pond, ending it with a running jump and swim and then a walk back to the hangar in dripping wet cutoffs. He'd walked around for a while, quite happy to be wet in the scorching summer heat, as he looked for chores to occupy his time. He realized that most of them involved cleaning of some sort, so he dressed and biked down to the nearby village and grabbed some beer and food instead.

When he returned, amazingly, the hangar still looked dirty. He finally gave in, cracked open a bottle of beer, stripped off his shirt, kicked off his shoes and grabbed the mop. An hour later, he hadn't made much progress and was thinking about making an excuse to the boss and skipping work. Only he was the boss and he really didn't want to give himself a hard time when he'd get back.

So he carried on, somewhat half-heartedly, until he felt a strange buzzing at the back of his head, like he was being watched. He turned around and saw a man that was indeed watching him. His hair was short, looking limp and defeated by the heat, his face less tanned and more irritated and his bottom lip swollen, a bloody cut in the middle. His navy blue T-shirt had sweat patches and there was a white shirt sticking out of his pocket, the sleeve almost touching the ground. His dark blue jeans were covered in dust, like he'd fallen over somewhere. He didn't look happy.

Then he said 'hi' and John felt an overwhelming desire to kiss the man because, damn it, it was good to hear English, even as part of a confession that it aided being rude more effectively.

Of course, after the moment of euphoria had passed, John wondered what kind of business was being offered by a man that looked as though he had fallen off the back of a truck. If there was any business to be offered at all. Of course, if there was no business, then why was he standing in the middle of Sheppard Airlines?

"You look like you pissed someone off," John said thoughtfully. The man seemed to sag a little, his eyes rolling and an expression of extreme suffering appearing.

"Sheppard," a familiar voice called from the hangar entrance. John rolled his eyes at the bad timing.

"Hey, do you mind waiting in my office? I've got a little business I need to take care of," John said, giving the stranger a pat on the arm. "It's right behind you. Make yourself at home."

John turned to meet the uninvited guest and then turned back to add, "But don't touch anything."

The man gave John an odd look, the kind the locals reserved for idiots.

John ran around the plane and went to the doorway to see his guest, a man close to John's own height, with long shoulder-length hair, a pair of sunglasses pushed up on his head, a neatly kept goatee and unbuttoned white shirt to show off his well-maintained physique and black jeans being worn low.

"Hey, Juan, long time no see."

Juan nodded and gave John a long look; up, down, and bedroom eyes that needed a rating to protect the innocent. "Sheppard," he said, quietly. "Working hard?"

John shrugged. "You know me."

Juan nodded and smiled. "Oh, yes. That much is certain."

John rolled his eyes. "Cut to the chase, Juan. What do you want?"

Juan sighed and arched an eyebrow. "Cruel American," he said with a smile before his tone turned completely business-like. "Carlos sent me."

John shook his head in frustration. "Not this again."

"Like I tell you before, he is not easy to please," Juan said.

John poked a finger at Juan's chest. "Well, you find a way, Juan. He's your friend. You got me into this mess, you fix it."

Juan frowned. "I bring you work. I did not expect trouble. Look, just pay him, he will let you be."

John stared. "Pay him? Don't you think you have it all wrong? The way it works is, I do a job, I get paid, nice doing business with you. Now, you go back to your friend and tell him, he paid me to deliver cargo and that's exactly what I did. If anything, he owes me money, since I only got half of what he promised me. If Carlos has a problem, tell him to take it up with the guy that received the goods."

"Carlos did not receive payment for the goods. He blames you," Juan said.

John would have laughed at the absurd logic, but he was too busy having his day ruined. "That's crap and you know it, Juan."

Juan nodded. "I would not argue with Carlos. The rest is up to you. What is more important? Your money or your life?"

"You threatening me?" John asked.

"No, not me. I only tell you what Carlos tells me to tell you. You think on it. Keep safe, Sheppard."

John watched Juan leave, his blood simmering under his already too hot skin.

He turned and headed to the office, able to see the man that was hopefully a potential client. He was sitting in the chair opposite John's bomb site of a desk, his head slowly moving as he surveyed his surroundings. John figured if this guy had some well-paid gig lined up, maybe he could up stakes and go somewhere where Carlos wouldn't find him. Of course, Carlos was pretty good at finding people anywhere. He was even better at hiding their bodies when he was done.

Rodney was looking around the office, wondering what the hell he was about to let himself into. The office hardly gave the impression of an organized man. It looked more like it belonged to a man that flew by the seat of his pants. Pants that were in danger of falling off. Not that Rodney had been paying any attention to the pants.

He was just a very keen observer of all things human and...pants.

The door to the office opened and Rodney turned to see Sheppard walk in, giving a polite smile that somehow came across as comical. He walked around to the other side of the desk and sat down, making the chair creak. "So, I'm guessing you're here to hire me and my plane."

Rodney eyed him as he sat back, still shirtless. "Do you usually conduct business with half of your clothes missing?"

Sheppard leaned forward and smiled. "In this heat, you should just be glad I still have my pants on." Sheppard gave a nod and sat back, leaving Rodney to blink and stare.

"So," Sheppard said, holding up his hands. "What's the job?"

"I need a plane to get out of here. To the nearest actual airport around here, if you can," Rodney said.

Sheppard sighed, looking extremely disappointed. "Sorry. It's not a passenger plane."

Rodney clenched his jaw tight. "Then why the hell did the man in the bar tell me to come here?"

Sheppard shrugged. "Hey, I'm sorry you wasted a trip, but I only accept cargo jobs. I can't be taking that plane up, using all that fuel to fly one guy to the nearest airport. Why don't you just take a few buses?"

"I took a bus," Rodney said, losing patience. "And then I got robbed."

"Was it a night bus?"

"Yes," Rodney said tightly.

"That's never a good idea," Sheppard said, folding his arms across his chest.

"I already know that, but thank you for providing your completely useless advice. Look, I'll pay whatever it is you charge your usual customers."

"Hey, you can't come in here and toss your money around and expect me to ask how high you want me to jump," Sheppard said, looking offended.

"I'll pay you double whatever it is you charge."

Sheppard's eyebrows climbed high under the mop of hair. "Double?"

"I just need you to get me out of here. Out of Peru, if you can," Rodney said.

Sheppard frowned. "Why? What's in Peru? You on the run or something because I don't need that kind of heat."

"No. It's nothing like that. I just need to get back to New York as soon as I can. It's important. Please," Rodney said.

Sheppard was watching Rodney closely. "I can't take you as far as New York."

"You don't have to. Just take me as far as you can," Rodney said. "I'll pay double whatever you're charging. I'll give you what I have now and then the rest when we get there."

"Yeah, I've heard that before," Sheppard said with a distrusting look.

"I don't have much cash on me right now," Rodney said, "but I swear, I can pay you."

Sheppard eyed Rodney closely, looking him over. "Got anything else?"

Rodney gave Sheppard a wary look. "Just my passport and credit card."

"What credit card?"

"American Express," Rodney said suspiciously.

"Double, huh?" Sheppard asked. "I take American Express."

"You do?"

"Doesn't everyone?"

"Not since I've been here," Rodney replied flatly.

Sheppard sat back, swiveling his chair, stretching his arms above his head in a highly distracting manner and looking at a large map on the wall. "I know a guy, has a little strip in Colombia. I can probably take you there. Shouldn't be too hard to get a bus to the airport from there."

"Why can't you just go as far as the airport?" Rodney asked.

Sheppard seemed to still, his arms frozen above him. He lowered them and faced Rodney, with that odd comical smile again. "Uh, well, I'm kind of due for some business down there and it'll be easier for me. But hey, it'll get you out of Peru, right?"

Rodney nodded. "Right. Well, I need to leave as soon as possible."

"Okay, be here, tomorrow at ten. If the weather holds up, like it is, we should have a go."

"Tomorrow? What's wrong with now?" Rodney asked.

"I can't just take her up in the air. There's nuts and bolts to be checked. I need my co-pilot. Parachutes to be duct taped," Sheppard said.

"What?" Rodney said, images of hole filled parachutes and him falling to his death. "Duct tape?"

"It's an expression," Sheppard said, looking shifty.

"What the hell kind of an expression is that?"

"Around here? A very popular one. I just didn't translate it very well," Sheppard said with a smile.

Rodney frowned at Sheppard. Sheppard frowned back.

"Well, what am I supposed to do until then? This place isn't exactly overrunning with hotels," Rodney said, feeling the weariness of his bones beginning to weigh him down.

Sheppard seemed to consider his problem before giving Rodney a nod. "A place for the night'll cost extra."

Rodney sat back and sighed. Then he pulled out his shirt from his pocket and threw it on the table.

"What's that for?" Sheppard asked.

"I suspect you'll be asking for the shirt off my back pretty soon. Thought I'd save you the trouble," Rodney said flatly.

Sheppard stared at the shirt for a while and then he broke out into a smile. He got up and held his hand out. "John Sheppard. I never got your name."

Rodney sat slumped in the chair and stared at the hand. Then he slowly reached for it and took it in his own. "McKay. Rodney McKay."

Sheppard's hand was warm and not scorching like Rodney expected it to be, like everything else was. He realized then that the handshake may have ended a while back, but he was still happily holding onto the other man's firm grip. He looked up and saw a smoky gaze, intently watching him and for a moment, it felt like he knew this man, like maybe they'd met a million times, a million places. It was that odd trick of the mind called déjà vu. Meant nothing, but felt like something.

Rodney pulled his hand away and John Sheppard stepped back, an odd smile on his face. He turned away and went to his desk, opening a draw and pulling out a crumpled white shirt, putting it on and buttoning two buttons over his stomach.

He walked to the door and opened it. "Why don't I show you where you can put your stuff? Don't forget the shirt," he said quietly and walked out into the hangar.

Rodney got up slowly, picking his shirt up from the desk and wondering why it was so hot in the shade.

John had run half-way up the stairs, doing up another button on his shirt and then stopped. He poked his head over the side and looked into the office, where Rodney stood, looking around as if dazed, shirt dangling from hand.

For a moment, the thought crossed his mind that maybe this man had something to do with Carlos. Maybe needing a plane was subterfuge. Maybe he was Carlos's man on the inside.

John thought about it real hard. Carlos wasn't so big on subtle plans. His plans were usually as subtle as a gun in the face. Actually, a gun in the face usually was the plan.

Rodney walked out of the office and stared at John's head, which probably looked slightly disembodied. John quickly moved back, feeling a little stupid when he realized that Rodney had actually seen him.

He carried on walking up the stairs, waiting at the top for Rodney to catch up, which eventually he did, looking completely worn out. His eyes then took in the surroundings and widened a little as he looked around.

John could tell the man didn't think much of the space, which was really just one big room, a corner assigned as the kitchen, another corner assigned as the bedroom and the space in between the living room.

His favorite part was a small closet that functioned as a bathroom, with plumbing by Sheppard Ltd. Not the best in the business, but they got the job done.

"It's not much, but I call it home," John said, quite proud of his home.

"Well, it's certainly interesting," Rodney said, walking in, John following him.

Rodney walked into the bedroom area and looked up at the ceiling fan with a frown. "Your invention?"

John shrugged. "Well, I had some old plane parts lying around."

Rodney looked away and gave a nod, with a small smile. John frowned as Rodney threw his bag by the bed and sat down.

"So, I assume there's room service," he said.

John arched an eyebrow. "Sure. There's also a casino and bar in a swimming pool, but none of it's here."

Rodney patted the mattress, bouncing up and down a little. "Well, I guess this'll have to do."

"Wait a second, the bed's mine," John pointed out.

"So when you offered me room and board, were you expecting me to sleep in a hammock hanging from your dangerous ceiling fan?" Rodney asked.

"It's not dangerous," John said defensively.

"I'm pretty worn out. How about you tell me when it's time to go? I believe it's called an alarm call," Rodney said with a smug looking smile before he fell back on the bed.

John opened his mouth to offer indignant protest, but then, he'd pretty much invited this situation. And there was money involved and plans to run from Carlos in a beautifully, albeit slightly cowardly fashion.

John sighed and shook his head, making his way back down into the hangar.

He sighed and retrieved his modified mop and half-heartedly cleaned a small spot on the plane's belly before dropping it with a roll of the eyes and going for his abandoned beer, which was flat and warm. But damn it, it was still beer and that was always a good thing.

John turned off the still playing CD player and headed back into his office, beer in hand and casting a glance up at the second floor balcony as he walked away. On the way, he stepped on something that might have been a nail or a bolt or something else that was equally painful. Grimacing, he hopped into the office and picked up his boots with one hand.

He set the beer on the desk and landed in his chair with a thump, pulling on the dusty boots. Sighing, he propped his feet up on the desk, crossing his legs at the ankles as he reached for his copy of War and Peace, page fifteen still neatly folded at the corner.

He sat back and began reading, but a few lines in he found himself staring ahead, wondering if Rodney was in a hurry to leave Peru or reach New York. If it was the former rather than the latter, then that could mean trouble for innocent Sheppards.

His mind wandering too many places, John put the book aside and downed the rest of the beer. Then he grabbed his toolbox and duct tape and headed to the plane.

Rodney had slept for a while before a loud noise woke him up. He got up sluggishly, shuffling over to the wooden balcony railing opposite the bed. Looking down, it seemed the noise was coming from the plane’s engines. The hangar doors were closed, so Rodney doubted that John Sheppard was about to fly off without notice.

Rodney stayed there a while, until the engines turned off and a moment later, John was coming out of the plane, wiping his hands on a cloth, his shirt gone once again and dark greasy smudges marring his sweaty skin in places. His hair was damp and flopping across his forehead as he crouched on the ground and searched through a large red toolbox.

Rodney blew out a breath, shaking his head and stepping away from where he could easily be seen. He blamed the heat. It was frying his brain and making him crazy. He needed some snow. A good few inches of snow with a threat of frost bite. Ice cubes. Rodney closed his eyes and tried to imagine ice cubes melting in his mouth, turning to cool water.

Something buzzed around him and he slapped the back of his neck where it landed, looking at his hand afterward and spotting a freshly squashed insect, which he wiped on his jeans. Rodney went and slumped back on the bed, looking up at the dead ceiling fan, thinking of dark smudges on tanned skin, ice cubes and handshakes that lasted way too long.

John shut the toolbox and yawned. It wasn't so much that he'd done a hard day of work, but rather the fact that the heat had sapped him of all energy and now he was ready to drop into bed. Only, someone was sleeping in his bed. John grimaced at the thought and pulled his shirt on, now that the air was finally a little cooler, buttoning it half way.

Upstairs, he was surprised to find a pleasant breeze in the air, being circulated by the now working ceiling fan. Underneath it, Rodney was sprawled across the bed and dead to the world.

John went to the bed and frowned up at the fan and then Rodney, whose hands had slightly dark smudges. John was impressed and shook his head, wondering how desperate a man was for a breeze when he resorted to fixing other people's ceiling fans.

He was going to walk away, leave Rodney to sleep, be a gracious host. But then he saw the holdall on the floor. John stared at it for a while, knowing what he was thinking was wrong, but unable to stop himself from discreetly crouching down and quietly unzipping the bag.

He sifted through carefully, not finding much at all. Clothes, toiletries and a small medical kit. No passport. No credit card. No money.

John zipped up the bag and stood up, his eyes traveling up and down Rodney's body. He noticed that just above the waistband of his pants and under the T-shirt was the outline of something.

John grabbed the pencil wedged behind his right ear and leaned over Rodney, using the pencil to lift up the T-shirt gently. Once it was out of the way enough, John could see the passport stuck behind Rodney's waistband and something possibly inside the passport. John gave a nod, figuring this was just an extremely cautious guy that had apparently already run into one bout of trouble and was now playing it safe.

John returned the pencil to its resting place and walked away, deciding to let paying guests lie. He went into the living room, which was only a few feet away, and moved over to the window, a large square in the wall with two shutters. It was a nice night outside, with bright stars, a crescent moon and a light breeze in the air.

He'd kill for a hot dog. And popcorn. Ice cold beer. He looked into the kitchen and the fridge that had stopped working days ago with a sigh. That was the problem right there. As soon as you brought in the mod cons, life got complicated.

John went to the television and switched it on, poking the play button on the VCR that sat on top of it. He fell back on the battered couch and watched the same game he'd watched a million times.

It was funny how one man could make him feel this homesick, but that's what had happened. Ever since he walked in, John was thinking of home, even though he had convinced himself that home was wherever he was able to fly.

Maybe nothing was that easy.

He fell asleep watching the game and hearing the light snores of the man that had taken his bed.

When he awoke, it was because something was tickling his nose and making his eyes water. He frowned against the cushion his face was squashed into and opened his eyes, pushing up from the couch. It took a second for his eyes to fully snap open and register what was happening. The whole place was filled with smoke.

John jumped from the couch and looked around, already seeing flames climbing the walls. He ran to the window and looked out, where a group of men were standing guard with their guns. One of them saw John and grinned, taking his cigarette and throwing it at the building.

John ran to the bed, dropping one knee on it as he grabbed Rodney by his T-shirt.

"Hey! Wake up," he yelled with a shake.

Rodney's eyes flickered open and he frowned up at John. "Is it morning already?"

"The place is on fire," John said flatly.

Rodney took even less time to wake up, grabbing John by his shirt. "What? What do you mean the place is on fire?"

"Big burny hot things," John replied.

Rodney looked around the room, his eyes widening. Then they both jumped from the bed. Rodney grabbed his holdall as John walked over the bed and opened a large wardrobe. He brought out a black rucksack and then ushered Rodney down the stairs.

Behind them, the office was on fire and the flames were beginning to lick up into the second floor. They ran to the entrance of the hangar and John pushed open the door. Then he stopped, Rodney bumping into him.

Outside were more men with guns. Only this time, Carlos stood amongst them, his gray hair standing out against his dark skin and black clothes. He smiled at John and lit a cigar. Then he held up a finger to his men.

John's eyes widened and he instantly turned around, shoving Rodney back inside.

"Are you crazy?" Rodney yelled as John pushed him to the ground and landed on top before the gunfire broke out.

John squeezed his eyes shut, ducking his head down over Rodney's shoulder as the other man's body stiffened from surprise. The bullets stopped and John raised his head slightly to look at Rodney's stunned face.

"You okay?" John asked.

Rodney's eyes widened a little more. "There are people shooting at us!"

John looked away nervously, trying to formulate a plan that didn't involve dying. "I noticed that, Rodney."

He looked over his shoulder and at the bullet holes in the hangar doors, gulping when he saw the amount.

"Why are people shooting at us?" Rodney asked insistently from under John. "Wait a minute. They're shooting at you!"

"Shut up a second, I'm trying to think," John said, moving off of Rodney and looking around the smoke filled building. "Come on, let's go."

Grabbing his rucksack, John got to his feet and darted under the plane, Rodney somewhere behind him.

As expected, another round of gunfire broke out and they quickly ran to the back of the plane, hearing bullets rip through things with varying degrees of force.

"Okay, I think we're safe for now," John said with a cough.

"Of course we are. Sitting under the fuselage of a plane, in the middle of a burning building and under a rain of bullets is obviously the safest place to be," Rodney sniped.

John rolled his eyes. "You know, I think I'll just jump in front of one those bullets."

"What did you do to this guy?" Rodney asked with a cough.

"Besides providing good customer service, nothing," John said as he waved away smoke. "Okay, I got an idea. Come on."

John slung his rucksack over his shoulder and ran around the plane, up the steps and inside, Rodney close behind. John went to the back of the plane, which had an assortment of boxes and things and opened one up. From inside it, he pulled out a shotgun.

Rodney stared. "Oh great. This just gets better and better."

John stared back. "What?"

"Okay, it's a hard concept, but I'll try," Rodney said flatly. "We are two, stuck in a burning building. They are many, with many guns and a without the hindrance of an ever-decreasing source of oxygen. Something that's clearly having an affect on you as we speak."

John thought about it. Snooty, snippy man was right. His shotgun was going to do nothing. The minute they would try to run out there, they would be gunned down. He needed a better plan. Then he realized he was standing in it.

John smiled at Rodney.

"What?" Rodney asked.

John looked around the plane.

"Oh no. No, no, no. That's a bad plan!" Rodney yelled.

John wasn't listening. He was already shutting the door and running to the cockpit, getting in his seat. A second later, Rodney arrived in the cockpit and took the other seat.

"You can't fly! You have no co-pilot!" Rodney said.

John thought about it. Angry man was right. He didn't have a co-pilot. Then he looked at Rodney, in the co-pilot's seat.

"You need a job?" John asked.

"Oh god," Rodney said, looking away, his mouth closing as a nervous gulp announced itself with a visible movement of his Adam's apple.

"Hey, it's just a flying protocol thing. It's not like a rule," John said, flicking switches and tapping dials. "You might want to buckle up, by the way."

Rodney seemed a little lost for a moment before nodding, looking nervous. "You know, I hope you've noticed the distinct lack of runway in here."

"Runway's outside, Rodney. I could find it with my eyes closed."

"I'm beginning to think that's how you do everything," Rodney said as the engines started, sending vibrations through the plane."

John looked at Rodney and grinned. "Hold tight."

Rodney took a deep breath and looked out of the cockpit window. "Holding," he said, before he closed his eyes.

Carlos laughed as his men fired on the burning barn. This would be an example to all. People would know that anyone that did not pay their way with Carlos, would die a gruesome death.

Not that he was a merciless man. He had given Sheppard many an opportunity to return the money, but being a cocky American, he thought he could smile his way out of everything. He was wrong.

Sure, Carlos knew some of the goods were damaged. Sure, Sheppard delivered. But the deal hadn't worked out and it left a big hole in Carlos's pocket and that was something he did not like.

Money was not for parting with.

Carlos felt someone come and stand at his shoulder and turned to look at Juan. He smiled at the younger man. He wouldn't be trusting this man as far as he could throw him.

A sound interrupted the shooting. Everyone looked at the barn. No, Carlos, thought. Sheppard wouldn't. No one was that crazy.

A moment later, the front of the barn seemed to look as though something was pushing it forward before the wood began to split and break, the silver tip of Sheppard's plane appearing.

Everyone moved from its path, but continued shooting at the plane, which moved past them and began to pick up speed until it was speeding away and in the air.

Carlos laughed. Regardless of bad business deals, he had to admire that crazy son of a bitch.

If he ever set foot within ten miles of Carlos again though, he was a dead man.

Rodney was grinning in disbelief. He had just escaped fire and bullets and was hopefully on his way out of Peru. Of course, not all danger was past. In fact, one piece of danger was right next to him, flying the plane.

John Sheppard was laughing. "Did you see that?" he asked with disbelief and obvious excitement.

Rodney stared at him and his grin fell off his face and dropped out of the plane.

He had just escaped fire and bullets. Fire and bullets intended for the man with the hair that seemed to possess a mind of its own. Rodney continued to stare, feeling something between horror and continued disbelief. Just his luck to find an adrenaline junkie to fly him out of Peru. Now all he needed was a glass of lemonade to make it the perfect nightmare.

John glanced at Rodney, an elated look on his face. The look began to falter when he saw Rodney staring at him. He looked back out of the cockpit window, blinking a few times. Then he turned back and frowned at Rodney, looking a little crestfallen and clearly disappointed that Rodney was not similarly excited. Finally, he turned away with an annoyed scowl.

"So, do all of your customers end up trying to kill you?" Rodney asked in his most clipped tone.

"I dunno. You tell me. You experiencing any homicidal thoughts?" John asked with lazy sarcasm.

"No, but it's early days yet," Rodney said as he got up and left the cockpit.

The main cabin of the plane had no accommodating features whatsoever. Rodney wondered exactly where John Sheppard was going to stow a passenger between the boxes of cargo and random tools. Dropping his holdall on the floor, Rodney looked down at John's bag. For a moment he considered having a rummage through the other man's belongings; it was only fair after all. What stopped Rodney was the fact that John had looked through his things and taken nothing, his motivations looking more like caution than anything else. Rodney could plainly see why a man like John Sheppard needed to be cautious. It was the same reason Rodney's hair felt singed.

Besides, Rodney felt like he knew all there was to know about John Sheppard. All the important things anyway.

John Sheppard was an American in Peru, hidden away on the outskirts of a remote village. He'd been there long enough to embrace any stranger with an accent north of the Mexican border. He'd been there long enough to make enemies that thought nothing of setting his business on fire and shooting at him.

But then, how long did it take to make enemies anyway?

Maybe by the time they reached Colombia, John Sheppard would have one more enemy. But against his will, Rodney didn't really believe that at all. It was slightly unnerving.

Taking a walk around the cabin, Rodney took stock of some of the crates. One of them had an open lid, so Rodney lifted it and pulled out a pair of jeans, unlabeled as yet. He frowned at the crate and carefully replaced the jeans. Didn't he have a pair just like that?

Continuing his exploration, Rodney stopped by a large dirty sheet, something sticking out from underneath it, bright and white, catching his eye. Rodney squatted down on the floor and pulled aside the sheet, revealing what was undoubtedly a surf board. Rodney stared at the board and then towards the cockpit, slowly blinking as he tried to analyze these new factors.

John Sheppard was a man that kept a surf board on his plane.

Yes. Rodney McKay knew everything he needed to know about John Sheppard.

Paolo liked Sheppard. Out of all his employers, Sheppard was the best one. He was, as the Americans always said, a nice guy. He always offered Paolo to pull up a chair or grab a beer. He talked about sports and planes. He had easy smiles for every occasion.

Paolo didn't really know anything about Sheppard. Or at least, anything Sheppard didn't want him to know. He was smarter than he looked.

Even so, when they went on jobs together, Paolo always felt that he was being paid to do nothing but sit next to the man that was having too much fun flying. Paolo was only a co-pilot in name. Sheppard was more than happy to fly solo. In fact, he seemed the happiest with his feet off the ground.

At these times, Paolo could talk about anything with Sheppard, the other man seemed so at ease. Many a time, Paolo had discussed problems between himself and Maria as they sailed through the sky.

Sheppard always listened. He never said anything about himself, whether he'd been married or not, but he listened and gave his honest opinion. Paolo had made the mistake of telling Maria this. She had wondered out loud that maybe she should have married this Sheppard.

That Maria. She could be so cold.

This morning, she had been far from cold. She had been like hottest of days. Full of laughter and bright-eyed smiles. She was always like this when Paolo went on a flying job. He liked her this way. Especially the way she accompanied him to Sheppard's hangar, little Julio in her arms, wearing her blue dress. Maria loved him. But she loved him best when he went away. That troubled and delighted him at the same time. He was well aware of their neighbor's sleazy, roving eyes.

Today she and Julio had accompanied him as usual, but there were no goodbyes or embraces. Julio was pulling at one of Paolo's pant legs, offering the occasional kick and Maria was standing somewhere beside him, offering up prayers to saints and Jesus. Paolo just stared at the burnt wooden mass that used to be John Sheppard's business and home.

For a moment, Paolo thought about how he could be lying dead in the burnt out shell of the hangar, but then it occurred to him that there was a plane missing, which meant that possibly, Sheppard was in that plane. The splintered debris that lay away from the more charred remains of what Sheppard affectionately called 'Sheppard Airlines' indicated some kind of insane get away and that Sheppard was not dead.

However, a line of dirty grease pools, which headed away from the barn, indicated that Sheppard might not be alive for much longer.

Paolo shook his head, his heart thumping with worry for his friend. Then he doubled over in pain as Julio landed a small, but firm fist against his crotch.

John glanced back into the cabin, frowning as he caught sight of Rodney still walking around, looking around for over an hour. The man was too curious for his own good. Sighing, John turned his attention to the dials. He flicked his fingers against the fuel dial with irritation, the needle doing its old trick of sticking again. The needle jumped for a moment and then floated back down to low again. John ignored it. The plane had been falling apart since the day he'd bought it.

In fact, the very first time he taken it down the dirt runway, the left engine had fallen out and when he stopped and came out, he was greeted with squeals of laughter from the local children that had gathered to see plane the take off.

Still, he had managed to make it fly. It took time and sleepless nights, but he'd done it. Now he'd have to start over. Again. Only this time, all he had was the plane, the clothes, money and passport in his bag and one disgruntled customer. Everything else was toast. He probably wouldn't even be able to sell the plane and in the event that he did, it would fetch way less than he had paid for it. This was what John hated about win-win situations. They always happened to other people.

John rolled his eyes and thumped the fuel dial with the base of his palm, annoyed that it was telling him he had low fuel when he had only refueled a day ago.

Scowling, John looked back into the cabin again. "Hey, what are you doing back there?"

Rodney appeared looking annoyed and fell into the co-pilot's seat. "I was hoping to find some food actually."

"Oh yeah? Find anything?" John asked hopefully.

"Actually, yes. A banana peel I had the good fortune of slipping on and almost fracturing my spine. I could get it for you if you like."

John gave Rodney a tight smile. "Well, seeing as you're the paying customer, I'll let you have it."

Rodney narrowed his eyes. "Funny."

John looked down at the fuel dial again. There it was, lying to him about having no fuel, so he gave it a frustrated thump.

"Something wrong?" Rodney asked.

"The dial plays up sometimes. I thought I'd fixed it," John said, moving his attention to the other dials and the night sky, aware that Rodney seemed to be watching him suspiciously. After a while he turned to Rodney with an irritated look. "What?"

"Oh nothing. I'm just imagining how many pieces I'll be in when I make it back to New York," Rodney said flatly.

"You always this optimistic?" John asked.

"Only the insane and immensely stupid are optimistic against all odds."

"Against all odds? How'd'you figure?"

"Well, a plane that looks like it's spent a lot of time in the air-"

"It's a plane, McKay, that's what they do," John said flatly.

"Yes, but they don't all look like they took heavy fire during the second world war. I've seen sturdier paper bags."

"So, she's a little old," John said with a shrug.

Rodney arched an eyebrow. "She? What is that? A pilot thing? You can't fly unless you assign it a gender? Does she have a name too? Something like Crazy Betty or, what was that movie? Memphis Belle. There's some precious moments of my life I'll never get back."

John rolled his eyes. People who didn't fly, didn't get it. Their feet were too attached to the ground, rooted like trees. Something that flew you into the sky and made everything go away couldn't just be a machine. It was way more. Something that gave you this much freedom was not just a pile of strategically shaped metal, held together with nuts and bolts. It was freedom with metal wings. It couldn't be explained. You had to feel it.

"Do me a favor and find another banana peel," John said flatly.

"Yes, that's very mature," Rodney said.

John resisted a childish urge to mimic Rodney and bit his tongue. His eye caught the wavering needle again and he rolled his eyes, tapping the dial.

"Okay, that's making me worry," Rodney said.

"I'm guessing that's something you just like doing," John said.

"Only since I met you and considering that hasn't been a long time, that should tell you something."

"It tells me if I had pigtails, you'd be probably pulling them," John said with a smirk.

Rodney frowned and gave a shake of his head. "What?"

"Quit your worrying. I checked her over yesterday. There's enough fuel in the tank for a round trip."

"And we're taking the rain of bullets into account here?" Rodney asked.

John stilled. Sarcasmo was right. There had been a lot of bullets flying by when they had left the hangar. A bullet in the wrong place could mean trouble, even if they'd been lucky enough for the fuselage to not blow. John turned to look at Rodney whose face was frozen in thought.

That's when the left engine began to splutter. John and Rodney's heads snapped towards the sound.

"Crap," John muttered. He'd already lost his business and now it looked like he was about to lose a little more.

"That's a bad sound," Rodney said turning to look at John.

"Thank you, Rodney, I hadn't noticed," John said. He looked back at the dials and already the altimeter showed a dip in altitude. The fuel dial showed that there was no fuel, of course, and John was beginning to find the plane hard to steady against the gradual descent as the right engine began to splutter to a stop.

"This...is not good," John said in the brief moment of stillness before the engines cut out completely and the plane decided it was no longer flying. Suddenly, being rooted to the ground, away from all the lovely freedom, didn't look half bad.

John's head snapped around to look at Rodney. "Rodney. I'm not going to lie to you, but I think we might be in big trouble."

Rodney stared in some kind of horrified state. "Really? I hadn't noticed!"

John got out of his seat and grabbed Rodney by the arm, pulling him into the main cabin, a feat made hard with the plane heading towards a nosedive.

John was frantically looking around as they lurched towards a wall. He managed to stumbled across the compartment and throw off a lid from one of the crates. From inside it, he grabbed the parachute he had put there the night before. He threw it across to Rodney.

"Put it on," he yelled.

Rodney caught it and stared, leaning against the wall. "Where's yours?"

"That's the only one," John replied, moving on to search for a plan.

"What? Are you kidding me?"

"Put it on, Rodney," John said, annoyed as he fell to his knees and threw aside stuff, finding it hard to remain balanced.

"You've only got one parachute? What are you? Crazy? Is this some kind of death wish thing?"

"McKay-" John warned, gritting his teeth. "Not the time to panic."

"What? This is completely the right time to panic! Excuse me if I'm the only one here that can truly comprehend how screwed we are!"

"McKay, don't tell me about screwed..."

John stopped. They were both staring at each other. Again, that feeling of something that wasn't quite there. Something that had always been and never been at the same time. Like someone had cast a stone through the plane and created ripples. It turned John's stomach.

"Put it on, McKay," John said, turning his back on Rodney, shaking the dreaded feeling of déjà vu.

"I'm not taking another man's parachute!" Rodney yelled from behind.

John grabbed the coiled rope he'd been looking for and turned to look at Rodney. "I've got a plan. Now, put the damn thing on before I throw you out of the plane myself."

Rodney hesitated for a second before doing what he was told. John crawled to his rucksack and opened the outer pocket. He grabbed the passport and stuffed it into his pants, followed by two wads of cash that went into each pocket. He then began threading the rope through the loops of his waistband.

When Rodney was strapped into the parachute, John stumbled over and grabbed his arm, pulling him to the back of the plane in a disoriented fashion.

"Hold this," John said, handing Rodney one end of the rope as he threaded the other end through some of the loops on Rodney's jeans.

When he brought the other end out, Rodney seemed to figure out what he was doing and handed him the end he was holding. As John tied that end to the left parachute strap, Rodney brought the other end of the rope around his back and then tied it to the right.

Only when they were done binding themselves to each other did they realize that they stood there tied, hip to hip and breathing hard against each other. For a moment, they just stared at each other.

"You ready?" John asked.

Rodney gave a blank stare.

"You're going to hit me as soon as we land, aren't you?" John asked.

Rodney continued stare told John the answer to that question was a definite yes.

John nodded, nerves playing havoc in his gut, and opened the door, pushing Rodney against the wall as it flung back. He was holding on tight to a luggage rack that had never been removed, but stripped to the bare metal rods, as what felt like a hurricane rushed in. The cabin was filled with deafening noise and wind and John could only hope they weren't jumping too late or too close to the ground for the parachute to open.

One last glance at Rodney showed a shock of blue eyes, just staring and John could swear he felt Rodney's heart beating hard against his own chest.

"Let's go," John yelled above the din.

Rodney gave a nod and John felt unsettled. He'd just been granted the trust of someone's life. Maybe it was time to get a nine to five kind of job.

Edging close to the doorway, John took a deep breath, brought his arms down and let them tighten around Rodney a second before he pushed them both out of the plane.

When the parachute opened, John really hoped that Rodney wouldn't notice the duct tape.

Peru wasn't supposed to be exciting. It was supposed to be brief. Restful. Soothing. Yet, here he was, falling from a plane, attached to a man that had probably gone insane from all the sun. Thrust into a rain of bullets and fire. Thrust out into a dark night and falling helplessly.

The way down had seemed to go on forever and ever. A big black hole of forever. Rodney's breath had caught in his lungs and he was sure he'd die of a heart attack, just from the sheer shock of falling. But John was holding him, turning in the air somehow, trying to flatten out, trying to resist against the pull of the Earth. Rodney wanted to tell him he was an idiot because humans didn't fly. They didn't have control in the sky. Not even in planes or air balloons or hanging from parachutes.

His body was yanked up hard for a moment and John was holding on tight, but at the same time, hanging from Rodney uncomfortably, making the ropes dig around his back. Rodney opened his eyes finally. The parachute had opened above them and they were beginning a descent towards unidentifiable darkness, John's cheek pressed against his, warm against his skin.

Rodney held onto John. They'd made it this far, it would be a shame to let him go now.

It hadn't been the most graceful landing as they dropped into the dark mass that turned out to be tree tops. They went down hard, breaking branches, snapping twigs and gaining bruises and scratches until they came to an abrupt stop.

John was now reaching up above Rodney's head and pulling at the parachute cables again. Again, they didn't budge an inch. John started to twist and turn, trying to tug on the cables and hopefully untangle the parachute from where it was stuck.

Nothing. Finally, rolling his eyes with annoyance, John stopped moving and just let himself hang against Rodney. "You think you could give me a hand here?"

Rodney was unmoving. John was sure that had there been enough space, Rodney would be hanging there with his arms folded across his chest with that reprimanding look that seemed to be a permanent fixture on his face.

"I think I'll just let you find a way out of this interesting predicament. See what other hair-brained ideas you can come up with. Let's see, you've already managed to escape a burning barn-"

"Hangar, not a barn," John said indignantly.

"Escaped from a plane using one parachute and a piece of rope."

"You're alive aren't you?" John asked, fidgeting against the strain of ropes that felt as though they were cutting into his back now.

"Yes, but there's no telling for how long since we're dangling from this tree without any idea of how far down the ground is. Just so you know, I won't be recommending your services to my friends."

John clenched his jaw and took a deep breath, ignoring the newly acquired scratches and bruises that stung and ached. "Look, I'll be more than happy to discuss any customer complaints, but for now, how about we try and get the hell down from this tree?"

"Fine," Rodney said, his face vaguely visible in the black night, but his eyes catching light from somewhere and shining bright in the darkness.

"Thank you," John said, feeling a tad impatient.

Rodney reached up and for a moment their bodies moved even closer together. John was hanging lower, his mouth near Rodney's throat, his nose catching a whiff of sweat, his forehead feeling the scratch of stubble. He blinked for a moment, breathing becoming hard again, the ropes holding them together too tight since they had fallen. Rodney reached up a bit more to tug on the snagged cables and John heard something tear.

Rodney was still close against him, his voice a whisper when he spoke. "What was that?"

John was frantically looking around, not that he could see beyond the leaves and branches and Rodney's face. But there it was again, a quiet ripping sound. It was only when John suddenly felt his position change with a jolt that he realized what had ripped.

Instinctively, John's arms held onto Rodney, the other man's arms grabbing him at the same time.

"Crap," John said, looking down at the rope that tied him to Rodney.

"What?" Rodney asked, sounding nervous.

There was another ripping sound and John slipped down an inch. "Damn it!"

"Will you tell me what's going on?" Rodney snapped.

"My pants," John said, feeling another loop on his waistband beginning to tear away, the pressure of the straining rope too much. "I think they're going to-"

And without warning, one end of the rope snapped from the knot that tied it to the straps of the parachute and was also free from John's waistband. His body was slipping down as the ropes now strained on the waistband of Rodney's pants and simultaneously began to loosen.

"Hang on!" Rodney yelled, his hands taking fist fulls of John's shirt, pulling him up, though there was nowhere to go and nothing for leverage. John scrabbled against Rodney, his hands finding Rodney's waistband as he slipped lower and lower, along with Rodney's pants.

"Try and climb up," Rodney was saying, twisting his body as he tried to feebly pull John up, his legs wrapping around John's torso.

"I'm trying," John grunted.

Above them, the leaves rustled just before the parachute decided to untangle itself. For a moment, they were falling together and in that moment, the rope seemed to become slack, leaving John with nothing to tie him to Rodney. He kept falling, Rodney calling his name from above.

Slinging the rifle strap over his shoulder, Xavier crouched down by a tree and lit up a cigarette, taking a long soothing drag.

It was a quiet night. Much like the night before. And the night before that. It wouldn't be bad if there was something else to do. Like sex maybe. Right now, some sex would be good. It wouldn't even have to be indoors. It could be like that movie he saw once. The couple in the forest, her wearing a red dress and running in the moonlight, only she thought she was running from him, hiding, playing games, but then she ran straight into him and they fucked up against a tree, his hands lifting up that red dress and his fingers holding onto her thighs. That was a good movie.

Xavier shifted uncomfortably. For now, he would try and turn his thoughts elsewhere, but when the watch would be over, he'd go to bed and think of her, with her red dress and that wicked laugh.

However, his plans were very quickly destroyed when he heard the sound of a plane, somewhere up there and on it's way down. Xavier looked up into the night sky and saw nothing, but he did hear the plane go down, loud and thunderous.

Finally. Something to do.

Rodney was frantically pulling on the cables above him, John's yell still bouncing around in his head. He had no idea how far John had fallen, but he was pretty sure they weren't lucky enough for it to be a short distance to the ground. What a sickening irony that would be. Surviving a fall from a plane, only to die falling out of a tree.

Rodney grunted and twisted, but the parachute didn't budge from where it was entangled. The only thing he could think of was to unstrap himself from the whole thing and then risk the fall. He took a few deep breaths and decided that was what he would have to do.

It was when his fingers reached towards the straps that something above him snapped and sent him falling again. Rodney shamelessly yelped as he fell, his arms going up to cover his face against the assault of branches and leaves. The parachute seemed to snag and escape a few times, jolting Rodney's body back as it did. He finally cleared the branches and fell faster towards the ground when the parachute snagged once more. Rodney gasped and opened his eyes, only just realizing they'd been closed for the duration of the fall. Even in the dark, he could make out his surroundings and the fact that he had stopped inches from the ground.

Until a branch snapped and Rodney fell flat on the ground, parachute and branch landing on top of him.

He lay there for a while, wondering how he could have escaped death by fire, bullets and falling in one day. That wasn't just beating the odds, that was pure lunacy.

Rodney finally turned onto his back with a groan, pushing aside the parachute and branch. He looked above him and found a dark covering of trees with a starry night that peeked between the spaces. It was quiet with only strange small sounds of nature, irritating insects and the like. Rodney blinked up at the patches of visible sky. It wasn't so bad. It was the first time since he'd arrived in Peru that he'd bothered to look up there at night and he regretted that he hadn't done it sooner, because it was worth the look. Bright pinpricks of light, speeding away from each other in a cold universe. Not so different from people.

Then it occurred to him - John Sheppard. The man with the surf board and only one parachute.

Getting up too quick and feeling a multitude of aches, Rodney frantically looked around, only to find that John was lying just a yard away, directly under the tree from where he'd fallen. Rodney went to his side and crouched down, wary of disturbing the fallen man as he was lying on his stomach. Rodney reached out tentatively, praying for a pulse as his fingers touched John's neck. There it was, steady and strong. Sighing with relief, Rodney rested his hand on John's back.

"Sheppard. Sheppard?" he called to the unconscious man, not willing to turn him over yet. "Sheppard, can you hear me?"

John groaned, shifting slightly and turning his head towards Rodney's voice. Rodney felt overwhelmed with relief. At least the man hadn't broken his neck. Hopefully.

"How do you feel?" Rodney asked.

"Like I fell out of a tree," came the quiet reply.

"Well, don't worry. I think your head broke the fall, so you should be okay," Rodney said.

"Don't you ever quit?" John asked, grunting in pain as he turned over slowly. He let out a small gasp as he landed on his back, his eyes shutting.

Rodney watched the other man go still for a moment, eyes closed and body unmoving. Rodney put his hand on John's wrist, squinting to get a better look at his face. When John seemed to stay still for too long, Rodney gave John's wrist a gentle shake. "Okay, you have to wake up because the last thing I need is for this day to get even worse than it already is by being stranded with a dead man."

John's eyes opened, looking bright in the dark as he blinked at Rodney. "You're all heart, McKay."

"And you're all hair," Rodney said. "Think you can sit up?"

John sat up slowly and Rodney stood to give him room. John was massaging the back of his neck and Rodney wondered if the other man had hit his head on the way down or not. Of course, with all that hair there was a possibility that anything underneath it was well cushioned.

John was moving slow and careful as he propped himself up against the tree they'd fallen from. He drew up his knees and rested his arms on them, his head falling back as he sighed. A moment later, he looked up at Rodney. "You okay?"

"I just fell out of a plane and then a tree," Rodney said flatly.

"So...yes?"

"Um...no?" Rodney said with the voice he reserved for the completely idiotic. "Falling is generally a bad thing, no matter what the distance of the fall. If falling was natural, human beings would be built to bounce."

"Actually, I think I did bounce a little," John said, his hand going up to his head.

"Now, why am I not surprised by that?" Rodney said flatly as he watched John fidget against the tree, until he was leaning back in a more comfortable position. "What are you doing?"

"I'm going to shut my eyes for ten minutes. Get my bearings."

"I'm thinking that would be a bad idea. I mean, you could have a concussion or something and I'd rather not be the only one with my eyes open."

"So, close them," John said said, already sounding as if he was dozing off.

"Yes. Because what I really want to do is be eaten by local wildlife while I fall sleep. Falling out of a plane just wasn't exciting enough for me. In fact, I'm thinking about hitting myself over the head with a rock, just for fun."

"I can help with that if you like," John said.

"No thank you, Pandora, I think you've done enough for one day," Rodney said flatly. "I'm sure any rock you throw at me would just turn into snake and wrap itself around my throat and strangle me to death..."

Rodney stopped, turning around on the spot where he stood as it occurred to him that these were the kinds of places that had things of the crawling, slithering variety. He listened quietly for anything that might be making its way for a helping of McKay. The leaves in the trees shook from a light breeze and Rodney gulped.

A cautious look later, Rodney was by John's side in seconds, sitting against the tree. "I hope you realize that if I'm faced with some kind of jungle monster, I'll be using you as a shield."

Xavier was running towards the place where the crashing sound had come from, a light whiff of fuel in the air. His rifle was at the ready, his senses on high alert.

He knew exactly what kinds of aircraft flew over these parts, exactly the kind of bounty that could be recovered from a wreck. So he ran as fast as his legs could carry him, hoping to find something of value. And if not, there was always the hope of passengers.

John could feel something crawling over him and even as he dreamed of far away things, he shuddered at the feeling. He felt tiny little legs scuttle up his neck, towards his ear and that's when the dream broke. He sat up fast, his hand going to his neck and swatting away the offending insect, which jumped to the back of his hand. John shook his hand and watched the round, black bug fall off.

He made a sound at the back of his throat, ignoring the nauseous feeling the insect had produced.

"What's wrong?" Rodney asked.

Rodney's voice brought him back from his bug induced haze and he realized that between him and the other man was a fire enclosed in a circle of stones. Next to Rodney was a huge pile of branches and sticks. John also noticed that he was covered with part of their parachute, the other half around Rodney's shoulders. In the light of the fire, he could also make out the scratches high on Rodney's right cheek and a bruise on the left side of his jaw.

John wanted to apologize, but he had no idea where to start. He turned towards the fire and crossed his legs, pushing aside his parachute and warming his hands over the small fire. "What did you do? Rub two sticks together?"

Rodney shrugged. "Seemed like the thing to do."

John nodded, fingers going to absently scratch a spot on his neck.

"Bad dream?" Rodney asked.

"No. I just have a thing about bugs," John said, grimacing at the memory of small insect legs crawling across his skin.

Rodney was frowning, like he was faced with something that made no sense. "You're afraid of bugs?"

"No, Rodney," John said slowly. "I said, I have a thing about them."

"A thing? What the hell does that mean? You like taking them out to dinner?"

John rolled his eyes. "I don't like them, okay?"

Rodney's frown seemed to deepen a notch. "That's what it takes to shake you? Bugs? Not bullets, fire or falling out of the sky while sharing a parachute, that seems to be partly duct tape by the way, but bugs? So what happened? You fall into a cave of spiders as a kid or something?"

John grimaced at the thought. "Do you mind? I'd rather not talk about this."

"Consider it a customer service," Rodney said.

John stared at the other man. "I just don't like them. I never did. It's just a weird phobia. They make my skin crawl."

"Maybe something happened to you as a child and you've repressed it."

"Suits me fine."

"Maybe a round of word association might remind you. I'll start; covered in bugs."

John glared.

"Okay, no to the word association. You know any campfire songs?"

"This is your way of punishing me, isn't it?"

"Hmm, let's see, do you remember the time we fell out of a plane and landed in the middle of nowhere?"

"Do you remember the time I said I didn't take passengers and you wanted to go anyway?"

"Oh, I see, this is my fault. Here I was blaming the nice man with a plane that pre-dates the Mona Lisa."

John pointed at Rodney. "Hey, say what you want about me, but don't knock the plane."

Rodney rolled his eyes. "There is no plane. All that's left of that plane is probably your surf board, which probably would have gotten us further."

John looked silently at the fire. Rodney was right. His plane was probably nothing more than a crumpled piece of tin foil now. A sad wreckage. He was now officially destitute. It was kind of freeing actually. All he had to do was pick a direction and that's where life started. Again.

John looked across at Rodney, who was watching him closely. "Sorry."

Rodney's eyebrows went up in question.

"This whole thing. It's...you're right, it's all my fault. You just happened to walk into the middle of it," John said, throwing a twig into the fire and watching it crackle before he looked up at Rodney.

"Well," Rodney said, averting John's gaze. "You also saved my life twice. I suppose that counts for something."

John smiled at the awkward admission. "So, what's with all the complaining then?"

"I, uh, I have a certain way of reacting to certain doom," Rodney said with a wave of his hand and small embarrassed nod of the head. "Also, I consider it a customer prerogative."

"I guess you're entitled to it." John smiled and gave a small nod. "You know what, McKay? I'm going to make you a promise."

Rodney looked skeptical. "It's not the kind of promise I can't refuse, is it?"

"No, that would be an offer. This is a promise," John explained. "I am going to help you get out of here free of charge."

"You are?"

John gave an affirming nod. "Yes, I am. It's the least I can do for almost painting this jungle a hint of McKay."

Rodney gave John a suspicious frown. "I don't know. I'd feel a little safer knowing that the incentive of cold hard cash might persuade you to save my life again, should the opportunity present itself. Besides, didn't you already charge this whole disaster to my card?"

John nodded. "Yes, but I only charged you half."

"And since I promised to pay you twice as much, that means you've already kind of charged me the whole fare."

John narrowed his eyes at Rodney. Then he shrugged and lay down on the ground, pulling up his parachute blanket and closing his eyes. "Well, if you're going to nit pick."

"Just let me know when I should I hand over my shirt," Rodney said and John was surprised that he could almost hear the smile in the other man's voice.

"Good night, McKay."

There was near silence then. Just the sound of the leaves touched by the lightest of breezes, the crackling of the fire and night music from the various residents of the jungle. John decided he'd try and stay awake in case any of those residents decided to get to know him better. He opened his eyes and on the other side of the fire was Rodney, watching him with an oddly rapt expression. John stared right back.

The corner of Rodney's mouth lifted in a small smile and he looked away as John blinked up at him.

"Mind if I ask you a question?" John asked.

Rodney looked cautious as he nodded slowly. "Sure."

"What are you running away from?"

Rodney looked defensive. "I'm not running."

"Yeah?"

"Yes. It's all very complicated. I just needed to leave in a hurry so I got the first bus out and then bad to worse happened," Rodney answered.

"What were you doing in Peru?"

"I was visiting a friend. We had words and now I'd like to go home."

John tried to read Rodney for signs. Extra information. He just looked sad. "What kind of words?"

Rodney seemed to be mulling it over. "Well, let's see. How the hell could you sleep with him? We're through. Don't expect to find any of your things intact if you ever come back. I hope you die a long and painful death. Along those lines."

"Oh," John said. "Sorry."

"Why? Were you sleeping with him too?" Rodney asked flatly.

Him. Just liked that. Without hesitation or consideration. Rodney McKay didn't care what people thought of him at all. Or maybe he was way smarter than he looked and being frank was just a way of finding exactly what people did think of him.

"I'm sorry you got screwed over," John said quietly. "Sucks."

"Indeed it does," Rodney said, giving John a split-second look that seemed to show a flash of knowing, figuring out and digging. John was pretty sure Rodney McKay was way smarter than he looked.

"Was it serious?" John asked.

"Serious enough for him to clutter up my place with his crap, which will all be going to Goodwill when I get back," Rodney said with a pleased smile.

John smiled. "Remind me not to get on your bad side."

Rodney frowned at John. "After everything that's happened, you think you're still on my good side?"

John gave a slow nod. "Sure."

Rodney smiled and shook his head. "I'm surprised you didn't fly that plane on charm alone. Probably could have flown us to the North Pole by now."

"Why, thank you, Rodney. I appreciate the compliment," John said with mock sincerity.

Rodney yawned and threw a small branch on the fire, his eyes looking tired and dark.

"Why don't you sleep?" John asked. "You look beat."

"Somehow, falling asleep in the middle of a jungle doesn't seem so wise," Rodney said with a sigh. "Well, maybe I'll lie down for a minute," he added, brushing the ground with his hand before he lay down and pulled up his own piece of the parachute.

John watched him lying there and staring up at the barely visible sky, his eyes blinking slowly, shining in the dark. His mouth slightly open and hands hooked behind head.

John thought of home for some inexplicable reason. A sandy beach maybe. The sound of waves. A bright night sky and midnight fire. A cold beer. Something on the radio. Someone to talk to. Peru had never felt so distant from where he'd started off. Suddenly it felt further than anywhere he'd ever been.

And suddenly it felt as if this man that he hardly knew was unknowingly dragging him back to where he'd come from. Where he'd run from. John closed his eyes, his fingers absently scratching a tingling feeling on his neck as he tried not to fall asleep.

The plane lay like a broken, metal bird, tilted on its side, the wings broken and the tip crushed. The body was dented, like a large hand had picked it up and tried to squeeze it. There was a slight smell of fuel in the air, or maybe the burnt out engines, mingling with the earthy smells of the jungle.

Santiago stood with his rifle in his hand, his large eyes narrowed at the wreck that was resting on fallen trees. His men were looking inside for valuables, but the plane spoke volumes of what they would find inside. Mostly rubbish. Santiago propped his foot on a log, scratching a match across the tip of the boot and lighting it before he put it to the end of the cigarette between his lips and rested his rifle by a nearby tree.

He watched as Xavier jumped from the plane's entrance onto the ground, heading over with something in his hand. Xavier threw it across before reaching Santiago. The thing he caught was a piece of clothing. He straightened out the garment and saw a pair of jeans as Xavier informed him of exactly how many of these they had found and the missing dead bodies.

Looking at the jeans, Santiago laughed. Then he ordered Xavier to find and bring him the missing passengers.

Rodney was dreaming and predictably, it was the usual kind of dream he had every morning. It wasn't really his fault. After all, the male of the species was expected to think about these things with a great deal of frequency. Also, he was allowed to be dreaming about compromising sexual situations since he was a heart broken man. Well, not so much heart broken as ego broken. Seeing the man he loved - well, liked...okay, had good sex with - all over someone else was pretty painful.

Well. Annoying.

Actually. Painful.

So, he lay there, in the comfort zone of that part of sleep that told him he was dreaming, but he didn't need to open his eyes just yet. He let himself get wrapped into the dream, where it was safe and there was air conditioning.

Where he was falling, but it felt like flying. Where he was floating and busy fingers were tugging at this waistband, hard and hurried. Where he was wrapping his legs around a firm waist and they were both fingers and hands in a flurry of hard, raw and naked want. Yes. Fingers. Nice.

And then falling. Landing. Waking.

Rodney opened his eyes and they widened as soon as he saw what was looking back at him. A snake, coiled on his chest and hissing, 'Rod-neee. Rod-neee'.

Rodney sat up with a yell that was stuck in his throat, his hand going to his chest, just to make sure the phantom was gone.

He sighed with relief and closed his eyes for a moment, letting his heart slow down. Bruises that hadn't registered so much the night before were now beginning to make their presence felt. His muscles were stiff and aching and his head felt like it had been rented out for a frat party.

Squeezing the back of his damp neck, Rodney took stock of his surroundings - dense, green and lush. There seemed to be so much going on around him with the tall trees and the plants with their large leaves, vines weaving in and out of the foliage.

The sky was a little more visible than the night before, showing gathering clouds. Rodney didn't know what time it was, but already it felt too hot for the time of day in normal parts of the world. The air was heavy and humid, making his T-shirt stick to him.

For a moment, Rodney just took it in. Maybe it wasn't so bad. It was kind of peaceful in fact. Oddly quiet. It wouldn't have been a bad place to trek through, had he not spent the previous night falling out of a plane and a huge tree.

Throwing off the make shift blanket, Rodney glanced at the dead fire, now just ashes and stone, in front of a crumpled piece of parachute. Rodney stared at the parachute for a moment. Something was missing. Right. That man, with his hair.

Rodney looked around, panic pushing past his appreciation for nature and lack of mod cons. He got to his feet slowly, his spine making strange cracking noises as he did. John was nowhere in sight.

Rodney was relieved that he could still feel his passport, nestled a little lower in his pants than it was before. Not that he thought John was a thief. He just didn't trust his own luck.

This was a bad situation. John Sheppard, as much of a magnet for trouble, was Rodney's best chance of getting out of the jungle alive. John seemed to possess a certain flair for surviving. A certain flair for making Rodney dwell less on the doom scenarios. Because now that John wasn't in sight, Rodney was thinking of hungry anacondas coughing up hairballs after devouring Sheppards that fidgeted all night.

"Okay, stop panicking," Rodney muttered to himself.

There had to be a reasonable explanation for John's disappearance. He didn't look the type to leave people stranded. Which neatly brought Rodney back to the not so popular anaconda theory. Yes. Brilliant.

Rodney took a good look around. Behind him, where they had landed in a tree, the jungle was much more dense. In the other direction, there was a very small portion that thinned out, creating a narrow path. Rodney took a good look as he walked towards it. The soft ground had partial footprints, where the ground wasn't obscured by leaves and branches and other fallen jungle jewelery.

Of course, he had no way of knowing those were John's footprints, but then he doubted the local monkeys wore large boots.

Rodney followed the trail of prints, marveling at the surroundings as he did. The sheer amount of vibrant green was overwhelming. Where there were only snatches of sky above, the trees seemed to go on forever, providing some dizzying moments of vertigo.

It wasn't very long before the prints all but disappeared. But when they did fade from view, Rodney noticed something else. The sound of water. Thank god. Water. He hadn't realized it, but he was thirsty and smelly and sweaty. Sure, some soap on a rope growing on a nearby tree would have been appreciated, but he'd settle for some cool water. And he bet that John had probably thought the same thing when he had wandered away from camp.

Rodney followed the sound of water until he reached a shallow stream that was rushing over rocks and plants, a wall of green on the other side. Rodney sighed and knelt by the water, not caring that his jeans were becoming wet and muddied. He cupped his hands and scooped up some water, splashing it on his face, closing his eyes as the cool water soothed his irritated skin. Fuck the soap on a rope, this was better.

Rodney looked around the enclosure, finding no safe ledges that could have taken him there. Except for a fallen tree further up, that started somewhere beyond a thicket of green and ended near the waterfall's ledge.

Rodney made his way to where the fallen tree was, being careful to hold onto vines and branches that stuck out at random. He had no desire to die by drowning when he'd survived falling from the sky. When he finally reached the tree, he saw John's clothes in a small pile, a corner of his passport poking out from under his shirt.

Rodney stared at the clothes and shook his head. John Sheppard was probably much more dangerous than any boa constrictor or anaconda.

He looked back at the waterfall, getting a clearer view. A much clearer view. John Sheppard was standing there naked, even though the pile of clothes contained no underwear. Of course, Rodney mused, living on the edge probably made underwear redundant.

John stood there pushing his hair back, hands staying on the back of his head, fingers linking and face turned up, his skin looking sun kissed even under the water. He wasn't a muscular man, yet, that was a body that looked hard. Like it belonged to a man that didn't sit still for long. It was probably all that running from people that wanted to kill him. It had to make a man taut in all the right places.

Rodney closed his eyes. He did not want to think about Sheppard's taunt, right places. The man was trouble. He was trouble and...naked. So, very naked. And one hand fell to his side as his head ducked and shook side to side slightly, the other hand coming down to rest somewhere on his chest.

John was turning around, head still ducked, letting the water hit his shoulders, his hand flat on his chest. Rodney squinted, his eyes darting side to side for a moment as if there was someone really there to catch him out. He considered that John, like a lot of men, probably didn't appreciate other guys staring at his dick. Of course, Rodney was not one of these other guys and he had never met these other guys, so it was all theoretical. For all he knew, maybe John Sheppard loved that kind of thing. In which case, Rodney was being pretty accommodating and friendly.

The hand on John's chest moved to between his shoulder and neck, squeezing the muscle there, his face grimacing in discomfort, relaxing as he massaged away whatever was bothering him. His head fell back for moment, mouth slightly open and his eyes closed as if he were sleeping on his feet, the water falling on him, running down his face, his throat, his chest and stomach and-

Rodney's mouth dropped open and he turned his back on the display. It was the heat. The heat was driving him nuts. He could deal with the cold, but the heat was making him mad, which could be the only reason he was openly ogling a man taking a shower. Which wasn't so bad really, but he was damned if he'd go find a place to jerk off just because John Sheppard took practically pornographic showers. Thank god there was no soap on a rope or he'd have to jump into the water below.

"McKay!"

Rodney grimaced, not wanting to turn around and risk looking at anacondas of a more metaphorical nature.

"Hey!" John yelled.

Rodney gulped, licking his dry, chapped lips, the still healing split in his bottom lip bringing up the occasional throb and sting.

He turned around, most neutral face in place only to have it wiped off as he watched John slowly making his way across the fallen tree. It was a large tree, sure, but still - it was a tree. Not a bridge, but a tree that had given up on staying vertical and yet John was trusting it to keep in its current position. Naked. With hair. On his chest. A trail low on his stomach, leading towards a dark nest and - god he was beautiful.

Rodney quickly looked up and concentrated on John's face. Unfortunately, that was just as pleasant to stare at. What the hell had happened during the night? Had he been bitten by a rabid animal in heat? Had his brain leaked out through his ears? Was his penis calling all the shots from now on?

Rodney sighed. It was the heat. The damn heat. He shook his head, trying to regain some sanity, concentrating on other things. Like the bruises on Sheppard's body. He must have gotten them from the fall, mostly down one side. On his hip and thigh. A large one on his shoulder. There was a bright red line over his eyebrow and Rodney suspected it had bled, but gone unnoticed in the dark. John had dark stubble appearing on his chin and his hair was wet and messily splayed across his forehead. He looked as tired as Rodney felt.

As John neared the ledge, Rodney's hands automatically went out to catch John if he fell, because trees were not bridges. They were trees. It was why the Golden Gate Bridge had no leaves.

John didn't slip, trip or fall, offering Rodney an odd smile as he reached the ledge.

"I figured you'd still be asleep," John said, sounding a little breathless.

Rodney averted his eyes as John bent over and picked up his jeans. Then he took a little peek, because, really, he had to. John straightened up, shaking his jeans and making a face when a bug fell out. He gave them a much harder second shake.

"Yes, thank you for leaving me at the mercy of jungle animals that might be looking for a snack," Rodney said, finding that sniping seemed to take the edge off the overall need to grab things he had no business grabbing without permission.

John smiled as he started pulling on his jeans, much to Rodney's relief and dismay.

"The way you were snoring, McKay, the jungle animals were probably more afraid of you," John said, turning his back on Rodney to pick up his boots.

Rodney watched John, tipping his boots over and shaking them, before he sat down on a nearby rock and began pulling them on, oblivious to Rodney's gaze.

How could he look so calm, like he didn't have a care in the world? Like they weren't stranded in the middle of a jungle. Rodney hated him a little, for keeping it together so well. The way he sat there, his shirt on the ground, pulling on his boots, his hair a mess. Even bruised, he looked like everything was fine.

"You think it's a good idea to go running off and take showers under waterfalls? It's not exactly the most stable looking place," Rodney said, eyeing the tree John had used as a bridge.

John shrugged. "I'm guessing it's been stable longer than we've been around." Pulling on his shirt, he looked up at Rodney, his forehead creasing up. "And besides, you telling me you're not tempted by that?" He cocked a finger towards the waterfall.

"No, call me odd, but I have a thing about showering with the possibility of drowning," Rodney said with an uneasy look at the pool beneath the ledge they were on.

"Can't you swim?" John asked, only bothering to do up two buttons and then picking up the passport, getting up and sticking it in his back pocket.

Rodney rolled his eyes, fidgeting with the answer. "I uh, I never really bothered to learn. I have a... thing about water."

John was smiling at him, his eyes mirroring the colors of the jungle. "Oh yeah? What kind of thing, McKay? You're not scared are you?"

Rodney chanced a look over his shoulder and for a moment, the pool seemed to tilt and rise before falling away. He swallowed and looked back at John. "I may have a slight, irrational, inexplicable, fear, perhaps of...water."

"So what do you do? Take dry showers? Sponge baths?" John asked with a smirk.

Rodney narrowed his eyes. "Yes, very funny. Fear of drowning, oh so hilarious. By the way, is that a bug there?" Rodney flicked his finger across John's right shoulder.

John instantly looked at Rodney's finger in alarm and then gave him a glare. "You're not funny, Rodney."

"Well, then I'm in good company. Now, do you think maybe we could start moving or would you like to frolic in nature's bounty a little more?" Rodney asked.

"I'm done, thank you. You might want to consider taking a little dip yourself though. You're beginning to smell a little ripe there," John said, with a perfectly sweet smile before walking past Rodney.

Rodney frowned and ducked his head, sniffing. Ripe was an understatement.

When the soft, slim beams of sunlight had coaxed John's eyes open, he had let himself lie back and take in his surroundings for a moment. The jungle felt quiet with the exception of random sounds that echoed once they announced themselves.

He could see himself appreciating all this, if it wasn't for the fact that he now had no home or business and all the money he owned was in his pockets. John tilted his head to the side and saw Rodney, fast asleep, arms folded across chest as he lay on his side.

Him. John wondered who him was. He must have been pretty special if Rodney had come all the way from New York to see him or to continue having any kind of relationship. No one had ever followed John all the way to Peru. But then, to be honest, he'd never met anyone that he wanted to follow anywhere either.

John watched the sleeping man closely. Something about him unsettled John. Something about Rodney got under his skin. He couldn't quite explain it, but it was there all the time, like an itch he couldn't scratch. A memory he couldn't quite remember. Something, something, John mused.

With a sigh, he finally got up and ran a check on his belongings. His pockets still had money. His waistband, now without belt facilitating properties, still held his passport and from his back pocket he retrieved a small compass that had survived the fall and in doing so created a compass shaped dent in his ass.

John quietly walked over Rodney, deciding to check the place out and get his bearings before he could decide on a direction to take. He hadn't walked far before hearing the sound of running water and then following a stream to a waterfall. He had two choices of course. Go back and wake Rodney and listen to more comments about his hair. Or, he could take a quick shower and stop smelling like the inside of a shoe.

One quick sniff of his underarm sealed the deal on the second option.

Stripping down. he eyed the fallen tree that led to the waterfall's ledge and considered the dangers of using it as a bridge. Then he looked below at the pool of water, resisting the urge to jump and take a swim.

Stepping under the water had been a shock. It was much cooler than he expected and he gasped as it hit his body, but after a while, the rushing water began to massage away his aches and pains. Power shower, he thought, cool.

Then he had looked up and seen Rodney, who was turned away and looking into the jungle thicket, for jungle monsters no doubt. That guy really needed to learn how to relax.

He called out to Rodney as he made his way back, to be greeted with an odd look of worry and feeling a little touched as the other man stood ready to catch John if he fell. John had just smiled and gotten dressed as Rodney added to his jungle lament.

Then it was time to get a move on and make plans. The jungle was a nice place to live, but only if your name was Tarzan and you didn't mind swinging around in your underwear. John didn't have underwear. Being Tarzan was not an option.

"What are you doing?" Rodney asked as John folded up the piece of the parachute he'd used as a blanket.

"Well, I figure there's no way we'll be out of here by tonight. We'll be needing these."

There was that worried look again. John wondered if Rodney actually, really worried and maybe if the reflex to worry wasn't just a default setting. "Oh you're kidding."

"I'm afraid I'm not. Sorry," John said, throwing his blanket to Rodney and then making a start on folding the piece Rodney had slept under.

"How can you be so sure? For all you know there might be a local MacDonald's around the corner," Rodney said, looking a little hopeful.

John sighed and dropped the folded blanket. He beckoned Rodney over as he fell to his knees. "Come here."

John picked up a stick and drew a square in the soft earth, which was when Rodney seemed to decide that maybe it was worth coming over. John drew a rough map and used the stick as a pointer.

"That's where we started," John said, poking the ground. "I estimate that we got to near around this point here before the plane went down, which means at least a one or two day trek, in this direction."

"One or two?"

"One or two."

Rodney sagged a little more. "Okay. So the theory now is, never sleep with anyone that might end up working in Peru."

John looked across at the other man and then patted him on the shoulder. "Come on, Rodney. It'll be fun."

John could see his reassuring smile had no effect on Rodney whatsoever.

Xavier moved quietly and in the shadows, rifle at the ready and full of renewed confidence in his brand new jeans. There were better things to find than a crate of jeans, but Xavier wasn't complaining. It was a particularly good fit after all.

A crashed plane was also immensely good luck. People were careful to not be stranded in these parts, to take longer routes around the jungles to avoid meeting new friends. They were smart enough to bail out before they hit the jungle or to die on impact.

Obviously, the pilot of the crashed plane had not died. Or the owners of the two bags on board, with their different sizes of clothes. Santiago had told his men to look for men that were near around six feet in height, one of a medium build, one probably much leaner. Both would probably be easy to take down. That Santiago thought he was a clever man. Xavier didn't like men that thought of themselves as smarter than others. Better than others. Still, they were part of the same cause. At least until the day everyone finally got fed up of Santiago.

Rodney pulled at his T-shirt, trying to generate some air between his sticky, sweaty skin and the damp material. He suddenly had a whole level of appreciation for cold snowy winters. In fact, if he was invited to go and work somewhere freezing cold, he'd pick it over his current situation anytime.

Not that everything about his situation was terrible. John was moving quickly ahead of him, his white shirt wet with sweat and clinging to his back. Only Rodney knew that under the clothes - no, he wasn't going to think about it. The heat was unbearable enough without conjuring up images of John Sheppard. Naked. Wet. Water sliding down his back, down the cleft of his ass, down his legs. Strong, strong legs.

When he fell, it was hard. His foot caught and he lurched forward, his hands coming out in front and bearing the brunt of the fall as he hit the ground. Groaning, Rodney lay there and closed his eyes, his nose pressing against the Earth. Stupid selective memory and stupid perfect asses.

"You alright?" John was asking with concern and Rodney wished he wouldn't because concern was nice, and caring was nice and not screwing people that you were exclusive with might have been nice too.

"I hate it here," Rodney mumbled, deciding that as far as he was concerned he was going to give up and lie there, waiting for the jungle to grow over him.

A hand was on his shoulder. Anywhere else in the world, it would have been warm and soothed his chilled skin, but right now, it was burning through his T-shirt and irritating.

"Come on, McKay, we've got to keep moving." John's hand moved to his arm, urging him to get up.

With a reluctant sigh, Rodney moved to his knees, looking ahead into the vast greeny greenness of it all. John gave him a pat on the shoulder and got up from where he had been kneeling, Rodney following slowly.

John was back at watching his compass and leading as Rodney followed behind, tired, hot and hungry; three things he was never happy about.

"Are you sure you know where you're going?" Rodney asked for what felt like the hundredth time.

"Yes, Rodney. I'm sure," came the reply, flatter than the last time.

"And you're sure that we're not lost, maybe?"

John stopped and turned, frowning at Rodney. "Define lost."

"You don't know what lost means?"

"I know what lost means, Rodney. What I mean is, do you mean lost as in we're stranded in the middle of a big jungle that I've never been in before? Or, lost as in having no idea of what direction we're headed in and where it'll take us?"

Rodney tensed. Maybe a man with all that hair was able to possess some thinking capacity. How the hell was he supposed to know? Rodney lifted his chin in the direction they'd been heading. "Straight ahead, was it?"

John gave a smug smile and walked on as Rodney brought his hand down hard on his arm where something had made his skin momentarily itch.

"So, Rodney, this guy you followed all the way to Peru, what exactly is he doing here anyway?"

"His research assistant," Rodney replied flatly.

"You guys must have been pretty serious for you to come all the way down here just to see him," John said, giving his compass another look.

"I came down here to catch him out," Rodney said irritably. "I don't think it's particularly fair to demand exclusiveness in a relationship and then have sex with anything that breathes. I mean, I never asked for a key. I never asked for his stupid toothbrush to just magically appear in my house. My life was simple. Sure, the sex was welcome, but did I ask for a relationship? I did not. What I got was a big bag of steaming relationship, left burning in front of my door and I had to go right ahead and put my foot in it."

Rodney stopped with a huff. His face was burning and the anger he was not supposed to be feeling was back. Why couldn't the plane have crashed on that research assistant?

"So, pretty serious then," John said and Rodney just knew there was a stupid smile accompanying the remark.

Rodney sighed, embracing the misery. He was in Peru and the man he had been seeing had managed to screw him without even being in the same country. That was some feat.

"You seeing anyone?" Rodney asked.

"Nope," John said, slowly walking ahead, light on his feet, voice giving away nothing.

"Want my advice? Keep it that way," Rodney said, heat forgotten briefly, hurt remembered.

John didn't say anything so Rodney just followed in silence for a while, pondering over the other man.

"What are you doing in Peru anyway?" Rodney finally asked.

"Oh, you know, hanging out," John replied, the fractional climb in his voice not allowing the answer to be as laid back as he intended.

"You came to Peru to hang out? You know what the frightening thing is? I can almost believe that."

"Hey, I like it here. Well, not here, but, you know what I mean."

"I'm sorry, do I look like I have an egg for a brain? You expect me to believe you're living in Peru because you like it here?"

"It's okay for your friend to be here, but not me?"

"Ex-lover, not friend. And he's here because he was given a grant to be here and study things that bore me to tears and probably have no bearing on the modern world."

"It's good you're so open-minded."

"I find it's my biggest flaw."

John still had his back to Rodney, but the small, almost hidden laugh made it to Rodney's ears. "So seriously, what are you doing here? You in trouble or something?"

"No. I just needed to get away."

"From what?"

"Stuff," came the flat answer. "I had a buddy that needed a co-pilot for a trip to Panama. I hopped on board and I kind of ended up sticking around."

"And you don't get lonely?"

"Nope," John said and Rodney sniffed a lie.

"Why not?"

"I've got no one to worry about. No one depending on me, relying on me. No one to look out for. No one to piss me off. Tell me what to do. It's great," John said, his words sounding lifeless. "I love it. Anymore questions?"

"Yes? Do you actually believe the words that are coming out of your mouth?"

John turned to look at Rodney with a bored expression. "You traveled from New York to Peru just to check out if your boyfriend was cheating on you. You think you're living an uncomplicated existence? Not everyone needs the same things, Rodney. You had someone and now you're miserable. I don't have anyone, but at least I'm happy."

Rodney frowned. "Are you?"

John rolled his eyes. "What?"

"Happy."

John glared. "Isn't that what I just said?"

Rodney nodded thoughtfully. "Huh."

John looked completely baffled and annoyed. "What? You don't think I'm happy? Because I'm happy. I'm real happy."

"Well, for someone who's lost his business and home and is now stuck in the middle of a jungle, you don't seem so concerned by the shattering of your happy existence," Rodney said with a shrug.

John was staring at him, his mouth slightly open. It opened a little wider, as if to speak, but then seemed to flounder. John's lip curled instead. "How about we have some silent time?"

Rodney smiled. "Sure. I can do silent."

John didn't look so convinced as he turned on his heel and stalked off ahead. Rodney followed with a strangely larger appreciation for his surroundings.

Santiago watched every step he took with eagle eyes, his senses sharp and alert as he moved through the jungle. Though he knew his men scoffed at his supposed intelligence, he was more than certain that he was headed towards whoever had crashed that plane.

If any of the passengers were even slightly aware of their surroundings, they would be headed towards the nearest path that would take them from the jungle and back to civilization. Lucky for Santiago that he knew exactly where that path was.

Panama could be good. He had friends there. Well, people. He had people there. Maybe he could do some grunt work there while he figured out the next step in his life. If they ever got out of the damn jungle that was.

Taking another glance at the compass, John kept going. His face felt hot, burning under the skin and his limbs were heavy and aching. Right now, a bed and some air con seemed like something unreachable and miraculous. Right now, he would do anything for those two things. He didn't even want to think about what he'd do for a cold beer. It would probably be pretty illegal.

He'd probably sell his soul for five minutes of silence too. For a man who said he understood the concept of silence, Rodney McKay seemed out to prove that he knew no such thing. He complained about everything. He complained that his feet were hurting. That it was too hot. That he was hungry. That he was thirsty. That Celine Dione could get a record deal for millions yet people like him had to work for a living. Though. John kind of agreed with the last one.

After a while, John just submitted to the complaining and worked on zoning it out. It was just there, with the leaves and the green and the heat.

It was when Rodney suddenly shut up that John found himself stopping to turn around and look at the other man, confused by the absence of complaining, commenting and more tangents than a badly hit baseball. Rodney had stopped walking, frowning at John with his flushed and sweaty face.

"There's a stream over there," John said, alarmed by how worn out he sounded. "How about I buy you a drink?"

Rodney looked relieved. "Thank god."

They took a small detour towards the stream and drank thirstily. After a quick splash of water on his face, John went to sit at the foot of the steep bank they had skidded down. He pulled up one leg, the other stretched out in front as Rodney remained by the water.

Rodney was sitting there by the stream, cupping handfuls of water and splashing them on his face and over his hair. John watched the other man's profile as clinging drops hung to Rodney's eyelashes and the tip of his nose before falling away. Rodney looked as though he was about to turn and look at John, so John ducked his head and looked down at the compass in his hand, rubbing the glass with his thumb.

Rodney didn't turn. He remained on his knees, leaning back a little to peel his T-shirt off and then dunk it in the stream. His skin had purple bruises spread out across his back and shoulders and he was moving stiffly as he wrung out his T-shirt. John felt a little bad. Those bruises were there because of bullets aimed at him. Because he had needed to run and Rodney had unknowingly got caught up in the whole thing. And there was the problem with having people around. You could always get them in trouble, but there was no guarantee that you could get them out.

Yep. Panama sounded like a good idea.

Rodney was using his T-shirt as a washcloth now, squeezing the water over his skin and wiping away the sweat. John glanced up to watch him more times than he should have. In fact, he found himself rubbing out non-existent grit from the corner of his eye, just to watch. Not that there was anything to watch. It was just Rodney. Some guy he'd only known for just over a day. Some loud, opinionated, annoying guy.

John tried to wrap his mind around what merited the need to look at anyone and ended up just plain looking. Rodney wasn't a muscle bound man or a sinewy, bony guy. But he looked as though he could probably land a fine punch. His shoulders were broad and his arms muscled enough to indicate that maybe once he'd picked up a weight for a few minutes before becoming intensely bored. His profile didn't offer a hard, taut and flat stomach. It was slightly rounded at the bottom, flatter under his pecs that had slight definition and tight, small, perky nipples. It didn't seem to add up that Rodney McKay should have perky nipples. Sulky, yes. Perky? That was just weird.

Rodney wasn't a muscle defined hard body, but apparently, that didn't matter because John's hand was clenching shut, pretending to close around Rodney's full bicep. He frowned, closing his eyes in irritation, only to be accosted by the feeling of heated skin against his, feeling the weight of Rodney's body, pushing down on him. John blew out a breath and laughed quietly at himself. It was the damn heat. Usually it wasn't so bad, but in the jungle it was heavy and oppressive, sinking into him in a way he'd never imagined it could.

He opened his eyes and then rolled them at himself as he watched Rodney finish wringing the T-shirt a second time and then getting to his feet. He pulled on the T-shirt and turned towards John as he did so, his whole body stretching in a magnificent manner as he did so, his arms above his head, chest wide and flushed, stomach still glistening with water. John could imagine stepping in close right there and kissing Rodney's mouth as his head would reappear through the T-shirt.

He looked like the kind of guy you wanted to touch.

Rodney's head popped out of the T-shirt and he pulled it down with a relieved sigh. Then he caught John's smile.

"What?" Rodney asked.

John looked up at the sky, dark clouds having rolled in, making the air heavier and much more humid. He wiped the back of his hand across the top of his lip, where the sweat was beginning to sting. "You just wasted your time there."

Rodney frowned. "I'm too hot to mock you. Please tell me what you're not making sense about."

John offered a blink and smile as the first drop of water fell on his face. A moment later, Rodney blinked in surprise and looked up. Then he stared at John. "You have got to be kidding me."

The rain came suddenly and heavily, turning earth to mud. Even with their parachute covers, both men were soaked to the bone in no time as they trudged on through the jungle. It felt like being assaulted from all angles and John was forever squinting and blinking against the rain while trying not to get his boots stuck in the mud.

It was a miserable situation, the rain not stopping and now making John wish for the heat to come back. He could leave right now. If someone offered him a ticket out of Peru and back to California, he'd do it without a single thought. Then he'd go out to a bar and get hammered. Maybe he'd even get laid. Just as long as it wasn't in Peru.

His boot stuck, making him slip and fall to his knees. A strong hang curled around his arm and helped him to his feet and when he looked at Rodney, he found a pair of bright blue eyes that made him think of riding twelve foot waves.

"You okay?" Rodney yelled above the din of the rain.

John nodded mutely, amazed by how the fantasy had changed in a split second. To be away from Peru. To be in California. Maybe he could buy Rodney a drink. They could get hammered and laugh about that time they were stuck in Peru.

He wasn't lonely. Or at least, he hadn't been. But, maybe you couldn't tell what lonely was when there was no one around. Maybe he liked it that way.

John suppressed the urge to tell Rodney that he was happy. That he did love it here. He could already see the look of confusion Rodney would give. Furthermore, he already knew the affirmations of happiness would be for his own benefit.

"Let's keep going," John said and then walked on ahead, not thinking of where home was.

As the light began to fade, Rodney was a little thankful that the day was drawing to a close because maybe it meant they were closer to escaping the jungle. The rain had come and gone, falling hard for a long time so he and John were both still soaked to the bone.

Rodney had figured that John would keep going until it was too dark to carry on, but he had stopped when the light had only faded slightly, announcing the need for shelter that would keep them out of the rain if another shower came. Rodney had been on the verge of making a remark about how he had forgotten his camping material at home, but John was already gathering branches, twisting vines and breaking them free, tearing large leaves from the surrounding greenery.

Rodney followed John's example, gathering the materials, helping to construct a frame of wood, vines for lashing and leaves for thatching. For a moment, Rodney had stepped back and just watched John as he stomped on branches to break them to a desired length, folded leaves and lashing them to the frame. John had noticed Rodney watching him and stopped, asking him what was wrong. Rodney mumbled something about a splinter and decided to make a fire.

Over at least an hour later, they had a small rectangular shelter under a large tree, the ground inside it covered with John's parachute piece to keep them off the damp earth, a large cushion of leaves between the ground and material. Just outside the shelter was Rodney's fire, casting light into the small clearing where they'd set down for the night.

The night air was cool, so Rodney gladly stretched out under their shelter, using his parachute piece as a pillow. A moment later, John dropped down next to him, sitting back and drawing up his legs with a tired sigh.

Rodney looked up at John and smiled. "So, is there anything you can't do?"

John frowned down at Rodney. "What?"

"Well, I know you have some level of skill in repairing things mechanical, as dubious as it may be. You made a hangar out of a barn. Used a turkey to fly me out of Peru. Managed to not kill us while only using one parachute and now we have this pretty nifty love shack," Rodney said.

John arched an eyebrow. "Love shack?"

"It's the only kind of shack I could think of," Rodney said with a shrug. "But, seriously. I'm impressed. Do you think if I gave you a shoelace you could build a sandwich from it?"

John was looking at Rodney with a blank look. "No, but I'm pretty sure I could still make you eat it."

Rodney's brows went up and then he smiled, getting a small laugh out of John.

John sighed. "Actually, I think I'm hungry enough to eat my own leg right now."

"Well, as long as you're not getting any cannibalistic urges, be my guest," Rodney said, hooking his fingers behind his head and stretching a foot towards the fire, letting it warm through his sock.

Next to him, John shifted down until he was lying on his back, using his hand as a place to rest his head. He yawned loudly and shifted until he was comfortable. Rodney glanced across and saw John's eyes close, his face nothing but interesting curves and peaks in profile, warmed by the light of the fire.

Rodney stared quietly, wondering why no one was missing this man. Why the hell wasn't someone dragging him back home? Why was he so content alone?

Rodney turned onto his side, propping himself up on an elbow. "Don't you ever feel like going home?"

John sighed and his eyes opened, the warm colors there lit up and bright. "Not really."

"Why not?" Rodney asked.

John turned his head to face Rodney, his expression not really giving anything away. "I never really had a reason to go back."

"And that's a good enough reason to stick around?"

"It's as good as you following your boyfriend here just to catch him cheating on you. Couldn't you just write him a 'Dear John' letter?"

Rodney gave a nod. "Yes, I could've, but um, he's not dear John."

John was frowning at him, a comical smile playing on his lips, making Rodney's mouth twitch into a smile of his own. He suddenly felt foolish, crossing a boundary that was better left untouched. What the hell had happened to the rule about no flirting with the cute guy that was going to guide him out of the jungle?

Ah, yes. There wasn't one. Maybe there should have been.

"Sorry," Rodney said still smiling. "I couldn't resist."

John had a good humored smirk on his face. "It's okay. You can't help it. Apparently, I'm irresistible."

"You are?"

John gave a proud nod. "Yes, I have been told."

"By whom? It wasn't someone that looked suspiciously like you and on the other side of a reflective surface was it? Because I think I might know him."

John shook his head and closed his eyes. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Of course you don't," Rodney said, his damn smile just not leaving.

It felt good, lying there and talking to John. Okay, maybe even flirting. It wasn't as though he was cheating on anyone. And lying close to Rodney, John certainly didn't seem adverse to flirting. Or holding Rodney's gaze just that moment longer than necessary. Or maybe it was all wishful thinking. Maybe it was jungle heat. Shack fever. Insect bites that he was too tired to locate. John Sheppard's hair pheromones.

Or maybe the prospect of a man that knew how to do many interesting things with his brain and hands had pushed him over the edge of reason. Well, at least they were good reasons.

"Hey," Rodney said softly.

John's eyes opened slowly with an accompanying frown.

Rodney leaned in close. "Don't move," he said, almost whispering.

John's eyes widened a little, his mouth slightly open as he stared. Rodney brought his hand up to John's neck and John's lips moved, but made no sound as Rodney came in close enough for a kiss. John's tongue flicked out to lick his bottom lip and Rodney had a million images flash in front of his eyes of what it would be like to taste John Sheppard. Then he pulled back, bringing his hand with him. He held out his palm and showed the large, fat, black bug he had extracted from John's shoulder before throwing it out of the shack.

John blinked a few times and closed his eyes and Rodney wondered if he had turned slightly green or if it was just the lighting.

"You okay?" Rodney asked, giving John's wrist a shake.

John nodded, still not opening his eyes, a disgusted grimace on his face. "I, uh, I have a-"

"A thing, yes, I know. It's why I didn't say anything," Rodney said, watching John closely, trying not to laugh at the man that thought nothing of falling out of a plane, but hated bugs.

Rodney watched John rubbing his neck and opening his eyes, looking at Rodney. "Thanks."

Rodney nodded, pulling out his pillow and spreading it out into a blanket. Pulling the cover over himself, he pointed a finger at it. "You might want to share. It got pretty cold last night."

John seemed to think about it for a moment. "I'll be okay. The fire's warm enough and tonight we have an insulated...love shack, apparently."

"Suit yourself. Goodnight," Rodney said, trying not to smile as he brought the covers up to his shoulders and closed his eyes.

John seemed to read his mind. "Just say it, Rodney."

"Don't let the bed bugs bite," Rodney said instantly, with a smirk.

"Feel better?" John sounded amused.

"Much. Thank you."

"You're welcome. Now, stop talking."

Rodney gladly let himself slip away into sleep, not understanding when he'd suddenly wanted their trek through the jungle to keep going a little while longer.

Sleep didn't come easy. John felt fidgety and jittery, an odd current of energy crackling under his skin. He spent a good hour tossing and turning, scratching and sighing as Rodney slept like a rock.

As the fire dimmed slightly and the temperature seemed to dip a little, John cautiously and carefully pulled on the edge of Rodney's blanket, bringing it up and sliding under without disturbing the sleeping man. John sighed and lay on his back, one arm under the base of his head, Rodney asleep with his back to John.

John figured that Rodney knew. He knew that there was something there. When he had reached for the bug on John's shoulder, his eyes had been a bright blue with a wide dark center and they were smiling because John had lost his tongue. Because he thought there was a kiss coming and he pretty much wanted it. Waited for it. What he got instead was the urge to run and jump in case there were other bugs, hiding on him and waiting to burrow into his skin and suck his blood and -

John swallowed, taking a deep breath. It seemed as though Rodney's habit for projecting the worse case scenario was catching.

Rodney shifted with a sleepy mumble, turning over and onto his stomach. His arm landed across John's stomach and Rodney's face was suddenly close enough that John could feel the warm breath against his arm. John looked down at Rodney's forehead against his shoulder, his mouth opening and shutting soundlessly as he tried to figure out a way to move the sleeping man. A task that became harder as Rodney shifted again and his hand moved lower, lying lightly over John's crotch. John shut his eyes and held his breath. Calming down, unsure of exactly when he'd calmed up, John lifted the cover slightly and looked down at Rodney's hand. He took it gently in his own and slowly moved it away, trying not to breathe or make a sound.

Rodney pulled his hand away, grumbling in his sleep, and it landed on John's chest, a pleasant weight there, warm and fingers moving every now and then. Probably seeking out more heat in his sleep, Rodney moved closer, pressing his body against the length of John's.

John sighed. He didn't have the energy to wake Rodney and tell him to stop molesting him. Also, it was a cold night and the extra heat was nice.

Also...maybe John kind of liked Rodney. Maybe.

He shouldn't have. John didn't complain about things. He didn't think about all the things that could go wrong. He just went ahead and did whatever needed to be done. So it was wrong that he liked this man who spent an awful amount of time complaining and hypothesizing on the things that could possibly go wrong. Rodney McKay was a high maintenance kind of guy.

But there was something that drew John to the other man. Something inexplicable and unnerving. Something felt too right about being there with him. Like it was supposed to happen.

Something a little more frightening than bugs. John tried not to think about it and closed his eyes, falling into a sleep filled with scattered and strange dreams.

He awoke with a gasp and his heart hammering in his chest, loud in his ears. For a moment everything seemed wrong. Like he was supposed to be somewhere entirely different.

A light breeze made the leaves rustle and everything fell back into place, the fog of sleep lifting. Right, he was in Peru. He was in Peru, dreaming dreams of cold water, rising further and further, until there was nowhere left to go but under.

Rodney grimaced up at the ceiling of the shack, feeling stupid for being spooked by an old recurring nightmare. Of course he was dreaming of water, it made sense with all the oppressive heat. He'd only been awake a few seconds and already the clammy fingers of the jungle humidity were all over him and getting way too personal.

Kicking off the blanket, Rodney looked at John, asleep next to him, his eyes moving left and right under the lids, hair limp and cheeks flushed. Rodney turned onto his side and watched the sleeping man. The creasing of his brow and occasional soundless opening of his mouth suggested that Rodney wasn't the only one having nightmares. John frowned in his sleep, turning onto his back, his head turning away, revealing a long stretch of neck.

He made a quiet sound of protest and Rodney watched as John's hand went to his neck, fingers searching in an uncoordinated fashion.

Rodney suddenly got it. Bugs. The man who fell from planes, ran from bullets and fire had nightmares about jungle bugs. He would have smiled at the realization had John not looked so distressed, his fists going to clench by his sides.

It was a strange impulse that came out of the blue, but Rodney's hand went to John's shoulder, as if drawn there without his knowing. His hand closed around the shoulder, firm.

"John?" Rodney said.

John lurched up from the ground, his eyes snapping open wild and wide as he stared at Rodney. Rodney stared back at John's eyes and all the colors he saw there. As if he'd absorbed the colors of the jungle, the heat of Peru, with tints left behind of wherever he came from. And at the center, a mystery. One that drew Rodney to John Sheppard.

John was staring right back and Rodney wondered what John was seeking out because his eyes seemed to be lost, searching. Maybe even finding something.

After a moment, John looked around, like he had no idea where he was, confusion written all over his face. That must have been some nightmare.

"You okay?" Rodney asked, his hand still on John's shoulder, giving it a small squeeze.

John slowly turned to look at Rodney, licking his lips, mouth closing and head giving a slight nod.

"You sure?" Rodney asked.

John gave a firmer nod. "Yeah."

Rodney drew his hand back and John got up from their small shack, looking grim and fed up. He raked his fingers through his unkempt hair and squeezed the back of his neck before looking down at Rodney. "Let's get the hell out of here."

Rodney gave a nod and started to fold up the blanket.

"Leave that," John said, already walking away.

Rodney frowned and quickly started to put his boots on. "What if we need blankets for tonight?"

"We won't," John said. "We're not stopping until we're out of this place."

Rodney stuffed his foot into his boot, watching John's rigid back as he kept on walking. "I'll, uh, I'll catch up? Okay. He's, he's not talking and he's probably going to come after me with an axe in the next twelve hours and...I am talking to myself. Great."

Rodney quickly laced his boots and ran after John, catching up and falling into a steady pace a few steps behind. The set of John's shoulders and back said he was not in a sociable mood and considering that Rodney didn't want this venture to turn into a Stephen King novel, he decided he would just walk in silence for a while.

A few hours later, when his legs were beginning to cramp, sweat was running down every crevice, he wondered exactly how bad the Stephen King ending could be.

"You're quiet," Rodney finally called out, or rather, panted.

"Yeah, well, let's just say I got out of the wrong side of bed this morning," John replied flatly.

"That must have been some nightmare," Rodney prodded.

John didn't reply, which Rodney could have chosen as 'shut up', but decided to ignore since he was probably suffering from heatstroke.

"You're, uh, you're not the only one, you know? I mean, the nightmares and you know what, if we don't stop for a second, I think I'm going to be violently, sick," Rodney said, coming to a stop and taking a deep breath.

John stopped and turned around, looking tired and worn out. And a little guilty. "You want to sit down for a minute?"

Rodney shook his head, waving a hand at John. "No, I'd just like you notice that I'm not a gazelle and drop the pace a little. I know you want out of here, so do I. But do you really want to carry me out?"

John gave a sheepish look. "Sorry."

Rodney took another deep breath and gave a nod, walking up to John. "Okay, let's go."

John nodded back and looked at the compass in his hand, resuming their course, this time walking next to Rodney.

"So, what did you mean when you said I wasn't the only one?"

"I meant the parrots were having problems sleeping too. What do you think I meant?"

John rolled his eyes, but there was an accompanying smile, so maybe crazy time was further than Rodney expected.

"It must be this place," Rodney said. "I've never felt so jittery in my life and believe me, you're talking to a man that can sniff caffeine from ten miles away. In fact, if you lose that compass, I can probably guide you all the way to Colombia with my nose."

John smiled. "I'll keep that in mind, Rodney".

Rodney saw John looking relaxed for the first time since they'd woken up, his smile continuing to hang around at the corners of his mouth.

"So, you okay? You looked pretty freaked out when you woke up," Rodney said, trying to stay as casual as possible.

John gave a nod. "Yeah. Like you said, it must be this place. We could probably do with some real rest."

Rodney sighed. "God, I'd kill for a bed."

John sniffed his shirt opening and grimaced. "Shower."

Rodney felt his stomach rumble. Again. "Food," he said, wistfully.

John looked as though he had a sudden idea and pointed at Rodney. "Beer. Ice cold."

"Oh, God. Yes," Rodney said, shoulders slumping.

Above them, there was a low rumble in the sky and a dark graying. Both men stopped and looked up, squinting at the sky.

When the first drops fell, Rodney looked at John and smiled. "Well, at least one of us is getting what we want."

John's brows climbed up his forehead as he gave Rodney a comically thoughtful expression. "Beer?"

Santiago stood up on the cliff, rifle in hand, hanging by his side as he watched. He tilted his hat up a little, letting the rain slide off backwards. The jungle was less dense below, heading back towards the real world. Further on would be paths that hikers took and things they had left behind or had fallen behind. Below was the way out of the jungle.

Santiago smiled.

The rain had been short-lived, but heavy and relentless for the time it lasted. No amount of leafy shelter had spared John and Rodney from getting soaked to the bone.

They trudged along, the ground softer and slippery under their feet, their clothes cooling on their bodies.

John didn't care though. It could rain non-stop from now on, but he was getting out of this jungle by nightfall. It was becoming an increasingly unsettling place, crawling under his skin and making him paranoid. He almost felt like he was being watched. As if the jungle was closing in on him.

His nightmare had done nothing to ease his paranoia. Though he remembered little, what he did recall had shaken him. An intense feeling of claustrophobia, the feeling of cold fingers around his neck, his legs unable to move, like many a nightmare. Only there was a light. A bright, bright light, which was strange, because he wasn't even dying.

Then Rodney was looking at him with concerned eyes, only John wasn't sure if it was in his dream or when he awoke.

For a moment, he'd been in two places at once and nothing had made sense until Rodney's hand squeezed his shoulder.

Then it had flooded back and most of the memories of the nightmare and disappeared like smoke, along with the fear. But his skin still crawled, goose pimples appearing whenever he tried to think about it. It was time to get out of the jungle.

John pushed some long leaves out of his way and jumped over a log, pushing past more leaves until he found an opening and then suddenly a view. He had stopped at a ridge, a vertical drop in front that ended with a small river at the bottom of it, a cliff side opposite. John put his arm out, just in time to stop Rodney from stepping out and over the ridge.

"What? What is it?" Rodney asked, appearing at his side.

John turned and looked and Rodney and then down over the ridge. Rodney followed his gaze, looking over the arm pressed against his chest.

"I'm sure I would've seen that," Rodney said.

"Before or after falling in?" John asked.

Rodney rolled his eyes, shaking his head and taking a good look around and peering past the ridge edge. He nodded towards something over John's shoulder. John turned and saw a narrow path to his left, running along the cliff side and in the distance was a rickety looking wooden bridge that crossed the river.

John looked down at his compass and nodded and then back up at the bridge. "I guess we're crossing the river then."

"Perhaps not."

John and Rodney spun around towards the voice behind them. A man stood there pointing a rifle at them both. John figured he was around Rodney's height, weighing in at about ten pounds less. He was wearing a wet green T-shirt with a pair of very new looking jeans. His skin was a dark brown that said he spent too much time in the sun, his hair short and neat and a small box beard on his face with an accompanying smile.

John turned and looked at Rodney, who was turning to look right back at at him at the same time. They turned their attention to the man.

"Look, we don't have anything of value if that's what-"

"Everything has value," the man said with a wide smile, his English heavily accented.

"Maybe we could come to, um, some kind of agreement?" Rodney asked, offering an odd nervous smile that made John want to wrap the rifle around the neck of their new friend.

"Agreements will be made. Not with you," the man replied, not making any move. "Hands behind your head."

"Is that necessary? I mean, you have a gun. All we've got is his compass," Rodney said, pointing at John. "And to be honest, I'm not even sure it works."

John scowled at Rodney before turning to the man. "We're not on our own. Our friends'll be here any second."

The man laughed. "My friends will be glad to hear it."

John smiled humorlessly, narrowing his vision to the space between him and the rifle. Too much space. By the time he'd grab the rifle, it would go off in his gut. He rolled the small rocks under his foot, feeling the mixture of plants, vines and dirt, pondering on escape. He turned his head to look at Rodney and blinked at him slowly as he put his hands behind his head. Rodney frowned as he followed John's example.

John turned to look at the man holding them hostage. "So, what's your name?"

The man didn't reply, offering a smirk instead.

John nodded. "Okay, in that case, I'll just call you Steve. Look, Steve, my friend and I left all our belongings on the plane where you found those nice jeans. We don't have anything else or people that are going to pay you any sum of cash to get us back. You're wasting your time," John said, calmly.

"He's right. In fact, people would probably pay to keep us away," Rodney added.

Steve laughed as John scowled at Rodney.

"Are you trying to get us killed?" John asked, irritably.

"I'm just telling the nice man with the gun that we're not worth anything. I'm surprised he didn't look at you and figure it out for himself."

John's scowl deepened, his hands falling from his head. "What the hell does that mean?"

Rodney's hands came down with an accompanying belligerent look. "Need I remind you of the parachute made partially of duct tape?"

"It's called being resourceful," John sniped.

"It's also probably curable with nice little pills," Rodney said with a small smile.

John shoved Rodney. "Hey, I saved your god damned life."

Rodney shoved back. "Only after endangering it in the first place."

Steve stepped forward and shoved the rifle between them. "Silent!"

John grabbed the rifle barrel with one hand and threw his elbow back hard into Steve's face. Steve's grip of the gun loosened and Rodney pulled it away as John delivered a punch to Steve's face, sending him to the ground. Steve jumped straight back towards John, lunging for his legs and sending him crashing into Rodney. Rodney fell forward, the rifle falling from his hands and over the ridge, as he scrabbled for it and missed.

Steve and John both stared at Rodney's hand, empty.

John looked at Steve then. "No gun. Just two against one. You want to take your chances?"

"Two against two."

John sighed and rolled his eyes before he looked up to see another man with rifle in hand. He was wearing a dark Fedora hat, his shoulder-length hair visible under it, his hawkish features under its shadow.

"Xavier," he commanded, pointing his gun at John, gesturing for him to move.

John held up his hands and let Xavier stand up. Xavier straightened, casting John a malicious look.

"On your feet, American. You and your friend," the latest addition to their problem ordered.

John got up, Rodney getting to his feet next to him.

Xavier was still watching John and nodding with a smile. Even before he received the punch in the mouth, John knew it was coming.

He fell on his hip, getting a good view of what lay over the ridge. Rodney was coming to his aid, but then stopped.

"You, stay where you are. Do as I tell you, and you will live," Xavier's friend ordered.

John turned onto his back looked up at the two men, Xavier still watching him.

"On your feet," the nameless man said.

John got up slowly, aware of how close he was to the cliff edge, wobbling a little as he did.

"I say we only keep one, Santiago," Xavier said, his eyes conveying exactly what he wanted to do to John.

Santiago ignored Xavier. "I am not a terrible man. You will find me amiable, as long as you do as you are told. This is not, how you Americans say, personal."

"Then let us go," John said, wiping the blood from the corner of his mouth with his thumb.

Santiago smiled. "You know I will not do that."

Santiago held on steadily to his rifle in one hand and reached behind him, pulling out a pistol, which he threw to Xavier.

"You will come with us," Santiago said plainly. "Until your freedom is paid for."

"And if it's not?" Rodney asked.

Santiago offered nothing more than a smirk.

"You know, I somehow don't see my government paying ransom for a guy that skipped town to live in Peru. You've got the plane and everything in it. We're no use to you," John reasoned.

Xavier stepped forward, waving his pistol. "He is right, Santiago."

John stilled as he saw Xavier turn towards him. He knew it was coming before Xavier even pointed the gun at him.

John took a step back, his eyes on the barrel, his mind bouncing around a million options.

Xavier fired and then John was falling.

Rodney walked on quiet and numb. In front of him was Santiago, leading the way and behind him was Xavier, poking him in the back every now and then, with the gun that had shot John.

It had been surreal. One minute they stood there and the next minute, Rodney saw the gun go off and John was no longer standing with them.

Rodney rushed towards the ridge in panic, but Xavier smacked him across the face with the gun and sent him to his knees.

"Fool! What have you done?" Santiago snapped.

"He was more trouble than he was worth," Xavier said, his eyes fixed on Rodney now.

Rodney looked at the ground, dazed and shaken. He turned his gaze to Xavier. "You killed an innocent man! What the hell did you achieve by doing that?" Then he turned to face Santiago. "This what you mean by amiable?"

Santiago glared at Rodney and then looked at Xavier. He stepped up close to his friend. "Next time you do something without asking me, my next bullet will be for you, Xavier."

Xavier smiled remorselessly and then gave a nod. "I understand. Forgive me, Santiago. It seems I let my anger go too far." Xavier looked down at Rodney with the same sick smile. "I am sorry for the death of your friend. My finger slipped."

Xavier started to laugh at his own joke. Rodney got to his feet and went for Xavier, before realizing his own intentions, only to have Santiago's gun touch his temple as his hands reached for the taunting man.

"One man has already died. Do not make it two, amigo," Santiago said quietly.

Rodney turned to glare at Santiago. He swatted the rifle away, not sure where that moment of carelessness and come from. "Your word doesn't mean much right now."

Santiago lowered his gun. "It is all you have."

Rodney clenched his jaw, stopping himself from saying something to invite his own death. He blinked away the stinging in his eyes and turned his back on Santiago. A hand grabbed his arm and he turned to see Xavier holding on.

"Xavier," Santiago said, his voice low.

Xavier looked at Santiago and then at Rodney. He gave Rodney a small smile, his fingers loosening. Rodney wrenched his arm away and watched Xavier walk to the ridge where John had fallen. He was looking over and then he crouched on the floor and pulled up a thick mess of vines from over the edge. He looked at them and then grinned back at Rodney.

Rodney watched Xavier get up and kick the vines back over the ridge and walk back looking satisfied. Rodney looked at the empty spot where John had stood. John was probably at the bottom of the riverbed by now.

Rodney felt his stomach clench as he swallowed. "I'm sorry," he whispered, unsure of where the words came from, because how could he have stopped what happened anyway? What was he sorry about?

His hopeless apology still echoed in his head as they trekked through the jungle in silence. All he could think of was John, dead in the middle of nowhere. Away from wherever his home was.

He didn't know the man long enough to grieve for him, but there it was anyway. An incredibly heavy heart that was telling him John Sheppard was not supposed to die.

When he was a kid, he and his friend Billy had been goofing around in Billy's tree house and when things suddenly got heated, Billy decided to push John out. He didn't know if it was instinct or sheer luck, but his hand had gone out to grab the rope ladder as he fell and to his shock, he caught it and held on. For a few seconds. Then he fell to the ground with a dislocated shoulder.

This was almost as bad.

Only, he was upside down this time and his mind was having a hell of a time adjusting.

The gun had been aimed at his heart and he knew he could either stand around and wait to be shot or hope that no one had noticed him inserting his foot deep into the jumble of vines that were growing in the plants and dangling over the ridge.

Xavier was about to fire and John lurched back, still getting hit by the bullet, but in the arm instead of the heart. He fell head first, full expecting to plunge to his death and then his body jerked up hard, bounced away from the cliff and swung back in towards it. John flailed with the arm that hadn't been shot, reaching for vines that had grown down and attached to the cliff side. He held on tight, biting back the pain in his other arm.

Looking down, he could see the shadow of the overhanging ridge reaching way past his head. Hopefully, if anyone looked over, he would be hidden under the ledge.

He could hear sounds above him, talking, but not clear enough to make out what they were saying. John closed his eyes and tried not to concentrate on what felt like a canyon sized hole in his arm. He bit his lip instead and brought up the hand of the injured arm to hold onto the web of vines. The pain felt as though someone had tried to hollow out his arm with a spoon and his nerve endings had been left exposed and on fire. But he tightened his fist in the vines because he knew that any minute now, he'd need both hands holding on. Any minute know, the vines wrapped around his foot were going to give way.

Both his fists were holding on tight and he was gritting his teeth against the pain as he kicked at the vine around his ankle with his free foot and felt it loosen more and more until it simply unraveled altogether.

Again, John's body fell like a rock and his knees came crashing hard into the rock face. The hand of the injured arm let go under the stress and suddenly he was hanging by one hand, his back against the rock and his body like a lead weight.

He swallowed, his mouth feeling dry, and looked up, squinting against the sweat burning his eyes. The vines he'd been hanging from were being pulled back up. He shook his head hard to clear the cobwebs and swung inwards, forcing his other hand up, which now had the track marks of blood trickles. Taking a deep breath, he started to pull himself up, his feet making use of cracks in the rock face, the pain excruciating when he placed the weight of his body on his injured arm.

As he headed up towards the ledge, the vines were thrown down, swinging back and forth.

John shoved his foot into a crack and held on with his good arm, while reaching for the swinging vines, catching them after frustrated moments of his numb fingers missing the target.

He stuffed part of the vine into the back of his waistband and continued his climb up, until his head was almost touching the underside of the ledge and the little creatures that lived there.

He felt something fall into his hair and his stomach felt like he'd swallowed a rock. John shook his head and the intruder made his way down his neck and into his shirt.

With renewed determination, John pulled out the vines from his waistband and let the slack slip through his fingers. The creature was crawling down his spine, leaving him cold. John held onto the vines tight, pulling hard and making himself accustomed to the pain. His feet still wedged into rock cracks, he brought his other hand away from the rock wall wrapped around the thick, veiny rope. Holding tight and trying to ignore the creature under his clothes, John walked against the wall, pulling himself up with the rope.

The voices were gone up above and he knew he couldn't hang around all day, so he kept going until he reached the edge from where he had fallen. One hand found the roots growing there first. Then his other hand. He was hanging there for a moment, his feet swinging under him and his hands desperately clinging to the thick rooted plants on the ridge. He swung to the right, until his foot found ground level with his arms. Hooking his foot and knee to the ground, he gradually pulled himself up.

Once his body was anchored to the ground, John quickly inched away from the edge. He turned onto his back and let his hand close over the gunshot wound, breathing hard.

Something tickled on his belly. John looked down at his blood and dirt soiled shirt, once white, but now a mixture of dirt-browns, grass-greens, blood-red and a spot here and there of definite off-white. He pulled up his shirt with his bloody hand and watched a centipede type insect scuttle towards his belly-button.

John glared at the shiny, dark insect and picked it up. Scowling at it for a moment, he considered throwing it into the river below, but then settled for tossing it into the plants, where it landed on its back, flailed its many legs, turned over and went about its scuttling business.

John didn't bother to feel the usual panic. There was no time for panic.

No time for fear.

He was way too pissed off for that.

Rodney was led through the jungle to a clearing where three wooden cabins and a small hut were spread far apart from each other, under the cover of trees and shadows. Outside the largest cabin were the remains of a fire. Santiago and Xavier seemed to have two more friends that watched Rodney with interest as he was shoved towards a hut. One man was of a burly build, with very short black hair and square jaw, his eyes narrow and suspicious. His friend was shorter and sinewy, his hand absently stroking the rifle he held. Rodney ignored their looks and clenched his jaw against the jab of Xavier's gun in his back.

The hut he was pushed into was small, cramped and dark, smelling like it had many occupants before him. Rodney gave it a long look and then stared at Santiago, Xavier next to him with a pleased smile.

"It is probably not what you Americans are used to, but it will be sufficient," Santiago said, his tone dry and humorless. "Xavier."

Rodney stood silently as Xavier responded to whatever command had been given to him. Xavier grinned at Rodney as he walked over and looked Rodney up and down. His hand reached for Rodney and Rodney frowned in confusion, stepping away and jerking back from Xavier's touch.

"Your pockets, empty them," Xavier said with a curl of the lip.

Rodney gave him an impatient glare and emptied out his very empty pockets. "Anything else?"

Xavier just smirked, looking infinitely amused.

"What's your name, American?" Santiago asked.

Rodney didn't answer, unsure of what bargaining power he held by withholding his name. Santiago waited for an answer and looked at Xavier. Xavier nodded and punched Rodney hard in the stomach. Rodney fell to his knees, coughing, Xavier grabbing his arm, yanking him back and pulling at his T-shirt, having felt something when he threw the punch no doubt.

A moment later, he pulled up Rodney's T-shirt and grabbed the passport from his waistband and opened it. He smiled at the money and credit card he found inside, throwing the passport to Santiago as Rodney watched from the ground.

Santiago was smiling with amusement. "Rodney McKay. Canadian. I like Canadians. Polite."

Xavier started to laugh, catching the passport when Santiago threw it back and turned to leave. At the door, he turned back and looked down at Rodney.

"If you wish to remain unharmed, I would suggest you remain polite, Mr. McKay."

Rodney simmered silently, not breaking his gaze from Santiago's. Santiago simply smiled and left, Xavier following and bolting the door shut after him.

Rodney got to his feet slowly, grimacing from the pain in his gut as he looked around the hut. It was wooden. Wood that had been weakened by heat and rain. Crumbling in places. He figured that with a little patience, he could probably get out. The difficulty would be not getting killed in the process.

Tracking three sets of footprints in the wet earth of the jungle was easy. Tracking three sets of footprints in failing light with a bullet hole was a little harder.

He'd ripped off the sleeve from his wounded arm and used it as a bandage to stem the blood flow of an entrance and exit wound, his arm somehow amplifying the ache of the rest of his body, barely recovered from his near miss over the cliff.

He'd waited a little while, letting Santiago and Xavier head their way without, not allowing them any space for suspicion. Then wrapping up his wound, he got to his feet and sprinted through the jungle, his eyes on the footprints.

When the voices of men alerted him that he was too close to the camp, he took a detour and found some high ground from where he could think of a plan. Resting against a tree, getting his bearings and trying to make a plan that didn't involve getting killed, John figured he had one shot at springing Rodney and that would be under the cover of night. So far, he'd only seen four men and a reasonably small occupied area.

The problem was, there were four men with weapons and he was one guy with a gunshot wound and bruised ribs.

On the other hand, none of them would be expecting a dead man to turn up in the middle of the night.

Rodney eased the plank back and forth, loosening it from where it was nailed to the frame of the hut. He stopped when he heard a shuffling sound outside. Pressing the plank back in place, he sat down in front of it, waiting to be checked up on.

Minutes passed, but no one came in .

Rodney crawled to the door and looked through a small gap near the bottom. Santiago wasn't in sight and the great big burly man was missing. Xavier was stretched out in front of the fire in the middle of the camp, his sinewy friend opposite him, roasting something on a stick. Rodney's stomach growled and he scowled with irritation.

It was dark outside and the smell of roasting meat was making his mouth water, which was good because he really needed a drink.

Sighing, Rodney got to his feet and went back to the loosened plank. He quietly began to move it in and out a again, easing the nail out of the frame where the plank was joined.

Obviously, he'd need to be rid of more than one plank if he was going to get anywhere. Rodney kicked the stupid plank and dropped to his knees. A moment later he sighed and dropped backwards onto his behind and sat leaning against the wall of the hut. He brought his legs up and let his hands hang over his knees despondently.

The truth of it was that despite his survival instincts and wish to escape, all he could think of was John's broken body at the bottom of a river.

Sure, the guy had been odd, not easy to make sense of, but Rodney had known one thing for sure. John Sheppard was one of the good guys and now he was lying dead in a jungle, far away from home, the only one mourning him, a stranger.

Rodney let his head fall back against the wall, his eyes closing.

He wasn't sure if he'd fallen asleep, but he opened his eyes feeling a little fuzzy and hearing the door being unbolted. Xavier walked in with a plate that held a wooden bowl and a large piece of bread.

"Food," Xavier said, looking at Rodney like he was something he'd scrape of hid shoe. Something that Rodney figured happened a lot in the jungle.

Xavier crouched on the ground and lay the plate in the middle of the hut, his eyes always on Rodney. "Eat."

Rodney watched the other man carefully, trying to ignore the flashes of John being hit by the bullet and falling. He moved slowly to reach for the plate and as his fingertips touched the rim of the plate, Xavier's boot came down hard on the back of Rodney's hand.

Rodney let out a yell of pain, grunting when Xavier twisted the heal of his boot hard. Swallowing hard against the pain and holding onto his wrist with his free hand, Rodney glared up at Xavier, feeling his mouth twist with a mixture of anger, pain and fear.

"Stop," Rodney grated out the words.

"You did not say please," Xavier said with a smile.

Rodney shut his eyes tight, his jaw clenching. He took a deep breath to bolster his voice. "Please. Please stop."

Xavier stepped away with a laugh.

Rodney cradled his hand to his chest, his body shaking a little. "What was the point of that exactly? It's not like you don't already have what you want."

Xavier turned his nose up at Rodney. "I do not like you. Your friend? Even less."

Rodney swallowed. "Well, if it means anything, the feeling's pretty mutual."

Xavier's eyes seemed to darken just a little fraction more towards psychotic. He reached behind him and his hand came back with a large knife. He smiled at the knife lovingly, tilting it back and forth so the shine of it fell across his face. Rodney stared at the knife, a tremor of pain passing up his arm.

Xavier took a few slow steps towards Rodney, until he was standing over Rodney, looking down with an almost drunken gaze.

He crouched down, Rodney's eyes following him down as he inched back from the knife that was too close now.

Xavier held up the knife, a small smile on his lips. The knife was getting closer and closer to Rodney's face and his breath was becoming shallower. The tip touched his skin then, the corner of his mouth. Rodney went still.

"If I do not like someone, I care nothing for ransom. There are things I enjoy more than money," Xavier whispered.

Rodney's eyes widened, the tip of the knife stinging his skin. He wondered what John would do in this situation. John was a ridiculous man. Even with a knife at his mouth, he'd probably go for the guy's balls and then he'd run out and take on the others.

There had to be a smarter way out of these things.

"I don't think Santiago's going be very happy if you pick torture and maiming over money. He looks like a man that takes his extortion seriously."

There was a crazy glimmer in Xavier's eyes, his mouth becoming rigid. He gave Rodney a long look and then pulled the knife back, getting up swiftly and heading towards the door.

He turned around quick then and pointed the knife at Rodney. "When the ransom does not come, I will take your tongue first."

"You'll be surprised how many times I've heard that before," Rodney said, injecting just enough defiance into his unsure voice.

Xavier didn't like the sound of that and kicked the plate of food across the room, sending soup and bread flying everywhere. He stomped out and shut the door as Rodney fell limply against the wall, closing his eyes.

Shaking his head and holding his hand close, Rodney admitted a grim realization to himself. "I'm a dead man."

Rico had first watch, which was fine by him because he could get it out of the way and get back to the campfire with his tattered copy of Don Quixote. Funny how childhood fantasies took a turn for the worst. One moment you were dreaming of being a great hero, fighting windmills and next you were hiding from the law, fighting people.

He was sure they had goals once, but that was before people like Xavier and Eduardo had joined camp. They were the reasons that the others had left. Santiago was blind if he thought he could keep someone as mad as Xavier on a leash. As for Eduardo, he did whatever Xavier told him. Both of them had no loyalties.

All Santiago really had left was Rico and Rico was tired of this life, spending night after night roaming the jungle like a ghost, just in case people were stupid enough to venture out or if the law was getting close again. They'd been stabbed in the back before, an informant pinpointing their position and leading the way to a midnight visit. The hunted had survived of course, now that they themselves were creatures of the jungle.

There wasn't a sound in this place that Rico didn't know of. Not a sound he couldn't recognize. In the rustling of the leaves and the calls of the birds, even the scurrying of the critters; he knew them all.

Except for one.

Rico stood still and frowned at the sound. Leaves rustling. But too much to be caused by the breeze. Too violent even. Like someone was shaking-

Rico twisted around, rifle in both hands and ready to fire random shots up into the tree, but his attacker was quicker, falling out from the dark of the branches and taking Rico to the ground. Before he could even think of the next move, something large and hard collided with his temple and everything went black.

When he awoke next, he was sitting under a tree, his hands and ankles tied with thick rope and his mouth gagged. It was then that he decided he was getting way too old for this shit.

What Eduardo really wanted to do was yawn and roll his eyes. Every night it was the same thing. Xavier would sit in front of the fire and tell his supposedly true, lewd tales. What Xavier failed to explain was how he had the ability to carry out such feats of daring and debauchery while spending most if his time where Eduardo could see him.

The man was an idiot. But a crazy and violent idiot, which meant it was best to laugh and applaud his imaginary feats until Eduardo could find a better paying job.

Only, humoring Xavier was proving a hard task tonight. He was sitting there staring at the fire, knife in hand and talking in low tones about why Santiago made a bad leader. How their hostage would be dead if it was up to him. Eduardo pointed out that they needed the hostage for the ransom and Xavier snorted.

Santiago appeared from his cabin then and asked about whether Rico had returned from his patrol. Eduardo jumped up and announced that he'd go and find the other man before taking watch. Anything to get away from Xavier.

Leaving Xavier glaring at Santiago in a sullen manner, he left the camp site with rifle balanced on his shoulder as he took the path that would eventually have him walk into Rico.

Eduardo followed the invisible trail that he knew off by heart now, expecting to walk into Rico any minute. But minutes later, still no sign of the other man.

He wasn't too bothered. Rico knew these parts well and could take care of himself. Besides, nothing of interest had happened for a while, especially since they had moved camp, even though it was closer to the edge of the jungle. The most eventful thing that had happened for weeks was finding the crashed plane.

Eduardo carried on moving, rifle still balanced on his shoulder. The air was a little heavy and humid and knowing his luck, there would probably be a burst of rain anytime soon. He was getting sick of the jungle and beginning to yearn for something a little more normal. Concrete walls maybe. Electricity. A bed. A woman instead of Xavier in the next cot, snoring in his sleep. His father had been right. He should have finished college.

The snapping of a twig stopped Eduardo in his tracks. Someone else stopped walking abruptly too. Someone close by. Eduardo held his rifle at the ready, the safety already off.

"Rico?" he called out.

There was no answer. There was a sudden movement though. Footsteps falling on earth and twigs, hitting soft mud as they ran away. Someone was running from Eduardo.

Eduardo honed his hearing to the retreating steps and took off after them, searching for signs in the dark. He spotted a dark shadow once or twice, an outline maybe, moving fast.

He gave chase, trying to simultaneously aim for the shadow. He fired off one shot and kept running. But then he seemed to lose complete sight of the phantom runner. There wasn't even the sound of his running. It was replaced by something muffled, a voice straining to be heard.

He followed it carefully until he found the source. A man sitting under a tree, tied and gagged. A closer look showed that the man was Rico.

Eduardo went to his side, placing the rifle by his foot and reached to untie Eduardo as the other man started to move a little more violently, his eyes widening and looking like the brightest things in the night. Eduardo couldn't make sense for a minute, why Rico was panicking more, now that he had been found.

But something hard touched the back of his head and then it made sense. Eduardo's hand went out for the rifle, but a foot came down hard on the weapon.

"I wouldn't do that," a distinctly American voice said. "Keep your hands where I can see them, get up and slowly turn around. Don't make any stupid moves."

Eduardo slowly got his feet, hands held up, still considering on trying to get the gun. Then he decided he'd turn around and make a grab for the gun pointed at him. He was quick and smart and could get away with it. The American wouldn't expect him to make a move like that.

He started to turn fast, his hand coming up to grab for the gun. The American was quicker, slamming the butt of the gun into the side of Eduardo's head and sending him crashing into Rico.

When he came to, he was leaning against Rico, gagged and tied with what felt like a rope made from twisted vines.

He definitely should have finished college.

Rodney was chewing slowly on the bread that Xavier had brought with the soup. He decided that if he planned to escape, eating something would be a good idea. Rodney didn't bother with the soup of course, on account of there being some dirt in it now.

He watched from one of the many cracks of the hut as Santiago and Xavier stood by the fire in quiet conversation. The third man had left a while back and Santiago had said something to anger Xavier, compelling him to his feet. They both stood there now, Santiago looking down his nose with menace as Xavier spoke fast, his nervous energy evident all the way across to Rodney's hut.

Santiago said something that set Xavier off into a tantrum. He was shouting in Santiago's face, but the other man didn't budge an inch. He remained still and staring down the other man.

Rodney hoped and prayed that Santiago wouldn't do anything to get himself gutted by Xavier. He was pretty sure that if it was up to Xavier, John wouldn't have been the only man to have died today.

Xavier ended his rant and Santiago seemed to move in just a touch closer, the fire lighting half of his face, keeping the rest of it in the shadows. He opened his mouth to say something, stopped by the sound of a gun going off. Both he and Xavier looked into the jungle. They silently watched as the sound echoed through the night. Rodney frowned, wondering what had happened. Maybe Santiago was completely surrounded by mentally unhinged men and they were now picking each other off.

Jesus, what if he was the prize?

Somewhere at the back of his mind, he saw John smirk at him and in an odd way, it felt comforting. He knew he couldn't wait for rescue or for ransom. He knew he had a greater chance of living if he escaped. Xavier would never let him survive until the arrival of a ransom.

Thunder rumbled outside as Santiago checked the bullets in his rifle. He said something to Xavier and Rodney felt his heart stop for a moment. He did not want to be left alone with that maniac. Xavier said something to Santiago and picked up his rifle from by the fire. As the rain began to fall, seeping into the hut, Santiago disappeared into the jungle. Xavier was looking at the hut, like he could see Rodney.

Rodney stepped back, his brain whirring as he sought out a plan.

Santiago stomped through the jungle, his grip on the rifle tight, water falling off the rim of his hat, obscuring the already too dark jungle.

He knew Eduardo was the trigger happy type and this wasn't the first time he'd idiotically shot at phantoms and jungle ghosts, but he also had a strange gut feeling that something else was wrong.

Ordinarily, he would have waited for Eduardo to return to camp and then have him explain why he was wasting bullets on thin air. Only, Rico was also out there somewhere, when he should have returned to camp a long time ago.

Xavier was troublesome enough. He didn't need Rico and Eduardo trying to kill each other too.

Santiago scowled against the relentless rain, trying to listen out for Eduardo or Rico, but it was hard to hear anything above the rain hitting the plants and leaves.

Something did catch his attention though. Something silver caught the moonlight ahead of him, twinkling like a star lying on the dirt.

Santiago frowned at it. He neared the object cautiously and then crouched down. Removing it from the dirt, he took a close look and found it to be a compass. It occurred to him then that the thing wasn't simply lying on the ground, it had been wedged in at an angle that caught a beam of light from the moon.

All we've got is his compass, McKay's voice said somewhere in his head.

Santiago's eyes widened at the realization and he jumped to his feet, spinning around to fire his rifle. The American had almost reached him, but Santiago was quick. It left neither of them with an advantage. Before he could pull the trigger, the other man pushed his rifle out of the way with one of his own.

As Santiago tried to recover his balance, he received a blow to his jaw, his weapon falling from his hands. Blindly, he lunged forward and found the other man's waist, head-butting the stomach. His attacker's weapon fell somewhere behind him as they both fell to the ground.

They both struggled to gain control of the other and as he ended up straddling the man underneath, Santiago remembered the gunshot wound and groped to find it. He wrapped his hand around an arm and then dug his fingers in. The other man grunted out in a loud yell of pain, his other fist slamming hard into Santiago's face and knocking him onto the ground.

As the world spun and he reeled from the blow, his body too slow to get back up, he could hear the other man groping in the dark for his weapon. He was beginning to sit up when a body landed on top of him and pinned him to the ground, rifle pushing across his throat.

Santiago breathed hard against it, the pressure against his throat hard and painful.

"You could have escaped, amigo," Santiago rasped, rain falling in his mouth.

The other man was breathing hard against him, his appearance hidden by the dark, lightning momentarily revealing bright, wolf-like eyes and a pale skin.

Santiago waited for an answer, something glib and arrogant, accompanied by that irritating smile.

Instead, he felt one final blow, amazed how he could feel all the anger behind it, even though the American hadn't said a single word.

When he awoke next to Rico and Eduardo, he was tied up. He couldn't help laughing. If he hadn't been gagged too, he would have laughed a little harder.

Xavier watched the hut for a long time. Santiago had gone off to reprimand Eduardo probably. He and Rico would be performing the old routine of looking down their noses at the hired helped.

Xavier curled his lip, disgusted that he was taking orders from Santiago. He'd known women with bigger balls. Their hostage was probably worthless. What kind of men flew in a clapped out old airplane, riddled with bullet holes and carrying crates of unlabeled jeans? No. What kind of Americans flew across Peru in a clapped out old airplane, riddled with bullet holes and carrying crates of unlabeled jeans?

Ones that weren't worth much.

The jungle was such a lonely place. The sounds of nature were maddening. The constant chirruping of the stupid birds. The endless green. The rain that just unexpectedly came from nowhere and disappeared just as fast.

He'd burn the jungle to the ground if he could. Maybe he would one day. Maybe tomorrow. Depending on his mood and whether it would improve after killing McKay.

Xavier wiped his knife across the thigh of his new jeans, trying to ignore the rain. He'd set fire to the hut and hear the man inside scream to death, but sadly since it was raining, that wasn't an option. It would have to be the old stabbing through the heart or slitting of the throat today.

Walking to the hut, he blamed Santiago for these murderous urges. When you hired mercenaries and put them on jungle patrol, it lead to all kinds of things to alleviate the boredom of life.

Not his fault at all really.

He reached the door and smiled, unbolting it slowly because he knew the anticipation of pain was much more terrifying than the pain itself. He pushed the door back, hearing the creak. Then he stepped inside. The hut was empty, a single plank missing from the back wall. He frowned at the space, nearing it and taking a good look, not believing that McKay could have escaped through there.

Unless he hadn't escaped at all.

Xavier turned towards the space behind the door and saw McKay with plank in hand. Xavier knew this was going to hurt because the sheer look of determination on McKay's face said he was going to swing harder than he had ever done in his life.

He was proved right when the plank hit him hard, catching the corner of his forehead, giving him no time to use his knife or react. It felt like forever, taking less than a second.

Xavier fell to the floor, his eyes beginning to close as he watched the plank fall next to him and McKay's feet as he left the hut. In the distance, Xavier could see McKay picking up something from next to the camp fire. Probably Xavier's rifle. As if that could save him.

For the moment he succumbed to the dark.

Having hidden two weapons, John carried the third in his hand and headed towards the camp site. Three men down, one to go.

His arm was throbbing with pain, the rain seeping into his bones and washing away the dirt he had covered himself in. It didn't matter though. He didn't need camouflage as much, not with three of Rodney's captors out of the way. He just hoped his vine ropes would hold long enough for Rodney and him to get the hell out and away.

Reaching the edge of the camp site, John crouched down low behind a bush. The fire was out and Xavier was nowhere in sight. Taking a quick look around, rifle in hand, John jumped from behind the bush and ran swiftly to the nearest cabin.

The cabin had a table inside with dirty dishes, a passport, some money and an American Express card. The room also had two cots with blankets and an assortment of other equipment including some car batteries, jumper cables, ropes, lanterns and other rusty debris. Something else caught John's eye. On the floor was his rucksack, Rodney's bag and a very familiar crate of jeans.

John picked up the passport from the table and opened it to see Rodney's annoyed looking face. Picking up the money and credit card, he put them in the middle of the passport and stuck them in his pocket. He could do with the clothes in his rucksack and no doubt Rodney could too, but right now, the last thing he needed was extra weight slowing him down. The most important thing was to find Rodney.

He turned and left the cabin, back into the rain and thunder.

And Xavier.

The other man stood there with blood down one side of his face, the rain washing it away. He was standing there looking at John with an odd blank look, knife in hand. John held up the rifle, but Xavier didn't seem to feel any threat, his hand coming up and grabbing the gun, pushing it back hard and sending a jolt of pain up John's wounded arm.

Xavier pulled at the gun, pulling John along with it, away from the cabin. His other hand went up with the knife, coming down to attack. John grabbed his wrist, watching the knife hover over his face. They struggled like that for a while, holding onto the same rifle and joined together at Xavier's wrist.

John quickly let go of the rifle and wrenched back Xavier's arm with both his hands, making the knife drop.

However, Xavier didn't let go of the rifle and swung it hard towards John, catching the back of his head and making him stumble. He blindly groped for the weapon that attacked him, yanking it from Xavier's grasp, but unable to hold on to it. As Xavier came for him, the rifle slipped away. Xavier grabbed him by the front of his shirt and threw a succession of punches into his mid-section, catching his sore ribs. John used his body weight to plow forward and throw Xavier to the ground before the other man could launch another attack.

They struggled against each other, slipping in the mud and being battered by the rain. Xavier seemed to possess an insane amount of brute strength, turning John onto his back and throwing a punch that caught his jaw.

John's body seemed to fail him then. He lay there breathing hard, his mind foggy and his body oddly warm with pain, the rain making him feel as though he was sinking into the muddy ground.

Xavier leaned in close enough so John could smell the tobacco. "This time, I will make sure you are dead."

John moved his face away, willing his body to retaliate, but knowing it had been pushed too far already.

Xavier sat straddling John, grinning. He moved to the side for a moment, one hand still holding the front of John's shirt, and reached for his knife. Xavier grinned and the thunder illuminated him completely. Him and something else.

"This is going to hurt you a lot more than it's going to hurt me," John said, as Xavier's hand went up, knife poised to strike.

Xavier frowned. There was a loud sickening smack and Xavier tilted to the side and fell.

John kicked Xavier's legs away, turning onto his side with a cough that made his ribs hurt. He looked up and saw Rodney, lit by flashes of lightning, soaked through and holding a rifle, with the butt hanging towards the ground.

John got to his feet very slowly, feeling Rodney's gaze on him. The rain kept falling hard. Their eyes met, in the dark, through the rain and it felt as if they were meeting across more than just the immediate boundaries.

John gave a small nod. "Thanks."

Rodney nodded back. "You okay?"

John wanted to make a quip that besides his ribs hurting and the gunshot wound, he was just great. The words got stuck in his throat, making his stomach clutch. He just watched Rodney, confused, tired and a little lost.

"How did you get away?" John asked.

Rodney cocked a thumb back towards the small hut. "Pried away a plank. Waited for him to come in."

"And then you came back," John said with a frown.

"They took my passport. I figured with three of them out of the way and a gun I might be able to get it back. I didn't think he'd be back on his feet so quick. Guess his skull is even thicker than it looks."

"I've got your passport." John looked down at Xavier's prone body with a nod. "We should tie him before he wakes."

Rodney nodded. "I think I know exactly where we can put him."

The last thing Rodney had expected to see was John. He'd run from the camp, rifle in hand and no idea about whether he'd be prepared to use it. Then he came to a dead stop, turning and looking in the direction of the camp. His credit card and passport were still back there, but in all honesty, that wasn't a problem. He just needed to get out of the jungle and find the nearest phone.

But he stood there, staring back at the direction he'd come from. The compulsion to go back was too great, even though he knew he could get by without his things. Right now, getting out alive was the important thing.

Yet, he ran in the opposite direction. He'd go back and if Santiago and his men were back, he'd lay low and try to find his way out of the jungle. If Xavier was still knocked out, and he had to be with the way Rodney's shoulder was aching, he'd take a quick look in the largest of the cabins.

Yes, that was a plan. A smart plan. Not an invitation to death at all.

Stupid. It was a stupid plan and he was going to die. Yet, he was running.

He arrived at the camp site, just in time to see Xavier stagger out of the hut, holding a hand to his forehead, knife in other hand. He was walking across the camp site, heading to the cabin. So much for getting his passport back.

Rodney flattened himself against a tree, trying to come up with a solution. Xavier still looked pretty out of it. Maybe Rodney could catch him unaware.

Then it clicked. Xavier was going to go inside the cabin. Rodney could wait for him outside and then give him another headache.

But what if the others returned in that time and saw him? Then he was definitely screwed.

Rodney sagged against the tree, sighing with frustration.

Screw compulsions that couldn't be explained. He should have figured it out by now that this jungle had an odd way of tinting every thought, turning everything inside out and flipping it around.

The smart thing to do was to just get the hell away.

Rodney made a move, watching Xavier stop in front of the door. Someone was inside. A moment later, Xavier was embroiled in a struggle with the man from inside. Lightning struck and everything was lit for a moment, followed by thunder rocking the sky.

Rodney stared in disbelief, his mouth hanging open and his heart thumping hard. Oddly enough, this moment felt just as bad as seeing John die because it looked as though he was about to die all over again.

John was grappling with the other man, looking a little uncoordinated and off balance. Xavier had the full force of his insanity. It was when they both went down to the ground that Rodney snapped out of his stupor. He held onto the rifle tight and made his approach as discreet as possible, hiding in the dark and the sound of rain and thunder.

As lightning struck, he saw John's face, lit blue for a moment. John caught sight of Rodney, but his face didn't register it for a second. John was saying something to Xavier, something Rodney didn't catch as he pulled the rifle back and then swung the butt at Xavier's head, hard, knocking him out cold.

"Thanks," John had said, like almost dying was no big deal. Like he'd just borrowed some money from Rodney. Like this stuff happened to him all the time.

You too, Rodney wanted to say, for coming back, because he didn't have to. But he did.

The moment was strange, like there was a lot between them to be said. Too much unsaid for two men that had only met days ago.

Almost immediately then, they got back to work, stowing Xavier, leaving unsaid things unsaid.

They both dragged Xavier to the hut where Rodney had been held. John stood over him with the rifle, while Rodney ran to the main cabin where John had spotted some rope. He returned with the rope, John's rucksack and his own bag.

They switched places while John tied up Xavier, gagging him with a strip of cloth that John tore off of Xavier's shirt and Rodney held the rifle on their hostage, just in case. Xavier didn't wake until his ankles were being bound, at which point he started to thrash, trying to kick at John. John stepped back and smiled down at the bound man before turning to Rodney.

"You ready to go?" he asked.

Rodney offered a smile too. "You know, I think I am." Rodney looked down at Xavier. "I'd say it's been a pleasure, but it really hasn't."

John nodded in agreement. "So long, Steve. You take care of yourself now."

Both men turned and left the hut, Xavier's protests following them out into the rain. John took his rucksack from Rodney and slung it over his shoulder. He pulled out Rodney's passport from his pocket and handed it to him, Rodney taking it silently and putting it back behind his waistband, slinging his bag over his shoulder.

They started back out towards civilization, like walking wounded. Rodney knew they wouldn't be stopping now, not until they left the jungle, no matter how much it rained and no matter how tired they became.

The jungle felt as big an enemy as Santiago and his men.

Rodney put his hand on John's arm, stopping him, feeling John flinch under his touch. "What if we run into the other three?"

John shook his head. "We won't. They're a little tied up right now."

Rodney stared at John, watching the curve of a smile, the wetness of the rain catching some light. He laughed. He wasn't sure why, but he laughed. Four guys with guns, all tied up and John Sheppard back from the dead.

This could be a dream. He could still be at home, asleep on the couch. So he laughed and John nodded with a grin.

Rodney shook his head, still laughing. "You're supposed to be dead. I...I-"

John was watching him closely. "What?"

Rodney frowned, squinting against the heavy rain. "I'm glad you're not."

That was not what he wanted to say at all. He wanted to tell John that he had mourned him. A complete stranger and Rodney had spent a good few moments of his captivity grieving for John Sheppard.

John patted Rodney's arm. "Hey, let's get out of here before they chew through their ropes."

Rodney grabbed John's hand, stopping him from walking off again. "Why did you come back?" he asked. "You could have escaped. Gotten the local law enforcement involved. I mean, it would have been safer than you playing Rambo."

John was still, watching Rodney. "I don't know," he said. "I never really thought about it."

Rodney gave a nod. "Doesn't that strike you a little odd?"

John nodded. "Rodney, there's been nothing but odd since we got here."

Yes, Rodney knew exactly what John meant. It was the jungle. The air carried something in it, something that had kept them on the edge, flitting back and forth from somewhere in their nightmares. The heat had seeped into their skins and driven madness into their skulls.

Whatever was real lay on the outside of the jungle.

Rodney pulled his hand back. "Let's get out of this place."

They'd walked all night, silent, tired and wet. The rain stopped falling after a while, the night beginning to fade, light filtering into the jungle, until they could see they were reaching the edges, out of the dense mass of greenery.

They passed some stone ruins and Rodney had slowed down, just curiously looking at them, but John kept on walking, as if he were on auto pilot. Rodney caught up, saying that he had no intention of taking a detour if that was what John was worried about.

John stopped and frowned at Rodney.

"What?" Rodney asked.

John turned away from Rodney and looked ahead. Rodney followed his gaze.

In the distance, up at the top of a muddy, bush covered slope, was a road, winding around a green hillside.

"Oh, thank god," Rodney said, his body sagging and feeling renewed energy at the same time. At first they were walking normally. Then their steps quickened as the slope neared and before they even knew it, both men were running the rest of the way, whipping past trees and swatting tall grass out of their way, jumping over logs and rocks.

They didn't stop running until their feet hit the mud of the slope and even then they climbed in a rush, their feet slipping and sliding, their hands scrabbling for sturdy roots, until their fingers touched hard ground.

And then they were there, standing on the edge of the road, Rodney's bag falling to the ground between him and John.

Standing there in complete silence, they just watched the road curving away towards the best sunrise ever.

The morning sun brought some harsh realities. Both men looked as though they'd fallen face first from a plane. When John pointed it out, Rodney replied that technically, that was true.

John figured they couldn't walk into town looking the way they did, so the first order of the day was to change into the clothes in their bags.

Hiding and changing behind a bush, John pretended not to notice the bruising on Rodney's torso and the back of his hand, not to mention his colorful face. Rodney wasn't as discreet, pointing out that John looked like crap with his newly acquired bruises and bloody bandage.

John pulled on a white shirt and blue jeans, disposing of the dirty clothes that held too much evidence of his time in the jungle. Rodney pulled on a green T-shirt and black jeans, throwing his dirty clothes next to John's.

They both continued down the road, Rodney sticking out a thumb every time a car or truck passed, way too infrequently.

"Show them a little leg next time," John said with a smirk.

Rodney rolled his eyes. "Why don't you try? I have a feeling you've probably done this before."

John added an arched brow to his smirk. "Look, I don't really care if we have to walk. As long as we're as far away as possible from that place," he said, cocking a thumb back towards the jungle.

They carried on walking for a while, dragging their feet under the growing heat of the sun, until a pick up truck stopped and let them ride in the back amongst greasy and miscellaneous car parts. John sat back with a sigh, using his rucksack as a cushion, Rodney opposite him, his legs crossed at the ankles. After a moment Rodney folded his arms across his chest and his eyelids began to drift shut, snapping open every now and then as the pick up jolted along. Eventually, he completely fell asleep.

John kept his eyes on Rodney as he slept, looking at the scratches on his cheek from when they had fallen from the tree, the split lip, with which he walked into John's hangar, the newer bruise between the corner of his mouth and his jawline, and the back of his hand, which had an angry splodge of dark colors and a patch where some skin had been scraped off.

He drifted off to sleep too after a while, his mind swirling with colors like bruises mixing with greens and reds. In his dream he was still running. He was running through rain, through dark, through heat, through sand. He just kept running. He awoke with a jolt, squinting away from the mid-day sun with Rodney shaking his ankle and announcing that they were 'here'.

John looked around blearily at the small town square where 'here' was. Apparently, Rodney had asked the driver of the pick up if he knew of any low key place they could get a room. He drove them right up to a small hotel owned by a friend of a friend of a friend who knew his brother.

With a grin and small salute, he drove off, leaving them standing outside Aldonza's, which offered a fully licensed restaurant with entertainment, apparently.

Rodney stared at John as he read the sign to Rodney, John expecting some sarcastic little remark in return, but getting a small amused smile instead.

They went inside and there were glances in their direction of course, Rodney with his face and John the smallest hint of a limp. Of course, he didn't know what his face looked like. He felt some irritation on his forehead, where he could feel the tiny pin prick scabs that formed a small line. His bottom lip was throbbing, the left side feeling a little larger than the right, where Xavier had thrown quite a fine punch. His head still ached from when Xavier had smacked him with the rifle as well as his jaw where he had landed a punch.

If anyone asked, maybe he and Rodney could lie and say they were brothers that had gotten into a drunken fight.

"We look nothing like each other," Rodney had said with an impatient look.

"I didn't say we were identical, Rodney," John had replied in the same tone, earning a completely new look of impatience.

The short, bald and extremely well groomed man behind the reception desk, with a badge that identified him as H. Gonzales, didn't look too concerned with their appearance though, greeting them both with a somewhat bemused expression. John started to greet him, but Gonzales rolled his eyes and said, "I speak English."

Rodney smiled. "I always knew there was a reason to not bother learning any other languages."

"For a man that looks more bruised than fruit that has been thrown repeatedly against a wall, you are extremely flippant," Gonzales had said, earning a quick assessing sweep from head to waistcoat and back to head, by Rodney.

Narrowing his eyes, Rodney pulled out his passport, extracting his credit card and holding it out. "How about we just stick to the best international language?"

Gonzales smiled. "How can I help you gentlemen?"

Rodney turned to John with a smile that for the first time showed a man in his element.

The return to civilization was a welcome one, especially since Rodney could just charge everything to his card. He paid for the two rooms and went off to make a phone call, letting John make slow and stiff progress up the stairs.

He decided it would be best to use the power of the credit card before his luck ran out and some other disaster would have him landing on his face.

The first thing to organize was the trip back to New York and a ride to the airport. Then he made an obscenely long list and handed it to Gonzales, promising a nice a tip if he could get everything on it. Gonzales was becoming more and more amiable by the minute.

Half an hour after arriving at the hotel, he finally made his way to his room. Throwing his bag on the bed, he went to open the balcony doors, stepping out and looking into the busy little town. It suddenly felt like a vacation. With bruises of course.

And a less than friendly odor about his person. Rodney lifted up an arm and smelled his T-shirt. Clean clothes did nothing to mask days of sweat and dirt.

Five minutes later, he stood under a hot shower, his head hanging down, forehead against the tiles as he watched the grime wash away and disappear. But he wasn't thinking about the dirt and grit, or the bruises that covered his body. He was thinking of a waterfall with a white stream of water crashing down on John. When he lathered the soap across his chest, he saw the way John's hand absently trailed down. When he turned his face up at the shower head, he saw the way John tilted his head back, exposing his throat, closing his eyes.

A knock on the door startled him and he hurriedly stepped out of the shower, wrapping a towel around his waist. Rodney opened the door and walked into the bedroom to find some bags on his bed, a quick inspection showing all the things on his shopping list.

He dressed quickly, drying his hair with the towel speedily and badly enough that water droplets were still running down his neck as he stood outside John's door.

Rodney knocked at first. Then he called out. When there was still no answer, he twisted the doorknob and found the door unlocked.

John's room was identical of course, filled up mostly by the large bed, a bathroom to the right of it and a closet to the left. Opposite the bed was a large cabinet that held a television, a mini-bar next to it and a small round table with two seats just next to the balcony, its doors still shut.

The room also had John sprawled on the bed, asleep where he had probably fallen back as soon as he'd walked in. His rucksack was at the foot of the bed and he lay there diagonally with his feet hanging off the edge.

Rodney placed the small white paper bag he had brought with him on the table and walked over to the bed. John looked dead to the world. His white shirt had a small spot of blood on the sleeve, where his bandage had seeped through. Rodney also noticed that John's jeans were identical to the ones in the crate on the plane. He just shook his head.

Not really meaning to notice it, Rodney found that John's face looked defiantly handsome, like it was making a point that no amount of bruising was going to stop him from looking the way he did. Of course, there was a bigger fear that no amount of bruising would stop him looking good to Rodney. The reddened and swollen lip didn't make his mouth look any less inviting. The scratch on his forehead seemed to be directing a path into his hair, asking for fingers to run through it. The bruise near his jaw asked for a gentle caress.

Rodney hadn't noticed before, but now that one of John's hands was lying on its back, limp and immobile, he could see a light reddening across the palm, like something had aggravated the skin there.

Rodney propped one knee on the bed, keeping his other foot on the ground and shook John's arm gently.

John scowled before opening his eyes and staring at Rodney. He looked around the room for a moment and then back to where Rodney was staring at him. He blinked a few times, looking as though he was having trouble opening one eye.

"You took a shower," John said, his voice thick with sleep.

"Well, it's only polite since everything else here is clean," Rodney said, sitting down on the edge of the bed and watching John grimace and sit up with some trouble, especially when he put his weight on the injured arm. "I, uh, made a call."

John shifted to sit on the edge of the bed and looked at Rodney. "Yeah? What kind of call?"

"For a plane ticket," Rodney said. "Hector's arranged a ride to the airport."

"Hector?"

"The guy at the desk. He's grown very fond of my credit card."

"What time are you leaving?" John asked, barely waiting for Rodney to finish his sentence, watching him with an oddly intent gaze.

"Ten in the morning," Rodney said. "Or I'll have to wait a few more days to get out of here and I really can't."

John was nodding slowly, looking as though he was chewing the inside the corner of his mouth. "Okay. We'll leave at ten."

"We will?" Rodney asked, surprised.

John shrugged. "Sure. I said I was going to get you out of here, right?"

"Oh," Rodney said, hoping he didn't sound as disappointed as he felt at being an obligation. "Right. Of course."

"And I'll pay you back the money I charged you for the flight. It's only fair."

"That's not necessary," Rodney said.

"Yes, it is. You didn't pay for a detour to the jungle. I owe you. I owe you for this room too," John said.

Rodney rolled his eyes. "Fine. You can pay me back, since getting us out of the jungle alive doesn't count for much."

John nodded slowly. "Good. Could you give me a forwarding address or something? I don't really have that kind of money on me right now."

Rodney gave John a blank stare. "Why don't I go back to my room and get you my shirt too?"

John gave a wide smile and Rodney couldn't help but laugh a little.

"I'll tell you what," Rodney said, jutting out his chin a little. "How about you buy me a beer and we'll call it quits in a, a very manly fashion?"

"I'll go one better. I'll buy you two." John pointed at Rodney. "Hey, I'll even throw in dinner."

Rodney frowned. "Dinner. I dunno, isn't that a bit much?"

John smiled, looking down and giving a small nod. "Okay. You can tip the waiter. Deal?" John offered his hand.

"I think that's an adequate arrangement." Rodney took John's hand in his, not clasping especially tight, but noticing a small grimace on John's face as he pulled away.

"What happened to your hands?" Rodney asked as John closed his palm.

"Rope burn," he said casually. Again, like it was no big deal. Rodney almost felt like swatting him around the head. Obviously, no one had ever told John Sheppard that pain was made to complain about. Actually, a lot in the world existed purely for the sake of complaining. Like decaffeinated coffee. What the hell was that about?

"I got you some bandages and painkillers. Some anti-septic too." Rodney cocked his head towards the paper bag on the table, John's eyes following in the same direction. He looked back with surprise.

"Thanks. You didn't have to."

"I know," Rodney said with a nod. "But I figured you could make good use of them. Considering you got shot and fell off a cliff. That kind of thing usually leaves a few scratches."

John's eyebrows bounced up with an accompanying smirk. "A few."

Rodney just nodded as he got up, John's gaze following him up.

"I'm going to let you hit the shower, and I am going to hit the sack," Rodney said, pointing towards the door. "How about we meet downstairs around eight?"

John nodded. "Sure. Eight."

Rodney smiled and headed to the door.

"Hey."

Rodney turned back from the open door. "Yeah."

John was sitting on the edge of the bed, calm and cool, his jungle eyes still warm, still flickering. "Thanks for the stuff."

Rodney gave a single nod and closed the door behind him. Tomorrow morning he would be on a plane home, away from the heat of Peru. He didn't realize it would start aching so soon.

John frowned at the steamed mirror, wiping it clear with his hand. A slightly tired, bruised and scruffy man scowled right back.

"You don't look so good," John mumbled to his reflection.

Even though he'd spent the afternoon sleeping, exactly where Rodney had left him, he still felt heavy and tired. In fact, he felt heavier, his bones creaking and his muscles protesting any movement.

Even shaving felt like an incredibly hard task. In fact, he couldn't remember dangling over the cliff edge being this difficult.

Standing there in the warm bathroom, John felt a tad disoriented. In the jungle, their aim was to find a way out, get Rodney home.

And now they were here, out of the jungle and Rodney was well on the way home. Mission almost accomplished. Then what?

John glared sullenly at this reflection. He didn't want to go there. His existence was an easy, uncomplicated one. Rodney McKay was the opposite of both easy and uncomplicated.

A night of running with a gun in his hand, every intention of using it if he had to, told him he was in too deep already. He hadn't even thought of the possibility that he could escape the jungle, bring help. It never even crossed his mind. He just kept going, like he had no choice. Like there was no other way.

Looking in the mirror now, he saw the way Rodney had looked at him as they stood there with Xavier's body lying unconscious on the ground between them.

For a moment, it had seemed right that Rodney had turned up, saved his life. It felt right that Rodney was there at all and John had never felt so alone, like the loneliness of a million lifetimes had descended on him at once. Like the sky was dark from the shadows of a million unsaid things.

But what could he possibly have to say to a man he didn't know?

His chest feeling a little tight, John looked down into the soapy water of the sink as he cleaned his razor in it, avoiding the mirror for a moment. A mirror that showed John's whole world. A guy with bruises and no one else around.

But this was a life of his own choosing wasn't it? He wasn't lonely. Just on his own.

Razor clean, he looked back, tilting his face, eyes still and focused as he brought the razor's blade down in a smooth stroke down to his jaw. The jungle dirt was gone, the sweat and blood washed away. His wounds cleaned. The aches and pains bearable.

And there was a wall separating him from Rodney, keeping him firmly out of touch. Because touching would be good. It would be amazing.

He already knew how it would feel.

John grunted out at the sharp pain, dropping the razor, his reflection grimacing in annoyance as he started to bleed.

John cast his reflection a resentful look before grabbing some toilet paper to hold against the cut. There was a reason he didn't do this often.

Why the hell was he shaving? For beers and dinner with Mr. Personality? Exactly when had he developed the severe need to impress Rodney?

He was just Rodney.

John's shoulders sagged a little and he caught his reflection looking utterly baffled. Rodney wasn't just Rodney though. John didn't know him well enough for him to be just Rodney.

He closed his eyes and blew out a breath before finishing off the arduous task of shaving.

A quick inspection showed the wounds where the bullet had gone through and come out not looking in any immediate danger, but still he would need to see someone about it soon, preferably before his arm fell off. John cleaned up the wound and bandaged it the best he could, before taking a clean shirt from his rucksack and a pair of jeans.

Just to be on the safe side, he stuffed his passport into his back pocket, wrapping up most of his money in the middle of his bundled up shirt, the red blood stain showing on top, before stuffing it into his rucksack.

His heart was doing an odd little uncoordinated thumping for some reason as the evening approached, his palms sore and now sweating too.

John went to the mini-bar first, to take the edge off a little and then decided he'd just go downstairs, have a drink at the bar, maybe two and then seek out Rodney when the time came.

It seemed a much better plan than reliving his first date anxieties. Even though, this was not a date. Definitely not. As Rodney had pointed out it was all very manly. It just happened to include food.

It didn't include John's unbearable need to grab Rodney and kiss him so hard that whatever the fuck it was turning him inside out would go away once and for all. No, not at all.

John sank down on the edge of the bed, looking down at his sore hands, palms looking red. A few minutes later, he went downstairs for a beer.

Rodney wasn't aware he was checking himself out until after he'd spent a good few minutes in the foyer, looking at his freshly cut hair, neat and short. He flicked up the strands at the front of his head, frowning in concentration until he noticed a couple watching him as they walked past. He spun around and did his best impression of nonchalance, rolling his eyes as the couple went on their way.

Turning back to the mirror he smoothed down the blue, casual, striped, shirt and beige pants. The fresh clean clothes didn't completely distract from his colorful face, but at least he looked a little less criminal, even though the huge bruise on his hand was loud and proud.

Rodney curled his lip at the bruise near his jaw, where Xavier had smacked him with his gun, and rubbed his fingers across it, flinching at the light pain. In the mirror he saw Hector hovering over his shoulder and smiling, removing something practically invisible from Rodney's shoulder.

"Perhaps some make up to cover the, um...blemishes?" Hector suggested with his annoying smile.

Rodney narrowed his eyes at Hector's reflection. "Thank you. And maybe I could wrap myself up like a mummy, you know, to really make sure I won't be attracting attention."

Hector shrugged. "That can be arranged."

"Go away, please," Rodney said, and once again the mirror only reflected Rodney, looking bemused.

No other improvements necessary, Rodney headed for the restaurant. For a small hotel, Rodney found it deceptively large, having gotten lost at least once. For a supposedly low key place, it seemed quite popular with the tourists too. So much for helpful and informative locals. The restaurant was of a nice size, not too cramped or too large and Rodney figured this was the kind of place people called rustic to sound clever, when all they had to say was 'made with lots of wood'. The floor and thick beams of the ceiling were a dark brown, and no doubt, so were the tables under the white tablecloths, just like the respectably sized bar to Rodney's right as he walked in, and the doors that led out onto a large courtyard where there were more tables and a band by the looks of things.

Rodney headed to the bar, figuring he was a little early and could do with a drink, walking to the end and taking a seat. He ordered a beer and took the first swig, almost reverently, eyes closing and a groan emanating from somewhere inside as the cool, crisp, liquid made its way down.

Rodney opened his eyes and saw the bartender staring at him, so he held up the bottle with a satisfied smile. "Good beer."

The bartender offered a suspicious look and disappeared towards the other end of the bar. Rodney spun around on his seat and took a closer look at the restaurant as he drank. The place was already half full, the tables outside looking even more popular.

He could see through the windows that at the end of the courtyard was a small stage with a band setting up. Rodney got up, bottle in hand and drifted towards the window, watching with interest as the band practiced small bursts of music before the singer appeared, a petite woman, somewhere in her thirties probably, with shoulder length dark curls and a long red dress. She held a microphone in her hands and said a few words that Rodney didn't catch before the music began to rise slowly and she began to sing.

People were sitting at their tables with smiles, listening, drinking and eating. Except for one person. There was a table with a man that sat with his back to the window. He sat alone, watching the band, a green bottle of beer sitting to his right.

Rodney frowned and stepped closer to the window, squinting. He was pretty sure he could recognize that hair anywhere. He watched as the man's hand came up to scratch the back of his neck, the unbuttoned cuffs of his sleeve slipping down and showing a familiar hairy arm.

Not that Rodney had noticed hairy anythings at any point.

Without thinking he could be wrong, Rodney drifted out into the courtyard, entering an atmosphere of chatter under the sound of a slow, sweet melody. He could see John's face in profile as he walked away from the windows, his eyes fixed on the woman singing. As Rodney neared the table, John turned his head and saw Rodney approaching.

John looked a little surprised to see Rodney, because he was getting up out of his chair, as if on auto-pilot, and just staring. Rodney stopped walking altogether.

John looked different, his face shaved, a small, red, cut near his jaw line. His hair was standing in unruly tufts that met in the middle of his head. For once he wasn't wearing a pair of blue jeans that probably came from the counterfeit crate. These jeans were a faded gray, his shirt black. Rodney couldn't even see the bruises, his eyes fixed on John's smooth looking face.

It took him a while to notice that John was watching him too, his eyes making a slow assessment that finished at Rodney's head.

"Hey," Rodney said.

"Hey." John offered a small smile."You're a little early."

"Well, I'd go back inside and come back later, only I stepped on that woman's foot and now her very large boyfriend is watching me," Rodney said, cocking a thumb over his shoulder.

John arched an eyebrow and tilted slightly, looking past Rodney. Tilting back, he nodded. "I think you better forget a second entrance."

Giving a sharp nod, Rodney pointed at John. "Thank you."

He headed towards the other side of the table, maybe discreetly glancing at John. Maybe. Pulling out a chair and sitting down, Rodney looked up and noticed that John was still watching him and sitting down slowly. The corner of John's mouth went up in a odd smile, perhaps a little uneasy.

Rodney looked around and nodded, appreciating the cooler evening air and generally pleasant atmosphere. It didn't take long before there were couples, dancing slowly, swaying happily and lost in their own little bubbles as the evening went on. It turned dark, the lights in the courtyard bright, but not invasive and a crescent moon hung in the sky like a bright, tilted, smirk.

It was a whole bundle of Kodak moments.

"You look like someone I know," Rodney said, taking the opportunity of the admission to take another good look at the black shirt, the way the unbuttoned cuff made the sleeve slip and down when John moved his arm.

John's eyebrows went up in interest. "Yeah?"

"Yes. I have no idea who."

John nodded. "So, someone close to you then."

Rodney rolled his eyes. "Yes, someone close."

John smirked and lifted up his beer for a swig, reminding Rodney that there was precious alcohol near him too. He took a few large gulps as the waiter came by and offered them their menus. John ordered quick and efficiently. Rodney asked the waiter more times than necessary if his selections had lemon. Then he described what anaphylactic shock felt like. Then he asked a final time if he was ordering his last meal.

John had a large amused smile on his face when the waiter left.

"What?" Rodney asked.

"So. Let me see if I caught that. You like lemons?" John asked, mock confused.

"Oh, don't even joke about it," Rodney said. "Listen, I've been thinking."

"I get the feeling you do that a lot," John said.

"Well, I thought it might be a good idea if one of us did." Rodney ignored the narrow-eyed look sent his way. "I was wondering exactly what you plan to do about Santiago and our other new friends."

John seemed to lose the humor of the moment. He brought his bottle to his mouth and drank, bringing it back down slowly. "I plan on doing absolutely nothing, Rodney."

"Well, maybe we should tell someone. Get the local police to pick them up."

"Or, we could do absolutely nothing because that's way more than they deserve," John said with a casual shrug. "Besides, if we go to the cops there's no chance you'll be on that plane tomorrow."

Rodney nodded. "We could leave an anonymous letter or something. Look, don't get me wrong, I don't really care about what happens to them, but if there's a chance they can be locked up and get a daily dose of misery in a movie-of-the-week prison, I think I can die a happy man."

John looked a little surprised and then smiled. "I hadn't thought of it that way."

"Well, of course not. I'm the one that does all the thinking, remember?"

"Sorry, I have no idea how I forgot," John said, sarcastically.

"Just keep it in mind for the future." Rodney gave a little smile, knowing well that the future consisted of the next few hours, after which everything would be back to normal.

Whatever that was.

The look on John's face indicated that maybe the same thought had crossed his mind. But he'd never say. He'd never make a move. Rodney knew he wouldn't.

The silence stretched for a while and they filled it by finishing off their drinks and ordering more. Rodney figured the best way to spend his last night in Peru was to get hammered.

They drank. John commented on how cool the band was. Rodney commented on how small the tables were. John said he liked the atmosphere. Rodney suspected their candle was giving off a lemon scent. John hoped the food would be good. Rodney hoped the food would arrive some time this century. John ate hungrily, and loved the food. Rodney poked, prodded, devoured and sighed with contentment.

John smiled. "That's first time you haven't complained tonight."

Rodney pointed his fork at the plate. "People and things I have problems with. But good food? Not a thing to be taken lightly."

John smirked, drinking down his second bottle.

By the fourth beer, both men were sitting back in their chairs, relaxed. John had one arm slung over the back of the chair, his head tilted to one side as he sat watching the couples dance, listening to the music. He didn't even seem to realize that Rodney was sitting there, drinking slowly and watching him.

"What are you going to do now?" Rodney asked, tilting his head at John.

John turned to look at him, offering a slow blink and Rodney tried not stare at the shut mouth that seemed to be pouting.

"I was thinking about having another beer," John said, frowning at his empty bottle.

Rodney shook his head. "No, I mean, now that you have no plane, home or dubious crates of obviously counterfeit garments."

"Oh." John said. Then he shrugged. "I dunno. I'll find something."

Sure, Rodney thought, how hard would it be to find a new place to be alone? "You know, it occurs to me, I don't know a single thing about you."

"Should you?"

"Well, when you share a few life and death situations with a person, you should maybe know a little more about them than their name and their bug phobia."

"Believe it or not, that's about all there is to know."

"Maybe I know everything I need to know anyway," Rodney said.

John smiled. "Oh? Like?"

Rodney looked up at the night sky. "Well, let's see, John Sheppard, a man that didn't seem exactly too surprised when a bunch of people showed up to burn his home and to fill him full of holes. A man that carries a parachute partly made of duct tape. He keeps going like the Duracell bunny, like he doesn't know what the words 'give up' mean. If he's scared, you wouldn't know. Unless there are bugs, of course, in which case, I'm guessing everyone would know it. Once, he fell over a cliff and then he came back to save the life of a man he didn't know a single thing about. He, uh, he also cleans up pretty well."

When Rodney looked back at John, the other man was sitting there with a feint smile, his eyes reflecting the candle in the center of the table. He looked up at Rodney, brows raised.

"That's not much," he said quietly.

"As long as it includes the important stuff. The only reason we're even here is because you got us here."

"I wasn't the one that whacked Steve over the head to save your life, Rodney."

"No, you're just the reason I got the chance to save your life," Rodney said. "I'd take the compliment if I were you. I don't dish them out very often."

John smiled and nodded. He lifted up his bottle. "Here's to me saving your ass and you saving mine."

Rodney touched his bottle to John's. "To the saving of asses."

John laughed and drank the rest of his bottle down. "It's been a hell of a ride, I'll give you that much."

"Indeed it has. I, uh, I know it's something I won't ever forget," Rodney said quietly.

John gave a small nod. "Yeah."

Rodney drank down his beer, the nerve gone and things he wanted to said left unsaid. The truth of it was, they were just two guys whose paths had crossed briefly and tomorrow they'd go back to their own worlds.

John walked along slowly, hands in pockets, not really listening to Rodney quietly explaining something John couldn't concentrate on. His body was beginning to really feel the impact of everything that had happened. He was tired, his muscles were sore, his bones ached and his bullet wound was throbbing.

Worst of all, he and Rodney had come to the end of their odd little partnership.

Tomorrow morning, Rodney would return to his life and John would have to figure out what to do with his. He had no home, business or life to go back to. He had money in his bag and in an account that hadn't been touched in a while, but not plans of what to do with it.

It seemed he'd done such a good job of running away from his life, he had managed to get lost.

Only, in the jungle, trying to get Rodney home, John hadn't felt so lost. Far from it.

When Xavier had gleefully promised to kill him and the lightning illuminated Rodney for a brief moment, John felt a worrying lack of surprise at seeing the other man there.

It was pretty obvious what was happening. Somehow, Rodney McKay had gotten under his skin. And Rodney knew it. John could see it in the glances and in the smiles. He could feel it like a wall of energy between them as they walked down the corridor to their rooms, something so tangible that it was keeping them at a distance, while something else was trying to pull them together.

Rodney made him want things.

"Hey," Rodney said, quietly. "You okay?"

John looked at Rodney, realizing they had reached their rooms. "Yeah. I think I should have held back on the drink."

Rodney wasn't buying it. He was frowning at John as if he could read into his head. "How's your arm?"

"It's fine. I checked it out, cleaned it and bandaged it. Should hold."

"And you're an expert on bullet holes?" Rodney said. His eyes darted to the side for a moment and then he looked at John. "Forget I asked that."

John smiled. "Asked what?"

Rodney nodded with a small huff of a laugh. "Well, better get a good night's sleep, I guess. You still want to come to the airport? You don't have to. You've already done enough."

John's heart sank a little. "Rodney, I'd like to."

The other man stared at him, his eyes openly asking John what he really wanted. "Really? Why?"

John swallowed, none of the excuses in his head making sense. "Does there have to be a reason?"

"Always."

Of course, Rodney would say that. "Okay, fine. I guess a guy saves your life, you kind of end up thinking of him as more than just some guy. Who knows, maybe if we were some place else, we could be good friends."

Rodney was nodding, not looking entirely convinced. "Sure. We could go to ball games. Buy each other drinks. Talk about the time we fell out of an airplane using one parachute."

He said the words with a smile, but the words seemed to hold no meaning.

"Yeah, exactly," John said, his words meaning even less.

Rodney gave a sharp nod. "Okay. Well, we better get our beauty sleep then. God knows we need it." Rodney moved to his door and unlocked it, giving a tight smile. "Goodnight."

"Night," John said, watching the other man disappear into his room.

John stood there in the corridor for a while, his head feeling a little fuzzy. The lights were dim here, the dark ground looking darker and the walls, a mixture of beige, ocher colors, glowing gently. He looked down the corridor with a frown, unsure of what he was still doing out there.

A minute later, he unlocked his door and walked in, not bothering to turn the light on. He went to the balcony instead and opened the doors to invite a cool breeze and night time light.

John sat down on the end of his bed and slowly unbuttoned the second button of his shirt, then even slower, the third, after which his hands fell away and he stared at the dark floor of the room.

The jungle was behind them, but the crazed heat had followed them right to the hotel. So maybe it wasn't insanity at all.

John sprang up from the bed and quickly advanced towards the door, before he could lose his nerve. He yanked open the door and all but rushed to Rodney's room, hand raised to knock on the door.

The door opened before he could even knock.

For a moment they stared right through each other, neither of them moving.

"What?" Rodney asked quietly.

John stepped forward and placed a clumsy kiss on Rodney's mouth. It was just a push of lips against lips, half off the target, a question, rather than a certainty. They stayed there, stuck at the mouth and unmoving for a long moment as a cool breeze blew into the room.

Pulling back after a while, John chanced a look at Rodney. The other man was searching his eyes for something more than a question. John moved in for a second kiss, crushing his lips hard against Rodney's, tasting with his tongue as Rodney kissed right back.

He could feel Rodney's arm going out to push the door shut before he wrapped a hand around the back of John's neck and pulled him deeper into the kiss. John made a noise, a hitching of breath in his chest that he couldn't control as Rodney's tongue toyed with his. John's hands began to fumble with the buttons of Rodney's shirt, as he pushed into kisses, bites and licks, making small hungry noises.

He pushed the shirt off Rodney's shoulders, Rodney helping him, briefly breaking away from their kiss.

Kissing and fumbling like blind men in the dim light of one bedside lamp, they moved across the floor by instinct, Rodney's hands trembling a little as he helped John pull his shirt off, throwing it behind them somewhere.

They fell on the bed, John's head spinning a little as he straddled Rodney's legs, working on the zipper of Rodney's jeans, his fingers feeling a little clumsy.

Rodney reached out for John's fingers, stopping them, squeezing them, making John look him in the eyes. Rodney pulled John's hand towards him, until John slowly descended, their eyes locked on each other.

John took his fill of greedy kisses as Rodney reached down between them, unzipping himself, sighing into John's mouth. Then his fingers were finding John's waistband, unbuttoning and unzipping. John touched his forehead against Rodney's, keeping it there, closing his eyes as he felt Rodney's fingers pushing down his jeans, slipping under the material and touching, kneading. Rodney's hands slowly moved up, his thumbs stroking over John's hip bones and moving up his back, warm to the touch, making John wonder how he already knew what Rodney's touch would feel like.

John tilted his head, nudged his mouth against Rodney's mouth, not even a kiss, just touching, feeling one of Rodney's hands leave his back and closing around his neck, urging a deeper kiss, fingers moving into John's hair and closing, holding.

Rodney's arm wound around John's waist, making him flinch at the ache around his ribs as they slowly turned so John was on his back, never breaking their kiss as Rodney's hand left John's hair and he used it to prop himself up above John. Rodney was pulling away from their kiss then, looking down at him, trapping him in the light of the single lamp, everything dark beyond the bed.

John wanted to say something, but he couldn't find words. Instead, he let his hands find Rodney's jeans and boxers, pushing them down below his ass, lifting up his hips when Rodney reached down between them pull John's jeans lower and then bringing his hand back up to slide up John's stomach, to his chest. John could see Rodney staring at the vivid bruises, his fingers gently touching them, even though each one made John flinch away.

Rodney frowned, confused maybe, re-thinking maybe, possibly over-thinking, but a moment later his mouth was on John's chest, kissing a trail that felt as if it existed before they met, licking and biting a way up, taking a nipple, tasting it, sucking it and scraping his teeth across it. John gasped and arched up, his fingers grabbing Rodney's hair, his cock hardening against Rodney's, which was jutting hard and hot against his own.

John pulled Rodney up for a kiss, pushing his hips up against Rodney's, shifting until they touched in all the right places, until they could feel the heat everywhere.

John let his hands roam down Rodney's back, grabbing his ass and thrusting up as Rodney thrust back down. Then he let his hands stray, palms flat, pushing upwards, towards Rodney's shoulders. All the while, their mouths didn't move too far from each other's lips.

John wished they weren't doing this with their pants and shoes still on, but somehow it was managing to be perfect, their cocks thrusting against each other, their stomachs sliding and slick with sweat, heat burning their skin under the layers they still wore and Rodney's mouth stealing every breath of his, with every thrust.

And the heat. The precious heat. It was like an inferno in the room, or maybe it was just them.

Anytime soon, he would be done. He felt like he was hanging on by a thread, ready to fall apart like a sculpture made from sand and then he broke away from Rodney's greedy, insatiable, mouth, pushing his head back into the pillow, bucking up against Rodney with something that was part need, part frustration and a million things he couldn't even begin to name.

Rodney's cheek was pressed against his, his body thrusting, fast and hard, panting in John's ear. Then his body stiffened against John's, Rodney's arms either side of John's head, the muscles tensing.

Rodney let out a gasp as he came over John, slumping on him bonelessly.

John lay his hand low on Rodney's back, stroking upwards, feeling the tremors in the other man's body.

After a moment, Rodney's flushed face came up to look at John, a little dazed and soft. He looked down between them at John, still hard and jutting out, covered in Rodney's come. Rodney looked back up and gave John a slow, languid kiss before beginning to move down John's body.

John looked down at Rodney, kissing a path downwards, his eyelashes ghosting over John's skin with every kiss, like light feather touches.

John closed his eyes with a gasp, heat rushing into his face when Rodney started sucking him off, his fingers digging into John's hips and holding him down as he bucked. John gasped out nonsense that even he didn't recognize, one leg drawing up the side of Rodney's face, throwing one arm across his eyes, the fingers of his other hand in Rodney's hair, aimlessly fumbling and feeling as though they would snap from the tension.

It didn't last long at all, John coming hard into Rodney's mouth with strangled silence, eyes squeezing shut and his body slumping against the sheets.

After a moment, John opened his eyes and blinked up at the ceiling, feeling Rodney press a kiss against his thigh.

So much for easy goodbyes.

It was a warm night, the odd breeze interrupting the quiet of the room every now and then.

Rodney lay on his side, one arm under his head, watching John, the other man sleeping calmly and without nightmares. The light of one lamp covered the immediate area in a soft, warm, glow. Rodney almost felt as though everything beyond the dark didn't exist at all. As if it was an illusion. A shadow. A memory maybe.

John's body looked like a collection of bruises, the worst one a dark shadow around his ribs. Rodney wanted to reach out and touch, but feared John would wake up. Rodney figured he deserved his rest. Also, John being asleep gave Rodney the chance to lie there and explore his misery to its greatest potential.

He'd held out this long. He had successfully managed to rein in his feelings. It wouldn't be so bad if it was just mutual lust, and there was lust, god, there was so much lust. But scarily, there was more.

Nobody in the world inspired instant trust in Rodney, but from the moment he'd met John, he'd went along with everything. He had followed John through a jungle and at heart, when he thought about it, there hadn't been much doubt that John would get them out. It seemed like a Sheppard thing, to be able to come out on top.

He didn't understand people that spoke of feeling instant connections when they met someone, but here was the proof. The moment he had shook John's hand and been blasted with that ridiculously perfect smile, Rodney felt something click into place. The feeling made no sense. Being there with John seemed to make complete sense.

And once they were in the jungle, he began to see it in John's eyes too. John had changed in there, his demeanor becoming more guarded and when he looked at Rodney, Rodney knew it was because he felt it too. Whatever it was, beyond the lust, attraction and need.

John shifted in his sleep, grimacing. A moment later, his eyes opened slowly with an accompanying frown, directed at Rodney. "Hey."

Rodney smiled in response.

John looked down at himself, naked and cleaned up.

"I took the liberty of taking the rest of your stuff off. Don't worry. I kept my eyes closed."

John smiled and nodded. "I appreciate that. I'm kind of shy around strangers and, well, you're pretty strange."

Rodney gave a nod, smiling. "This from a man who looks like a walking bruise."

John smirked, closing his eyes.

Rodney looked at John, lying there on his side, eyes closed and small smile on his face. Stop it, he told himself, when that feeling buzzed again, right in the middle of his chest.

Rodney found his hand reaching out, fingers burying in John's hair. John's eyes snapped open and he stared at Rodney as his fingers softly explored. There was a bump at the back, hard, where a wound had scabbed over.

"What's that?" Rodney asked quietly.

"Steve," John said. "Smacked me in the head with a rifle butt."

Rodney absently stroked the back of John's head. "Does it hurt?"

John shrugged. "Just a little."

Rodney nodded. "Doesn't feel too bad. Small."

"It's not the size that matters, it's the medical...trauma," John said, staring at Rodney.

Rodney stared right back, his heart skipping a beat, his fingers moving through John's hair, down to his neck, his shoulder and then back up all the way to his face, coming to rest on his bottom lip, his thumb idly brushing across the lip.

John took hold of his wrist. "You ever get déjà vu?"

"For a man that doesn't believe in it, way too often," Rodney said, quietly. "You?"

"Yeah. Sometimes," John said, loosening his grip around Rodney's wrist, to absently stroke up his arm.

"There's no such thing as déjà vu, though. You do know that, right?" Rodney asked.

John's eyebrows went up, eyes widening and catching all the light, glowing like tainted jewels. "There isn't?"

"Of course not. Everyone knows it's a glitch in the matrix." Rodney let the corner of his mouth twitch in a smile when John laughed.

"Right. So, we're all really in pods somewhere. And this is all...what exactly is this?"

"I have no idea what this is," Rodney whispered.

"Well, that leads to one very important question then," John said. "Are you going to take the blue pill or the red pill?"

"Which one does what? I can't remember," Rodney said, watching John's fingers playfully moving back and forth on his arm.

"You take the blue to wake up. You take the red one to keep going." John looked down as he pulled his hand back, tapping a finger on the bed instead.

Rodney inched forward, until their faces were close enough for a kiss and John had to look at him. "I think we already took the blue pill. The red one's for the morning."

John nodded, offering Rodney a small smile, tinged with a little sadness. Then he leaned close, for a kiss.

Rodney put two fingers against John's lips, stopping him. "Not a good idea. At least, not until I brush my teeth."

John surprised Rodney, taking his fingers, holding on, and reaching out with his other hand, brushing the back of a finger down Rodney's face in an excruciatingly slow manner, touching the corner of his mouth, all his fingers skimming across. He tilted his head forward and kissed Rodney, lazy and wet, tasting the inside of his mouth with thoroughness.

John pulled back, licking his bottom lip, eyes sparkling. Then he gave a devastatingly pleased smile.

Rodney took a good and long look at John, frowning, his brain traveling on ahead at the speed of light and shredding through questions before he could make sense of them.

He sighed. "Who are you?" The question was almost inaudible. "Seriously."

"Just some guy you met in Peru," John said, casually.

"But you're not," Rodney said, slowly, his voice low and unsure. "You're anything but that."

John shrugged. "Maybe you're seeing something that's not there."

Rodney gave a thoughtful nod. "Maybe."

He was seeing and feeling a lot of things that weren't there. "I'm glad I met you, John Sheppard. You certainly made this trip interesting."

John's mouth curved into a smile and he nodded. "Even with the burning barn, bullets and duct-taped parachute?"

Rodney grinned. "I think I especially enjoyed those parts."

"All part of the service," John said.

Rodney nodded, smiling. "Really? And, um, what else is part of the service?"

John narrowed his eyes at Rodney, his mouth a pout, trying not to smile. But then he did, moving forward, kissing Rodney and sliding on top.

Rodney let John kiss him, slow and savoring the moment, stroking down his back, already feeling that he knew this body well, when really, he couldn't possibly have.

He closed his eyes as John kissed an achingly slow path down his chest and stomach, his fingers never stopping their explorations, while Rodney's fingers were light in John's hair, firmer when John took him into his mouth and then urging when Rodney felt himself being pushed towards the edge. For a moment, John stopped sucking him and let him go, looking up Rodney's body, his eyes so magnificently bright and an oddly pleased smile on his face. Then took Rodney in his mouth again and sucked until Rodney felt like someone had yanked his soul from his body and shot it across the stars.

Lying there, dead and depleted, he almost wished he'd never come to Peru.

Almost.

The silence would have been unbearable if the driver hadn't turned the radio up, flooding the car with music. Good because it took away the pressure to make conversation. Bad because it made John think of home, and he hadn't thought of home as home for a long time. The driver seemed to be singing along quietly, out of tune, bopping his head a little.

John turned towards Rodney, rolling his eyes a little and smiling as the driver's singing became a little too enthusiastic. Rodney returned the smile, shaking his head and going back to looking out of the window. So did John.

He watched the scenery, daydreaming, catching a glimpse of his reflection every now and then, a pair of eyes looking back at him accusingly as they passed a familiar looking area of jungle.

He was surprised to feel Rodney suddenly press up next to him, lean across and look out of the window at the jungle.

"Huh. That looks familiar," Rodney said, looking out as John ignored the fact that Rodney was so close he could smell the soap he had used to wash and the fact that their faces were almost touching. "I think this is where one of us is supposed to say, 'oh look, honey, it's that place where got kidnapped and shot'."

Rodney had a silly little smile on his face, one that was completely wiped away when he turned his attention away from the window and found John staring right at him, almost in his face. They hadn't been much closer than this the night before, kissing and groaning into each other's mouths.

Rodney's eyes returned to the window before he awkwardly moved back to his side of the car, John scratching the back of his head, purely because it gave him something to do in the absence of anything to say.

The whole morning had been like this. One long, awkward, unbearable, silence.

It began when John had woken up and quietly left Rodney's room, his shirt and shoes in his hands. He showered and dressed in the same clothes, taking a moment first to count new bruises, ones that brought back the previous night vividly. He stood a while, in front of the mirror, rubbing his chest over the light mark, where he could still feel Rodney's mouth.

Looking away, he had buttoned up his shirt, gathered his belongings and then sat down at the end of the bed, completely lost about what to do next. Tomorrow. The day after.

Still tired and sore, he made the decision to maybe grab a coffee. Pulling open the door, he found Rodney ready to knock, dressed and ready in his black jeans and a T-shirt that announced he was fantastic. John smiled at it and Rodney's anxious expression disappeared. He looked down at his T-shirt and his head bobbed up and down as he told John with some embarrassment that the garment was a gift from someone.

"It's not so hard to believe," John had said, earning a strangely naked and surprised look, quickly covered up with smugness and pride and a 'well, of course'.

They were still debating the possibility of breakfast when Hector turned up and announced their ride was waiting. Rodney looked pissed off, stating that when you said ten you usually meant ten 'and not anytime I feel like before ten'. He was told that either they went now, or took their chances with a bus later.

Considering Rodney's luck with buses, they decided beggars couldn't be choosers and glumly set off for the airport.

It was a long, uncomfortable ride, hot, itchy and with a driver that was trying to hit every bump and hole in the road. How the hell Rodney slept through most of it was a mystery to John. Even more mysterious was the way Rodney suddenly jerked awake at least a minute after the car stopped, as John was paying the driver.

Rodney looked around, a little frazzled. "What? What's going on? Why did we stop?"

John took a deep breath before turning towards Rodney with a smile. "We're here."

Rodney stared. "We are?"

John gave a smiling nod. "Yes we are."

Rodney nodded. "Oh, uh, well, that's good. That was quick."

John nodded back and got out of the car, having had enough of the oppressive heat inside. A moment later, Rodney got out and shut the door. Their driver bid them adiós and drove off at the manic speed he had driven them there, leaving a huge space and cloud of dust between John and Rodney.

After realizing they'd been staring at each other for too long, John closed the gap, looking at the building in the distance, behind Rodney, people bustling in and out. "Well. Here we are."

Rodney turned around and looked at the airport entrances and then back at John. "Looks that way, doesn't it?"

"We going in?" John asked.

Rodney looked as though he was thinking about it. "Um, no, I don't think we are. I think, this is where we say goodbye."

John nodded, looking away, his hand automatically going to scratch the back of his head.

"You're going to be okay? I mean..." Rodney waved his finger across and up and down John's body.

"I'm good," John said quietly. "Just some scratches and bruises."

"And bullet holes and cracked ribs," Rodney said. "Which is nothing, of course."

"Yeah." John said with a smile. "Uh, look, Rodney, I wanted to..."

"What?" Rodney asked instantly.

John felt a little caught out by the quick, urgent, question. "Uh, I want you..."

"You want me...?" Rodney urged.

"I want you to have something," John said quietly, taking his compass out of his pocket and holding it out. "It's kind of a lucky charm. It got us out of that place and this far. It'll get you home safe."

Rodney stared down at the compass. "I can't take this."

John pressed it into Rodney's hand, closing his fingers around it and holding on. "I want you to, Rodney."

They both held each other's gaze for a moment, a world of missing words passing between them, after which Rodney nodded. John withdrew his hand, watching Rodney stare at the compass in his hand and then put it into his pocket.

"Well." Rodney cleared his throat then, his posture stiffening a little as he held out his hand. "I guess this is...adiós."

John took Rodney's hand in his own, warm and firm, and he felt fingers slide down his skin, touching him everywhere, making the hair on his neck stand up. He smiled, though he didn't much feel like it. "So long, Rodney."

Rodney's face as ever was an open book and it seemed to chip away at John's resolve a little. John let go of Rodney's hand, almost expecting the world to return to the way it was before he had met Rodney. But it just seemed emptier as Rodney turned around and began to walk away, while John just watched.

Rodney walked a few steps and then slowed down, making John step forward, unsure of exactly what he was expecting. Rodney slowly turned around and walked back, looking a little confused, thoughtful.

"What?" John asked.

Rodney looked at him with a small smile. "I, uh, I don't know about you, but I think we made a really good team. We did, didn't we? I mean, it's not just me, right? I really hate being wrong about these things."

"You're not," John said, quietly. "I think we made a great team."

Rodney nodded, looking a little apprehensive. "You know, I don't know why you're down here, but I'm guessing you have your reasons and it's not up to me to tell you what you should do, but, don't stick around here so long you that you can't even figure out if you want to be somewhere else or not. I, I really don't think you want to be alone as much as you think you do."

John watched as Rodney slipped his bag off and crouched down on the floor with it, opening it and rifling through his things until he found a pen. He rifled some more and sighed. Getting up, he looked around and then at John. He grabbed John's hand and proceeded to scribble something down.

"When you get sick of this place, and you're in the neighborhood, give me a call," Rodney said, trying for a casual tone, but looking as though someone had told him he only had days to live. "You're not just some guy I met in Peru."

John looked down at the address scribbled on his palm and then at Rodney, swallowing the hard lump in his throat. He gave a nod, his mouth clamped shut because he knew anything he would say would give it all away.

"I'll see you around," Rodney said, replacing his bag, watching John.

John nodded. "See you around, Rodney," he said, his voice rough.

One final bright, blue, gaze and Rodney was walking away. This time he never turned around. He didn't turn back. No matter how many times John wished it. So he stood there until Rodney disappeared.

Even minutes later, he stood there.

The breeze was cool. The coolest since he had met Rodney.

epilogue

Rodney wanted to scream at someone. How the hell was he suffering the cold when he lived in a civilized part of the world that had things like heating? Oh right, his heating had decided to stop working in the middle of winter because apparently, the cosmos really hated him.

He shuddered and sunk lower into the blankets, bringing them all the way up to under his chin. He was lying in bed with two sweaters on, sweatpants, two pairs of socks and contemplating using the cat as a source of heat.

He regretted the fit of madness that had brought him back to Canada and the stalactites forming in his pants. He should have stayed in New York, where his heating had worked, no matter how miserable it was to come back to an apartment that still had garbage from a cheating ex and his body still carried memories of where John's mouth had been.

Those first few nights were unbearable, lonely, and cold and he spent them awake, staring at the ceiling from his comfortable bed, which felt like cotton wool and made him wish for the jungle ground and the warmth of a certain body.

It would have been perfect for John to have insisted that Rodney not leave because maybe this was a bigger thing than both of them and they had to make sure. It would have been even better if John had turned up in New York, telling Rodney that he just couldn't stay away. But the truth was that Rodney had to leave and perhaps John just couldn't. The practicalities of life dictated the next move. Not strange feelings that burned the air just by being near someone. Those were just inconveniences.

Which was why he'd been checking flight schedules to Peru?

Why he carried that damn compass everywhere?

Rodney sat up and switched the lamp on, the cat instantly jumping into his lap and fixing him with a look that pointed out his several degrees of pathetic existence. Rodney glared at her. "Don't give me that look. I invented that look."

She gave a disinterested meow and darted across the bed and off. Rodney watched, sighing, shoulders sagging. Obviously there would be no sleep tonight.

Picking up the top blanket, he wrapped it around himself and skulked all way the from the bedroom, down the stairs, into the kitchen, over to the coffee machine and then into the living room. His hope was that perhaps the skulking would produce some kind of heat. Sitting there on his couch, feet on the coffee table, TV on and cup in hand, he realized the cold had frozen his brain to the extent that he was now thinking like normal people; completely irrational. Right, because skulking was a known form of energy output. Quick, call the national grid because he'd be able to power a continent at this rate.

The cat bounded onto the couch and meowed.

"What?" Rodney asked, switching the channel in the hope of finding some sex, violence or infomercials about knives that could cut through tin cans.

The cat meowed in reply to Rodney's question.

Rodney sighed. "Yes, well, you always say that."

The cat bounded off again, this time towards the front door, using it as a scratching post. Rodney rolled his eyes and got up, pulling the blanket around his shoulders. "Uh, hello! Do you, or do you not have a scratching post for that, Cujo?"

Rodney picked her up, wondering if maybe he should have bought a dog after all. The cat meowed, hissed and scratched his hand, making him drop her so she could dart off. Typical of the McKay females.

He was about to skulk back when he heard a noise outside the door, like maybe someone had thrown a sack of potatoes against it. Rodney opened it in time to see a man quickly getting to his feet, clumsily.

It took a moment for it to register who the man standing in front of him was. Rodney looked him up and down, taking in the sneakers first, the blue jeans they disappeared into, a black sweater under the long black coat, the pale face with pink cheeks and nose and green eyes, complete with jungle heat. The hair, a delightful mess, held fresh snowflakes.

"I, uh, I tripped on the snow," John said, looking embarrassed and pointing at the snow covering the path to the door. "I couldn't decide what to do, seeing as it's pretty late and everything. So, I figured I'd come back in the morning and I turned to go and, my foot kind of-"

"Shut up," Rodney said, with more force than he intended, yanking John forward by his sweater and kissing him hard, groaning when he tasted John's mouth, feeling cool skin against his own.

They pulled apart, Rodney grinning at John like he'd won the jackpot. John stared back at him, and his face plainly said he was relieved. A moment later, Rodney found John's arms around him, holding him tight, John's face against his shoulder, his skin cool, his breath warm.

"How did you find me?" Rodney whispered, holding tight. "I moved months ago."

John pulled back slowly, smug smirk on his face. "Hey, you know me. I always know where I'm going."

Rodney stared at him, awed smile on his face.

"You mind if I come in? Only, I've been out here for an hour and I can't feel anything."

Rodney looked over John, as if he'd find proof of frostbite and then nodded. "Of course you can come in. God, an hour? Are you insane?"

John picked up a large black bag and carried it in, Rodney shutting the door and turning back towards John who was standing there looking around as he rubbed his hands together.

"So. You're here," Rodney said.

John nodded, looking a little nervous. "Yeah. Is that okay? I didn't know if it would be."

Rodney laughed. "Are you kidding me?" Rodney realized what he'd said and stopped smiling. "I mean, I'm not really bothered. I mean, it's good you're here, but I'm not, uh, overjoyed or, or, very disappointed. Somewhere in the middle."

John smiled. "Somewhere in the middle is good. It's just that, someone told me I shouldn't stick around Peru so long that I wouldn't be able to figure out what I really want. So I left."

"Did you figure out what you want?" Rodney asked.

John licked his lips, still looking like he had a million things to say and no way of saying them. "I knew I wanted to see you again."

Rodney nodded slowly. Then his mouth curved into a smile.

"That's good, right?" John asked, also smiling.

Rodney gave a sharper nod. "Works for me. You cold?"

John laughed a little, his eyes turning up towards the ceiling for a second, looking a little too bright, before looking at Rodney. "Yeah."

"Want me to warm you up?" Rodney asked, casual and laid back, on his turf, with a possible heat source in front of him.

"I think I'd like that," John said quietly.

Rodney took off his blanket and walked up to John, throwing it around the other man's shoulders and then holding on to it in front, as if hanging onto a pair of lapels. "Better?"

John shook his head, gaze fixed on Rodney.

Rodney let go of the blanket and let his arms slip around John's waist, bringing their bodies together, followed by their lips, barely touching. "Now?" Rodney whispered.

John smiled against Rodney's mouth. "Better."

When they kissed, all the heat of Peru paled in comparison.

- the end -