Push/Pull by Jane Elliot Push Rodney's awful, no good, very bad day started when he woke up to a ringing phone instead of his usual eardrum shattering alarm clock. "Hello?" he answered blurrily. Then he blinked. He was back in Colorado Springs, where wake-up calls were inevitably the result of apocalyptic emergencies. Rodney bolted upright in bed. "How long?" he asked, meaning 'how long until we're invaded/Earth explodes/replicators eat the Stargate', but figuring there wasn't enough time to get all of that out while everyone was obviously in crisis mode. "You're late," Kavanagh said gleefully. Scowling deeply, Rodney looked at his alarm clock. The red numbers flashed back frantically. He swore under his breath. "The power must have gone out last night," he said. "I'll be in soon." He hung up before Kavanagh could say anything else, which was the only positive thing that could be said for waking up late on a day as important as this one. His meeting with the generals wasn't scheduled till four, but he had a lot of work to do in the interim. Dressing quickly and forgoing coffee -- he'd swing by the Rocky Mountain Coffee kiosk on the way to work and get a Pumpkin Spice latte while it was still available; after the holidays they usually pulled it from the menu -- Rodney sprinted out the door to find...a flat tire. Again. Swearing prodigiously now, Rodney pulled out his cell phone. Zelenka picked up on the second ring. "You are late." "I know," Rodney snapped back. He sighed. "I have a flat." "Again?" Zelenka said incredulously. "This is the second time this month." "I know," Rodney retorted. He glared at the offending tire. "I'm starting to think this isn't an accident." "For once, I believe your rampant paranoia is possibly justified. Should I send a car?" "No," Rodney said, kicking his flat tire. "Last time I didn't stay with the car, the idiot from AAA had it towed to a dump on the other side of town. It took me seven hundred dollars just to get my car back, and the engine has never been the same. I'm convinced they went at it with a crowbar." "You could change the tire yourself," Zelenka suggested. "You must be joking! I have a delicate constitution that--" "Whatever," Zelenka interrupted, and Rodney could hear the eye-roll in Radek's voice. "You will be in before noon, yes? We have a meeting at four." "Yes, yes, I remember," Rodney said. As if he could forget. This was it, their last ditch effort to make the bone-headed military understand that scientists were not miracle workers, that it was impossible to operate Ancient technology without a gene carrier, and that expecting results from the Ancient technology team when they didn't have access to an ATA gene was not only pointless, but counterproductive. Forcing the top scientific minds in the world to continually beat their heads against a brick wall did no damage to the wall but was hell on valuable brains. One very important brain in particular. "At this rate I'll never get my Nobel Prize," Rodney muttered as he called AAA. While he waited for someone to pick up on the other end, he saw a curtain twitch in the front window of the apartment next to his. Old Mrs. Henderson was getting quite the show today. No doubt she was already calling the cabal of vicious harpies that made up her network of friends. Just one more bright spot in a day already overflowing with good news. Rodney glowered at the window until he was distracted by someone answering his call. Finally. It was nearly noon by the time the AAA guy showed up (an hour late) and managed to get the spare on the car. Rodney decided there wasn't enough time to get the tire fixed so he drove in on the spare, though he did drive by McDonalds for food before his blood sugar levels dropped to the point that he was non-functional. The guy who had made his Big Mac was clearly a fan of the special sauce, because the sandwich was dripping thousand island dressing all over the place as he wolfed down his sandwich on the way to work. Zelenka met him at the door. "You are late," he said flatly. "Also, you are a slob." Rodney looked down to find special sauce dribbled down his new white shirt, specially bought for today's meeting. He winced. "I don't suppose you have a spare?" Zelenka did have a spare. It didn't fit Rodney. Which was why Rodney spent the next three and a half hours shirtless, planning for the meeting while Simpson did something with bleach and soap that resulted in a spotless shirt at 3:55. "Not bad," Rodney said grudgingly as he pulled the shirt on while simultaneously typing a few last minute changes into the powerpoint presentation. "I know," Simpson said brightly. "And I'm never going to let you forget it." Rodney scowled, but decided that was a problem for another day. Arms piled high with reports, handouts, and laptops, Rodney followed Zelenka to the conference room, to face General Landry, General O'Neill, and a bunch of other generals whose jobs apparently consisted of silently filling seats at important scientific presentations. "Thank you for coming," Zelenka said, tucking his free hand into his pocket and setting his coffee mug on the conference table while Rodney dumped his mountain of paper in a controlled avalanche. He passed around papers as Zelenka continued to kiss ass in a way that Rodney could never pull off convincingly. Once it was time for actual intellectual discussion, Rodney took over. He spent the next hour explaining in painstaking detail what an ATA gene was, how it interacted with Ancient technology, and why it was so vital that a person with the ATA gene be permanently assigned to the Ancient technology team. He was just getting to his conclusions when Landry cut in: "I don't like where this is going, Dr. McKay. We only know of one person who has the gene." "And I can tell you right now that you're not turning me into a science experiment," O'Neill added. Rodney started to roll his eyes, but stopped at Zelenka's pointed look. "I'm not talking about you, General," Rodney said with what he felt was admirable calm. "There is one other person with the ATA gene, and I know for a fact that he's not doing anything important." Landry frowned. "I assume you are talking about the clone of General O'Neill." "Of course I'm talking about the clone. The clone who is being utterly wasted in his current assignment of playing out the life of a typical teenager." Rodney crossed his arms. "General O'Neill may not be the brightest bulb in the box, but I think we can agree that he's intelligent enough not to need to repeat high school." The meeting went downhill from there. Afterwards, Rodney stormed off towards his car, Zelenka trotting along in his wake. "That's it," Rodney shouted. "I'm through! I refuse to continue futilely poking at alien gadgets while those incompetent assholes toe the line of conventional morality and keep themselves blind to reality." Zelenka put on a burst of speed and got in front of Rodney. "You asked them to give you a sixteen-year-old boy for the advancement of science." "I did not!" Rodney said hotly. "I asked them to offer a fifty-year-old man a job of colossal importance with excellent pay. What does it matter that that fifty-year-old man happens to be in the body of a teenager?" Zelenka opened his mouth and then closed it again. Rodney took advantage of the hesitation to scoot past and escape to his car. "Wait, Rodney!" Zelenka said, reaching the door just before Rodney had a chance to pull it shut. "What are you going to do?" "Simple," Rodney said, grabbing the door handle. "I quit." He slammed the door shut, savagely twisted the key in the ignition, and pulled away from his parking space with minimal regard for the safety of Zelenka's feet. As he waited for the guard to open the security gate, Rodney pulled out his ID and threw it out the window. He wouldn't be needing it any more. At the end of the private road that led the base, Rodney hesitated. He could return to his empty apartment and brood over his hasty decision and poorly-considered words, or he could turn the other direction, drive to Denver for dinner and a movie and pretend, for a little while at least, that nothing was wrong with his world. That everything would be okay in the end. Not a difficult decision for a genius. Rodney ate at a tiny hole in the wall that Carson had introduced him to the year before, where the food was bland and plentiful, just the way Rodney liked it. Afterwards, he went to see a movie, something with lots of explosions and embarrassingly shitty science. He stopped paying attention halfway through, unable to stop his subconscious from suggesting, repeatedly and with increasing fervor, that he might just have made a mistake. A serious mistake. A mistake so much worse than his last one that he'd be lucky if his only punishment this time was to be sent to Siberia. What the hell was he going to do now? Teach? Research? The prospect of facing a roomful of undergraduates was about as appealing as being locked in a small lab with Kavanagh, and thanks to the classified nature of his work, Rodney didn't have enough of a resume to get a job in a research lab. Besides, no one in the world was working on anything as interesting as what he'd had access to at the SGC. Which left...what? How was he supposed to get his Nobel Prize without funding? The house lights suddenly came up and Rodney shot a startled glance around the emptying theater. Feeling foolish to have been caught so unawares, he gathered his trash and headed for the nearest exit. He started his car before the door was even shut and turned on the heat full blast to counter the bitter cold. Denver technically wasn't as bad as Siberia, but then Rodney had been smart enough not to go outside in Siberia, so he'd never had the opportunity to acclimate himself to the weather. All things considered, Colorado was probably another place where it was best to hibernate till spring. Especially now that Rodney no longer had a job to force him out of the apartment. With that cheery thought in mind, Rodney popped the car into gear and pulled out into the streets of Denver. He spent the next couple of hours driving around aimlessly, automatically moving through the streets while his mind whirled in an endless loop of anger, embarrassment, and blame. If he'd had a bottomless gas tank, it was possible that he could have driven on forever. Fortunately, however, the beep of the low fuel indicator brought him out of his funk, and he pulled into the nearest station to fill his tank. As the gas pumped, Rodney glanced around at the location his random wandering had dumped him. Pawn shops, cigarette outlets, and liquor stores lined filthy sidewalks. Garbage blew back and forth in the streets. Greasy boys in oversized clothes stood on street corners, openly exchanging tiny plastic bags for small rolls of bills. A cluster of scantily-clad women posed in a manner that would have been provocative, if the women hadn't been grotesquely made up and emaciated. Rodney frowned at the scene and quickly finished pumping his gas. He wasn't quite sure how he'd ended up in this neighborhood, but he knew he didn't want to stay here long. Snatching his receipt from the printer, Rodney scrambled into his car and peeled out into the night. The nervous worry started to fade after a couple of blocks and by the time he turned into a quieter street he was confident enough to take in his surroundings again. Here the businesses seemed mostly closed and there were a few dilapidated looking houses between the abandoned shops. A few men in serious need of warmer clothes were huddled together on the right side of the street, half a block ahead of Rodney's car. As Rodney got closer, he could see that an argument of some sort was going on -- three of the men all seemed to be shouting at the fourth, who was hunched over and saying nothing in return. Rodney frowned and turned his attention back to the road, but as he was pulling abreast of the men he spared a quick glance in their direction. Just in time to see the three of them push the fourth man into the street. Just in time to hit his brakes several seconds too late. There was a sickening thud as the car slammed into the stumbling man's knees and the car continued to roll forward for another couple of feet before jerking to a halt. Rodney shoved the gearshift into park while throwing open his door. He distantly registered the other men scattering, but didn't spare them a glance as he fell to his knees beside the body in the street. At first glance, in the glaring light and stark shadows of the car's headlights, the man appeared to be dead. Rodney found himself babbling under his breath as he frantically searched for a pulse: "No you can't be dead I can't have killed you I wasn't going that fast and I'm going to win the Nobel Prize someday but not if I'm in jail comeonwakeuppleasebealive--" The man gasped slightly and his eyes slowly blinked open. Rodney gratefully gave up his fruitless search for a pulse, hung his head, and murmured, "Oh, thank god." Taking a deep breath, Rodney looked at the man's face for the first time. He was thin, too thin, with wild hair and a scruffy beard, but there was still an undeniable beauty in the angles of his face and the softness of his lips. In the uneven light the man's eyes were like bottomless wells and Rodney had to look away before he could force a question from his suddenly dry throat. "Are you all right? No, of course you aren't all right. Are you in pain? Oh, god, what am I -- of course you're in pain. I'm sorry, I don't do this very -- Listen, just relax, okay? I'm going to call an ambulance." Suddenly a bony hand latched onto Rodney's wrist with a surprising grip. "No!" the man on the road croaked out in a rough, desperate voice. "No hospital!" Rodney blinked. "You're hurt," he said cautiously. "You need medical attention." He switched the phone to his other hand and started to dial 911. "Besides, we need to report this to the police." "No police!" the man gasped, sounding panicked, and in an act of extraordinary stupidity, started to climb to his feet. Rodney made an inarticulate sound of protest and leaned forward to stop the man, but there was no need. The moment the man put weight on his leg he folded back to the ground, his face white in the harsh glare of the headlights and his teeth buried in his lip in an obvious attempt to hold back a scream of pain. "Oh my god that was -- are you mentally deficient?" Rodney snapped, his voice trembling. "How could you -- why would you--" "No hospital," the man murmured pitifully. Dark fluid pooled on his lower lip and Rodney realized with a distant horror that it was probably blood. The man moaned softly. "Please, no hospital. Please." Rodney hesitated for a moment, but if this was the reaction to merely dialing 911, Rodney most definitely didn't want to see what happened if he actually hit send. "Okay," he said softly. "Just...stay calm, okay? I won't take you to a hospital." The man's entire body relaxed. "No police?" he asked hopefully. Rodney founded himself suddenly, dangerously, angry. "Oh, come on!" he exploded. "Those men tried to kill you!" In response, the man flipped himself over and tried to crawl away. For a moment Rodney was too stunned to do anything but stare, but then he reached out and grabbed the nearest body part. Which happened to be the man's leg. The man made a sharp, strangled noise that almost sounded like a scream and collapsed back down to the asphalt. Rodney snatched his hand away as if burned. "Oh, fuck," he said desperately. "I didn't mean-- I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry." The man didn't respond. Rodney frowned and inched forward until he could reach the man's neck. Now that he was a little calmer, he was able to find the pulse easily. Not being a practitioner of the voodoo arts, he didn't know how to interpret what he felt (though the beats seemed to be coming at consistent intervals, which Rodney assumed was good), but at least the man was still alive. Alive, but unresponsive. Rodney frowned thoughtfully. This might actually be a good thing. It took several minutes to haul the man up off of the street and to shove him into Rodney's car. By the time he had the man strapped into the seat, Rodney was drenched in sweat and trembling with an emotion that he couldn't clearly define, though he was overwhelmingly grateful that the man hadn't woken during the move. His legs had already started to swell under his ragged jeans, and Rodney didn't want to think about the damage a car bumper could inflict upon bone, even if the bumper was decelerating at the time. Jogging back to his side of the car, Rodney climbed in and turned on the ignition. Without even thinking about it, he turned his car in the direction of Carson's office, at the same time pulling out his cell phone. He had promised the injured man that he wouldn't call a hospital; he'd said nothing about general practitioners. When Rodney looked back on his friendship with Dr. Carson Beckett, he could never quite pinpoint where it began. He knew how they met: Janet Frasier had finally gotten tired of Rodney's complaining and referred him to a GP in Denver who was known for his endless patience with difficult patients. That led to an appointment, which led to Rodney complaining about his allergies and the idiots he had to work with, which somehow led to Carson revealing his original dream of being a geneticist, which he had given up so that he could continue to work with patients (and because he hated having to kill any creature, even mice), and then suddenly they were going out for drinks every once in a while so Rodney could vent and Carson could be understanding, and before Rodney knew it, they were friends. It was a novel experience for Rodney, who had never had friends outside of work before (and by 'friends' he usually meant 'cowering subordinates'). Carson actually seemed to enjoy Rodney's company and, in exchange, Rodney decided that maybe medicine wasn't such a stupid science after all. Rodney reached the parking lot just in time to see Carson unlocking the front door. He rolled down his window and called out, "He's still unconscious." Carson hurried over to the passenger side door and Rodney rolled his eyes. "Shouldn't you be bringing a wheelchair or a gurney? The man's dead weight." Carson ignored him, which he only did when he thought Rodney was being particularly callous. Rodney crossed his arms and did his best imitation of a caring individual. Apparently he was successful because, after a few moments of looking into the unconscious man's eyes with a penlight and gently poking at the man's legs, Carson said, "There's a wheelchair inside the door, on the right." Rodney nodded and hurried to get the chair. He had a suspicion this would be easier if they could manage it before the man woke up. They almost made it. In fact, they got the man in the chair while he was still unconscious, but he woke up as they were lifting him up onto the examination table. The man took one quick glance around the room and immediately started to fight. Rodney and Carson lost their tenuous grip and the man fell to the floor, where he scrambled to escape. He couldn't very far, however, not with his damaged legs, and Carson quickly crouched by his side. "You're okay, lad. We won't hurt you." The man glared over his shoulder at Rodney. "You promised," he said, his voice full of accusation and hurt. Rodney flinched, and then was furious at himself for his reaction and with this stranger for being stupider than all of the morons in the Pentagon combined. "I promised I wouldn't take you to a hospital," he snapped. "This is not a hospital." The man frowned at him, then shot a quick glance at Carson, a brief flash of fear distorting his features. Rodney felt some of his irritation drain away. "You're hurt," he added gruffly. "You needed a doctor." "You can trust me," Carson added gently. "I won't do anything without your permission." The man looked from Carson to Rodney and back to Carson. Rodney was surprised to see a faint flush on the man's cheeks. "I can't pay," the man said quietly. Carson started to say something, but Rodney overrode him. "I'll pay." The man frowned at him, so Rodney pointed out the obvious: "I hit you. With my car." "That wasn't your fault," the man said. "They pushed me in front of you." "Well, yes, they did," Rodney said. "Which is why we should be calling the police right now." The man stiffened. "No." Rodney heaved a persecuted sigh. He was about to give the man a well deserved tongue lashing about how these displays of idiocy were driving Rodney's blood pressure up to dangerous levels when the stranger abruptly paled and dropped down to the floor, teeth gritted in pain. Rodney turned to Carson, who was prepping a needle. "Fix him, already, so I can kill him for being an idiot." Carson nodded sharply. "Hold out his arm," he ordered, and with quick, practiced movements he emptied the contents of the syringe into one of the blue veins inside the man's elbow. The man had begun hyperventilating at the sight of the needle, and Rodney felt his own chest tightening in sympathy. He'd never forget his own panic attacks -- the rush of adrenaline followed by the terrifying realization that your lungs don't seem to be working any more. "You're safe here," he whispered, leaning protectively over the man and shifting his grip until he was holding the man's hand. "I promise you, uh...what's your name, anyway?" The man blinked, his eyes already starting to glaze over as the drug took effect. "John," he said muzzily, using his free hand to rub his eyes. Rodney grinned helplessly. John looked like a sleepy child. "I'm Rodney. Dr. Rodney McKay." John's head shifted in a way that might've been a nod, but he didn't manage to finish the gesture before his eyes closed and his breathing evened out into the peaceful rhythms of sleep. Rodney looked up at Carson. "Is he going to be all right?" "He'll be fine," Carson said, crouching down next to Rodney. "Help me get him into the bed." The next couple of hours passed by in a blur, with Rodney playing amateur nurse while Carson cut away John's clothes, maneuvered him into a gown, brought him into the x-ray room, took the necessary scans, and then brought him back into the examination room. While Carson developed the x-rays in the dark room, Rodney sat with John, keeping him company in the eerie silence of the empty clinic. With nothing else to focus on, Rodney found his attention captured by the still form on the table. John was thin, almost gaunt, and he obviously hadn't bathed any time recently. His clothes had been threadbare and dirty and his coat had been woefully inadequate for Colorado winter weather. Rodney didn't have much experience with people, but the obvious conclusion from those observations was that John was homeless. Homeless. Rodney had heard of homeless people, even occasionally seen them on the street, but he'd never met one before. If someone had told him yesterday that he would have picked up a homeless man, put him in his car, and paid for his medical treatment, Rodney would have gifted the imbecile with a particularly nasty verbal flaying. Yet here he was, sitting in a tiny, sterile room holding the hand of a malnourished man who obviously hadn't bathed in days and who probably thought a refrigerator box was the height of luxury. And the strangest thing wasn't that Rodney had driven John here or that he was paying for John's treatment, but the fact that he was holding John's hand. He, Rodney McKay, was holding a man's hand. Not even because he had to, but because he found it somehow comforting. Comforting. What the hell was wrong with him? Rodney frowned and abruptly let go of John. Unfortunately he moved too quickly, and John's arm slipped down off of the table. Rodney's frown deepened and he crossed his arms over his chest. John was sedated. It didn't matter if one of his arms was hanging down, looking limp and frail against the stainless steel metal of the base of the table, fingers slightly curled as if they were still grasping for Rodney's hand... Heaving a sigh, Rodney leaned forward and lifted the arm back up, carefully setting it by John's body. Of course, that was the moment Carson chose to come back into the room. Rodney started and then flushed guiltily, but his own discomfort was forgotten as he took in Carson's grim expression. "What's wrong?" Rodney asked, his heart thumping away in his throat. "What's wrong with John?" "Both legs are broken," Carson said as he slid the large x-ray negatives onto the light board and stepped aside so Rodney could see. He pointed to the picture on the right. "This is the more serious of the two, a simple, transverse fracture just below the knee. His leg will have to be immobilized from above the knee to below the ankle. Normally the cast would need to be on for six or eight weeks, but due to John's malnutrition and generally poor condition, it will probably take two or three months for the leg to entirely heal." He pointed to the other picture. "This is just a hairline fracture, not as serious, but we'll need to keep it in a cast for a least a week or two and he'll have to be careful about using it for several weeks after that while the bone finishes healing." Rodney had stood up to examine the negatives and now he sank back onto the stool, his knees weak with relief. "That's all?" he asked, his voice suspiciously watery. "His legs are broken? I thought he was dying." Carson stared at Rodney as if Rodney had just said something incredibly stupid. Rodney leaned back in his seat. He wasn't used to being the recipient of that look and he found he didn't quite like it. "Rodney, the lad is homeless," Carson pointed out. "How do you think he's going to survive when he can't even walk?" Oh. That was...Rodney should have thought of that. He swallowed and glanced at the table, John's body looking small and fragile in the hospital gown. Bruises were starting to come up on his legs and arms, and there were dark circles under his eyes. Even with the beard, John looked young and achingly vulnerable. Rodney swallowed hard. "I'll take him," he said softly, ignoring the sharp look Carson sent his way. "I'll take care of him." "Are you sure?" Carson said. "He may be a criminal. He may be dangerous." Rodney looked up and met Carson's eyes squarely. "I'm sure," he said firmly. Carson nodded slowly. "Okay, then. I'm going to put the legs in a cast, which should take about an hour." "Perfect," Rodney said, his mind already jumping ahead to what needed to be done. He'd never really had a guest before, except for that one time Carson had crashed on the couch, so he wasn't equipped to host someone long term. Not to mention the fact that John himself was lacking the basics. Rodney was going to need to buy clothes and soft foods and toiletries... "That'll give me some time to shop." At three in the morning there weren't a lot of shopping options, but at least the lines were short. Rodney was still waiting for the call to say the casts were done when he pulled into the clinic parking lot with a trunkful of essentials. Grabbing a bag with sweats and underwear, Rodney hurried inside. Carson was sitting at the reception desk, looking even more grim than before. Rodney's stomach dropped. "What is it?" "Follow me," Carson said simply. "There's something you need to see." Heart pounding in his chest, Rodney followed Carson into the exam room. John still lay on the table, one leg entirely enrobed in fiberglass, the other wrapped to just over the knee. A blanket covered his groin and most of his torso, but Rodney could see enough bare skin to know that the gown had been removed. "Is he okay?" Rodney whispered, even though John was still sedated and probably didn't even know they were in the room. "He's fine, Rodney," Carson answered in a soft voice. "But when I took off the gown to clean him, I found something." He moved to the bed and carefully pulled the sheet down to just above John's waist. Rodney drew in a sharp breath as he took in the jagged scars that ran up and down John's chest and stomach. Some were long and thin, others short and gnarled, and still others round and smooth. "Oh my god," Rodney breathed. "The back is worse," Carson said quietly. "After I found this, I did some more x-rays. I found evidence of breaks in his upper torso, arms, and face." "When did this happen?" Rodney asked, his voice gaining in volume as he imagined the savagery required to do this kind of damage. "Not recently," Carson said quickly, reassuringly. "There's no way to know for sure, but I'd guess anywhere from three to five years ago." Rodney's lips tightened, but what was done was done and the night wasn't getting any younger. He really didn't want Mrs. Henderson to see him dragging a seriously injured man into his apartment. "Help me get him dressed," he said, pulling out the clothes. He hesitated over the underwear before passing it to Carson and while the doctor eased the boxers over John's casts, Rodney found himself feeling strangely uncomfortable about watching. He covered the unusual emotion by fussing over the sweats, directing a lengthy and vitriolic diatribe towards the textile industries for deciding that all humans, regardless of height, width, and shape, could be adequately clad with a system of sizes that encompassed only four distinct levels -- five if you counted XXL. Carson made vague agreeing noises at the right times which meant he wasn't paying attention, and for once Rodney didn't mind. Once the underwear was in place, Rodney helped with the sweats, and he found the entire process to be nightmarish. John's arms kept getting caught in the sleeves, the toes kept getting caught in the pants, and everything kept twisting around until Rodney was afraid they were going to inadvertently strangle the man. By the end, Rodney had a newfound respect for mothers with young children. Finally, John was dressed. Rodney and Carson eased him down into the wheelchair, pushed him to the car, and manhandled him into the back seat. Once he was safely in Carson folded up the chair and put it in the trunk while Rodney transferred some of the supplies to the front seat along with the bag of instructions and medicine that Carson had prepared for John. All the necessary tasks done, they stood next to the car awkwardly. Rodney wondered what you were supposed to say in a situation like this and took his best guess: "So, uh, just send me the bill." Carson rolled his eyes. "I'm not charging you, Rodney. Just take care of him, follow the instructions I gave you, and be safe, okay?" "Fine, fine, I can do that." Rodney frowned at the man in the back seat of the car. "How long do I have before the sedative wears off?" Carson glanced at his watch. "An hour, maybe two." Rodney straightened. "I've got to go. I don't want him waking up in the car." Carson nodded and held the door open for Rodney. "Good luck, lad." "Thanks," Rodney said feeling more than a little overwhelmed. "I think I might need it." The drive normally took Rodney an hour and a half; Rodney made it in just over half that time. Fortunately no one was patrolling at five in the morning, because Rodney still wasn't sure that John wasn't a wanted felon. Strangely, Rodney didn't feel at all nervous about being alone with him, though that probably had a lot to do with the fact that John couldn't walk at the moment. Trying to get John out of the car and into the wheelchair was a disaster. The worst of it was when Rodney dropped him for the second time and John woke up on the dirty asphalt next to the car. "Wha-what?" he said groggily, lifting his head and looking around vaguely at the parking lot, the car, and his two damaged legs still propped up on the edge of the seat. With an impressive level of energy in someone who was just waking up from a sedative, John used his arms to flip himself onto his stomach and started trying to crawl away. Again. "Oh for--will you stop that? Even if you have an abnormally low IQ, the likelihood of which is becoming more and more probable the longer I know you, you must be able to comprehend the fact that if I was going to hurt you, I would have done it already. Certainly I wouldn't have dragged you all the way to the doctor and gotten you patched up first." Rodney crossed his arms and directed his best glower at John, the one that sent lab technicians into sobbing hysterics at fifty yards. "Now act like you've got half a brain and help me get you into this wheelchair." John, who had frozen at the beginning of Rodney's tirade, hesitated a moment longer, then carefully turned himself back over. His hands were filthy again, and his sweats weren't much better. Rodney heaved the universal sigh of the harassed and put-upon and grasped John by the arm. He tried not to be annoyed by John's flinch. They managed to get John into the chair, though the entire process was an embarrassing comedy of errors, and Rodney carefully pushed him up the sidewalk and into the apartment. The moment they stepped inside, John closed his eyes and started to hyperventilate. Rodney smacked him on the back of the head. "Stop that." John's head snapped around to shoot a glare at Rodney, but at least he had stopped hyperventilating. Rodney decided to take what he could get and pushed John to the bedroom. The bed was a mess, but then so was John. Rodney would take care of both once he'd had a chance to get some sleep and some coffee and was feeling mostly human. John balked at the bed, but after a second he gritted his teeth and let Rodney lever him onto the sheets. It was marginally more graceful than getting John into the chair in the first place, so maybe Rodney was getting better at this whole nursing thing. He was just hoping John would be able to do this for himself soon. Once John was safely on the bed and the chair was tucked out of the way, Rodney moved to close the curtains. Carson had said that John was going to need a lot of sleep for the first few days, and the bedroom got a lot of light in the morning. "No." Rodney froze, one hand grasping the curtain. He looked over his shoulder to find John staring at him. "Leave it open," John added. "Please." Rodney shrugged and dropped his hand. John relaxed briefly, then tensed up again, his hands clenched together on his lap. Rodney wondered if he was in pain and was about to suggest one of the pills Carson had given him when John cleared his throat and said in a rough voice, "I don't have any money, so I can't pay you back, but I could suck you. If you want. Or you could--" John's fists tightened till the knuckles were white and when he spoke again his voice was thin and terrified. "Or you could fuck me." For several moments all Rodney could do was gape at the man in his bed, the man who had just offered him sex in exchange for services rendered. The man who was, apparently, a prostitute. "Oh my god," Rodney exclaimed. "You're a hooker." John shot him a look full of fury and loathing, but Rodney barely had time to see it before the emotion abruptly disappeared and was replaced with a weary acceptance. "Yeah," Johns said quietly, his voice resigned. "That's what I am." It took a couple of tries, but he managed to turn himself over and spread his legs slightly. "I think we can make it work like this," he added. Rodney's mouth opened and closed several times before he realized he was imitating a fish and forced his jaw shut. John apparently misinterpreted the silence, because he turned his head towards Rodney and said in a monotone devoid of emotion, "Come on, big boy. Give it to me. I know you want to shove that hard rod in me." That was it, the final straw. Rodney managed to choke out, "You son of a bitch," before he spun and left the room, slamming the door shut behind him. Rodney stormed into the living room, just barely controlling the urge to throw portable objects at breakable surfaces. His blood pressure was so high now that his heart was actually starting to ache and his stomach was queasy. Maybe he was getting sick from the stress; his constitution had always been delicate. Or maybe a full night without sleep or coffee was finally catching up with him. It'd been a long time since graduate school. At that thought, Rodney's anger abruptly morphed into exhaustion. He'd been running on just a few hours of sleep for the last day and night and his body was ready to declare a strike. Things would look better after a full night's sleep. They had to. ~~~ Rodney jerked out of a strange dream involving small Ancient devices and a drowning city, and somehow Zelenka and Weir were involved and John too and all of these terrifying things kept happening to him and yet Rodney wasn't scared. Not even a little. Certainly not enough to wake him up so abruptly, to a dim room and an uncomfortable couch. Rodney frowned at the ceiling and listened carefully to his surroundings. A moment later, he heard it. A thud, followed by a gentle shushing, like the sound of fabric rubbing across carpet. Rodney groaned. If he hadn't had his doubts about John's intelligence before, he certainly had them now. For a second Rodney thought about letting John crawl out of the apartment and escape. Not that the man would get very far, but maybe spending some time crawling on asphalt would teach John to appreciate what Rodney was offering. Then again, John had been homeless. And Rodney had hit him with a car. With a sigh, Rodney heaved himself off of the couch and headed back to the bedroom. He noted with interest that John had already managed to make his way into the hall. Apparently practice did result in improvement. Rodney opted out of yelling and screaming since it hadn't seemed to make much of an impression on John last time. Instead he focused on pointing out the obvious: "Where will you go?" John froze for several long seconds before looking over at Rodney with a defiant expression. Rodney wasn't impressed. "You aren't a prisoner here, John. If you have anywhere else to go, I'll be happy to take you there. You just have to tell me." John tried to stare Rodney down, but Rodney had gone toe-to-toe with four-star generals and won. John looked away first, his shoulders slumping. Moving slowly, painfully, he turned around and started dragging himself back into the room. Rodney leaned down to help him, trying not to be offended when John once again flinched at his touch. He hauled John back into the room and onto the bed and tucked the blankets into some semblance of order. Once he was convinced that John was as comfortable as he could be under the circumstances, Rodney dragged the wheelchair into the middle of the room and dropped down on it. "Okay, apparently we need to talk. What will it take for you to trust me?" John looked away, his arms folded over his chest. "Nothing." "Nothing?" Rodney thought about that. "You mean you'll never trust me?" John nodded sharply. "Okay then, what will it take for you to stop these idiotic escape attempts until you are healthy enough to survive on your own?" There was a long silence after that question, but Rodney wasn't about to back down. John might think he was stubborn, but he didn't stand a chance against Rodney McKay. Of course, John broke first. "I need--I need to know." Rodney waited for a beat. "Know what?" Finally, John turned his head to look directly at Rodney. "What you expect of me." Rodney blinked. "I don't expect anything of you." John snorted. "No, really. I just want you to get better." John didn't look convinced, so Rodney decided to try a different tack. "Look, no offense, but you're not my type. You're too skinny, not blonde, and oh, yeah, not a woman. So could you please get over this narcissism complex and heal so I can put you back where I found you?" John looked taken aback, which was at least better than traumatized. Considering it had been a really long time since his last meal, Rodney decided to declare the argument at an end; he'd had enough of beating his head against John's stupidity. "Now that we've gotten that taken care of, what would you like for breakfast?" "Um, food?" John shook his head. "Sorry. I mean, anything is fine." "Right." Rodney stood up and started toward the door. Just before he walked through it, he heard John add in a quiet voice, "Thanks." Feeling ridiculously pleased, Rodney headed toward the kitchen, smiling the whole way. Half an hour later, the breakfast bar in the kitchen was piled high with food. Nothing with citrus, of course, but virtually every other breakfast dish that Rodney knew how to cook was on display. After a few meals like this, Rodney would have enough data to determine John's food preferences. As Rodney made his way down the hallway he heard a thud and started moving faster, muttering invectives under his breath. If John was trying to crawl away again, Rodney was going to tie the feeble-minded invalid to the bed. Rodney threw open the door to find John on the floor, which he had expected. What Rodney hadn't expected was to see John trying to pull himself up into his wheelchair. Rodney winced and hurried forward. "Sorry," he said as he helped John up. "I should have left it closer to the bed." John eyed Rodney warily before answering in a cautious voice, "It's okay." "Of course it's okay," Rodney snapped. "I'm new at this." He crossed his arms defensively and added in a lower voice, "It won't happen again." John looked taken aback again and when he spoke, his voice sounded kind of desperate. "Is that food I smell?" Like he always did when talking about food, Rodney relaxed. "It's in the kitchen, of course. Do you want me to--" He stepped forward to push John's chair. "No!" John said sharply. Rodney froze and John immediately stuttered, "I mean, I need to learn how to do this on my own." "Oh, okay." That was logical, even if Rodney did feel a strange sense of disappointment. "I'll hold the door." It took a couple of tries, but once John got comfortable with the size of the wheelchair he maneuvered his way through doors and hallways with an ease that Rodney envied. Breakfast was a silent affair, with Rodney working his way through a large platter while John, after a couple of tentative bites, shoveled food into his mouth as if it might be taken away at any time. Rodney's plan to learn John's favorite foods was derailed when John ate everything available, with no obvious preferences. Suddenly, halfway through his second plate, John's eyes widened and he dropped his fork. Moving the wheelchair with a level of skill that Rodney knew he himself wouldn't be able to reach without a year's worth of practice, John spun away from the table and headed for the bathroom at high speed. Rodney followed just in time to hear John retching into the toilet. He winced. "Are you okay?" he asked tentatively from the doorway, wondering what he was supposed to do now. Carson hadn't covered vomiting, since even Rodney knew that that wasn't a normal side effect of broken bones. Then again, it probably had been a pretty long time since John had last had a good meal. "I'm fine," John said hoarsely. "Just ate too much." That made sense. "Do you want me to make you some soup?" Rodney offered. John turned a light shade of green and turned his head back into the toilet. By the time John was down to dry heaves, Rodney had squeezed into the bathroom and wet a washcloth. He silently handed the cloth to John, who used it to rub his face and then wash out his mouth. Rodney watched with a dubious expression -- he was going to have to burn that washcloth -- but there was a visible difference between the cleanliness of the skin that had been exposed to the washcloth and the skin that hadn't. "So," Rodney said, trying to be casual about it, "Since you're already here, how about a shower?" John shot a longing glance at the tub, but turned back to Rodney with a stubborn expression. Rodney frowned, wondering what was wrong this time, and took his best guess. "It's okay, Carson said you could get the casts wet." After a hesitation, and another peek at the bathtub, John said quietly, "I can't take a shower if I can't stand up." Oh, right. Rodney should have thought of that. Of course, it was probably in the instructions Carson had given him; Rodney had to find time to read those soon. "Wait here," he told John. "I have an idea." Without bothering to wait for an answer, Rodney hurried down the hall to his office/junk room. He really didn't use it much, since the living room was a more comfortable place to work and the office was pitifully tiny. Though there was probably enough room to put in a futon, if that would save Rodney a week or two of sleeping on the couch. Something to consider when he went out for his next batch of groceries. Between John's pre-purge binging and Rodney's own healthy appetite, the supplies Rodney got last night were going to run out sooner rather than later. Rodney decided to just be happy that the previous night was cold enough that none of the groceries in the trunk would have had a chance to spoil. In one corner of the junk room was a small stack of plastic outdoor chairs that Carson had gotten for Rodney the previous Christmas, apparently in lieu of coal since Rodney didn't bother to hang stockings. Of course, Rodney had gotten Carson socks, so the two of them were pretty much even. Rodney froze halfway through the process of wrestling a chair off of the stack. Christmas. With all of the stress of yesterday's meeting, he'd completely forgotten that Christmas was just two weeks away. Swearing under his breath, Rodney finished separating the chair from its mates and hurried down the hall, wondering what the hell he was supposed to do. Normally he spent Christmas in Denver with Carson, but Rodney wasn't at all sure it was a good idea to leave John alone in his apartment and the prospect of taking John along was terrifying; Rodney could already see him throwing open the door to jump out of a moving vehicle. The man wasn't rational. Just another problem to add to the growing pile -- if Rodney had had any idea how much trouble John was going to be, he would have left him lying in the street. Probably. Well, maybe. The man in question had actually followed an order for once and was in the middle of the bathroom, right where Rodney had left him. Rodney arranged the chair in the middle of the tub and turned to John with a proud grin. "There. What do you think?" John frowned. "It's a lawn chair." Rodney's smile slipped. "It's waterproof." "But how am I going to wash...never mind. It's perfect." John looked between Rodney and the tub several times with increasing tension. Finally he gritted his teeth and said in a tight voice, "I'm going to need some help." Rodney blinked. "Right, of course. Can you, uh, can you get undressed by yourself?" John turned the chair so that his back was to Rodney before levering himself up somehow with one arm and possibly his feet. When he tried to use the other arm to adjust his clothing outside of Rodney's line of sight, however, his feet slipped and he nearly slid out of the chair. There was a very long pause before John turned back to Rodney. John's face was an emotionless mask, but Rodney could see the man was trembling. Rodney swallowed hard and looked away. This was going to be awkward. He cleared his throat. "Maybe you should, uh, remove your shirt first and I'll get your socks?" John nodded jerkily and reached for the hem of his sweatshirt. Rodney crouched down and deliberately focused his attention on John's socks. They looked suspiciously familiar and after a second Rodney realized that they were a pair that he had given to Carson last Christmas. Rodney scowled and immediately started plotting revenge. Once the socks and, presumably, the sweatshirt (Rodney refused to look) were off, Rodney stood up and immediately locked his eyes on John's face. "Okay. Um, do you think you could balance yourself on the sink while I...uh...get the rest?" John's face, which was already pale, whitened even further and Rodney could see a muscle in John's jaw twitching. He held his breath, waiting for John's response. In the end, John didn't say anything at all, just held out his hand for assistance getting up. Rodney let out his breath in a big whoosh of air and took the hand. It was surprisingly easy to get John upright and once on his feet, John was able to balance himself without the sink. "You were an athlete, weren't you?" Rodney asked in disgust as he moved behind John. He didn't want to be anywhere near John's groin when he pulled the pants down. "Yeah," John answered readily enough. He didn't offer any details, however, possibly because at that moment Rodney grabbed the waistband of the sweatpants, making sure to catch the elastic of the boxers as well. John's shaking, which had almost disappeared, suddenly doubled, and his hands gripped the edge of the sink so hard the knuckles turned white. Rodney hesitated. He didn't want to do this and John obviously didn't want him to do this. "Maybe you could just shower with your pants on," Rodney offered. "Just do it, McKay," John snarled. Rodney blinked, shrugged, and shoved the pants and boxers down in one smooth movement. Keeping his eyes firmly fixed near the floor, he lifted one foot to the side -- this was going to be so much easier once John had use of his knees -- and slid the clothes off before doing the same for the other foot. Staying on his knees, head firmly tucked down so that his eyes didn't have the opportunity to glimpse anything inappropriate, Rodney cleared his throat and asked quietly, "Can you get into the tub on your own?" "No." John's voice was tight with some emotion Rodney couldn't name. Probably frustration. Or fear. Rodney gave a resigned nod and stood up, again keeping his eyes from going anywhere near John's body. It was ridiculous, considering he'd seen John naked from the waist up at Carson's office, but Rodney found himself strangely unwilling to sacrifice even the smallest shred of John's modesty if he could do anything to prevent it. "Okay. I'm going to turn you around," he said, gripping John's biceps to do just that. John kept one hand on the sink during the process and they managed to get him facing the tub. "Great," Rodney said enthusiastically. "Now just lift your foot." John lifted his foot until it rammed into the porcelain. "Oh," Rodney said. He considered the problem for a half a second before sighing. "You're going to have to go in backwards." John stiffened, so Rodney added hastily, "I swear it's the truth. Physical laws don't have much flexibility. Well, at least not--" "Fine," John said. "Let's just get it over with." Embarrassingly close to hyperventilation, and keeping his eyesight focused above John's neck and below his eyes -- which meant that for all practical purposes, Rodney was staring at John's nose -- Rodney turned John back around so that they were facing each other. "Put your hands on my shoulders," he ordered breathlessly and felt a rush of pleasure when John obeyed without hesitation. Choking down the dangerous emotion, Rodney braced John's feet with his own. "Okay, I'm going to lower you back into the chair. Just bend at the waist and keep your weight forward." Now that Rodney had figured out what to do, the entire process went perfectly smoothly (of course). And if Rodney inadvertently saw something he shouldn't have, well, angles were angles and the laws of geometry were just as immutable as those of physics. It's not as if Rodney could just close his eyes, after all, not without the potential risk of dropping John. "Thanks," John said, the moment his skin touched the plastic seat. "I've got it from here." Rodney let go and stepped back with a hint of reluctance. "Are you sure?" "Very," John said, somehow managing to scoot the chair around with only one hand. The other was not-so-casually draped over his lap. Well, that was clear enough. "I'll be in the kitchen," Rodney said, backing towards the door. "If you need anything, just yell." John simply nodded brusquely and yanked the shower curtain shut. Rodney headed back to the kitchen to put away the remains of breakfast. He felt drained. This nursing business was a lot harder than he'd thought it was going to be, though that might just be because Rodney's patient was being impossible. With an eye to quick leftovers, Rodney converted most of the bread and breakfast meat into sandwiches. The pancakes and waffles were put in plastic bags, because they reheated well. Eggs were thrown out; fortunately there weren't too many of them left. Food put away, Rodney started to load the dishwasher. He was just reaching for John's glass when a thought struck him and he instinctively stilled to listen and make sure the shower was still running. It was and it probably would be until the hot water ran out, since this was John's first shower in a long time. Rodney would never have a better chance. Keeping one ear on the shower, Rodney tiptoed down the hall to his office. A quick search of the desk turned up a handful of mechanical pencils, which Rodney brought back to the kitchen. He emptied the lead from the pencils into a bowl and used the bottom of a glass to crush the sticks of graphite into a fine powder. Feeling a little like one of those CSIs on that horrific show that repeatedly lampooned scientific procedure, Rodney carefully lifted John's glass and sprinkled the powder over it. Gently blowing on the resulting mess produced several perfectly clear sets of prints. Rodney grinned. He was such a genius. After another trip to his office for a roll of packing tape and a handful of index cards, Rodney was soon the proud possessor of a pair of makeshift fingerprinting cards. Now he just had to figure out how to get someone to run the prints through a fingerprint identifying system. Rodney frowned at that thought. This would have been much easier if he were still working for the US military. Since Rodney was still firmly not thinking about the fact that he was unemployed and, more importantly, that he was going to have to find new employment in the not-so-distant future, he tucked the cards away in the kitchen's junk drawer and finished loading the dishwasher. Something would come to him eventually, it always did. Rodney was bringing a load of groceries in from his trunk when he heard a nasty sounding thump from the direction of the bathroom. Dropping the bags on the floor where he stood, he ran down the hallway. As he feared, he found John lying half in and half out of the tub, cradling his head with one hand and swearing under his breath. "You moron," Rodney said, exasperated. "I told you to yell if you needed help." "I didn't need help," John snapped back. Much happier dealing with an angry John than with a terrified John, Rodney simply said in his driest tone, "Yes, I can see that." John glared at him. "Help me up." Rodney grinned, feeling better than he had since before his disastrous meeting with the generals. "My pleasure." Between the two of them, they managed to get John in the chair. Rodney left him there with a towel and went to dig through the bags for another pair of sweats. By the time he made it back, John was mostly dry and his open anger gone; he was back to his closed-off, defensive self. Rodney smothered a sigh and focused on the matter at hand. "How's your head?" John pulled on the sweatshirt. "Fine." Rodney rolled his eyes. "Whatever." There was an awkward silence as John kept looking between Rodney and the pair of sweatpants in his hand. Finally John said pointedly, "Are you going to watch?" Rodney felt his face burn. "Oh! No. Um, sorry." He left quickly. He had time to finish emptying the car, put the groceries away, and contemplate changing the sheets on the bed before John came out of the bathroom, white-faced and breathing heavily, but decently clad in sweatpants and, hopefully, underwear. Rodney stopped in the hallway with a handful of linens as the bathroom door opened. "Feeling better?" he asked. "Yeah," John said. After a beat, he added, "Thanks." Rodney smiled and did what he always did when he was pleased with someone: offered food. "Hungry yet? I can make you some taco soup." "Sure," John said after a hesitation. "Thanks." As Rodney put the sheets next to the bed and headed to the kitchen, he decided that he rather liked being thanked for things. Though nursing was an awful hard way to get gratitude. Maybe it was time to start instituting some new lab rules. Except that he didn't have a lab anymore. His good mood gone, Rodney made his way to the kitchen to start browning meat. Once it was done and drained, he dumped in two cans of corn, two cans of tomatoes, two cans of kidney beans, two cans of garbanzo beans, and two packets of taco seasoning and turned up the heat. As the soup started to boil, John wheeled into the kitchen. "That smells good." "It's the only soup I know how to make," Rodney said. Though this batch did smell especially good. His spirits lifting at the prospect of tasty soup -- even if he had had breakfast just a couple of hours before -- Rodney added, "I used to make it for Jeannie. My sister." He shot a sneaky glance in John's direction and asked casually, "Do you have any sisters?" John had an amused expression on his face; Rodney decided that it was a very good look for him. "No," John said. "I don't have any siblings." Rodney considered asking about John's parents but decided that he wasn't ready to risk John's armor closing up again. Instead he said, "There's a bag of Fritos on the counter, can you put it on the table?" As John got the chips, Rodney found sour cream and shredded cheese in the fridge and soon the two of them were sitting at the breakfast bar with steaming bowls of fragrant soup. John took a tentative bite -- Rodney wondered how long it would be before John trusted his cooking -- and looked up with a startled expression. "It's good," he said, before digging in with the same enthusiasm he'd shown at breakfast. "Whoa," Rodney said, reaching without thinking and touching John's hand. The inevitable flinch caused soup to splatter all over the table. Rodney winced. "Sorry. It's just, you might want to slow down. Also, it tastes much better if you add cheese and chips." John hesitated, then reached out to scoop a small amount of cheese onto his soup. He sprinkled a few chips on top and tried a bite. Rodney held his breath as he waited for a verdict. John glanced up and nodded. "It's good. Sort of like Frito pie." Rodney grinned. "I like it." John ate a couple more bites, slower than before, before adding, "Sorry. About..." He gestured at the dirty napkins Rodney had used to clean up the spill. "It's okay," Rodney said, even though it wasn't. They finished the meal in companionable silence and this time John managed to keep the food down. He also helped put the dishes in the dishwasher before quietly announcing that he was still tired and was going to take a nap. Rodney offered to help, but was refused. After starting the dishwasher, Rodney found himself at loose ends. He could clean the apartment, but that didn't sound at all appealing, and since he was unemployed he didn't have any work to do. He was considering piling up everything he still had from the SGC and dumping it into a box to bring back to the base when the doorbell rang. Figuring it had to be Carson, Rodney opened the door without looking through the peephole, already planning his lecture on re-gifting Christmas presents. Once the door was opened, however, his heart dropped. "Radek," he said, forcing the name out of a suddenly dry throat. "What the hell are you doing here?" "I have come to talk sense into you," Zelenka answered. "Because you are an idiot." Rodney snorted and then brightened. "Wait, maybe you can be of some use after all." He turned into the kitchen and grabbed the fingerprint cards out of the junk drawer. Shooting a suspicious look at the empty hallway, he grabbed Zelenka by the arm and dragged him outside. "I need you to run these fingerprints." Zelenka eyed the cards askance. "Run them where?" "Don't play stupid, Radek, run them through the system." He shoved the cards into Zelenka's chest, but the Czech pointedly did not take them. "I am not the stupid one. I do not have access to this mythical system, whatever it is called. Nor do you, or you would not be asking me to break many federal laws that would result in my deportation." "You only get deported if you're caught," Rodney pointed out. Zelenka stared at him, then took a step back. "I will come back later, when you are rational." "Radek, wait!" Rodney glanced around and moved a step closer. "You owe me," he said softly. "For getting you that date with Weir." Zelenka crossed his arms. "You locked Elizabeth and I in a closet because we would not authorize a cappuccino machine in the break room." "But that led to a date," Rodney retorted. With a glare, Zelenka snatched the cards out of Rodney's hand. "I make no promises," he said sourly. Rodney grinned. "You know I didn't mean it when I said you were only appointed head of the department because you were a sycophant surgically attached to Weir's ass." "Elizabeth has a beautiful ass," Zelenka said mildly. "But that is not why I am head of research. If you had not acted childishly at every opportunity, the position would have been given to you." "I don't act childishly," Rodney spluttered. "Humph," Zelenka said. "I will call you." This time when he left, Rodney didn't try to stop him. Still smarting over the 'childish' comment, Rodney walked back into his apartment. Only to find himself at the business end of a very large knife. Rodney lifted his hands in the air, unable to move his eyes from the sharp metal blade that hovered in the vicinity of his stomach. "J-john?" he asked, his voice shaking so badly that he could barely force the word out. "Who was he?" John's voice was low and dangerous. "That man. Who was he?" "Radek Zelenka," Rodney said immediately. "Th-the head of my department. Well, sort of. I don't work there any more. Besides, I'm far more intelligent than he is, and he only got the supervisory position because--eep!" John pulled the knife back from where he'd pressed it into Rodney's stomach. Rodney glanced down expecting to see blood, but as far as he could tell, the knife hadn't even cut through his shirt. "What did you give him?" John asked. "What?" Rodney asked faintly. "The papers," John said, poking Rodney's stomach with the knife for emphasis. "What were those papers you gave him?" "I--I--" Rodney never had been good at lying on the spot. He sighed. "Fingerprints. I gave him a set of your fingerprints." The knife wavered and John's face twisted into a mask of betrayal. "Oh, don't give me that look," Rodney snapped. "You're holding me at knifepoint; do you blame me for wanting to know who you are?" "You could have just asked," John retorted. "Right, and I'm just supposed to expect the man who swears he'll never trust me to tell me the truth about his past. A man, I might add, who is afraid of the police." Rodney's eyes narrowed. "Are you a felon?" "No!" John said, looking affronted. "Oh." Rodney considered John for a moment, decided that he believed the denial, and lowered his arms. "Could you, you know, put that thing away?" he asked, nodding at the knife. John hesitated, then set the knife on the counter before announcing, "I'm leaving." "What?" Rodney yelped. "You said I'm not a prisoner," John said. "And that you'd take me anywhere I wanted to go." "But--but--but you said you didn't have anywhere to go," Rodney pointed out. "Of course I have somewhere to go, McKay," John snapped. "I have a whole city full of places to go." "You mean the streets," Rodney said flatly. John shrugged and looked away. Rodney rolled his eyes and crossed his arms. "John, you can't walk. You won't survive a day on the streets." "You'd be surprised at what I can survive," John said bitterly. Rodney thought about the scars covering the upper half of John's body and decided that that was probably true. Still, Rodney remembered all too clearly what John's broken body had looked like in the headlights of the car. He didn't want to see that again. Swallowing hard, Rodney asked, "What if...what if I promise not to look into your past anymore?" John's head shot up. "You'd do that? You'd swear to it?" "Will you stay if I do?" John thought about that for a long time. A very long time. "Yes," he said, finally. "If you stop looking into my past, I'll stay. But McKay," and here John's eyes flashed with a terrifying emotion that Rodney couldn't name, "if you fuck me over, I swear I'll kill you." Rodney looked at the knife. "I believe you," he said sincerely. John nodded sharply. "Good. You call Zelenka. I'm going to bed." He quickly rolled away, leaving Rodney standing alone in his living room, wondering exactly when he started taking orders from the homeless man he was supposed to be nursing back from death out of the goodness of his heart. ~~~ They fell into a routine over the next few days. John would get up first and start a pot of coffee while Rodney mumbled bitter imprecations against the sun into the couch pillows. Once Rodney managed to roust himself, he helped John into the shower. After a few times, Rodney forgot to worry so much about looking at John's body and even John began to relax his ubervigilance. While John showered, Rodney made breakfast. He'd managed to weasel a favorite breakfast food out of John and they ate eggs benedict more often than not. When Rodney wasn't feeling up to dealing with a hollandaise sauce or when they ran out of Canadian bacon, they usually had omelets instead. Rodney had tried bagels once, but John had looked so let down that the pastries were shoved in the back of the fridge and hadn't been seen again. After breakfast, John cleared away the breakfast dishes while Rodney took his own shower. It only took a couple of days of practice before John was good enough with his casts that he could stand up for the length of time needed to wash the pans. Rodney, who loathed doing dishes, thought this was a perfectly fair exchange for cooking breakfast, which he actually rather enjoyed. Between breakfast and dinner they usually left the apartment to spend time outside. This insane dedication to nature even during the bitterly cold winter weather was all John's fault; if he didn't spend at least a few hours outside every day he started to get twitchy and nervous and even more uncommunicative than he usually was. Rodney decided that if it kept John from poking another knife in Rodney's stomach it was worth bundling up, but that didn't mean he had to be happy about it. They usually ate lunch while they were out, but Rodney was always starving when they made it back to the apartment. No doubt it was from burning all those calories just to stay warm although when he'd pointed that out to John, John had laughed. That laugh had done strange things to Rodney's stomach, made it feel warm and tingly. Rodney hadn't known what to do with that feeling, so he had ignored it in favor of making spaghetti. John made a surprisingly good cheesy bread to go with the meal. After dinner they usually watched (and mocked) a cheesy movie or two or played a few rounds of chess. It had been a long time since Rodney had had anyone who could give him a serious challenge and while he still won most of the games, John definitely made him think. Over the course of the first week they inevitably got more comfortable with each other. John stopped flinching every time Rodney touched him and Rodney forgot to spend every waking moment wondering about John's past. He still wasn't thrilled about sleeping on the couch, however. Very early Tuesday morning, Rodney jerked out of a deep, dreamless sleep and it took him nearly a minute to identify the breathless, agitated sounds that woke him. Heart in his throat, Rodney shoved off of the couch and hurried to the bedroom, where he found John tossing and turning and whimpering pathetically under his breath. Without thinking about it, Rodney stepped forward and grabbed John's shoulder. "John, wake up. You're having a--" John abruptly rolled over and punched Rodney in the face. Rodney went down hard, no doubt getting a bruise on his butt in the process. "Ow," he protested, glaring at John while rubbing his jaw with one hand and his ass with his other. John blinked a couple of times, then looked down at Rodney. "Rodney?" he asked, sounding confused. "What are you doing down there?" "You hit me," Rodney snapped back. "Probably broke my jaw." John's eyes widened. "I did? Oh, shit, Rodney, I'm so sorry." He slipped off of the bed with a familiar sounding thump and dragged himself over to sit next to Rodney. Propping himself up with one hand, he used the fingers of his other to gently probe Rodney's jaw. Rodney's breath caught in his lungs and he stared at John with wide eyes. John dropped his hand and suddenly Rodney could breathe again. "It's not broken," John said. "But you're going to--to have a b-bruise." In a horrified voice, he added, "I h-hit you." He dropped his head and spoke again in a desperate voice, but his words were too muffled to make out. Suddenly he starting making strange snuffling noises and Rodney realized with a growing horror that John was actually crying. "Oh, no," Rodney said, shaking his head frantically. "No, please. Don't do that." John glared at him -- and Rodney noted his eyes were dry, so not crying, thank god -- turned away and hunched his shoulders. His chest dropped down nearly to his thighs, causing his body to curl up as much as it could with his immobilized legs. His back shook with the force of his muffled gasping. Wondering if he should call Carson, Rodney reached out a tentative hand and carefully placed rested it on John's back. John tensed for a moment, then he every-so-slightly arched into the touch. More than a little surprised, Rodney scooted forward until he could wrap an arm around John's shoulders. John relaxed into the embrace, letting Rodney take some of his weight. After a minute, John's breathing started to even out and Rodney's brain began to work again. He considered John's symptoms and thought back to one of those pointless gen ed classes he'd been forced to take as an undergrad. "Are you having a flashback?" John answered with a disbelieving scowl and shifted a couple of inches away from Rodney. Rodney immediately snatched his hand back and watched from a safe distance as John roughly rubbed his face with both hands. Once John had himself under control, he looked at Rodney with red, hollow-looking eyes. "Do you want me to go?" he asked quietly, his shoulders curled in on himself as if anticipating a blow. "I'll understand if you do." Rodney crossed his arms and glared. "No, I don't want you to go, you idiot. It's not your fault; you didn't mean to hit me." John gasped and his eyes glistened, but thankfully he didn't start crying. Rodney didn't think he could survive actual tears. "Thank you," John said in a choked voice. Rodney found himself unable to face the raw emotion in John's eyes, so he stared down at his hands instead. "Not a problem," he said gruffly. "Just, you know, don't do it again." When he looked back, he found John already maneuvering himself back into bed. Unable to think of anything else to say, Rodney shoved himself to his feet and went back to his dreaded couch. The next morning John moved around the apartment as quietly as a ghost and he avoided making eye contact with Rodney. When Rodney tried to bring up what had happened the previous night, John was suddenly possessed by an urgent need to study his navel. In the bathroom. With the door locked. Two nights later when sounds of John's nightmares woke Rodney up, Rodney stayed on the couch, staring helplessly through the dark in the direction of the ceiling. ~~~ On Sunday, Rodney drove John back to Denver so Carson could take the cast off of his left leg. Because of the casts John was in the back seat, and while he didn't say anything Rodney could feel John's disapproving eyes burning into the back of his neck. Thirty minutes in, he cracked. "What?" he snapped. "What do you want me to do? The seat doesn't go far enough back for you to fit your casts in the front seat." "I didn't say anything," John said sullenly. "You didn't have to," Rodney muttered. Five miles later, he added, "You know, I think I liked driving you better when you were unconscious." John just snorted. Carson was waiting for them when they arrived at the clinic. He wasn't usually open on Sunday, but considering John's people skills Carson and Rodney had agreed that it would be best to do everything possible to minimize John's interactions with others, at least until either his legs or his psyche had healed. Rodney didn't hold out much hope for the latter. "Do you want to come in, Rodney?" Carson asked as John shoved open the door next to the receptionist's window and rolled back as if he owned the place. "No," Rodney said emphatically. At Carson's raised eyebrow, he added, "I think we could use a break from each other." Carson did a piss-poor job of hiding a grin. "I understand. This shouldn't take more than an hour. Use Laura's computer, if you want." Rodney decided to do just that. Fifteen minutes later, he was halfway through the latest Farscape recap at Television Without Pity when a high-pitched whirring sound filled the air. A second later the screaming started. Rodney was out of his chair and halfway down the hall before he even registered the scream as John's. He skidded into the exam room and nearly stumbled over his own feet at the sight before him. Carson was standing near the door, hands raised and speaking in a soothing voice, though his face was full of worry. On the floor next to him was a medical instrument of some type that had a small circular saw blade on the end. John was propped up in the corner on the opposite side of the room, wearing nothing but a hospital gown and holding a stool so that the metal legs pointed out like a weapon. His eyes were wide and wild and Rodney wasn't sure John even knew where he was at the moment. "Carson, what's going on?" Rodney asked quietly. John's head swiveled at the sound of Rodney's voice, and his eyes locked on Rodney's face without recognition. "I'm not sure," Carson answered, equally softly. "I explained the procedure to him and he said it would be okay, but as soon as I started the saw he became irrational and unresponsive. He knocked the saw out of my hand and pushed me away. I'm not even sure how he managed to get himself all the way over there." "He's athletic," Rodney said dryly. He glanced at John, who was openly listening in on their conversation. "I need you to leave me alone with him," he told Carson. "I don't think that's such a good idea," Carson said dubiously. "I'll be fine," Rodney said, with far more reassurance than he felt. "If it makes you feel better you can stay within hearing distance. I'll yell if I need help." "Hm." Carson eyed John skeptically for several seconds before making his decision. "I'll be right outside the door." "Great," Rodney said. "Shoo." Alone with John, Rodney realized that he really had no idea of what he was doing. In his experience, psychology ranked down there with anthropology in the bottom rungs of the already useless arena of the soft sciences. He never thought he'd be in a situation where its practical application would actually be necessary. On the other hand, he had a pretty good track record with unhappy cats. This couldn't be harder than that, could it? "It's me, John," Rodney said softly, standing near the door. "Rodney. Do you remember me?" John pushed back into the corner and raised the stool a little higher. Rodney swore under his breath before trying a different tack. Starting up a monologue about the underlying mathematics of quantum physics -- the content didn't matter as much as maintaining a soothing voice, and Rodney doubted he could serenely spout bullshit about how the world was a good place and everything would be all right for any significant length of time -- Rodney inched closer to John, keeping his hands up to show that he wasn't holding anything threatening. Each time John tensed up, Rodney would stop, but he never stopped speaking and inevitably John's defenses would relax and Rodney would step forward again. It took nearly twenty minutes to cross the room and up till the very last second Rodney wasn't sure if John knew him. He was seriously debating whether he should back off and help Carson round up a tranquilizer gun when the stool suddenly dropped and clattered against the floor, John following a moment later. Rodney leapt forward, just in time to get taken down by John's falling body. "Ouch," he groused as he tried to untangle his limbs from John's. The exam room door flew open and Carson burst in. "Rodney? Are you all right?" "I'm fine," Rodney said with a groan. "Well, no, I'm not, obviously, but I'm better than John." He wriggled an arm free and waved his hand at John. "Fix him, please." Carson hurried over and started doing medical-type things to John. Rodney dropped his head and arm to the floor and tried to ignore the fact that John was sprawled all over him, the bare flesh of his back and buttocks pressing down against Rodney's stomach and upper thighs. It didn't go very well. By the time Carson rolled John off of Rodney and onto the floor, Rodney had to flip over to hide an erection he wasn't ready to acknowledge to himself, much less explain to Carson. Fortunately, Carson had his hands full trying to get John back up on the table. Finally he stopped and huffed, "If you're quite rested, could you please give me a hand here?" Rodney flushed and stood up, one hand casually held in front of his groin. "Right, of course." Between the two of them, they managed to get John back onto the table. Carson immediately started fussing over John and Rodney crossed his arms and forced himself to remember John's scars, which took care of the awkward erection. Good thing too, since a moment later John's eyes fluttered and opened and he immediately looked at Rodney. "Rodney?" he said, sounding confused. "What are you doing here?" Rodney and Carson shared a quick glance and Rodney jerked his head toward the door. Carson shook his head firmly. Rodney narrowed his eyes and jerked his head again, at the same time waving his hands in a 'shoo' gesture. Carson frowned, but backed off. "I'll be just outside the door," he said pointedly. John, who had watched the silent exchange with a deepening frown, turned back to Rodney. "What the hell's going on?" Rodney hesitated. He may not be great with people, but he knew enough to guess that telling John that he'd had a psychotic episode and attacked Carson probably wasn't thing right thing to say. Then again, that was what had happened. He shrugged. "You had a psychotic episode and attacked Carson." John blanched. "I did what?" Okay, maybe that had been a little blunt. Rodney fumbled for something a little more neutral. "You threatened me with a stool." Judging from the look on John's face, that hadn't been the right thing to say. Getting a little desperate now, Rodney decided it was time to put the onus of the conversation on John. "What do you have against surgical saws, anyway?" John froze. "What?" "Your freakout started when Carson started to cut open your cast. I heard screaming--" Rodney abandoned the explanation as a large lump suddenly appeared in his throat. He swallowed a few times, but it didn't help. "I was screaming?" John asked quietly. Rodney nodded, his eyes burning. John swallowed hard and turned his head away. Rodney was just about to give up and call Carson back in when John said in a low, intense voice, "They used a saw on me." Rodney's words died in his throat and all he could do was stare as John continued, his voice growing clinical and distant even as Rodney grew more and more horrified. "Just the once. I don't think they realized how much damage it was going to do. I nearly died." A profound silence followed John's confession. Rodney opened and closed his mouth several times before he finally managed a weak, "So maybe you should be sedated when Carson takes off the cast?" John finally turned back to eye Rodney thoughtfully. "Yeah," he said finally. "That's probably a good idea." Rodney was halfway to the door when John added, "Would you...will you stay with me?" "Sure," Rodney said, and he'd meant to sound casual, but the word came out thin and high-pitched. He cleared his throat. "You're safe, you know. Carson's not capable of hurting anyone." Rodney was reaching out to the door when the reply came, so soft that he doubted he was meant to hear it: "You never know what you're capable of until you're pushed." ~~~ Once John was sedated, the cast removal process went smoothly enough. As promised Rodney stayed in the room, but every time Carson moved the saw through the cast Rodney had a brief, horrifying mental image of Carson slipping and the saw cutting into John's leg with blood and bone spraying everywhere. In the end, he retreated to the far corner of the room, where his view of the procedure was limited to Carson's back and John's face. Rodney focused on the latter, which was slack with chemical-induced sleep and looked peaceful. After the cast was removed and the leg was x-rayed, Rodney was set in charge of washing John while Carson developed the film. Not that he would ever admit it to anyone (especially Carson, who was a closet romantic), but Rodney had had a sponge bathing dream involving John. In it, John had not only not flinched away from Rodney's touch, but had actually encouraged it, moaning and gasping as Rodney ran the damp sponge over John's chest and legs (even in a dream, Rodney wasn't quite up to seeing John's genitals; he wasn't sure what would happen if he did, but he wasn't disregarding the possibility of a spontaneous heart attack). The reality fell far short of the dream: not only was John still unconscious, but after the hasty cleaning pre-cast and a week of no bathing thanks to the cast, the leg was disgusting. Rodney complained loudly to the unconscious John about the entire process, but at least he didn't have to worry about sporting another inappropriate erection when Carson came back into the room. For once, Carson had a smile as he shoved the film into the viewer and Rodney was so relieved that he completely forgot to complain about the sponge bath to the one person in the room who could hear him. "I take it you have good news," he said instead. "Aye," Carson said cheerfully. "John's leg is healing nicely. I think an air cast will be enough now, and it should be ready to come off for Christmas." Rodney frowned. "I thought he wasn't going to need a cast at all after today." Carson made a tsking noise. "You can't expect miracles, lad. I did warn you that John was going to take a little longer to heal due to his malnourishment." "But I've been making him drink milk. Lots of milk." Carson, that bastard, looked like he was fighting back a smile. "John's been living off of scraps for a long time now, Rodney. Calcium isn't the only nutrient he needs to catch up on." Rodney didn't choose to answer that, though he made a mental note to pick up some industrial-strength multivitamins at the store. His own one-a-days were clearly not getting the job done. The air cast didn't take long to put on, and soon Rodney and Carson were wrestling John's body back into the wheelchair. "I wish Laura were here," Rodney puffed as his grip on John's shoulders slipped for the third time. "You know," Carson gasped. "Most men think it unmanly to admit that a woman's stronger than they are." "That's just because they haven't met Laura yet," Rodney wheezed. Carson could only manage a grunt in agreement. With an inordinate amount of work, they managed to get John from the table onto the chair and from the chair into the car. They stopped to catch their breath and Carson said, "At least he's gaining some weight." Rodney glared at him. Carson glared right back. Since Rodney couldn't really argue that John didn't need the extra weight, he changed the subject. "What are we going to do about Christmas?" "You're always welcome to come here," Carson said. "John's welcome, too." "Only if you give me a shot of tranquilizer," Rodney said flatly. "The man's the worst backseat driver ever, and he doesn't even say anything." Carson gave him a strange look, but merely asked, "Okay, then, do you want me to come to your place?" Rodney sighed. "I guess you'd better." "It means you'll have to cook," Carson pointed out. "That's okay," Rodney said. "And clean up." Rodney scowled. Carson smiled fondly. "I'll help." He carefully put the wheelchair in the trunk and added, "You should probably head back before the sedative wears off." Rodney nodded in emphatic agreement. "Thanks, Carson." "My pleasure, Rodney. See you soon." Thankfully John didn't wake up until they were almost at Colorado Springs. Unfortunately, he was awake for less than a minute before he started talking. "What the fuck? Rodney, why the hell am I still in a cast?" Rodney wondered if he could talk Carson into giving him a whole box of sedatives for Christmas. "Because your leg's not finished healing." The added 'obviously, you moron' was heavily implied in his tone. A sulky silence filled the back seat. Rodney, who between dealing with a sullen patient with psychotic episodes and not getting nearly enough sleep in the last few days due to the psychotic patient's nightmares (and, possibly, because Rodney's couch wasn't meant to be slept on), snapped. "What does it matter, anyway? You're no more crippled than you were yesterday and Carson says the air cast is a lot more comfortable than the fiberglass. Not to mention that, oh yes, you're no longer living on the streets, but instead are sleeping on my extremely expensive prescription mattress while I flirt with permanent back damage every night on the couch. Stop whining; you don't have anything to complain about." This time the silence had the same stunned quality that radiated from Rodney's traumatized lab assistants. Rodney felt a little niggling of something that might possibly have been guilt, but he shoved it aside. John was a grown man, he should be able to handle the truth. As soon as Rodney opened John's door and placed the wheelchair next to it, John hauled himself onto the chair and wheeled himself to the apartment door. He didn't say a word as Rodney unlocked the apartment, but he pushed himself through ahead of Rodney and went straight for the bedroom. Rodney sighed -- why were people so sensitive? -- and headed to the kitchen to start dinner. Five minutes later John reappeared, wearing his new winter coat and carrying a small bundle of clothes on his lap. He rolled through the living room and wrenched open the front door. Rodney looked up from slicing a tomato and frowned. "Where are you going?" "I'm leaving," John answered and savagely pushed on the chair's wheels, forcing the wheelchair over the doorjamb and outside. Rodney lost a few precious seconds to shock before he recovered enough to run after John, and by the time he made it outside the idiot in the wheelchair was already halfway down the block. Rodney considered sprinting after him for about half a second before sanity reasserted itself. He ran inside instead and turned off the stove, grabbed the car keys, and locked the door on his way back out. In his car, it didn't take Rodney long to catch up with John. He rolled down the passenger side window and leaned down so he would be able to see John's face. "John?" John ignored him. Rodney sighed in annoyance and drove a few yards ahead of John before parking his car and jumping out. John hesitated a moment, then kept coming, his eyes pointed straight ahead. Rodney crossed his arms and put himself directly in John's line of sight which, coincidentally, put him directly in the path of John's wheelchair. For a moment he was afraid John was planning on running right over him, but at the last moment the wheelchair stopped. Stifling a relieved sigh, Rodney put his hands on his hips and glared. "What do you think you're doing?" "I told you, I'm leaving." John's voice, which had been so full of anger and bitterness in the apartment, was flat now, neutral. Dead. On top of that, John's eyes didn't rise above his current eye level and Rodney found that it was very disconcerting to talk to someone who was staring at his waist. Forcing his hands to stay on his hips rather than crossing protectively over his stomach, Rodney snapped, "Why?" "You don't want me around," John said. "You said so yourself." "I did not," Rodney said hotly. John lifted his eyes at that, but they were just as dead as his voice. "Yeah," he said. "You did." Rodney scowled. "Is this about what I said in the car? Because if it is..." He shifted his weight from foot to foot before blurting out, "I didn't mean it, okay? I'm-I'm sorry." John's eyes flickered at that and Rodney felt a brief burst of hope, but then the emotion died out again. "It doesn't matter," he said quietly. "This isn't working, and we both know it. I'll leave the wheelchair at Carson's and I'll pay you back for the clothes. Just give me some time." Rodney opened his mouth to point out just how little weight that sorry excuse for an argument had, but changed his mind. Clearly John was experiencing some sort of brain damage that made him incapable of reason. Instead, Rodney walked around the chair and, before John could start back down the sidewalk, grabbed the handles and pushed the chair toward the car. John immediately grabbed the wheels, but Rodney had better leverage and kept the chair moving. John twisted around to glare at Rodney. "So what, now you're just going to kidnap me?" His voice was full of anger and Rodney smiled in relief. Anger he could work with. "Yep," he said cheerfully. "I'll kill you in your sleep," John hissed. Rodney's smile turned into a grin. "No you won't, because I'm going to tie you to the bed." A passing pedestrian shot them a startled glance and immediately crossed the street. John and Rodney looked at each other and Rodney felt the corner of his mouth twitch up. A moment later, John started to chuckle. Soon they were laughing uncontrollably, John holding his stomach and Rodney leaning onto the chair's handles for support. "I think...we might...be...hysterical," Rodney gasped between chortles. John just nodded, tears streaming down his face. Finally they managed to get their hysteria under control, which was a good thing since Rodney's stomach was starting to hurt from the exertion. Wiping dampness from his eyes, Rodney said, "I really am sorry." For some reason it was easier to say now. "Me, too," John said, leaning back in his chair. Despite his obvious exhaustion, John's face was more open than Rodney had ever seen it. "I didn't mean it, you know. About killing you." "Yeah well, I did mean it about tying you to the bed if you keep trying to leave." "You just want me at your mercy," John said with a flirtatious smile. He froze, looking stunned at his own words. Rodney wasn't much better. "Uh--" "Oh, Jesus," John said. "I'm sorry. I know you're not-- I mean, I'm not--" They stared at each other. "Maybe we should go home," Rodney suggested. "Yes," John said, and he quickly wheeled away toward the apartment. "I meant in the car," Rodney called after him, but John kept on going and Rodney didn't try to stop him. Dinner was awkward and as soon as John was finished he announced that he was going to bed, promising to do the dishes in the morning. Rodney glanced at the time -- 7:28 p.m. -- but just nodded and wished John a good night. Half an hour later, Rodney had cleared the table, done the dishes, and was considering dusting as a last-ditch effort to kill time in a quiet manner when he was saved by a knock at the door. Tossing his rag to one side, he answered the door to find Zelenka on the doorstep, holding a file folder. "Oh, no," Rodney said when he saw the folder. "Tell me you didn't." "I did," Zelenka said triumphantly, holding out the folder. Rodney refused to take it. "But I told you not to!" "So you can save your favor for later, yes? No." He shoved the folder at Rodney's chest and let go. Rodney snatched it before it fell to the floor. "I have done this now and there are no favors left between us." Rodney didn't reply because he was too busy staring at the name on the folder tab: Maj. John Sheppard, USAF. USAF. Holy hell, John was in the Air Force. Or had been in the Air Force, at any rate. Somehow he'd gone from that to male prostitute, which was a leap even Rodney's formidable brain was finding difficult to comprehend. Zelenka continued to talk and Rodney picked up a few words here and there, like 'job' and 'raging egotist', but he couldn't seem to focus on anything but the folder in his hands, the one that contained all of the answers to all of the questions that Rodney had been asking himself for the last week: Why was John living on the streets? Where did he get his scars? Where were John's family and friends? And, most importantly, who was John Sheppard? All those answers, right in front of him in a Pandora's Box disguised as a common manila folder. Distantly, Rodney registered Zelenka making sounds of disgust and leaving. Moving on automatic, Rodney shut the door and carefully set the file down on the breakfast bar before taking three big steps back from temptation. His hands were shaking. John suddenly appeared at the mouth of the hallway. "Rodney? Who was at the door?" Rodney held up a trembling hand and pointed at the file folder. "I told him to stop. As soon as you asked me to, I swear I called him and told him to stop looking." John frowned and rolled over to the bar. As he saw the folder, he blanched and spun to look at Rodney accusingly. "I didn't read it," Rodney said quickly, even his voice shaking. "I saw the name, I couldn't help that, but I never opened the file." For a moment, Rodney didn't think John was going to believe him and his heart sank at the ice in John's features. Then John looked away and slumped down in his chair. "Maybe you should read it," he said, dully. "Are you sure?" Rodney asked, already halfway to the bar and reaching for the file. "I mean, I won't if you aren't sure." "I--" Rodney grabbed the file and opened it, his eyes taking in information before the folder was completely open. John sighed. "Yeah," he said. "I guess I'm sure." Rodney just nodded and kept on reading. Fifteen minutes later, he closed the file with a disgruntled look. "This is useless." John frowned. "What? Give it to me." Rodney passed the file over, and John flipped through it quickly. "This is my military file," he said tightly. "Yes," Rodney said slowly, as if to an idiot. "Which tells me that you were a pilot and that you routinely pissed off your superiors. Shockingly enough, that last bit isn't a surprise to me." He snatched back the file and ripped it open to a random page in the middle. "Look at this," he said, pointing at the thick black bars that covered large portions of the text. "It's been expurgated! And don't think I didn't notice that all of your personal information is missing." He slapped the file shut. "Favor my ass," he muttered under his breath. "That overrated, sycophantic Czech bastard." John wheeled backwards. "I think I'm going to bed," he said cautiously. "Fine," Rodney bit out, opening the file and starting to read through it again. There had to be something useful if he only dug deep enough. An hour later, his frown deepened and he took the file back into the office to do a little research on what the US military had been up to for the last decade or so. Zelenka often mocked Rodney's lack of knowledge in this area, since technically Rodney did work for the Air Force, but Rodney had always maintained that modern news outlets were aimed at the average amateur psychopath who was looking for a little murder and mayhem to liven up his dreary daily existence. Rodney's life was more than lively enough, thank you very much. Two and a half hours after that, Rodney burst into John's room. "You were a POW in Afghanistan?" As usual, John went from asleep to fully awake in an instant; presumably he had learned that in the military. At least this time he hadn't woken up swinging, though early morning violence was probably a result of the military, too. And the scars...Rodney shuddered. "Rodney?" John said with a frown, his eyes scanning the room. For a threat, Rodney realized. John was looking for a threat and he was covered in scars and he was clearly suffering from post traumatic stress disorder. Even Rodney, who openly admitted he wasn't good with people, knew that he should have been able to pick up on all of this sooner. Rodney's frown deepened as he eyed John's chest, the scars currently covered with a tee shirt. "Is that where you got your scars?" Rodney asked quietly. John froze. After a few minutes he was still frozen, staring silently at the opposite wall, and Rodney realized he wasn't getting an answer, at least not tonight. "So, uh, you must be tired. I'll...go," he said lamely, unable to think of a more graceful exit line but not wanting to leave without doing something to break the tense silence. He was almost at the door when he heard John whisper: "Thanks, Rodney." Rodney sighed and headed for his dreaded couch. Right now he missed the clean clarity of astrophysics so much it hurt. ~~~ The next four days were awful. John was back to being sullen and silent and in a last-ditch effort to keep John from running away again Rodney found himself in the highly unusual position of trying to be polite and accommodating. He wasn't very good at it. Every morning Rodney woke up with an aching back and the fear that John had snuck out sometime during the night. After a quick check to make sure that John was still in the bedroom (where he was usually sitting in his chair, staring out the window at the mountains in the distance), Rodney made a big breakfast. John, who had spent the entire previous week wolfing down anything put before him, picked at his food. They still went out together after breakfast, but the trips were awkward, painful ventures, and John always went straight back into his room on their return. If Rodney was annoying enough, John would reemerge for dinner, but he always disappeared again right after. Rodney spent the evenings staring at mindless entertainment on the television or half-heartedly searching the internet for work. The panic began on Christmas Eve, when Rodney realized that he still hadn't gotten presents and now it was too late to order them online. Which meant braving the malls. Rodney shuddered. Worse, it meant either taking John with him to the malls or leaving him home. Alone. Unsupervised. With nothing to keep him from leaving. Rodney shuddered again and seriously debated the necessity of Christmas presents this year. Unfortunately, while Carson might not care whether or not he got a Christmas present, Laura would kick Rodney's ass if he didn't provide something under the metaphorical tree. Besides, Rodney might be able to get on John's good side again if he found a really good present. Which meant a trip to the mall. Rodney sighed and headed for the bedroom. As usual, John was staring out the back window. Rodney wondered what was so fascinating about the view; it wasn't like the mountains moved on a daily basis. "I'm going shopping," he announced abruptly. John turned the chair around slowly, as if he were reluctant to face Rodney. "Are we out of groceries?" "Christmas shopping," Rodney corrected before it occurred to him that the emotional value of his present for John would increase dramatically if John didn't see it coming. Hastily he added, "For Carson. I got him socks last year, but he's helped out a lot with you, so I thought I'd find something better. You wouldn't have any ideas would you? I mean, he likes...hm. Well, I know he likes socks, but I don't think that's quite enough. Do you--" "Rodney, you're babbling," John cut in. "Right," Rodney said. "Well. Do you want to come along? The mall will be packed with people and crying babies and obnoxious brats who think that the holiday season is an excuse to run rampant, when really it's just an overcommercialization of a pagan--" "Are you all right?" John interrupted with a frown. "Yes," Rodney said weakly. "Why?" "Your verbal diarrhea isn't usually this bad." He opened his mouth as if he were going to add something else, then his jaw wavered as he visibly changed his mind. "Will you be out long?" "God, I hope not," Rodney said. "Okay," John said. "Have fun." Rodney hesitated. "Will you be here when I get back?" he asked uncertainly. "Why wouldn't I be?" John asked innocently. Rodney scowled. "I should tie you to the bed." "I'd like to see you try," John answered, sounding amused. Rodney had to admit that John had a point there, so he switched tactics. "Promise me you'll be here when I get back." "Rodney," John said, drawing out the name so that it sounded like a warning. "Please?" Rodney asked. He hated the plaintive whine, but couldn't help his need for some reassurance that he wouldn't come home to an empty apartment. John stared at him for several seconds. Rodney held his breath. "Fine," John said sharply. "I promise. Satisfied?" "Yes," Rodney said, letting out his pent-up air in a gush. "Thank you." He started to leave, but barely made it to the bedroom door before being struck by another wave of uncertainty. "You swear, right?" Rodney asked over his shoulder. "You swear you won't leave?" John rolled his eyes. "Get the hell out of here, McKay, before I change my mind." Rodney wavered, but in the end he nodded jerkily and left. Shopping in a mall on was high on Rodney's list of personal hells, just above being stuck in a small room with Laura and just below being stuck in a small room with Kavanagh. Shopping at a mall on Christmas Eve was awful enough even to supplant Kavanagh. It started with the parking: there wasn't any. After driving around the mall several times, Rodney ended up finding a spot at the outer edge of the parking lot behind Sears, approximately half a mile from the nearest public entrance. By the time he made it to the mall's interior he was already tired and out of patience, and the deafening noise of the crowds (intermingled with cheesy Christmas carols blaring from the mall's intercom system) was nearly enough to drive him back to the car. Only the prospect of John's face lighting up as he opened the perfect gift was enough to push Rodney forward into the press of people. An hour later, Rodney had downgraded his expectations for John's gift from 'perfect' to 'perfectly adequate' and he was on the verge of giving up on Carson's gift entirely. Worse, a large man in a Santa suit was marching down the hallway, leading a whole gaggle of oversugared hooligans. Past experience dictated that the moment one of the kids spotted Rodney he would be mobbed, so he ducked into the nearest store and hid behind some shelving until the rampaging horde moved past. Once he was sure he was safe Rodney regained enough presence of mind to look around his hiding place. The shelves were full of animal food and garishly colored toys hung from a hook inches from Rodney's head. The entire room smelled of cedar chips and animal waste. Clearly he was in a pet shop and he needed to get away as soon as possible before he ran into something he was allergic to, like a bird, or a puppy. He was turning to go when a splash of white caught his eye. In a small cage on the other side of the store, two tiny white mice were chasing and frolicking and generally behaving in a juvenile manner. Rodney couldn't help but smile and if the smile was tinged with evil, well, no one was there to see it. Half an hour later, Rodney marched into a Waldenbooks for one last-ditch attempt to find a gift for John. Presumably John kept staring out of his window because he didn't have anything better for entertainment. With that in mind, Rodney grabbed the largest book in the store. Then, just in case War and Peace was as boring as it sounded, he dug through the non-fiction section for a copy of A Short History of Nearly Everything by Bill Bryson. At the last second he snagged a second copy for Carson. Triumphant, if exhausted, Rodney carried his purchases to his car. He was halfway there when he realized that he'd forgotten wrapping paper. Oh well. Gift wrapping was a stupid tradition anyway; think of all of the trees that were chopped down just so people could have an extra second of suspense before getting their greedy hands on their spoils. The presents could stay in the trunk until Rodney was ready to give them out. Well, not Carson's present, of course. Hopefully John didn't have any major issues with mice. Rodney was feeling pretty good about his shopping venture as he pulled into his apartment's parking lot, and he felt even better as he saw John waving at him from the open front door. Rodney waved back cheerfully as he pulled to a stop in his usual spot, then frowned as John dropped his head down and started shaking it. "What? What is it?" Rodney asked as he climbed out of the car. John lifted his head and sighed. "Didn't you see me waving you back? There's a bunch of nails all over your parking spot." "What?" Rodney yelped, crouching down to look underneath his car. Sure enough, an assortment of rusty nails were scattered across the asphalt. "What the hell? Where did those come from?" "A little old lady put them there." Rodney's head jerked up. "What?" he said again, this time nearly shouting. "A little old lady put them there," John repeated patiently. "She was about yea tall," he added, holding his hand level with his head (which was only about four feet above the ground when he was sitting in the chair), "and she came out right after you left and emptied a bucket of nails over your parking place." Rodney frowned. "Was she wearing a flowery bag-like dress and pink curlers in her hair?" John looked surprised. "Yeah." "Oh that meddling bitch," Rodney swore, stomping over to pound on Mrs. Henderson's door. "Open up, you vicious harpy!" he shouted. The door swung open with surprising force considering the size and age of the woman on the other side. "Keep down the racket, you fucking fairy," Mrs. Henderson said in her deceptively sweet voice. Rodney ignored the inaccurate insult; she'd been accusing him of being gay ever since that one night Carson had slept on the couch and, anyway, Rodney was starting to suspect that he was a little higher on the Kinsey scale than the average male. The nails on the other hand... "Have you been deliberately sabotaging my car with buckets of rusty nails?" "Yep," she said proudly. "Your kind aren't wanted here." "Oh for -- I'll have you know that future Nobel Prize-winning geniuses are welcome everywhere," Rodney snapped. "And you owe me $456.32 in car repairs." Mrs. Henderson crossed her arms. "I'll never pay." "I'll sue," Rodney shot back. She leaned forward and stared him in the eye. "I'll see you in court." She leaned back and slammed the door shut, the wood stopping a mere inch from Rodney's nose. "Wow," John commented as Rodney stormed back to his apartment. "She's just as mean as you are." "I'm not mean," Rodney said, stung. "I'm honest." "Uh-huh," John said doubtfully. "Honesty is highly underrated," Rodney muttered as he opened the door. At the last moment he remembered the mice, so he went back to the car. "What do you think?" he asked proudly as he carried the mice inside. "They're for Carson." John shook his head. "No, you're not mean at all." During dinner that night, John asked casually, "So why didn't you just tell her you aren't gay?" Rodney swallowed convulsively, trying to force his mouthful of mashed potatoes past a suddenly dry throat. John clarified, "Your next door neighbor, I mean." "I--I don't know," Rodney lied. "Hm," John said. Rodney held himself stiff for several minutes, but John didn't bring up the topic again. After dinner, John suggested a game of chess. Rodney accepted with more enthusiasm than was probably dignified, but this was the first sign that John might be willing to forgive him and Rodney wasn't about to chance a miscommunication. He set up the board while John did the dishes -- another good sign -- and by the time he had eked out his third win, Rodney was starting to feel like everything might turn out well. John went to bed early that night, but nowhere near as early as he had for the last week. Rodney settled into the awful, awful couch and fell asleep with a smile. ~~~ Christmas morning dawned cold and cloudy and the air had that particular stillness that meant snow in the immediate future. The forecast hadn't called for anything serious, but meteorology ranked way behind medicine and psychology as a particularly flagrant form of voodoo and Rodney stared outside for several minutes, debating whether to call Carson and reschedule Christmas for the next day. Then he thought about having to clean mouse droppings out of a tiny cage and decided that Carson wouldn't have bought a four wheel drive vehicle if he hadn't meant to use it. For the first time in a week, John came out of his room without any nagging on Rodney's part. "Merry Christmas," he said as he settled down at the breakfast bar. Rodney started so hard that he nearly dropped his whisk. "That looks good," John added, nodding at the hollandaise sauce that Rodney was stirring with one hand while flipping Canadian bacon with the other. He sounded pleased, probably because Rodney hadn't made eggs benedict for over a week. A three pan meal was too much effort to put out for someone who was continually sulking in his room, especially now that Rodney was also stuck doing the dishes. "It's the holidays," Rodney said, trying for casual. "You'll be helping with dinner, by the way." "Okay," John said easily enough. "What time is Dr. Beckett coming over?" Rodney pulled all of the saucepans and skillets off of the stove and started compiling the meal. "Around three. The turkey's already in the oven, but we still need to make the stuffing, mashed potatoes, green bean casserole, creamed corn, cranberry sauce, fruit salad, rolls, and, of course, the gravy." He looked up to pass over John's plate and found John staring back at him as if he'd grown another head. "What?" "How many people are coming to dinner?" John asked warily, though he dug into his food with a level of enthusiasm that made Rodney reconsider the merits of the three pan meal as a cure for infantile, week-long sulking fits. "Just you, me, and Carson." Rodney started in on his own eggs. "Why?" "That's a lot of food for three people." "You think so?" Rodney frowned. "But the turkey's only twenty pounds." John choked. "Only twenty pounds?" Rodney frown turned into a scowl and took an especially large bite of his eggs. "Don't you think that's enough?" he asked between chews. John shook his head and smiled. "You know, I love turkey sandwiches," he said. Rodney made a mental note to get lunchmeat next time he went shopping. After breakfast, John did the dishes while Rodney went prospecting for Christmas decorations. After twenty sweaty, dusty minutes, Rodney crowed with triumph as he dug out two crudely painted glass balls, a gift from Jeannie's kids back when he and Jeannie were still talking. Amazing that they had survived the move to Siberia and back, but then he always had been a bit of a packrat. The ornaments went on the bonsai tree that Miko had given Rodney for his birthday and which could not be killed, no matter how much Rodney refused to water it. The mice went underneath the coffee table, but they were too obvious so Rodney dug out his 'getting lucky' red silk sheets (still shrink wrapped in plastic from when he'd first bought them) and used one as a table cloth. The end result was rather festive. By the time dinner was ready there was six inches of snow on the ground. Since the incompetent boobs at Channel Nine had called for no more than an inch of accumulation total, Rodney figured there would be at least a foot by nightfall. John was staring out the window, as usual, but he turned around to ask, "Do you think Dr. Beckett's all right?" Rodney tried not to be offended by the fact that John was showing more concern for a man he had seen exactly twice than he ever had for the man who was putting him up for months on end for free. "He'll be fine," Rodney answered irritably. "That monstrosity he drives is supposedly capable of crossing rivers and scaling mountains. I doubt it can do either, but it should be able to handle less than a hundred miles of well-plowed asphalt." "Hm," John said, continuing to stare out the window. An hour later the snow was still coming down and Carson was officially late. Rodney had started pacing. John was still staring out the window. Out of nowhere, John suddenly turned around and said, "Thank you." Rodney stopped mid-step. "For what?" "For taking me in," John said quietly. He chewed his lip for a second before adding quickly, "I hate being outside in weather like this. So, thank you." He spun back around to face the window again, but Rodney could have sworn he saw a blush on John's face. Feeling a little lighter, despite the continued non-arrival of Carson, Rodney answered, "You're welcome." Then he went back to pacing. Carson arrived half an hour later, and Rodney was out the front door and shouting before the SUV was fully stopped. "You're late!" "What did you expect, Rodney?" Carson answered, climbing out of the SUV with an armful of presents neatly wrapped in bright, cheerful paper. "They're calling for record levels of snow." "Not on Channel Nine, they aren't," Rodney muttered. He eyed the presents, none of which appeared to be lawn furniture. "Are all of those for me?" he asked hopefully. Carson rolled his eyes. "Don't be greedy. Most of these are for John." "Oh," Rodney said, surprised to find that he really wasn't all that let down. No doubt that was because Carson's presents were historically awful. Once they were all inside and Carson's presents were placed in the empty spot under the tree (Rodney's gifts were still in the trunk of his car), Rodney announced, "The turkey's ready." Carson smiled. "I'll get my scalpel." John inched closer as Carson approached the bird and asked, "Are you really going to carve the turkey with that tiny knife?" "Aye," Carson said, making the first incision and slicing off a thin, perfectly even strip of breast. "It takes longer, but I can get every scrap of meat off of the bird, which is what Rodney really cares about." "Really?" John asked, inching even closer and holding out his hand. "Can I try?" Feeling a twinge in his chest -- maybe he was having a heart attack; it'd been almost four months since his last physical -- Rodney grabbed a handful of plastic grocery bags and his snow brush and headed outside. Ten miserable minutes later he was back with three crudely wrapped presents and a runny nose. Carson and John were laughing over the stripped turkey carcass. They hadn't even noticed Rodney was missing. Sniffing viciously, Rodney threw his presents next to Carson's and went to the bathroom to blow his nose. If his eyes were a little red when he came back out, well, it had been really cold out there. By the time he made it back to the kitchen, the breakfast bar was nearly covered with bowls of food and John was rolling around trying to find empty spots to lay down plates and silverware. "Rodney," Carson called, sounding happy and very pleased with himself. He gestured toward the bird. "What do you think?" Rodney scowled, but came over to look. The turkey was nothing but bones and gristle; every scrap of edible meat had been cut away. "Not bad," he said grudgingly. Carson and John exchanged a look and burst out laughing. Rodney's scowl deepened and if he hadn't spent most of the last two days making the meal before him, he might have stormed out. Instead, he said snottily, "I see you two have kissed and made up over that whole buzz saw incident." John's laughter cut off abruptly and his face went white as a sheet. "Excuse me," he said to Carson and then he rolled out of the room without so much as a glance at Rodney. Rodney was trying to fight back a twinge of guilt when Carson said in a disappointed voice, "That was cruel, Rodney, even for you." "It was supposed to be a joke," Rodney said, cringing at how lame that sounded. "No it wasn't," Carson said bluntly. "No," Rodney admitted. "It wasn't." Carson crossed his arms. "You go in there and apologize and I don't want to see you again until you are ready to pretend to be a decent human being." Rodney flinched under the harsh words, but he couldn't deny that he probably deserved them. Head hanging low, he slunk back in the direction of the bedroom. He found John at the dresser, angrily pulling clothes out of the drawer that Rodney had cleared out for him when John had first moved in. Rodney's back abruptly straightened. "So that's it? You're leaving? Is that your answer to everything?" John dashed his hand across his eyes, which were glittering strangely, then turned to face Rodney. "I've--" he started harshly, then stopped and closed his eyes, swallowing convulsively. When he looked at Rodney again, his eyes were dry and when he spoke his voice was almost normal. "I've done...things...to survive. In Afghanistan and -- and on the streets. Things that would turn your stomach." He closed his eyes again and took a deep breath and added in a rush, "No one has ever had the power to hurt me like you do." Rodney's gut twisted. At that moment he would have given anything, anything at all, to have not said all of those awful, hurtful things to John. But the words had been said, and it was too late to take them back. All Rodney could do now was say, in a thick, pained voice, "I'm sorry." "Yeah," John said hoarsely, eyes still closed, arms wrapped around himself as if to ward off a chill. "I know you are." They stayed there, silent, until a knock came at the door, followed by Carson's voice. "Everything all right?" Rodney started at the sudden noise and John's eyes flew open. They stared at each other for a moment before Rodney called, "Everything's fine, Carson." He raised his eyebrows at John, silently asking if that was the truth. John nodded hesitantly. "Then are you coming to supper soon?" Carson asked. "The food is getting cold." John cleared his throat. "We'll be right out." More staring. Rodney broke first. "I'll stop saying things that hurt." John raised his own eyebrows in question; Rodney grimaced. "Well, I'll try, anyway." "And I'll try not to leave," John said wryly. "You could always yell back," Rodney suggested. John just looked doubtful. Dinner started out both quiet and awkward, but as was always true in Rodney's experience, food healed all wounds and by the time they sat down to slivers of pie (even Rodney could only manage a couple of bites at that point), Rodney and John were almost able to make eye contact with each other. After dinner, Rodney announced that it was time to open presents and, after a glare from Carson, graciously said that John could open his first. John looked stunned as Carson piled two brightly wrapped boxes and an envelope on his lap. "I didn't get you anything," he said, and Rodney watched in fascination as first John's ears, then his cheeks turned red with obvious embarrassment. "You're here, lad," Carson said, gently. "That's your present to us." John flushed again, apparently with pleasure because this time his ears stayed flesh-colored. Rodney stared down at his own presents for John, cheaply wrapped in plastic that didn't do a thing to disguise the fact that they were books. These wouldn't make John flush with pleasure, even if Rodney had had any idea of what John liked to read. Maybe John didn't like to read at all. Maybe he was more of a movie or music fan. Maybe he was into fishing or sports. Maybe he was just happy to have someone say something nice to him for a change. Rodney sighed. Sometimes he thought that he would give up a few of his precious IQ points to have Carson's gift for always saying the right thing at the right time. John tore into his first present to reveal a medium-sized, flat white box that looked suspiciously like the box Rodney had used to wrap Carson's socks last year. John pushed aside the wrapping paper and pulled out a long scarf and a pair of gloves. Both looked like they were made with real wool, but they were also a muted shade of brown and looked just a little ragged. Warm, but not like something that would be worth stealing off of a homeless man. Obviously Carson had put a lot of time and thought into coming up with a gift that would be both useful and welcome to John. Rodney looked at the books in his hands and wondered if it was too late to hide them and pretend that he hadn't gotten John anything. The second box was larger and held a small knapsack that looked like it was cloth but turned out to be waterproofed on the inside. The knapsack was just as ragged looking as the scarf and gloves, and it was stuffed with toiletries. John looked near tears as he carefully touched the travel-sized bottles of shampoo and soap. "Thank you," he said hoarsely. "This is--it's the best gift anyone's ever given me. Carson smiled broadly. "You're welcome, lad." Rodney casually draped his arms over the books, hiding them from view. Making a visible effort to regain control of his emotions, John reached for the envelope. Rodney had been sure that it contained money, so he was surprised when John pulled out a small sheaf of white paper instead. Curious, Rodney leaned closer even as John said, "Carson, I don't know what to say..." The papers were gift certificates, all small denominations, all to places where a homeless man could walk in for a meal and not be turned away because of his appearance. Rodney felt about an inch tall. "Oh, I almost forgot," Carson said in the most fake attempt at sudden recollection Rodney had ever seen. "I have one last thing. It's in the car." "No," John protested. "This is more than enough, more than I ever imagined. You really don't need--" "Shush," Carson commanded. "I'll be right back." Rodney used Carson's departure to stuff his books under the chair and rearrange his feet to make sure they were hidden. Carson came back in covered in snow and carrying a pair of crutches. John's eyes widened comically. "Really?" he breathed. Carson grinned and nodded. Rodney hated him. It only took a couple of seconds for the air cast to come off and soon John was moving around the apartment as if he had been born on crutches. After swinging through the kitchen and living room (and damn near breaking the television along the way), John dropped one of his crutches and pulled Carson into an enormous bear hug. "Thanks, doc," he murmured, his voice raw with emotion. Rodney stared, aghast. Carson just laughed and patted John's back. "You're doing great, John. We'll have that other cast off of you in no time." After a moment, the two broke apart and shuffled through the discarded wrapping paper and back to their chairs. Carson turned to Rodney and a second later John did as well. Rodney stared back and tried to look like he didn't have a small pile of books hidden under his chair. Carson's eyes narrowed. Rodney crossed his arms. "What?" he asked defensively. "What are those bags under your chair?" Carson asked. "Nothing," Rodney said casually. "So they're not presents for John?" "No!" Rodney snapped. "I pay for his food and clothes. How many more presents does he need?" "I don't need any presents," Jo