Reader's DVD commentary for
Intersections
by kaneko



So this is one of my favorite SGA stories. The one I never get tired of rereading. I'm not sure if I can really quantify why, as it has to do with when I first read it (really early on in my huge fic-reading binge), and vague things about the structure and repetition and the use of equations within the text...or, well, I guess I just sort of quantified it. I read it before I'd seen the show, and after I'd finally managed to download Rising, I read it again. And now, two and a half seasons in, I feel like the characterizations have wavered a little, but they still aren't that far out of line. Anyway. I saved it 'til last purposefully. Except now I'm busy like crazy, and have a head cold that is making me dizzier and ditzier by the second, and the deadline is looming and I'm sad, because I'm not sure I'll manage to get the things I want to say across. But that's why they invented French-Vietnamese au laits, right? (aux laits?) Yeah.

On structure: I love the bracketing in the story, the way the beginning and the end echo each other. And I love that somehow you get setting and characterization and backstory in the first statement you get about each of them.
 Rodney's Antarctica is a lot like Siberia in that it's full of scientists who work 16-hour days and bathe once a week (twice when they're feeling social), and who would slit your throat for a fresh banana. I love that it's a banana. Come to think of it, bananas featured early on in The Secret Lives of Scientists. It's a sensible fruit to slit throats for, very logical and scientific - after all, no one likes a charley horse. Also, you can't go for a walk without a survival kit, but that's fine - Rodney's never really been an outdoorsy person.

John's Antarctica is miles and miles of emptiness flitting beneath him and no one sitting beside him. It's nothing like Afghanistan at all. The other thing about this - Rodney's introduction is wordy and frenetic, crammed with clauses. Irritable. John's introduction is comparatively stripped down, subdued. Depressed. I keep looking at this and thinking, ok - the first section really is the starting point, and the last section really is the destination, and everything in the middle is the path. It's so clear. I've mentioned I'm running a fever, right? In case none of this makes sense?



So most of the sections have a theme, and most of them have a chunk of text for one character, then a chunk for the other. There are, reasonably, a couple of sections that deal with the black mark. It's huge for John's life and career and is one of the few things canon offers for his background, even if the details are kept pretty hazy. I like this drawing of how it happened, the idea that he was a golden boy before it, that he fell so far. Of course, I also like the inevitable descent that is described in Here Is No Water. I think perhaps this is part of what's so fascinating about John Sheppard as a character. He's an odd guy, though it doesn't really seem like he's intended that way, and on the show he's just an outline around a set of shadows, with the occasional detail shining out for a moment. But in the fanfic - he's a kaleidoscope.
At the academy, everyone said it was a one-mistake Air Force. Fifteen percent of freshmen washed out. Someone knew someone who was expelled for forgetting to salute. Someone-else's brother got kicked out for ejecting from his F-15, mid nosedive. You crash your 55-million-dollar fighter jet, you better die in your 55-million-dollar fighter jet, the second-years told the new recruits. There was only one way to make it: follow every order to the letter, every time.

That was a load of crap, John discovered. He disobeyed plenty of implied orders and at least two direct ones, and still found himself on the fast track. At 23, he was a first lieutenant; at 25, a captain. At 32, he was a major and so cocky, his nickname was Ace.

The black mark went down like this:

His radio said, Okay, boys and girls, we'll have a visual in approximately 30 seconds. This is what I want: a nice, clean smash and grab. Two and Three, you'll stay in the air and watch our six. This is what I do not want: knife fights, fancy footwork, and especially any unnecessary he-fucking-roics. If I say abort, you will abort. Is that clear, Chopper Two?

John's radio said, Yes, sir!

Chopper Three?

"Yes, sir," John said.

Thirty seconds later, they were out of the dust storm, and someone had fucked up really bad; there were two tanks right under them - guns already aiming.

John's radio said, Abort! Abort now!

His radio said, We're down, we're down. Oh God, Jamison's- I think he's dead.

His radio said, Abort now. That is a direct order.

"I've got you," John said.

Lucas tapped his shoulder. "Sir, we've been ordered to abort."

"Yeah," John said. "I've got you," he told his radio.

He didn't. They were already dead when he landed. Those two lines, this one and the one above, kill me dead, every time.



So enough about John. You'd never know it by the way that I think about John Sheppard semi-professionally (seriously, I really have written an insane amount of unposted meta about the guy (which, if there's any justice in the world, will remain unposted)), but I totally watch the show for Rodney McKay. Perhaps it's my great and indulgent affection for him that keeps me from problematizing him. Okay, back on track. Rodney once got a black mark for doing Evan Johnson's math homework in Grade Five. It wasn't that Rodney liked him particularly; he just couldn't stand to see a wrong answer when he knew the right one. So Rodney's black mark, here? Is pretty minor, though it does affect his life. I think that does a couple of things very effectively. First, he's very very different than John. John's black mark is in his thirties. Rodney is how old in fifth grade? I (okay, this is potentially embarrassing) once drew the timeline out for Rodney's academic career with the associated ages according to this story (I might have been waiting for a bus. Or perhaps I was in a boring meeting.) I haven't got anything to hang it on yet, without looking ahead (I've since lost the scrap of paper with the timeline. I think it went through the laundry), but I suspect he's seven years old in fifth grade. Rodney has never been the golden boy, not in a way that was recognized by authority figures. He's a handful, and he always has been. So the minor black mark here? Shows that the later black mark, the one that ends up in Siberia, is minor as well, at least from Rodney's POV. Secondly, it tells you something about Rodney's values. It makes him crazy to see things that are wrong, it makes him crazy to not know things, and it makes him crazy to let people not know that he knows things. And Rodney is going to take the quickest path. He isn't helping Evan - he's just doing the homework, so that it is done and done right. He hasn't got the patience to go through instruction, though if there were some other payoff, he might.

He was caught in the act because he did it in art class when he was supposed to be drawing an English peony. What a pain in the ass thing to try to draw. It's one of those lessons in seeing shapes and converting them to two dimensions, right? Last time I had to do one of those, it was some wrinkly folded-up looking succulent potted plant.

"That was a little foolish of you, wasn't it," Miss Allard said. She made him write, 'I will not conspire with cheaters' 300 times in his notebook.

Rodney managed 50 lines before he had to stop. He wanted to cry from boredom. And here's another thing about Rodney, unchanged. He understands when he makes mistakes, but he doesn't see the point of the punishment. It's not constructive. The punishment was out of proportion to the crime. He segued into a short essay about Evan's slow progress in the gifted math class. The school could be liable if Evan couldn't keep up, he argued. I love that he turns the punishment into an argument. You know Miss Allard would never have listened to him if he'd explained all this aloud. I mean, who would?

And it wasn't that Evan was stupid - no one was stupid at Rodney's school - but everyone had a maximal capacity. It was possible that Evan was being accelerated faster than he could learn. Was there an element of pushiness here, Rodney wondered. An over-valuing of acceleration? He wasn't accusing anyone of anything, but in today's educational system, schools had to compete against other schools for funding. Perhaps in striving to create an impressive statistical portrait, this school was overlooking individual needs. It's kind of a scary argument, too. Slyly threatening.

The next day, his mom was called in to the principal's office. Rodney had to wait outside in the hallway. Mrs Macklin, the secretary, gave him a chair (one of the hard, yellow ones they were supposed to be phasing out), a book to read (Dostoevsky's Crime and Punishment hahaha I want to be a principal, suddenly, just so I can hand bad kids a copy of that. Except, um, what if they actually read it? I mean, it hasn't got the most black and white message. I mean, they should all read it, it's a book I like a lot (though I'll admit I liked it much more as an angsty teen), but maybe there's some book out there that would work better. Beyond the title, I mean. ), and a false smile. "Well, hello again," she said as she shut the door in his face. The 'again' emphasizes what a difficult to manage kid Rodney is.

Rodney sat in the uncomfortable chair and drummed his shoes on the carpet. He thought about Einstein's theory of special relativity. If he were moving fast enough, this meeting would be seem to be over sooner.

He thought:

T1  
=    T0   √ (1 -   (  v2
c2		  ))
 


Therefore:

Length of time according to Rodney  
=    Length of boring meeting     √ (1 -   (  Rodney's speed2
c2		  ))
 
I've mentioned already how much I love the intertextual equations. Partly because they look cool. Partly because they break up the text. And partly because they are like a little window into the characters' heads. I don't think in equations, but I find it credible that both John and Rodney do, at times. It's a picture of a thought process, and it's math and physics but it's also full of emotional shading, boredom and irritation.

His mom came back while he was still working out how fast he'd have to be moving to make the meeting last 30 seconds. Super quick meeting, then.

"They want to move you up another grade," she said. "Miss Allard says that maybe you've got too much free time. What do you think?"

"Oh thank God," Rodney said. This exchange is even better when I picture Rodney at age seven. He's always been a grown-up of sorts, which is sort of sad when you get further into the story, but I think it can ring true for the character we see in the show as well.

A few weeks later, someone told him that Evan had been moved back into ordinary math. Rodney wasn't surprised. He was starting to realise that he wasn't just smarter than the other kids at school; he was smarter than most of the adults too. This is arrogant, yes. But also kind of a frightening and isolating thing to think. A huge lonely lack of peers.



Rodney's survival kit is:

1 mountain tent (plus 10 tent stakes, 6 ice screws, 2 snow flukes, and a hammer)
1 sleeping bag
1 insulated mattress
1 bivy bag
1 collapsible snow shovel
1 snow saw
1 50-foot-long parachute cord
1 first aid kit
1 signal mirror
2 pairs of wool socks
2 pairs of wool mittens
35 matches
3 cooking pots
1 cook stove (with repair kit)
17 mechanical pencils
1 archival-quality notepad
5 ziplock bags of coffee
1 VHF radio
1 plastic mug
1 tube sunscreen
1 quarter of a chocolate bar
6 and a half food bars
2 food bar wrappers
14 dehydrated meals
1 very sharp pocket-knife
1 copy of Alive: The Story of the Andes Survivors by Piers Paul Read
I love the way that there's a mad amount of story packed into this list (and John's list as well). There's the food supplies, with evidence of pillage, in what you know wasn't a survival situation at all, and oversupply of the things Rodney thinks are the most important that really aren't going to help him in an emergency, like the coffee, pots, and pencils, and a bunch of stuff that I'm sure is theoretically very useful but I can't actually see Rodney using. Also, that looks like a really damned heavy kit. Anyway. It's a really interesting way to add to the characterization of Rodney that the author is building. And it reminds me of a story I read much later, what we lost in the fire, which is also in list form, and manages to drag me through the gamut of emotion despite that structure.



John's survival kit is:

1 portable CD player
1 copy of Blood Sweat and Tears by Johnny Cash
1 M9 Beretta
Again, where Rodney is wordy and elaborate, John is brutally, bleakly laconic.



A month into Grade Six, Rodney had found three people worth talking to: Mr Washington, the science teacher; Miss Gordon, the math teacher; and Jinny Chen.

He met Jinny on one of those too-hot days that turned ordinary kids into bullies, and bullies into crazed killers. In the sanctuary of the library, Rodney curled up in the alcove between the French books and the journals. I love a lot of original characters in fanfic, and Jinny is near the top of the heap. (When I say 'a lot', I do not mean most, or a high proportion. Just to be clear. I mean I could make a list, and the number of characters on that list is more than I expected when I first put pen to paper.)

Mel Perkins had gotten to the new Scientific American first, as usual (the top corners of the physics pages were all folded down), but Leigh Davies hadn't yet (there weren't any sticky fingerprints, and the letters page was still there).

Jinny caught him quietly tearing out an article about making artificial muscles from pressurised rubber. Rodney was planning to build a giant, humanoid robot for the August science fair. He'd already designed the lasers that were going to shoot out of its eyes. It was a definite winner. He was going to the Canada Wide Science Fair again for sure. Dear itty bitty Rodney: I love you. OMG giant robot!

"Hey!" Jinny said. She ripped the journal out of his hands.

Rodney jumped up guiltily. His first impressions were: oh shit, busted! tall, Chinese, girl, tall, very tall.

"What- what's your problem?" Rodney said, when his heart had slowed down. "I thought you were the librarian!" He reached for the magazine, but Jinny lifted her arm higher - apparently to taunt him from her freakish height. I like how he's intimidated by her height, but then he immediately blames her for it and classes it as a defect. Oh, Rodney.

"You're the kid who went to Canada Wide last year, aren't you?" she said accusingly.

"That's right," Rodney said. He was flattered and not a little mollified that his fame had travelled to a whole other age group. He stopped trying to kick Jinny's shin. "I came second," he added smugly. "I probably would have come first, but I think the winner had a relative on the judging panel. I mean, please - my concept was inflatable spaceships - revolutionary! Hers was 'look at my pretty bacteria colonies'. Any fool with a petri dish and a mouth swab could have done it."

"Whatever," Jinny said. "You play chess?"

Rodney rolled his eyes. "Well, golly, let me think," he said. "Is that the game with the black and white board?" The golly gets me.

"Good." Jinny passed the magazine back to him and whipped out a little magnetic travel board. Then she kicked his ass in 17 moves.

"I thought I might make an atomic bomb for the science fair," she said idly, as they set up the pieces for a second game. "You want in?" I like this, that the bomb isn't Rodney's idea. It's the only story where I remember seeing it go that way.



So this section is the foreshadowing disaster section. And again, John's single dramatic defining black mark is being set against Rodney's many misfit incidents.
 John disobeyed one other direct order two months before the black mark that sent him skidding all the way to Antarctica.

It was a two-chopper mission. John was alone in his MH-53. Mitch and Dex were in the Black Hawk behind him.

John's radio said, Base to Chopper One.

John said, "Copy, Base. This is Chopper One. Over."

Major, your mission has been scrubbed. Return home.

John said, "Base, I'm having some trouble with the radio. Say again."

Major, your mission has been scrubbed. The boys are pinned down behind the bridge, and we've detected enemy tanks crawling all over it. Return to base immediately.

John said, "Mitch, Dex, you guys having radio problems? I'm hearing a kind of crackling noise."

There was a short pause. Chopper One, this is Chopper Two, Dex said. He sounded like he wanted to laugh. Colonel Haasbroek keeps breaking up. Mitch thinks it's the mountain - some kind of interference.

John grinned. "Roger that," he said. "We'll proceed with our last received order as planned."

Return to base now, Major!

There was another pause - a longer one. We're following you over the bridge then, sir?

"Negative, Chopper Two. I'll fly alone and collect our men. If anything shoots at me, you shoot the hell back."

Later, after John had returned to base and washed off the blood and grime from the mission, and the thin layer of dust that coated everything out here, he went to face Haasbroek to get thoroughly chewed out.

After that and later still, he went to the officers' mess to get methodically plastered. (Maverick, he thought to himself, in Colonel Haasbroek's voice. Cult of personality. Responsibility of leadership. Not your father's son.) I like this picture of John's insubordination. Because he comes up against authority all the time, That it never seriously affected his career until the black mark (at least in this story) doesn't mean it didn't happen. Also, considering how desperate John sometimes seems for recognition, I like that he has this reaction to being reprimanded, that he needs to get drunk.

Major Darawan of the rescued Special Ops team found him at the bar. "Major Sheppard," he said. He gripped John's hand tightly. John blinked up at him through the fog of two Kabul specials and three whisky sours. "Thank you. I'll remember this for the rest of my life."



So there are the regular sections, chunks of background, anecdotes, illustrations - and then there are the narrative sections that are the real present time of the story, mostly in John's POV. And this would be the first of those.
 This is how they meet:

"Major John Sheppard. I'm your pilot," John shouts over the squalling wind. He holds out his hand automatically to shake, but the other guy doesn't reciprocate. After a moment of blinking, John realises it's because both the guy's hands are occupied - a giant chocolate bar in one, an apple in the other.

"Rodney McKay," the guy calls back. He doesn't even look up at John - too busy chipmunking food into his mouth. Ah, verbing. I am in favor of verbing, because I think it can be evocative. Also, it allows for far sleeker similes.

Anyone who volunteers to live in Antarctica is a bit strange almost by definition, but spend too long in the place, and you start getting even stranger. Maybe you start talking to yourself. Maybe you stop talking. Maybe you stop bathing. Long-timers call it the Weirds. This guy has it bad, John thinks. He watches, half awed, half concerned by the speed with which the food is disappearing. It's like watching a normal person eat in fast forward. "I'm pretty sure there'll be toast or something at the next place," he says. "Eggs. Maybe cornflakes."

"This isn't my breakfast, Major," Rodney says through the chocolate. He looks up finally. "This is in case we crash - a last meal if you will."

"Well, I'm flattered," John says. He bites his lip. He wants to laugh, but he suspects that he's the straight man in this conversation. "I'll do my best to keep us in the air." I am John's ironic distance.

"Oh, don't take it personally." Rodney waves the apple core dismissively.

"No, hey. Completely impersonal. I mean me- Well, say the engines cut out, we're spiralling down-" John makes his hand do a little nose-dive, "maybe we're tilting, whole chopper rattling like it's gonna break apart. I'd rather have an empty stomach. But-" John drops his hand "-that's just me. You enjoy that last apple."

Rodney glares at him but it's an absent-looking glare. "I will," he says. "I did." He peers into the open helicopter door. "You got any other food in there?"

"I'll see what I can do," John says with the straightest face he can manage.

He finds some dusty, old MREs under the passenger seat, and Rodney tucks into them with an enthusiasm that's frankly disturbing. When he's done with the second rubbery omelette, he sticks his finger into the packet of instant coffee and licks it clean, eyes closing ecstatically. "Mm," he says. "Mmm." Maybe he's possessed, John thinks, wonderingly. Rodney is like television. I've said it before, someplace. He really is, though, all sound and motion, most of it pretty meaningless. If you aren't pissed off at him, and he isn't treading your very last nerve, then I think he's going to be pretty diverting. Particularly if you've been put out to pasture as punishment. He's a challenge, but one where you actually are allowed a choice: you can just observe, or you can engage. Right now, John's just observing. But John's bored, and stuck in Antarctica, so it doesn't take him long to engage.
Also, I love that Rodney dips the instant coffee. And enjoys it so damn much. And is unashamed of his enjoyment.

After the coffee licking, though, he's pretty human, and a pretty chatty human. It turns out he's a physicist, with a higher opinion of his own abilities than anyone John's ever met. "You're talking to the pre-eminent astrophysicist in the world," he says. And "I'll probably win two Nobel prizes by the time I'm 45." And "I've thought about having myself cloned for the greater good."

John finds it weirdly charming. He smiles all the way to the top-secret-already-forgotten-it's-there base.



So that last foreshadowing section was full of promise. Rodney got a partner and a challenge, John got to be a hero, if in a sort of renegade way. The now part of the story, the segment right above this, just breaks it up enough that the conclusions are paced nicely, where reality crashes in, and things go wrong.
 Jinny Chen really knew how to design a science project. Over two months, she and Rodney built their own atomic bomb - not a working model, they said irritably, every time someone raised an eyebrow.

The result was brilliant - the perfect balance of hard science and precise engineering. It was so perfect that Rodney secretly investigated testing it for real. Alas, he discovered that U-235 was almost as hard to come by as a nuclear testing site. In the end, he just had to take comfort in his own certainty that it would have worked beautifully. It was a work of art.

The two of them practised their acceptance speech in Jinny's bathroom. "I especially appreciate the prize money," Rodney's thank you went. "I plan to use it for the betterment of all humanity." By this, he meant the giant robot with the laser eyes. The schematics were still under his bed. That would totally lead to the betterment of humanity. I mean, it did for Johnny Sokko, right?

Jinny wanted to spend her share on a string art kit (she had her heart set on a Siamese cat design), pink go-go boots, and a View-Master with pictures of the solar system. She'd decided not to include this information in her part of the speech. "Need to know only," she said to Rodney primly. Jinny is awesome. I love that she trusts Rodney with the information, and the implication that they have become actual friends over the course of the project.

As it turned out, they barely had a chance to unroll their first poster before three men in dark glasses ushered them out of the exhibition area, and into a tiny, stuffy office.

"Agent Slater, CIA," one of them said, as soon as he shut the door. He pointed them at a couple of plastic seats. "Your parents are on their way."

He refused to say anything more, so Rodney and Jinny played chess while they waited. Rodney got his ass kicked in 23 moves. He was definitely improving.

"Wanna take me on?" he said to Agent Slater. "I'm way better than she makes me look."

Slater took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. "Your parents are on their way," he said again. He sounded as toneless as a robot from the Twilight Zone. Perhaps someone's science project had escaped into the wild, Rodney thought. He bit his lip. Was that a laser in the guy's eye, or was it pinkeye? He hoped he hadn't been scooped.

Jinny challenged him to another five games to kill the time. She won in 16 moves, 31 moves, 17 moves, 186 moves, and 247 moves. I like how the scores show Jinny freaking out, without it actually being said that she's freaking out.

In the middle of the next game, Rodney's mother burst into the room with two more dark-glasses guys. "Rodney? Rodney, are you okay?" She glared around the room. "Would someone like to tell me why the hell my eight year old son is being held by the CIA?" Her face was a weird pinkish colour. Ok, here we go! He's eight in sixth grade, which means my guess of seven in fifth was on the money. There are several stories that make the piano incident and the bomb incident the same year, since we know he's twelve when he gives up the piano, and he's in sixth grade for the bomb. And some of those stories make the incidents related, cause and effect. I like that there are four years in between in this telling, that it gives Rodney a little more time to not be overspecialized.

Agent Thompson stood up. "Ma'am, did you know that your son built an A-bomb for the science fair?"

Rodney's mother spun around to face him. Thompson actually took a step back. "You did not really say that to me," she said. "It's just not possible for that much stupidity to be contained in a normal-sized head." She put her face right up against Thompson's. "It's not a working model!" I like Rodney's mom here a lot. The level of engagement she's showing makes it more sad when she stops dealing with Rodney later.

Thompson took another step back. "Actually, ma'am, with the addition of uranium-"

"I'm sorry, did I say that as though I was interested in your response? Rodney, Virginia, we're leaving."

"Ma'am, I have to insist that you remain where you are. We have good reason to believe that your son is a member of a secret pre-teen organisation known as 'Youngsters Overthrow and Unite Through Heroism', aka YOUTH." That acronym is pricelessly dorky.

Rodney sat up straighter. This could be even more exciting than winning at the fair, he thought.

Sadly, the whole thing turned out to be dull, dull, dull. There were no harsh lights, no torture instruments, and no polygraph machines. Instead, they spent four tedious hours waiting for Jinny's parents to fly in from Ottawa, while Rodney's mother made vague but menacing threats to sue. How could tv and movies be so disappointingly wrong about the CIA?

"I'm just doing my job," Thompson said a few times, sounding miserable. The other agents were wise enough not to engage at all.

After the first hour, someone brought in a packet of cookies and a pitcher of water. Rodney's mom picked up a cookie and sniffed it suspiciously. "Lemon," she said scathingly. "My son and I are both extremely allergic. I could be sick just from having breathed it in. You'd like that, wouldn't you?"

After the third hour, Thompson said a little defiantly, "Anyway, how did they make a bomb if they were working alone?"

Rodney's mom rolled her eyes. "They're geniuses, you moron." That set her off into a long tirade about the difficulty of being a gifted child in a society that wanted everyone to be utterly, mediocrely the same. She digressed into the evils of an obstructionist government, and then - neatly - into a lecture about the difference between Canadian and American libertarianism. "And you people don't even have jurisdiction in this country," she was saying, when Jinny's parents finally arrived. So the point is raised - what the hell is the CIA doing at a Canadian 6th grade science fair? It makes no sense, and I'm glad the author doesn't try to explain it, because I can't imagine the explanation being anything other than belabored. But it's canonical weirdness, so acknowledging it is necessary.

They were both lawyers, so everyone went home pretty soon after that.

On the flight home, Jinny challenged Rodney to one more chess match. Perhaps she was tired or maybe the airplane turkey sandwich disagreed with her; Rodney won in 93 moves. I'm guessing Jinny is very very grounded.



John probably should have been court-martialed after the second incident. Haasbroek made it clear he'd have liked nothing better. But apparently, someone spoke to someone, spoke to someone, spoke to John's father. (Though no one ever said this directly.) The way that the path of communication goes toward John's father, rather than coming from him, is telling.

"You'll get a written reprimand, as will Sergeant Lucas," Haasbroek said. He sounded as though he were gritting his teeth. "Now pick a base, and by God you better make it far away from mine."

John closed his eyes and thought: somewhere far away from this place with its dust and blood and people he hadn't saved. He thought of the most far-away place he could imagine.

"Antarctica," he said. John choosing Antarctica, as the sensory and emotional opposite of Afghanistan, is really good. Self-abnegation and escape, in the most physically dramatic way possible.



Back to John's POV.
Against all safety regulations, John likes to hike up to Scott's Cross alone, just before dawn. He's been to every continent on Earth, but in his 35 years, he's never seen anything as beautiful as an illicit sunrise over McMurdo. The wind stings his face. There's no dust. Everything is clean and cold and bare; there's nothing out there but the horizon.

Today, he gets back in time for breakfast - the free choices are oatmeal with canned pears; a bright orange breakfast burrito; and, joy of joys, creamed beef on toast. John buys himself an apricot granola bar ($4) and a wrinkly green apple ($6). Did you know there's an annual 5k race at McMurdo? I can't actually see John as a participant, but, you know, fun fact.

He picks up his schedule from the deputy base commander ("Still like it here?" she says. "Still like it here," John says).

His schedule looks like this:



Time Flight Passengers/Cargo
8am McMurdo to 32279SGA R. Zelenka (Cze), N. Roberts (Can), C. Lake (US), F. Yong (US)
10am 32279SGA to McMurdo Inorganic waste. Not to exceed 200kg
11am Refuel
1pm McMurdo to 32279SGA T. Nguyen (Aus), M. Hardin (Fra), F. Mendoza (NZ), P. Lucas (US)
3pm 32279SGA to McMurdo Inorganic waste. Not to exceed 200kg
5:18pm Sunset
Pilot to check passenger ID and security clearance BEFORE embarking.


John asks no questions and is told no lies. Officially, he and a handful of Air Force reservists are Antarctica's entire military presence. Unofficially - and he'd bet his life on this - he's been transporting marines and civilian adjuncts for the better part of six months.

The marines travel in pairs, and say nothing except "Yes, sir," "No, sir," and "Can I help you with that bag, sir?" The civilians are all scientists and clearly unused to keeping military secrets. Without even wanting to know, John has learned that the project director is a woman named Weir, and that these aren't the usual Antarctic scientists. There's no talk of drilling or geology or weather patterns in John's passenger seats, nothing about ozone holes or penguins. Instead, these are geneticists and physicists and engineers.

John tries not to think about it too much, but he's pretty sure they're building a weapon down there - something so dangerous and morally dubious that the rest of the world can't know about it. John almost can't bear to know about it himself. He reminds himself that the scientists are from all over the globe. That it doesn't make sense for weapons technology to be so widely shared. He tries not to listen too hard to his own common sense. John has this whole fixation on the mystery of the installation. I can really see him pointedly not trying to get more information out of the scientists, just sitting silent, flying his helicopter, listening for crumbs, making a puzzle out of it.

32279SGA is a strange place even aside from its inhabitants and their questionable activities. Once, as he's leaving, John thinks he sees colours washing over the main dome - reds and greens and blues. Another time, he hears a woman's voice in his head as he's about to land. Veni, she says invitingly. We're waiting for you, John. John checks his altitude. He checks the cabin pressure, the oxygen level then the altitude again. Nothing's wrong. It's fine. He's fine, he tells himself. Never even happened. Oh, Atlantis. I love this hint of the tech or the city or whatever it is, siren-like, beckoning.

Today, his civilian scientists are quiet. The flight is unremarkable. There's no loose talk about base pairs or flight trajectories - thank God. The genetics stuff, though, really does make it seem like they're creating something terribly b-movie. So I can sort of see how John might not really want to find out what it is. It could be The Thing. And didn't that Alien vs Predator movie start with a dig in Antarctica? There is no good there.

As he prepares to land ("better have your belts on, boys and girls"), John sees a red dot in the snow. It gets bigger and bigger and bigger until it's Rodney McKay - Rodney McKay running towards them, shouting, his face contorted with some urgent emotion.

John lands and fumbles with his seatbelt. His heart thuds. Something's happened, he thinks. Something's happened with the weapon. He glances around, and yeah, his passengers think so too. They're all white-faced and shaken. R. Zelenka looks like he's going to throw up. I'm glad it's clear that John isn't the only one who's freaked out by Rodney. Though he also takes the fact that they're freaked out as confirmation of his evil weapon theory.

Rodney reaches the chopper just as John wrenches the door open. "Major!" He's gasping for breath. "Major! I'm glad I caught you. I've got-" he fumbles inside his jacket, "I've got about a hundred bucks. Any chance you could bring back some fruit? Maybe some chocolate too? Cadbury's if possible. Oh, hey-" he waves casually at John's passengers. "Hey guys." He points at one of the base's spider arms. "Security clearance thataway." Hahahahaha. Oh, man.

"Fruit," John repeats, after his passengers have all stumbled out - luggage hoisted over their shoulders, legs wobbling. "Fruit, like-" Fruit like a code word, he wonders? Like a code word meaning, 'Weapon has malfunctioned - world destruction imminent'?

"Fruit like apples, oranges, bananas." Rodney sounds slightly impatient. "Maybe some coffee if you can get the good stuff. And I meant that about the Cadbury's. If all you can find is that Nestle crap, I really don't want it. I'd rather you spent the money on an extra tomato or something."

"Tomato. Gotcha," John says carefully. "And other than the fruitless situation... Everything's okay?"

Rodney blinks at him, as though he thinks John is a really strange guy. "Everything's fine," he says. The way that Rodney's reactions to John are filtered back through John's POV is really good. You never quite know what Rodney's thinking, just what John thinks he's thinking. Though I think John is pretty much on the money, there.



Clowns! Clown issues! Scarring clown experiences! Well. Not seriously scarring. I don't really think John has clown issues, beyond a fairly offhand negative reaction. But I love that this story has clowns. And when The Hive aired, this is what I thought of! Gleefully.
 When John was ten years old, he ran away to join a circus that had set up tent outside the Hanscom Air Force Base.

One of the clowns hauled him unceremoniously back home. "Found another one," he told the guard at the gate.

The guard, in turn, had an airman escort John to his street.

"So," the airman said as they walked, "the circus, huh?" He smiled at John tentatively. "I used to love the circus when I was your age. Course, I didn't have any of the skills you need. One time, I tried fire-twirling with my mom's broom - nearly burned the whole house down."

John shrugged even though he was kind of interested. Fire twirling. "I can juggle a bit," he said. Juggling is actually something I'd like to see John or Rodney (or, hell, Teyla. Just not Ronon, that's too easy) do onscreen. I was going to say I didn't know why, but I'm pretty sure it has to do with hands and arms and dexterity and actually it's all pretty transparent.

"Yeah?" The airman looked impressed. "That's pretty cool."

John shrugged again. They walked a little.

"So..." the airman said after a minute. "How's everything at home?"

John felt himself tensing up. "Fine."

"I know your dad can be difficult," the airman said. "He-"

"Look, I just wanted to see the elephant, okay?" John interrupted. "I was coming right back." It's the first introduction of issues at home. It's never really made clear why John was running away, and most of the rest of his childhood is shown in scenes where his dad is posted elsewhere, so it's mostly him and his mom. But here he's got them both at home - is that actually worse, or is it that when his dad is at home, John doesn't get forced into responsibilities (taking care of his mom)?

"Okay," the airman said. "It's just funny, because the clown seemed to think you weren't coming right back."

"Well, the clown got it wrong."

"Yeah," the airman said gently. He gave John a little sideways grin. "They so often do." I kind of love the nameless, fire-twirling airman.



Rodney once kicked a clown in the nuts. He was only four at the time, but he remembered it with a fondness that kept him warm on cold nights - of which there were many in Siberia.



John thinks about Rodney McKay on his morning hike.

Fruit, he thinks. Apples, oranges, bananas. Chocolate. Maybe some coffee if he can get the good stuff.

It's the end of the month at the grocery store, though; all they have left are apples, peanuts, and some greenish potatoes. And the apples are pretty gross - soft with brown scars. John picks through them to find the sort-of-okay ones. Sort-of-okay apples are sort-of-only-okay for cooking. Though I guess if I were desperate for fresh fruit, I would feel differently about it.

"Had no idea you were this choosy," says Pete from behind the counter. He's been stacking and restacking seven cans of Spam since John arrived. Right now, they're in a kind of arrow formation. John guesses the job must get pretty boring.

Pete waggles his eyebrows like he knows something John doesn't. He's another guy with a serious case of the Weirds. Today, he has a stuffed parrot on his shoulder. It looks at John beadily like it knows something John doesn't as well.

"Picky, picky," Pete says in a bird's voice. He tips the parrot back and forth like it's talking.

"Yeah." John looks at Pete then back at the bird. "Had some time to kill. But you know what? I think I've got all I want now."

At the counter, Pete rings up the change and John blinks at his watch. He's - wow he's killed an hour sorting through apples. It's strange how time can get away from you in a place like Antarctica. Wow. Yes. An hour. Picking out apples for Rodney. Oh, John.

At the base, Rodney is gushingly, almost insultingly, grateful when John passes him the small crate, and fifteen dollars in change. Eighty-five dollars worth of shrivelly apples. As world building, this is really good. I mean, Antarctica - what the hell is that like? Like living on the moon. Dependent on imports for everything.

"Thank you so much," he says. "I just- I really appreciate this. Wow, red and green! Thank you, I-"

"You thought I was going to take your money, didn't you," John accuses. He's more amused than insulted, he decides. "You thought I was going to steal it."

"It was a possibility," Rodney says defensively. He clutches the crate to his chest like he's afraid John's going to grab it back.

"So, I was going to, what - hide out behind a glacier with your hundred bucks?" Hah. Yes. John as an ice-bound desperado. A polar pistolero.

"I- yes!"

John grins at him - he can't help it. "Remind me never to rob a bank with you."

"You know," Rodney says, "I have something like five witty comebacks for that, but-" He smiles, and his whole face lights up. "You brought me apples."

It's a really nice smile. John's heart misses a beat. He tries to keep grinning, but his mouth feels wrong. He mentally punches Pete's stuffed parrot in its stupid, smirking, knowing face. So John really does some fantastic feats of projection, here.



Back in his quarters, with Johnny Cash telling him, "don't take no guns to town, son," John cracks open a $200 bottle of Glenlochy scotch and wonders if this is his own manifestation of the Weirds. He hasn't wanted a guy since he was fourteen years old, and stupid enough to think that getting sucked off on a stained sofa meant he was loved. Jesus. That's just so sad, as a throwaway background note. Happily, it isn't a throwaway, as the story shows up later. But it's still sad.

Johnny says, "well the mean things you said don't make me feel bad."

John pours himself a double even though this scotch supposed to be for very, very, very special hooray-I-survived-being-eaten-by-a-bear-today occasions. Is a crisis over your sexuality really a valid reason to drink scotch from a distillery that closed permanently in 1983? There's an argument that the way to treat a really special drink is not to save it for an occasion, but to surprise yourself with it, just on an ordinary day. I guess it's his scotch, he drinks it as he likes. Poor John. This is special enough, he reasons. He's 35 years old. He's a special-ops-trained, former POW. Yesterday, there wasn't anything he didn't know about himself. Today, he has to think about it.

He counts stuff off on his fingers. Fast cars, fast planes. He'd take Johnny Cash, Ella Fitzgerald and Doug Flutie's Hail Mary to a desert island. And if the chopper ahead was shot down, he'd give everything - his life, his career - to bring his men home. He likes: music (country), food (junk), women (brunettes), sports (football). Doesn't like: avocados, clocks that tick really loudly, men (except for that one time). You know what I really like? Lists. I said that already, right?

He thinks:

(Funny genius scientist) - (potentially evil, weapon-of-mass-destruction creator) - (eats instant coffee out of packet) - (not particularly attractive) - (a man) = Obviously an isolation-induced aberration. John needs to get laid. Equation! Textual equation! Equation = story love.



Rodney's family was a family of artists. His father was a painter. His mother photographed found objects, and took great delight in what she called 'the everyday grotesque'. Her exhibitions were filled with decaying apples and unwashed dishes and dirt tracked in on the kitchen floor.

She particularly loved capturing people from their worst angles, when they least expected it. ("Stop smiling," she would say to the children at Rodney's birthday parties, "you're ruining the shot.") By the time Rodney was old enough for school, his bedroom walls were papered with monstrous images of himself - one here, with his eyes half shut zombie-like; one there, mouth full of squidgy fruit. Through his mother's camera lens, he was always hideous. (Or perhaps through his mother's eyes, he was always beautiful - art was confusing like that). I love this. Love it. And Rodney's got this good, secure family life that he understands at this point - sure, his parents are artists, but as the only child he isn't an outsider. It's a year before Jeannie is born that the bomb incident happens, where his mother reams the CIA on his behalf. After Jeannie is born, that would never have happened, he's shut out because he's the one who is different.

When Rodney was nine years old, his sister Jeannie was born. She was an accident; Rodney was supposed to have been an only child.

"This is Jeannie," his mother said when she arrived home from the hospital. She held her up for Rodney to see.

"Hello," Rodney said. He touched Jeannie's hair gingerly. Her face was red and angry, and her eyes were clenched tight like she wanted to scream. "Hello there," he said again, in case Jeannie hadn't heard him the first time. This breaks my heart.

"She won't be able to talk for a while yet," his mother added.

"Oh," Rodney said. He abruptly lost interest.

He found himself practising the piano a lot. It had a perfect order: two semiquavers in a quaver, two quavers in a crotchet, sixteen demisemiquavers in a minim. Rodney would close his eyes and count. It was utterly precise. And this, too.

Not much else had order after Jeannie was born. She screamed and cried. She was messy. Rodney's mother stopped taking photographs.

"I'm busy," she said when Rodney asked why the bathroom looked like a bathroom again, rather than a darkroom.

"Your mother's busy," his father confirmed. "And so am I." He flicked a few more reds and blues at his canvas.

His mother didn't seem busy. She spent hours staring at her old photographs. There was one in particular that fascinated her - Ants in the Sugar Bowl. One afternoon, she stared and it and stared at it for hours. Rodney couldn't get her to stop. "Mom," he said hesitantly. He put his hand on her elbow. "Mom," he said louder. "Mom!" She didn't even twitch. This is what crazy is, Rodney thought. His heart banged in his chest. He pinched her - not very hard. She didn't move. He hit her arm hard enough to make a sound. She didn't yell at him. She was as still as one of her own photographs. Poor Rodney. Nine years old and in seventh grade and suddenly his family makes no sense and his home doesn't look like it did before and there's nothing he can do. None of his skills or abilities help him in this situation - they actually all distance him from the potential solutions. And his father is there, but apparently ignoring everything except what actually manages to disrupt his own work.

Rodney crept back to the piano. He played Carlos Chavez's Sonata No. 3. It was in 2½ /4 time, so it required a lot of concentration.

A few hours later, his mother appeared. She touched his shoulder to stop him playing. "I'm making spaghetti," she said. "Do you want white sauce or red?"

Rodney didn't look up at her. He could tell she wanted to pretend nothing had happened. He frowned hard at his sheet music so he wouldn't burst into tears or anything stupid like that. "Red, I guess," he said. This is such a frightening scene, and Rodney is so stubbornly brave through it. It fucks him up.



When John was twelve, his father was deployed to Egypt, and his mother started collecting cans: soup, soda, corn, Spam. "Everyone needs a hobby," she told John philosophically. I'm not sure how I feel about the parallel crazy mothers. The bits of me that look back on my women's studies and sociology of gender courses with yearning nostalgia kind of look askance at the idea. It makes me think of the dead, wicked, or insane mother figures in fairy tales, too. But it's great for the structure of the story.

In three months, the cans had spilled out of the kitchen and into the hallway - stewed tomatoes and baked beans as high as John's waist.

John started making his friends come in through the back door, herding them straight to his room. "Stay here," he'd say if they wanted a drink. Shannon Timms caught him once, shifting peaches in syrup so he could open the fridge. "It's for a food drive," he said before she could ask.

In six months, the cans were encroaching on the living room. In nine, John was picking his way between SpagettiOs and tuna fish just to get to bed.

His mother had changed her mind by then. "There could be a terrible war," she said. "You can never be too prepared."

"Dad's tour will be over soon, huh?" John said once.

This didn't have quite the effect he'd hoped. His mom brought home a crate of creamed beef the next morning. ("Your father loves creamed beef"). It was time to switch tactics, John realised.

"What if there is a war?" he said. "What if people come loot us? Maybe we should bury it."

It took him the entire summer vacation, and then two more months for the grass seeds he'd scattered to grow into smooth lawn.

The cans were still in the ground when John's father came home in November. As far as John knew, they were still there when the family packed up for Offutt Air Force base in Nebraska. So John and Rodney are different ages in these sections, again, and they deal in very different ways, of course. Rodney withdraws into his head and into his strengths. He can, because he isn't on his own with his mom when she flips. He'd be a very different person, I think if he had been forced into the caretaker role. John flings himself into the caretaker role. He covers for his mother, makes excuses to make her behavior look normal, then goes to great lengths to hide it completely. It's cleverly done, because it's so in line with the way that he throws himself into the front lines, throws away everything for a chance at saving his men.



He's in freakin' Antarctica, so John does the next best thing to sleeping with an actual woman. He buys a huge stack of porn. The present-time sections of the story are coming far closer together at this point. Which is good, because John's having a nervous breakdown or existential crisis or something.

Pete says not a single word as he rings up John's change, and neither does his bird. They've both been in Antarctica far too long to judge. Yeah. Well,, you can mock a guy for his apple-buying habits, but for his porn? That just wouldn't be right, not if you know that he has no choice but to buy it from you.

John carts the whole brown-papered package to his room, locks the door, and then pours himself a glass of his rapidly-diminishing scotch. He hopes he isn't almost killed by a bear any time soon. At this rate, he'll have nothing left to celebrate with. There are no bears in Antarctica. Dear John: you are safe; I looked it up. Just penguins and seals and things that live in the ocean, like krill. I'd want a drink if I survived a penguin attack, though. Probably even more than after a bear attack.

He starts with Playboy because it's a classic. But the centrefold girl's name is Karii, which throws him. (Why two 'i's, he wonders. Why not one? Why not three?) He takes his hand out of his pants and reaches for Hustler.

And Hustler is better. Olivia on page 16 is straddling a motorcycle - an apple-red Ducati 748. John sighs appreciatively and slides his hand down his stomach, circles his palm over his cock - nice and light, just how he likes it. He thumbs the crisp hair below his navel. He pictures himself lying between Olivia's thighs just like the Ducati. John should probably notice that he's more attracted to the motorcycle than the girl.

Five minutes later, he's still pretty soft, and flipping frantically through Penthouse. Women are hot, he reminds his dick. And they smell amazing. He pumps himself faster.

An hour later, the porn is on the floor, and John is drunk and coming hard to the mental image of Rodney McKay on his hands and knees. The imaginary Rodney moans and John moans with him, as he pounds into Rodney's ass.

He wakes up the next morning drooling into his pillow. When he cracks an eye open, he sees Karii looking back at him, waving hello with her breasts. It's not even a bit hot. He goes back to sleep. Are centerfolds ever actually hot? Am I not visually based enough, as a woman, to judge? I don't know. I've thought a lot of images of women were scorching, but centerfolds have never fallen into that category. Also, the idea of a centerfold seems sort of quaint. Even pre-internet.

The second time he wakes up, he's straight again. Karii is hot. John celebrates with a nice, long jerk-off session, alternating between whimpering at how good it feels and cursing the Glenlochy. It's evil. It's gay-making. There's a reason the Scots wear skirts. Sure, go ahead and curse, it's all gone anyway. Gay-making. Awesome.



By the age of three, Jeannie was still red-faced and inclined to scream. She had so much personality that everyone else in the family withdrew a little to make room for her. To make more room for themselves, they pushed at each other.

Everything became Rodney's fault. He used up all the coffee. He was too loud. He left toast crumbs on the kitchen floor. HE'S TWELVE. This section makes me want to facepunch Rodney's parents. He is not responsible for making sure there's enough coffee. He is supposed to be loud. As for the toast crumbs thing, well, I'm no judge, I'm thirty-seven and I still get crumbs everywhere.

He joined the algebra and chemistry clubs so he wouldn't have to go straight home from school. At home, he played the piano and played the piano and played the piano. One night, his father raised his voice above Jeannie's. "Rodney, stop that awful noise!"

He apologised straight after, but Rodney thought he knew genuine irritation when he heard it.

"I'll never be a professional player, will I?" he said to his piano teacher the next week.

Of course you will! Michael didn't say. Instead, he looked humiliatingly relieved. "You're a wonderful technical player, Rodney," he said. "You practise very hard. A fine, clinical player, but you don't have much feel for the music." He sounded oddly gentle for someone who'd suddenly started ripping Rodney's heart out by the root. "I don't think you have the artistry to be a concert pianist."

"I don't?" Rodney said numbly. Oh Rodney.

"No, but it doesn't mean you can't still enjoy playing. You may not reach a professional standard, that's all." This is the story that has the most sympathetic portrayal of the piano teacher. Who is really being kind and honest. It's just that Rodney's view of himself is so all-or-nothing, and he's hiding in his playing, and he's so vulnerable, and this sweeps in all away. It also separates him further from his family - this is his one recognizably artistic endeavor, even if he does approach it with tightly focused concentration and mathematical appreciation. The bomb incident, in canon, is a throwaway line. The piano story in canon is very different - it's Rodney trying to make an emotional connection with Sam by telling her his biggest disappointment, a very non-public source of past pain. This shapes him.

"Whatever," Jinny said unsympathetically, when Rodney told her the next day. "I always thought you were wasting your time with that music bullshit. Stick to physics, man. Less qualitative." I'm not sure that Jinny influences his decision to stop cold, but I'm sure she makes him feel better about it.

A few weeks later, Rodney's piano teacher phoned him. "I'm sorry, Rodney. I had no idea you'd take it this badly."

"What do you mean badly?" Rodney said. "I just wish you'd told me sooner. Do you have any idea how much catching up I'll have to do if I'm going to be the next Newton, let alone the next Einstein? My career may never recover."

"What if I give you a free lesson? Two free lessons, to make up for the weeks you missed?"

"It's too late," Rodney said briskly. "We sold the piano to buy a telescope."

He'd wasted enough time as it was. Oh, Rodney. I want to buy you a piano. And lock it in a secret room so you can have it all to yourself and learn to enjoy it again.



Nebraska seemed slower than Massachusetts, and John slowed down to meet it. He developed an unhurried, drawled way of speaking that gave him plenty of time to think and - happy bonus - irritated the hell out of his father.

Two years after he arrived, he took up the saxophone because he thought it'd help him pick up girls. He picked up his saxophone teacher instead.

The guy's name was Michael. He was eighteen years old and he drove a Ferrari-red 1983 Z750 Kawasaki Ninja motorcycle. 16-valve, 4-cylander engine, top speed of 155mph, and zero to 400 in 10.522 seconds. John fucking loved that machine.

The first time they had sex, Michael drove him out to Fontenelle Forest. It didn't occur to John until later that it wasn't spontaneous. At the time it felt like it was. They were riding, helmets off, 100mph on the interstate, and then they were kissing desperately in a dark little cove of trees, feet tangled in gooseberry bushes. There didn't seem to be anything in between. That it isn't spontaneous makes it all pretty creepy, actually. It's a strong contrast with Rodney's music teacher, who screws things up so horribly while doing the right thing. John's Michael is a nasty piece of work. Handily, John is already damn good at repressing and compartmentalizing.

John didn't learn much about music, but he learned how to jerk another guy off and how to give head - down on his knees in Michael's little apartment. He watched porn with Michael on Michael's couch, and he learned that guys could get fucked.

"I don't do that shit though," Michael said, and John agreed that he didn't either. He would never. They watched little blond fags getting dicked by men with handlebar moustaches and huge, red cocks, and jerked themselves off until they came gasping into their own hands.

One night in bed though, John closed his eyes, and ran a fingertip down the crack of his own ass. He thought about Michael putting his dick there. He thought maybe he was the kind of guy who would do that.

John walked to Michael's apartment the next afternoon. His saxophone case knocked against his knees and his heart knocked against his chest. His mouth was dry. He wiped his sweaty palms on his jacket. He wondered how he'd get the words out when he asked for it. He imagined Michael's face. He thought he'd never been this scared, this excited before. Poor John, thinking he's in love.

Michael buzzed him in, but a girl with short, reddish hair answered the door. She was wearing pink, lacy panties and nothing else.

"Hey," John said. He dragged his eyes from the panties to the girl's chest to her face. He'd never seen a naked girl outside of Playboy before. He didn't know what he felt.

"Hey," she said back.

"Oh. John," Michael said behind her. He padded over to them. "Did you sneak a peek?" He sounded teasing, like they were sharing a joke. "How 'bout I get a raincheck on your lesson?"

The next day, John sat through a science class, a Spanish class, and an art class. At lunchbreak he thought he'd get a burger. He found himself at Michael's apartment instead.

"You don't want to do this anymore, do you," he blurted before Michael could say anything.

Of course I do, Michael didn't say. Instead he shrugged. "You're fourteen years old, man. It's just a thing we were doing."

John swallowed. He forced his face to look bored and maybe a little amused. He could feel the real things later, he told himself. He smiled away his humiliation. Yeah, he can feel the real things later. Sure. I'm sure he has that scheduled, all penciled in on his calendar for a month in 2058.

"Nothing personal," Michael added. "Hope you didn't think it was anything more."

"No. Sure," John said. He found himself a girlfriend the very next day.



Fresh food is flown in from New Zealand every few weeks. The kitchen gets most of it, but today the little grocery store is awash with ripe pears.

"Someone messed up the order," Betty-at-the-counter says. "Fifteen friggin' tons of pears. We don't even have room for them. Pete and I had to store the overflow in our quarters." I like that we see someone else at the store other than Pete.

John buys a box and eats pears for three days - ecstatically at first, licking up the juices that drip down his wrist, and then with lessening enthusiasm. By Friday, he can't even think the word 'pear' without feeling sick.

On a whim (probably) or maybe to test himself (five days of being straight and counting, now), he takes the leftovers with him to the fortress of secretude. "Package for Rodney McKay," he says to the guard at the gate. Hee! Secretude. John's such a dork.

The guard won't touch the pears, even when John shudderingly bites into one to show him that they're not camouflaged grenades. "Dr McKay's going to have to sign off on it," is all he'll say.

Top secret research facility, John reminds himself. He feels like kind of an idiot.

Rodney appears after a few minutes, looking distracted and irritated and John's already staring at his pouting mouth. "I was doing something important," Rodney says to the guard. He blinks when he sees John. "Oh, hey," he says. He looks like he's trying to remember John's name. Yeah, that straightness thing went really well.

"Hey. I um. I brought you some pears," John says. Rodney looks at him and the guard looks at him. And they both know, John thinks. They know and the parrot knows and crazy, crazy Pete knows. "I thought you'd like them," he adds lamely.

Rodney blinks at him, and the distracted look disappears. Rodney totally gets it, even if John doesn't. Though I think Rodney doesn't think about it at all. He's got other priorities and distractions. "Pears!" he says. "Yeah! I- yeah! Thank you." He takes one out and bites into it right there. It's obscene. Rodney makes a soft sound of pleasure and smiles up at John. Juice runs down the back of his glove. He leans down and licks it. John can't breathe. "Good," Rodney says, mouth full of pear. He swallows. John watches his Adam's apple tremble. There's still a little juice on his glove. Rodney sees him looking. "Oops," he says. He brings his hand up to his mouth, and licks again. It's porn. "What do I owe you?" Rodney says.

"No, you-" the words choke in John's throat. He tears his eyes from Rodney's sticky hand. "I bought way too many," he says. "And they were almost free - pretty much free. Anyway, I-" He points at his chopper. "I'll see you round."

Rodney opens his mouth and then shuts it again. "Okay," he says finally. "See you. Thanks."



He definitely hasn't been repressed and closeted for 21 years, John tells himself when he gets back to McMurdo. He's not that guy at all. He's self aware. He's with it. If he had nephews, he'd be the cool uncle. If unperturbable was a word, he'd be the dictionary definition. "As unperturbable as John Sheppard", people would say. He's a completely open-minded, extremely perceptive guy who just happens to be straight. Pretty much straight, anyway. Mostly straight. The thing with Michael was negative enough that I think it's the motive for a lot of John's discomfort, here.



John's black mark went down like this:

Lucas said, "Sir, did you hear me? We've been ordered to abort."

"I'm not leaving them down there," John said. He tilted the chopper. A missile screeched past his window. He glared over at Lucas. "How 'bout you? You leaving them down there?"

Lucas swallowed nervously, but John already knew he'd capitulate. All the new kids worshipped the ground John walked on. It was what made him a good leader, whatever Haasbroek said. (Cult of personality). "Are you leaving them down there, Sergeant?" John repeated, harsher. Oh, John. No. I'm really not sure that the ability to manipulate people is a positive leadership trait. Though the overwhelming sense of responsibility for them probably is.

Lucas met his eyes. "No. No, sir!"

"Good," John said. "Because they're not dead. We're bringing them back."

Even before he landed, though, he could see that two of them were dead.

Turney and Jamison, John thought. Too small to be Nicholson. He scrambled over to the Black Hawk under Lucas's covering fire. "Nicholson!" he shouted. "You in there?" He saw a leg - moving? Not moving?

Not moving. Nicholson. Half of his chest was gone. He stared up at John, wide-eyed.

Something exploded nearby. John flinched reflexively. Lucas wasn't covering. He was on his knees next to the other two bodies. He didn't move when John gestured for him to get back into the chopper. And he didn't move when bullets sprayed over his head.

John slipped one of Nicholson's tags from his neck. He fired back at whoever was firing at them, and then he was moving, shoving Lucas back into his seat.

Engine on. Blades spinning. They were outta there.

Above the clouds, John jerked Lucas's face up with his free hand. "You hurt?" he said roughly. Lucas blinked at him. "I said are you hurt, Sergeant?"

Lucas blinked again. "I couldn't- I couldn't find their tags, and there wasn't anything- I couldn't tell them apart," he said.

John squeezed Lucas's shoulder, and turned back to the controls. "You did good. Don't worry about the tags."

"Are we going to get court-martialled?" Poor Lucas. I hope John tried to exonerate him. I assume he did, if it occurred to him that he could.

"The important thing," John said, "is that we did the right thing."



Rodney's black mark could have gone down like this:

"Son, I want to thank you," General Hammond said. "If we hadn't listened to your warnings, the entire state of Colorado would be a blackened crater right now. I'm going to personally recommend that you be awarded the Presidential Medal of Freedom."

"You were right," Major Carter said to him, later. "I was too personally involved, and I can't thank you enough for preventing me from destroying the gate. I'm just glad the General listened to you and not to me."

Rodney waved his hand. "Think nothing of it," he said generously. So Rodney was right, a sort of right, at least. But he kind of did need taking down a peg. John, on the other hand, was the sort of right that was, at the same time, very clearly incorrect. Sam's solution in Rodney's situation was incorrect, but it worked, so it was also sort of right. And she had the weight of friendships and connections on her side. In this story, I'm not sure that Rodney has had a real friend since Jinny.



It went down like this:

"Your plane leaves for Russia in an hour," Hammond said.

Rodney stared at him in disbelief. "Russia?" Carter was about to blow up the mountain because she was too stubborn, too personally involved to think about the consequences, and they were sending him to Russia. This was the worst, most dangerous kind of science - the kind that punished doubters and relied on hope rather than observable, tested facts. Plus, Russia - land of potato soup and other potato-based dishes that Rodney was too outraged to think of right now. "I'm not going to Russia!" he spluttered. "You know what the food is like in Russia?" Does Rodney have some sort of problem with potatoes? Because they are the perfect food!

But an hour later, he was on the plane, and an hour after that, Carter was phoning to tell him smugly that her plan had worked. Colorado was still standing. Teal'c had come through the gate unscathed, and she hoped Rodney enjoyed the pickled fish that would undoubtedly be his dinner. "Oh, and unfortunately, we blew up the Russian DHD. They may not be too thrilled to see you," she added. The suddenness with which he's sent to Siberia is kind of horrible.

They weren't. Rodney was met at the airport by a very junior director of the FSB. "Dr McKay?" she said. "You've been assigned to a new research base in Siberia. But I brought you some lunch to eat before your next plane leaves."

"Great," Rodney said. He'd drunk a couple - maybe five - of the plane's little champagne bottles by then. He was feeling no pain. "Is it pickled fish by any chance?"

"Right. Da." The director looked surprised. "How did you know?"

"Oh, I'm always right," Rodney said. "Pretty much always. Most of the time." Oh, Rodney.



"Give me a lift back to McMurdo?" Rodney says, when John arrives the next day with D. Kavanagh (US), Y. Yamato (Jap), and R. Yuchengco (Phl).

"Uh." John's never taken anyone back from 32279SSGA before. "Am I allowed to do that?"

Rodney rolls his eyes. "No, I'm a violent escapee from a secret Antarctic prison. And why am I even telling you when someone else could be telling you." He turns around. "Yo! Security guy!" Hahahahaha Rodney saying 'yo'. Priceless.

"What?" Security Guy looks up from processing Y. Yamato and smiles with exaggerated patience. "What?"

"Tell Major Paranoid here that this isn't Alcatraz. He can take me to McMurdo."

Security Guy raises his eyebrows. "You can take him," he says to John. "Please take him."

On the ride over, Rodney chats happily about all the food he's going to buy, and how he'll use it to bribe and taunt his co-workers. John keeps one eye on his instruments and the other on Rodney's mouth.

The trip seems shorter than normal. When they arrive, John gets out first and helps Rodney down from his seat. He puts a hand on Rodney's hip to steady him. He can't feel anything at all through the quadruple-layered clothes, but he imagines Rodney's skin is burning hot. His own skin tingles. So I don't think John's fixation on Rodney is at all out of line. Hell, I've got a fixation on Rodney. It's the level that's a little out of control. Like I'm a little worried that if Rodney started sucking coffee crystals off his fingers again, John would crash the helicopter. He totally has the Weirds.

"So," Rodney says, when both feet are on the ground. He surveys McMurdo. The white sheds. The other white sheds. The blue sheds. "What do people do for fun around here?" McMurdo's like a little town. But a really sleepy little town.

John does hiking for fun. Rodney barks out a surprised laugh. It's a nice laugh.

"Oh wait, you're serious," Rodney says. What could he have thought John's real answer was? Really, with what he knows about John, which is next to nothing. Maybe it's all in John's bored-but-amused delivery, that Rodney thinks at first that it's a joke.

Turns out they have nothing in common whatsoever. See, this is one of the things I love about this story - John really does think this. But the whole story, structure, content, everything, is a recounting of everything they have in common.



It was a bit pretentious, but when Rodney was 13, his favourite number was 2132049 - 1, the largest known prime. He wrote it out on computer paper - all 39751 digits - and wrapped it around the walls of his room where his mother's photographs had been when he was nine. I feel sad for both Rodney and his mom that one of them has taken the photos down, and that she isn't (by implication) taking pictures of him (or possibly at all) anymore.



Sometimes, when he didn't want to be somewhere, John thought about Einstein's special theory of relativity. He calculated he'd have to be flying at 65720439 mph to spare himself his father's favourite lecture - Why John Will Never Get Anywhere in Life. (At that speed, John thought, you could go pretty fucking far.)



There are fewer sections in Rodney's POV, but there are a couple, and they're necessary, because otherwise it makes no sense, for example, that Rodney is so desperate to get away from the installation. I guess there could have been dialogue, Rodney running off at the mouth about Kavanagh while in transit, but this works much better. And also, it's nice seeing the inside of Rodney's head. He's pretty happy in Antarctica, discovering things, being in charge, despite the privations.
 Rodney bounces out of bed, whistling happily. It's Monday. Shower Day. Two glorious minutes of warmish water and frantic scrubbing. Beautiful, beautiful Shower Day. He slings a towel over his shoulder. "Raindrops keep falling on my head, bop bop," he sings, as he locks the door (he has a stash of Mars Bars under the bed - you can't trust scientists with temptation like that). "But that doesn't mean my eyes will soon be turning- bah!" I would pay good money for Rodney to sing to himself onscreen. Just once.

There's a guy standing right in front of the door like a creepy stalker. "Hi," he says.

Rodney backs up a step. "Hi." It's one of the new guys. "Eric?" he hazards.

"Kavanagh," Eric says. "As in Dr Derek Kavanagh." He waits an expectant few seconds, and then scowls - apparently because Rodney hasn't recognised his name. Hey, Rodney got pretty close.

Rodney sighs to himself. The guy's probably won a couple of minor prizes - a Steacie Fellowship, maybe - and now he thinks he's God's gift to the Ancients program. Like Rodney has time to keep up with the scientific community's wrong-headed physics 'breakthroughs' when it's all been disproved five times over in his own (admittedly unpublished) articles. He twirls his hand impatiently. "And? What do you want? What?" I looked up the Steacie. Because that's the sort of person I am, apparently. Kavanagh isn't eligible, since he's not Canadian. He's not Canadian, right?

Dr Eric thrusts a fist-thick folder at him. "I have some suggestions for making the astrophysics department run more smoothly." I'm happy that Kavanagh is totally obnoxious here, trying to catch Rodney first thing in the morning, in person rather than electronically, and with a ream of suggestions rather than a nice, bullet-pointed memo, but it isn't overplayed. He's not out of line, he's just inconsiderate. I don't think he gets that his delivery guarantees that he isn't going to be listened to, just like his delivery worked against him in 38 Minutes, and Rodney's delivery worked against him in 48 Hours. The validity of his points is never questioned (indeed, they're never even up for consideration), and he's not made out to be stupid, other than socially. I think it's annoying when you see Kavanagh in stories portrayed as incompetent or consistently scientifically wrong-headed, because that doesn't make sense. If he weren't a competent and brilliant scientist, he never would have been asked on the expedition in the first place, much less allowed to return after quitting. He just doesn't get along with people very well. Particularly women. Sound familiar?
Oh dear lord. I think I may be a Kavanagh redemptionist. :/

"Oh goodie. I'll get right on that," Rodney lies. He steps around him, and heads for his wonderful, wonderful shower. It fills me with glee that Rodney says both 'golly' and 'goodie' in the course of this story.



The guy's there again the next morning. "Have you had a chance to look at my suggestions?" he says.

Tuesday isn't Shower Day, so Rodney isn't in such a good mood. "Look, Carmichael-" he says.

"Kavanagh."

"Whatever. My ZPM simulations have priority. You have suggestions about that, let me know. Otherwise, you're between me and my coffee, and that's not a smart place to be." Oh, Kavanagh. All you needed to do was greet Rodney at the door with a mug. You would have got at least 30 seconds of his attention.



Wednesday is Shower Day again. "Hi there!" Rodney waves at Kavanagh with his soap bar. "I read your suggestions, thought they were all bad. Especially chapter three."

"So, I take it you're not going to read them?"

Rodney beams. "Nope." I love the contrast between normal-Rodney and ebullient-shower-day-Rodney.



On Thursday, Kavanagh follows Rodney from the toilet block into the mess hall and then into Rodney's lab. He explains each of his suggestions point by point ("since you explicitly stated you weren't going to read them"), and keeps on explaining, even when Rodney puts his hands over his ears and says "la la lalalalalalala."

By 8am, Rodney has already drunk his daily ration of four coffees (implemented when the last two-month supply ran out after six days), and he's gotten no work done at all. He hates Kavanagh with all his heart and his kidney and his spleen - basically, all of his major organs. My god. What time does Rodney get up in the morning if all of this has happened by 8?

After breakfast, Sheppard arrives with a chopper-load of new recruits like a shining, shining angel from heaven. Rodney can't rush across the snow fast enough. Kavanagh follows, nagging, and crunching rhythmically behind Rodney like something from The Terminator.

"Major Sheppard!" Rodney says. "Major Sheppard, I have to go back with you. To uh-" he adds when Sheppard raises an eyebrow, "to welcome the new arrivals."

Sheppard looks around at the new scientists clutching their dufflebags - a tall guy with red hair who looks like Beeker, a woman with coke bottle glasses, a French guy. "To welcome the new arrivals," Sheppard repeats slowly.

"The next arrivals," Rodney amends quickly. "The next set of arrivals. Welcome to you guys too," he says to Beeker.

Sheppard looks bland and a little amused, but then he always looks bland and a little amused. Rodney sometimes wonders if there's anything going on inside his head at all. Yes. That's what Rodney thinks about John, and it's helpful to know that before we get farther. John = conveniently there, affable, pretty, possibly empty-headed, bearer of bizarre fruit gift.

"Dr McKay!" Kavanagh says.

Rodney clutches Sheppard's arm. He's a desperate man. "I have to be in a place with unrationed coffee. Please, I have to-"

"Okay," Sheppard interrupts.

"Okay?" Rodney says.

Sheppard shrugs. "Sure."

Kavanagh says, "Can I-"

"Nope," Sheppard tells him. He picks up a bag and tosses it easily to the French guy. "Only got room for one."

Rodney thinks he might be in love. "Eric, will you show the new guys to security?" he says gloatingly. Rodney's totally been getting the name wrong purposefully, at least since the second day.

Kavanagh stares at him for a second, looking delightfully thwarted. Then he turns and marches back to the base, leaving big stompy footprints in the snow.



By the time Rodney was fourteen, he was the black sheep of the family. His mother had gone back to her photographs, his father to his paintings, and at five, Jeannie was already a sculptor, carving little animals out of wood and placing them around the house like a cat offering freshly killed gifts. Boy, fourteen is a great age to find yourself shut out of your family. Particularly if you are also trying to deal with being a senior in high school.

Every time she made a new one, Rodney's mom and dad held off arguing long enough to say, "Oh, what a pretty wooden penguin", or "What an astonishingly life-like squid", or "Nice crab!" (Jeannie had quite a thing for sea-life). Then they hid the knives in ever-more cunning places. I love all the different Jeannies of different stories. Artists, pediatricians, surgeons, physicists, housewives, psychiatrists...

Once, Rodney found a paring knife slipped between the pages of the phone book like a pressed flower. Another time, he found a cleaver behind one of his father's paintings - balanced precariously across the hanging wire. The cleaver balanced on the wire makes me think of Wile E Coyote. Also, do Rodney's parents have no sense at all? They're very self-centered, I think. And hardly promethean. It makes me think that they never baby-proofed the house when Rodney was born, and that was fine because he was an odd kid, and his mom was following him around with a camera all the time anyway. But if Jeannie, at five, is carving tiny, elaborate wooden sculptures and tucking them into nooks - well. The knives aren't the problem. The hours of apparently completely unsupervised time is the problem.

In much the same way, he discovered Jeannie's deep religious conviction.

He came home to find his parents mid-argument. This wasn't unusual, but his mother rounded on him and thrust a wooden cross in his face like he was a vampire - that hadn't happened before.

"Did you know about this?" she demanded.

Rodney had recoiled in surprise, but he leaned in now to look (and also to prove he wasn't a creature of the night) (I love that this is a motivation for his action) . The cross was beautiful. The detail was exquisite. Rodney could see each individual blood drop on Jesus's hands. It was definitely Jeannie's work. "What's the problem? Looks pretty good to me," he said.

The problem, it turned out, wasn't really the cross at all. ("It is beautiful work, if wholly derivative," his father assured him.) The problem was the letter of gushing thanks that had arrived in the mailbox that morning.

Dear Ms McKay, the letter said, we are deeply grateful for your generous donation to the church. Your order of a:

will be filled shortly. We have enclosed our catalogue of Christian rock and sermons on tape should you wish to donate further.

The credit card bill had come at the same time.

"This is your fault," Rodney's mother said. She pointed at Rodney's father with the cross in one hand and the damning bill in the other. "It's that school you insisted on!" Or, hey! Maybe it's the neglect!

"It's the Caravaggio excursion you insisted on," Rodney's father shouted. "I told you his use of light was too potent for an impressionable young mind. I told you we should have taken her to see the Paul Sandby-"

"Paul Sandby? You know how I feel about watercolour!"

"It's not the school," Jeannie interrupted from where she was perched up on the kitchen bench. She had a wooden spoon in her hands, and it was gradually becoming a solemn, bleeding face. "It's not the school and it's not Caravaggio. It's Reverend Love."

It turned out that Reverend Love was television evangelist who broadcast sermons three times a week. ("I told you we shouldn't have gotten a television," Rodney's father said). Jeannie mused that if only their mother had known her place, and stayed at home like a good wife should, Jeannie would never have discovered the truth about the Lord. God certainly worked in mysterious ways. This Jeannie is hilarious.

Rodney's mother threw out the television that same afternoon, and for the next few weekends, she and Jeannie and Rodney's dad visited the National Gallery of Canada, paying special attention to the Impressionists. Rodney stayed home and made a mini hovercraft. He was the envy of his mathletics club until Dobson Myer built a full-sized one for the science fair.



John's mother turned to religion while John's father was serving in Tehran. It was a short tour, so she didn't have time to do much more than stock up on saint cards and rosary beads and framed prints.

John's father didn't say anything when he got home, but when John came downstairs the next morning, all the Madonna and Child pictures were gone.

"Well, it was all a bit ostentatious, wasn't it," his mother said when he asked her later. "We don't need that sort of thing in this household." John's mom makes me really sad.



And back to John's POV.
 It becomes a joke between them - how little they have in common.

"Football," John says, apropos of nothing, "goes beyond sport. It's a game of myth."

Rodney rolls his eyes like he's heard it all before. "Oh please. Football is a game invented by grunting, pre-tool cavemen to while away the time between bear hunting and finger painting."

"Gladiators facing off against each other," John insists. He waves his peanut butter toast for emphasis. "The great mano a mano of our time."

"Hockey," Rodney says, leaning in and raising his voice as though that will help his misguided argument, "is poetry. Poetry with big sticks. And men sliding around with knives on their feet." He smiles and sighs as though he can't express the true beauty of hockey in mere words, then crams the last of his creamed beef on Spam on toast into his mouth. Oh god. Creamed beef on spam on toast? I've had plenty of creamed beef on toast in my time, and I suspect the only way to make it nastier is to slip some spam in there. Also, I bet the sauce is dripping all over his fingers and he's licking it off and it's making John's pro-football arguments incoherent. He's back in McMurdo today - to help welcome the new arrivals again, he said on the ride over. But, sitting at the breakfast table in their brand new coats, Chiang L. (China) and C. Russo (Ita) don't look like they feel very welcome. Or very well.

"Will... all the food be like this?" Chiang L. asks tentatively.

John grimaces. "Just wait till they run out of ketchup."

Rodney blinks out of his glazed state. "Don't even joke about that." A look of panic crosses his face. "They won't really run out of ketchup, will they? I mean. It lasts forever: tomatoes, vinegar, it's a vegetable. Oh hell-" He darts away. When he returns, he's tucking a squeeze bottle inside his coat. "What?" he says defensively when John looks at him. "Like you've never stolen a bottle of ketchup before."

"Well- Okay, I have," John admits. "But I was way more discreet." Hah! Awesome. Look, it's something they have in common!

John flies the three of them to SGA - Rodney up front with a can of Spam cradled protectively on his lap, Chiang and Russo in the back muttering unhappily to each other - probably about creamed meat and other perversions. What, is he going to hide the spam under his bed in case the mess runs out? Or do they not serve spam at the installation?

When they land, John gets out to help with the luggage. Rodney tips his head back against the seat like he's going to take a nap. "Check in with security over there," he says, waving imperiously. "I'm going back with Major Sheppard."

John rolls his eyes. "McKay." He leans into the open door. "I have to load up on some garbage before I go."

Rodney shrugs. "Okay." John looks at him. "Uh," Rodney adds reluctantly, "would you like some help?"

John grins. "You know what? I think I would." Way to call Rodney's bluff.



Rodney whines a whole bunch, but works surprisingly hard. He carts at least as much as John does, turning doggedly from the helicopter back to the storage shed back to the helicopter again. John starts to feel kind of guilty.

The guard at the shed looks amused as he ticks off each numbered canister. "Don't say a word," Rodney says to him. He tosses another canister into his trolley like it's a coke can. "What?" he says, when John winces.

"Just- There could be anything in there."

"Anything like empty coffee cans?"

"Like spent fuel rods. Asbestos."

Rodney laughs out loud. "Spent fuel rods? Asbestos? " Ok, I get John's nervousness, and I think it's valid. But...asbestos? Yeah. I'm with Rodney.

"You never know," John says. "Or hazardous chemicals."

"Well, obviously, I can't officially put your mind at ease, but-" Rodney shakes his head and chuckles. "Asbestos."

"Okay, shut up now," John says.

"Just let me know if you start breathing funny."

"I said shut up."

Rodney keeps making cracks for the next half hour ("You okay? Was that a cough?") By the time they're done, John doesn't feel guilty at all.

"So yeah," he says while Rodney's stacking the last of the canisters into his trolley. "I'm not actually scheduled to fly back here till Monday. What?" he says when Rodney glares, "I needed help - these things are heavy."

"But I didn't buy all the stuff I wanted," Rodney says. He doesn't stop stacking. Apparently, he's skipping past indignant anger and moving straight from whining into more whining. "What am I supposed to do when I run out of coffee?"

"You could ration yourself. Six a day maybe."

"Clearly you've never experienced caffeine withdrawal. And- why am I arguing? Flying people around is what you do - you're an air chauffeur. It's your job to take me."

"Funny." John tilts his head thoughtfully. "I'm pretty sure it's not my job to ferry you back and forth when you have the munchies."

Rodney blows out a breath - a little ball of fog in the cold. He's quiet for a moment. John waits patiently. "Okay, how about this," Rodney says. "Do me a favour and I'll do you one."

John has a vivid and unwanted image of Rodney on his knees, mouth dark and open. Oh my. He forcibly shunts it aside. "Oh really?" he says. He hopes he sounds at least a little disinterested.

"I can fix things - broken radios. CD players."

"Nothing I have is broken," John says. He starts shoving his own trolley towards the chopper. It's really freaking heavy. After a few feet, the wheels dig into the snow and stop turning. John walks around and kicks one of the front wheels. When he walks back, the thing still doesn't move. He grits his teeth in frustration. He suddenly wants Rodney to do something - anything - that Rodney would never choose to do. He wants Rodney to feel this frustrated. He turns around. "I'll take you to Mactown if you come hiking with me."

"Okay, that's just sadistic. Ask me for something reasonable."

John swallows. His throat feels dry. And he is sadistic. "I want a hiking buddy - take it or leave it."

Rodney stares at him for a long moment. "Fine," he says. I think it's right that this is in John's POV again, but I would really like to know what Rodney is thinking during this pause. I mean, I'll bet it's better for the story that we don't know, but...

John blinks in surprise. "Fine," he says. "I want to go now."

Rodney is still staring at him. "Fine."

John blinks some more. He feels like he's won something. He's not sure what. Rodney retires to his quarters to lick his wounds, and presumably, to change. John goes to sit in the pilot seat and ponder what the hell is wrong with him. He's never wanted a hiking buddy, let alone one who'll complain every second of the trip. Dude. You totally have the Weirds.

It's a long wait. John huddles in his coat. He contemplates flying back on his own. He looks at his watch. He looks at his watch again. He looks at it again.

Eventually, Rodney reappears wearing the puffiest, orangest parka ever stitched together by blind clothes makers. "Jeez, McKay," John says.

Rodney hands him a survival kit. It's bulging at the sides. "Just shut up."

On the flight to McMurdo, Rodney details his demands. "One hour of hiking. That's half an hour in one direction, and half an hour back. The sun sets at 1900 hours. That's in exactly six hours time, and by then I expect to be cosy and warm in my own quarters, sipping coffee, and eating one of my brand new, delicious power bars that you'll personally have bought for me. We don't stray a single step from the flagged route, and you don't touch my VHF radio. Also, if we fall down a crevasse, I will beat you to death and eat you." Rodney does not need to carry that copy of Alive!. He's got all the salient points well in mind.

John nods. It's a deal.



Half an hour each way is about enough time to get to Scott's Cross if they walk fairly fast. At the firehouse, John fills out the we're-going-hiking-and-if-we're-not-back-by-nightfall-we're-probably-dead form. Rodney adds his name and signs it. He hasn't said a word since he made John borrow one of the firehouse survival kits ("You can't possibly be carrying enough food in that backpack.") His mouth is a straight, grim line.

"Okay then," John says a little awkwardly. "Shall we?"

Outside, the sun is high and bright in the sky. Rodney slowly thaws under it.

"I haven't been outdoors in- well in an embarrassingly long time," he says. He sounds almost apologetic. He can't seem to stop looking around at the buildings and the snow and the sky. "I used to go walking a little," he adds. He takes off his woollen hat, and scrubs his hand through his hair. "There's a park near my apartment. I ate lunch there sometimes. Okay, once. I ate there once. But it was quite pleasant." I really like how Rodney relaxes in this scene, slowly opening up. Never forgetting that he's there under duress, since that gets him points against John, but still allowing himself to enjoy it.

By the time they get to the base of Observation Hill, the grim lines around Rodney's mouth have relaxed. He tears open one of his survival kit chocolate bars. "You should get me apple and walnut bars," he says with his mouth full. "And maybe cranberry and pecan."

"I prefer the apricot," John says.

Rodney swallows his mouthful. "I'm shocked by our divergent tastes."

Back in McMurdo, it had been almost too warm for a coat, but the wind picks up as they start to climb. Rodney stumbles and slips on the loose gravel and snow. "Oh yeah, I can see why this is a popular pastime," he says.

John grabs his wrist to steady him when he slips the second time. "Okay?" he says. Wrist-touching is kind of hot.

"Shut up, I'm thinking about coffee," Rodney snaps. He stops abruptly and sniffs the air. "Do you smell pollen?"

"We're in Antarctica."

"Because I'm allergic."

"We're in Antarctica."

"Ragweed pollen can travel up to 400 miles with the right winds."

"Will you just keep walking?" John says, exasperated.

"You're getting me some Mars Bars now too," Rodney says. He hoists himself higher. "Apple walnut," he mumbles to himself. "Pecan." I like the way that all of Rodney's negotiation happens after the fact, long after he agreed to John's initial terms. And I like how John just accepts it.

Higher up, the wind blows in heavy gusts that buffet them sideways. Volcanic rocks are strewn like litter. They pass the old nuclear reactor, and then it's all steep, steep climbing. There's snow everywhere now, and Rodney's panting more than talking. His cheeks are bright red. The wind makes his hair flutter crazily. He grins and holds out his hand to help John around a tricky boulder. "I can almost see the appeal of this," he gasps.

John grips his hand, and scrambles up. "Really?"

Rodney shakes his head. "No, I think you're completely insane." He lets go of John's hand, but he doesn't stop grinning until they get to the summit.

Up top, the wind dies down suddenly and miraculously. Rodney wipes his sleeve over his face. "I'm dead. But I'm in so much pain, I haven't realised it yet. You seriously do this for fun?"

John points wordlessly beyond the edge.

"Oh," Rodney says. He walks to where the ground ends in a sharp drop. "Oh wow." He turns a slow, wondering circle, staring out at McMurdo, Mt Erebus, Scott Base, and the white nothingness of the Ross Ice Shelf. White Island, Black Island. John's runway. Nothingness. More nothingness. McMurdo again. Mt Erebus.

"You should see it at dawn," John says. He knows he's smiling dopily. He doesn't care.

"Holy shit." Rodney laughs and shakes his head. "We're in Antarctica! God, we're in Antarctica!"

John smiles wider. He closes his eyes and tips his head back. The air feels like sandpaper. His fingertips ache with the cold. He loves this place. He thinks if he died here, he'd die happy. Perfect.



John isn't sure how long he stands there, mesmerised by the emptiness, but at some point he blinks and he's back on the ground. There's fog at his feet - thick enough and white enough to walk on. John has a moment of disorientation. He lurches forward a step, jerks back. The shadows are too dark, he thinks. The sky is too dark.

Rodney's looking at the cross now, fingering the inscription where it says, "To strive, to seek, to find and not to yield." He looks wistful. "Those early explorers were something, weren't they." This is the thing about Rodney - it isn't just science for him - it's discovery. But it's also the exploration part that makes it all worthwhile for him, and I think we saw that in The Return, both when he said that he likes being called on to save everyone at the eleventh hour, and when he's frustrated by his very safe, convenient, and polite lab in Nevada.

John nods. "Yeah, they were." His watch says 1600 hours. It's definitely too dark. "Uh, I may have some bad news," he starts to say, but Rodney's radio crackles to life before he can finish.

"Mac Ops... Weather..." it says.

The wind starts again suddenly like it's been on pause. Dry snow swirls around John's knees above the fog.

Rodney is already shaking his head. "I knew this was going to happen."

"You knew the radio was going to come on?"

"I knew we were going to die up here!" Ah, yes.

"We're not going to die," John says. "No one's ever died on Ob Hill." He looks around, assessing the terrain. "You're way more likely to get run over by a bus."

"Oh God, you're one of those people who says things like, 'you're more likely to get attacked by a cow than a shark.' Well I'll tell you. I'd rather get attacked by a cow. At least I'd have some chance of punching out Daisy's lights." Don't they say you're supposed to punch sharks? Or poke them in the eyes or something? Also, I'd hate to have to try to facepunch a cow. They're huge. And they have bony faces.

"...develop into...return to..." the radio says.

"I just wanted coffee," Rodney says. "And then I was going to spend the afternoon working. And maybe watching Kaminski's Incredible Hulk DVDs. You bribed me into coming up here."

"Hey, here's an idea. Let's get hell off this rock and you can do the blame thing later." John snatches the radio from him. "Put your hat on."

"How is putting my hat on going to help?"

John rolls his eyes. He clicks the radio. "Mac Ops, this is Sheppard. Please say again." He clicks the radio off. "Fine. Give me the hat, and I'll put it on over the hat I'm already wearing, and maybe I won't have to hear you talking."

The radio says: "...develop into Condition 2... suggest you return to Mac..."

"Roger that," John says. He shoves the radio into his backpack. "Come on."

"Wait, you rogered that? I didn't roger that."

"McKay," John says warningly.

"Okay, okay!" Rodney pulls his hat on, and starts scrambling to the trail.

They make it about half way with snow blowing faster and faster before the storm roars in for real

"Well," John says. "This just got interesting." He can't see below his knees. Rodney is a flash of orange and movement behind swirling white.

"Major," Rodney says. He sounds carefully not panicked.

"It's a white-out."

"I know what it is. What are we going to do? This could last hours. Days. We'll be dead from exposure before anyone finds us. If we don't fall down and break our necks first."

John bites his lip. He'd be fine if they were flying, but in a jet, he'd have instruments, radar. Right now, he isn't even sure which way he's facing let alone where the flagged route is. He takes a deep breath. "All right," he says. "We could climb up."

"Please tell me there's an 'or' coming."

"Or we could climb down."

"And door number three?"

"We stay here and hope it dies down."

"Door number four?"

John glares even though there's no way Rodney will see the glare. "There aren't an infinite number of doors."

"I'm really not a fan of the other three."

"I guess we could set up one of the tents."

"You know, I always thought I'd die in a car accident. Or maybe of a heart attack. This is so much worse."

"Or I could shove you off the edge right now."

"You know which way the edge is?"

"No."

"Then stop with the empty threats," Rodney says. "Let's get a damn tent up. I need a coffee so bad-"

"That you'd eat it out of the packet?"

"That you should seriously shut up and help me with the tent already." It's a sort of coping mechanism, being in this dire emergency and fixating on the need for coffee instead of the possibility of dying of hypothermia.



They could probably rebuild civilisation with the contents of Rodney's survival kit. A fairly nice civilisation actually, with video games and Tang. Ok, so you know John wants to make fun of Rodney's kit at great length. But then he couldn't use all the stuff inside. That has to be frustrating.

John finds a good, sharp knife and cuts off ten feet of parachute cord. "Just in case we lose each other," he says. He ties one end around Rodney's waist, and loops the other end around his own waist.

"Hey, that's ingenious. So when you fall off the edge, I will too." Well, yeah. Otherwise, whose corpse are you going to gnaw on, Rodney? It's important to stick together. Think ahead!

"So if I fall off the edge, you can drop down limp, and we'll both survive." John pulls the knot tight. It isn't easy with wet mittens. "Okay. I'm going to circle you. Hopefully, there'll be room to put up the tent right here."

"This really, really sucks."

"Just don't wander off," John tells him. "You're my anchor."

"Oh thank you, because I'm so stupid I didn't understand the concept of you circling me."

While John crawls around, feeling in front of him for cliff edges and crevasses, Rodney calls out helpful things like, "I'm eating one of the chocolate bars now" and "Aren't you glad I reminded you to bring a survival kit?" and "Can you get a move on? Man dying of exposure here." It feels like forever before John smacks headfirst into the stake he used to mark the beginning of the circle.

"We can set up the tent now," he shouts. He rubs his head. He suspects this is going to be a long day.

It takes another forever before they get the tent stakes hammered in and the tent put up - anchored with snow flukes, Rodney's snow saw, and the biggest mound of snow John can shovel on top. Then, John makes Rodney sit inside the tent and press against the base of the walls while John packs snow and gravel against the outside.

At the end of it, they collapse in the tent on the coldish ground sheet - John coughing up snow and dirt, Rodney staring blankly up at the ceiling. John hasn't felt like this since basic training.

They lie there for quite a while. At some point, the radio crackles. John fumbles it out of his pack. "Sheppard here," he mumbles.

"Major... you? Expected... ten minutes ago."

"Roger that, Mac Ops. We're stuck on Observation Hill. We're fine, though. Got a tent up - we're going to wait it out."

"Roger that... out."

John lets the radio fall out of his hand.

"We should take off our coats," Rodney says.

"Yup," John says.

"Maybe get out the sleeping bags."

"Good idea."

They lie there a while longer. John wonders whether he can light the cook stove in a little tent like this without poisoning them both.

"There was this episode of the Twilight Zone," Rodney says, interrupting his wondering, "where a man suddenly finds himself on a movie set. And he's playing himself in a film. His whole life is suddenly just a film. I only saw half of it, always wondered what happened at the end. I guess now I'll never know." And now, once they've got the tent up and are relatively safe, Rodney does his panicking.

John groans. "We're not going to die, Rodney." He sits up finally, and starts stripping off his wet gear. Mittens, coat, outer pants, shoes, socks. He wrestles his sleeping bag out of the kit and kicks it open.

Rodney sits up too, unbuttons his jacket. "Katabatic winds, Major. Antarctic winds with the force of a hurricane. They gather speed by rolling down mountains." Rodney knows too much random stuff for his own peace of mind.

"Seriously, the only way you're going to die today is if I kill you."

"We're on a mountain."

"We're on a hill, and in a couple of hours, we'll be off the hill and buying you Mars Bars. Also, I made a windbreak. We'll be fine."

"But how tight did you pack that snow?"

"Tight," John says. He roots around until he finds some dry socks and mittens. He climbs into his sleeping bag. "You think I can light the stove?"

"No vents, no spot detector." Rodney unrolls his own bag and crawls in. "The carbon monoxide would kill us both before the water even boiled. Oh man-" He makes a sound that's somewhere between a fuck-me-harder grunt and a moan. "Warm. Oh God, this is warm."

"That's what I thought," John says. He tries to ignore the porn noises. So at this point Rodney couldn't make a sound that John wouldn't interpret as a sex sound. Seriously, he can't breathe quietly without revving John up. They're sardines in a very small tin. Rodney's close enough to jerk him off, close enough to kiss. John rolls over so he's facing the wall, but if anything that's worse. He can hear Rodney breathing behind him. It's as intimate as if they were sharing a bed.

Rodney shifts and his knee pokes John's back and John feels it right down his spine. His breath catches. He imagines Rodney's mouth on the back of his neck. He squeezes his eyes shut. This isn't him, he thinks. His breath doesn't catch if he doesn't want it to. He doesn't think about things he doesn't want to. He breathes in, he breathes out. Nice and steady. After a moment, he's back in control. His breath is calm without him having to work for it. Oh, John. You are a marvel of compartmentalization. And any control you have is an illusion.

Behind him, Rodney makes a little rustling noise like maybe he's sliding a hand down his pants. And then a louder rustling noise like he might be jerking off. John can't take it. He rolls back over.

Rodney's sitting up in his sleeping bag, writing furiously on a notepad.

"What are you doing?" John says.

"Oh, just some stuff," Rodney says. He doesn't stop writing. The first page is already half covered with equations - nothing John recognises.

"Stuff?" John says. He's curious and unreasonably irritated and Rodney smells so goddamn fucking good. He's going nuts. He's losing it out here.

"Stuff that people might need. Stuff that shouldn't die with me. Do you mind? I really need to concentrate."

John closes his eyes. The writing/rustling sounds like jerking off again. He opens his eyes. Rodney shifts, nudging John's shoulder. John rides out the shiver of pleasure like he'd ride out pain in the middle of a mission. Rodney shifts again, bumping John's arm. He starts his next line of messy equations. He shifts and nudges, shifts and nudges.

John pulls his hands out of the sleeping bag, so he isn't tempted to brush them over his cock. If he could just- Rodney shifts nudges, shifts nudges, shifts nudges. John grinds his teeth. Every touch feels like a warm hand on his cock. He's being jerked off in water-torture increments. He could come from this, and it would take hours, weeks. This is horrifyingly sexy.

Rodney's pencil flies across the page. He doesn't hesitate or scratch anything out; just writes and writes and writes and flips to the next page, scrawling stuff that people might need, stuff that shouldn't die with him like he's writing a grocery list.

John can't look away, and it makes no sense - this infatuation. Rodney's nothing like John's type. Back home, John wouldn't look at Rodney twice in a crowd. He certainly wouldn't be lying here, enthralled by him, needing him. John doesn't need anyone.

He forces his gaze to the ceiling. He thinks: The four forces on an aircraft are lift, thrust, drag, and weight. Lift equals the coefficient times air density times velocity squared over two times the wing area. Thrust equals force over the mass flow-rate equals one plus the ratio of fuel-to-air times the exit velocity minus the free stream velocity. Drag equals the coefficient times air density times velocity squared over two times the reference area. Weight equals mass times gravitational acceleration.

He thinks: If an F/A-18A Hornet is cruising at 700mph...



 
L  
 =  CI x r x A x   V2
2
 
L  
 =  1.8 x 1.31 x 37.2 x   (1126540.8/3600)2
2		    =  4 294 826 newtons


When he turns his head, his mouth is right next to Rodney's thigh.

"Rodney," he says. I really want to suck your cock.

Rodney doesn't stop writing. He flips the page over, and writes: For background, see Gaul's work on stellar dynamics. "When I said I needed to concentrate, I of course meant please interrupt me whenever you feel like it."

His elbow knocks John's shoulder, and John's cock jerks in response. John bites off a grunt. He can't take it. He's so goddamn hard. He's losing his mind. "Stop!" he says. He sits up. "Stop. Stop."

Rodney stops, but only to roll his eyes at him. "You're bored already? I guess we could play tic tac toe. I mean, it would take up a page, so we'd be depriving humanity of an entire branch of sub-atomic physics, but if you really need some entertainment-"

John leans in and kisses him. Rodney makes a startled noise, and then they're really kissing and Rodney's mouth is hot and wet and open for him. And John's never been hungry like this before. He wraps his hands around the back of Rodney's neck, tips Rodney's head back so that the angle is better, so that John can take what he needs. He jerks back.

"Uh." Rodney's still holding the notepad. He looks dazed. "I- uh. Wow. That was-"

"I don't." John swallows. His throat feels rough. The storm outside fills the silence. "I don't have feelings like this." Oh god, poor John.

"You- Oh." Rodney quirks his mouth wryly. "Right." And now he does put down the notepad. Oh god, poor Rodney.

John has no idea what to say. Apparently neither does Rodney. They watch the dark silhouette of a snow-clump slide down the roof. John thinks he might be able to make it back to Mactown if it's just him. It couldn't be harder than sitting in this tiny freaking tent with the man he just kissed.

Rodney clears his throat. His mouth is a tight, unhappy line, and John wants to touch him so badly that he can feel Rodney's lips against his fingers like a phantom ache. "It occurs to me," Rodney says, "that in an awkward situation, being stuck in a small tent in the middle of a violent snowstorm could have some drawbacks."

John shakes his head. "I'm sorry."

"Yes. Well. You don't have feelings like this," Rodney says. He picks up his notepad, puts it down again. He isn't looking at John.

"No, I- I haven't had feelings like this. I haven't wanted this. In a long time," John grits out. The nudging wasn't torture. This is torture - this explaining himself. "And now I- I don't know." This is really good John, with thinking the worst thing is having to talk, particularly about his feelings.

Rodney doesn't answer, still doesn't look at him. The silence is unbearable. Then Rodney says, "Before I came here, I spent eleven months in Siberia. Yes, I know. But one afternoon, in the middle of a working day, I had a mini orgy with three lab techs on a frozen beach. There wasn't a storage closet or something handy? And, well firstly, you seriously don't want to know where I got frostbite. But secondly, it wasn't something I'd normally do. Well. I don't think so anyway - maybe I would except the opportunities don't arise." He pauses and smiles. "It was really quite something."

John digests this. "You think I have some kind of what- ice fever? Antarctic-induced temporary gayness?"

"How should I know?" Rodney says dismissively. "Do I look like a therapist? I'm just saying don't beat yourself up, Major. People sometimes do inexplicable things. That's why we don't make good science projects. Yeah, this is why Rodney has no patience with medicine. He doesn't see how it can work as science. As far as I'm concerned it never happened. I say - what gay kiss in the emergency snow shelter?"

"Oh well that's... very understanding of you."

Rodney waves a hand. "I might blackmail you into flying me around a few times. I'm only human."

John laughs a little shakily. "That. That would be fine." Rodney really is being a mensch about it all.

It makes sense for it to go down like this, John thinks, as Rodney recovers his notepad from under his coat and his pencil from under John's sleeping bag. When the storm ends, he'll take Rodney back to the weapon-in-progress. And two months from now, he'll ship out to Australia or Germany or Korea or the Gulf. And this will just be the time he went a little nuts out on the ice.

Rodney scratches out three equations he's just written. He has nice hands. "I'm so glad we were able to handle this like adults," he says.

John nods absently. "Me too."

"And I'm particularly impressed with myself," Rodney says. He crosses out another equation in the middle of writing it. "Because usually I'm a total slut." Holy Mary sweet mother of fuck.

God, John thinks. And if he had it together for a minute there, he's lost it again. Rodney as a slut. John's dick loves that idea - strains painfully against his briefs. John thinks: Rodney on his hands and knees, begging for it. Rodney working John's mouth with his cock, hands fisting John's hair.

And Rodney's saying, "-out of all the people who've come on to me, you're at least top three - maybe even top two - in terms of hotness. I mean, you're-" he shakes his head appreciatively. "You are really hot. You are really, really freaking hot, and-" He coughs. "Well anyway, it was for the best, because at this stage of my life, I really don't want to have to deal with someone who doesn't even know-"

John can't take it. "I want to suck your cock," he blurts out.

"-whether he likes men." Rodney says. He blinks - deer in headlights, and his pencil rolls out of his hand. "You- um." His eyes drop to John's mouth. Um. Yes.

John knows how to seduce someone. He smiles at them, he flirts with them. He takes them out to dinner. Now though, here, with Rodney, he has none of that finesse. This isn't seduction, this is blunt-force desperation. John's life is in danger here. Rodney needs to be brave, and fling himself upon John's body as though it were a live grenade.

Sweat trickles down the back of his neck. The tent is shivering and snow is pushing at the walls, but John feels hot all over. He can't breathe. "Rodney," he says. "I'd really-" He shapes the words, but his voice dries up. He tries again. "I want to suck you off. I can't stop thinking about all the ways I want to-"

"Okay," Rodney interrupts. His eyes are dark. He grimaces at John apologetically. "Told you I was easy." Right. Like there was another possible answer in this situation.

"Okay," John says - or thinks he says. Maybe he doesn't say anything. John is completely out of control from desperation. It's not that he's gone off the rails, he's just running on some sort of lust-driven auto-pilot. He's already kissing Rodney again - and God, been he's been starving for this. He slides his tongue into Rodney's mouth over and over and over until they're both breathing in hitching gasps. And John can't catch his breath, but he can't bring himself to stop. He whimpers in protest when Rodney pulls back.

"I uh." Rodney flushes. "If you want to- You'd better. Soon."

"Oh," John says. He huffs it into the side of Rodney's neck, pressing a grin against the same spot when Rodney shudders. And there - John gets some of his control back because Rodney gives him some power. Physically acknowledges that it isn't a one-way street.

"It's not that- Look, it's been a while," Rodney says a little defensively. And then tries to verbally take that power back, contradicting himself. It's all just so Rodney.

"Yeah?" John bites gently and that gets him a fantastic sighing noise. He turns Rodney's face and kisses him again before he can answer. He pulls back, and puts a gentle hand on Rodney's chest, presses him onto his back.

"God," Rodney says. He lifts his hips pleadingly. "Come on."

John works Rodney's fly open with the one hand. He flicks open a button, two buttons. Three. Eases him out. And he can't believe how much he needs this. How much he's missed the weight and heat and musk of another guy's cock. He can't help himself: he bends down and licks the head of it, eyes sliding closed ecstatically at Rodney's loud groan. He's going to come in his pants, he thinks.

When he glances back up, Rodney's staring at him, mouth parted, looking fascinated and maybe a little disbelieving. John grins up at him. Opens his mouth and slides down slow, slow, so Rodney can see exactly what he's getting. Rodney makes a choked noise, and John slides down deep as he can take it - a little deeper than that. His throat spasms and his eyes water, and he can already feel a twinge where his jaw is going to ache later, but even that feels fucking fantastic. He backs off and when he slides down again, he doesn't choke at all. Like riding a bike. The thing that is so great about this is the way that John is so joyfully turned on by it all, and the way that none of his worries are detracting from it.

He wants to draw this out - thinks he could suck cock all day. But Rodney's already groaning like he's going to die. Like he's been nursing that erection for a while. John sucks him and sucks him and it's so fucking perfect. This right here is heaven, he thinks - this hard dick working his throat. He comes moaning around Rodney's cock, humping Rodney's sleeping bag. And Rodney rides his moans, thrusting up into his mouth. Yeah. And John gives it all up, right back to Rodney. See? Nothing to be defensive about.

Rodney loses it pretty soon after that - pushes hard once, twice, three times. "Fuck," he gasps. "Fuck, fuck, fuck." He tips his head up, face tight, and then he's pulsing in John's throat.

They both lie there panting a while. Rodney stares at the ceiling. John stares at the wall. Eventua