Voyage par Mer

By Sealie

a Stargate Atlantis and Traders crossover.

Rating: PG
Spoilers: Voyage par Mer is set between the first and second season of Stargate: Atlantis and after the final series of Traders.
Betas: thanks to LKY, Lisa and Cindy.

Chapter One: Role Models

"McKay, I know that you're in there," John yelled through the door. He consulted the wadded up piece of paper on which he had written down the private home address that he had wheedled out of Elizabeth.

No one answered but the house didn’t feel empty.

"I've got Brut, chocolate and the long winded version of 'Return of the King'," he cajoled. “We deserve a celebration; we survived... Hey, it’s even imported chocolate."

A small voice asked, "What kind?"

"Lindt – the good stuff."

The door opened a crack and a single blue eye peered out. John wiggled the bar enticingly. He was rewarded by a clinking of the security chain and the door opened. Rodney looked more rumpled than usual; nervous blue eyes catalogued him before fixing firmly on the bar of chocolate. His hand came up and he nibbled on his index finger.

"Hi, Rodney," John said.

"Your right ear is more pointy than your left ear by a factor of 7.3 percent," he said around his fingers.

He shuffled nervously in his blue and white tennis shoes.

"You're not Rodney," John said unnecessarily. The stranger seemed a little bit shorter, somehow diminished.

"No." The doppelganger dropped his gaze to the floor. "I'm Grant. Grant Jansky, Rodney's cousin. My mother and Rodney's mother were twins and they were born 92.5 minutes apart on the twelfth and thirteenth of December 1942. So they had separate birthdays even though they were twins." He lifted his head a fraction and peered out under long eyelashes. "Who are you?"

"I'm John. John Sheppard," John said gently. "I work with Rodney at Cheyenne Mountain."

"Flyboy!" Grant flung his arms around John and hugged.

Automatically, John twitched to defend, but caught himself and settled for gingerly patting the stranger's back.

"Flyboy?" John drawled.

"Flyboy, pain in the ass, hero and best friend." Grant pulled away, pursed his lips tightly together and smiled.

"Really? Flyboy?" John smiled back at the man. "Is Rodney in?"

Grant shook his head emphatically. "He went out for Doritos and dips, and cheese in a tube, proper beer, and cherry flavoured coca cola and popcorn for the Flyboy – you!"

"Does that mean that I can come in?"

Suddenly discomforted, Grant rocked from foot to foot and the fingers bobbed back in his mouth. He shook his head rapidly from side to side.

"It's okay, I don't have to come in," John said gently.

"Rodney said not to let any strangers in," Grant explained earnestly.

"I'll sit on the step," John said easily.

"K’."

The door slammed in his face, and then, unexpectedly, popped back open. Faster than a pilot's reflexes, a hand snatched out and grabbed the chocolate and then the door slammed shut again. John froze for a breath, shell-shocked by a McKay on speed. Letting out a long, slow sigh, he pulled the second chocolate bar from his pocket and settled down on the step to wait.

~*~

John leaned back against the door, stretched his legs out across the sidewalk and basked in the afternoon sunlight. It sounded like Rodney had just stepped out for snacks so he probably wouldn't be long and, to be frank, leaving his cousin alone for a long time seemed like a bad idea.

"Whoa!" The door opened and he sprawled on his back over the threshold.

A bashfully smiling Grant stood over him. "I made cocoa with marshmallows." He held a mug. "Would you like some?"

"Love to." John grinned up at him; the shy smile was infectious. Grant thrust the cocoa in his face and John barely managed to catch it without spilling as he sat up.

Grant disappeared back into the house and returned with a similarly filled mug clasped carefully between his hands. In great deliberation, he set the mug on the step and then, unexpectedly, he squeezed in beside John.

"I like the white marshmallows more than the pink ones." Grant shuffled on his bottom until he was comfortable.

John contemplated the over-filled mug and mountain of marshmallow. He scooped a fingerful of the melting confectionary and slurped.

Grant giggled. He stuck his own finger in the cocoa.

"How long are you visiting Rodney?" John asked conversationally.

Grant consulted his marshmallow covered fingers. "For five more days, then I have to go home."

"And where's home?" John asked, thinking somewhere special.

"Gardner Ross in Toronto."

"Is that a --"

"It's an investment house and I'm the derivatives department -- the entire derivative consulting department. I construct algorithms to predict the flow of money. And before I came to visit Cousin Rodney they made me get a minion – I don't need a minion – to look after my accounts. But I wrote a programme to run the derivatives instead because I don't like Mr. Badler in my office – he's very loud and he talks behind people's back. He thinks I'm strange," he finished softly.

"That doesn't sound fair."

"He's scary – he pretends to be nice but behind his eyes he's nasty. I don't understand how people can do that." Grant nibbled again at his fingers. "He hides behind a mask and most people just see the mask." Guileless blue eyes peered at him.

"Perhaps," John said slowly, "people are more comfortable with the mask."

"I don't like masks."

"Masks are scary," John admitted.

"I'm afraid of lots of things. I've got Achluophobia, Acousticophobia, Agoraphobia, Apiphobia, Brontophobia, Bufonophobia, Catoptrophobia…"

Realising that the guy was going to go through the whole alphabet, John volunteered,

"I don't like clowns. They scare the crap out of me."

"An extreme fear of clowns is known as coulrophobia." Grant shook his head wisely. "That's why you don't like masks. Clowns have masks."

"Hello." Rodney stood over them, plastic shopping bag in hand.

"Rodney!" Grant bounced to his feet, in his haste the cocoa falling and spilling to the earth.

Rodney simply opened his arms and folded the guy in. He hooked his chin over Grant's shoulder and regarded John levelly.

"We were just getting to know each other," John said responding to the weighing expression. "There's a guy at his work, Mr. Badler, who's being nasty to him."

"Really?" Rodney pulled back and tried to look in Grant's eyes. Grant tucked his chin down. "Grant?" he said, chastising.

"Yes," Grant said to his chest.

"Is D'Arby still at the firm?"

"Now he is. He came back."

"K’." Rodney pulled him in tightly. "I'll call him."

Grant sagged into him, sighing happily.

~*~

"Without Grant, I probably wouldn't be as well socialised as I am," McKay's lips twisted in a travesty of smile. "He was my role model, my big brother."

John couldn't help but look at the funny little man who was trying to entice Rodney's cat from underneath the sofa with a strip of smoked salmon.

"Well, that explains a lot." Sheppard bit his lip the second the words escaped.

"Yeah, mental illness is always hysterical."

"Look, I'm sorry, it just came out." He lowered his voice. "What's the matter with him?"

"Bipolar, obsessive-compulsive, schizophrenia, autistic – take your pick. He's been diagnosed with all of them by the voodoo community and usually at the same time," McKay said with a twist of his lips.

"And he works at an investment bank?" John checked.

Rodney took a long draw from his bottle of Molson Beer. "Yes and he's good at his job."

"But…" John couldn't finish.

"He lives and breathes patterns. He can see them in a cornfield or a projection of coffee investments correlated with the North Atlantic Oscillation. He can predict a terrorist attacks from whole grain stock movements and orchids in Brazil."

"Why isn't he…?"

"Working for the government?" Rodney read his mind once again. "Grant doesn't do stress any more."

Jinx the cat had finally edged out from under the couch and was draped lovingly over Grant's lap accepting slivers of salmon as his due.

"I can hear you," Grant said singsong.

Rodney slipped off his chair, joining Grant on the floor. "I think Mr. Jinx likes you."

"I like him. He's purring." Grant pulled the cat up against his chest and, amazingly, it did not complain.

"Mr. Jinx has been staying with my next door neighbour but, you know, I think he'd be happier staying with you while I'm away."

"Really?" Grant's eyes lit up.

Rodney opened his arms again and Grant dove in for a hug. "You never used to let me hug you much. Why do you let me hug now?"

Rodney didn't answer.

~*~

Mr. Jinx and Grant were settled down for the night in Rodney's spare bedroom. Rodney and John lay sprawled on his lumpy settee, shoulders mashing together as it sagged, making decent inroads into their second six-pack of Molson.

"That was a nice thing to do."

"What?" Rodney said blurrily. Alcohol went straight to Rodney's head. John thought that it was pretty funny.

"Giving Mr. Jinx to your cousin."

"I should have last time, but there wasn't enough time. He wasn't doing too good and he was in Toronto. Everything moved too fast and then we were on Atlantis." A flush bled over Rodney’s cheekbones.

"Must have been difficult."

"What was?" Rodney snapped.

"Going away when your cousin wasn't very well," Sheppard said non-judgmentally, but Rodney didn't hear that.

The warmth at his side moved away. "Grant's not dependent – he's better when he's with his friends. I can't protect him all the time and he doesn't need it. I have a role – I'm needed on Atlantis. I didn't leave him alone. I made sure that provisions were made. Jeannie checks up on him."

"It's okay, Rodney," Sheppard said softly.

"He didn't get ill until he was about nineteen," Rodney suddenly said. He brushed tiredly at his forehead with the heel of his hand.

"What happened?"

"He was at Queen's University -- started early like I did. He understood people; he wasn't a freak. He'd always helped me, not with math and physics, but with people. He taught me the rules: 101 of understanding Homo sapiens. They don't always work but they're mostly useful," he mused ruefully. "But he became isolated, refused to talk to people, disordered, sometimes his thoughts didn't track. It was painful to watch. He managed but then the voices started when he was writing up his Ph.D.. He was in and out of institutions. When he was good, he was very good and when he was bad, he was very bad."

Sheppard cracked another Molson and handed it over. "Here."

"I ignored him," Rodney admitted, talking mainly to the bottle. "I couldn't face it. I didn't want it to happen to me. Like it was contagious or something."

"It's okay, Rodney," John said.

He laughed nastily. "Contagious. Right, idiot. I saw me in him and I ran away."

"Rodney?" John began.

Rodney felt silent. He flopped back on the settee and lost himself in the golden fizziness of his Molson.

John hunted for something to say, something to make it right; he could argue that Grant wasn't Rodney's responsibility and that he had his own life to lead. Yet, obviously, Rodney felt that he had let his cousin down.

"He's older than you, yeah?" John questioned.

"Couple of years."

"So you were pretty young when it started."

"Major. That is an excuse not a reason." Rodney shifted round on the couch to sit with legs crossed. "That was then and this is now. And 'now' my cousin is visiting."

The unsaid message was that: this topic is now over and will never be revisited.

"I think it's very nice that you're giving your cat to your cousin."

"Yes, it is very nice of me," Rodney said patronisingly. "It's also logical, when we return from Atlantis, I can kill two birds with one stone: visit my cat and Grant and Jeannie, since she's in the same city. It's perfect. Logical. Three birds with one stone."

"Okay." John held his bottle up and clinked it against Rodney's. "Here's to logical."

"And the next year on Atlantis."

John grinned. "Things to know, things find about and things to discover."

"And," Rodney said, a bright light in his eyes, "here's to progress."

Chapter two: House Call


Carson jogged up the steps leading up to Rodney's house. It was certainly a nice little house, he mused, with a tiny garden at the front and a path edged with carefully tendered perennials leading up to the door. Rodney sat cross-legged on the grass, fingers in the strip of earth around the lawn. He was teasing out a stringy weed. Beside him lay a tray filled with loamy soil. Pausing a moment, Carson watched as Rodney carefully placed the weed in one of the neatly dug indentations in the tray.

“Hullo, Rodney, what are you doing?” Carson grinned – he had never in his wildest imaginings pictured Rodney gardening, wearing baggy cargo pants, an appallingly colourful Hawaiian shirt with a giant red hibiscus plastered on the front and a knitted cable cardigan.

Rodney blinked up at him and screwed up his nose. The man smiled guilelessly and then quickly looked away. His left incisor was slightly misaligned. Carson registered that uncapped tooth in a mouth which was not quite as twisted to the left as he was familiar with.

“Rodney said I could weed if I really wanted to. But it seems a little unfair to dig them out of their home just because Rodney doesn’t like them.”

“Ah. Rodney never said that he had a twin?” Carson marvelled.

The gardener shrugged minutely and returned to his weed, tenderly patting the soil around its stem.

“I work with Rodney at Cheyenne Mountain,” Carson volunteered.

“Where are you from?” The stranger cocked his head to the side, listening.

“I’m from--”

“Highlander. Duncan McLeod of the Clan McLeod. Scotland?”

“Errr… from Scotland, yes, but not from the Highlands.” Carson stepped over the flowerbeds.

“I know Flyboy. He works with Rodney too. He brought me chocolate,” the man said out of the blue. “The good stuff; it’s better than Hershey’s.”

“Anything’s better than Hershey’s,” Carson said darkly. The stranger hunched up at the tone. Carson took in the nervously flickering eyes never quite settling on him and the way that the man’s fingers twisted, rubbing his knuckles and tweaking his nails. He seemed cognizant but slightly detached. On albeit a short observation, the man seemed to have compensatory behaviours characteristic of a high functioning autistic person. Carson extended his hand, taking his time and moving carefully. “My name’s Carson Beckett.”

The man looked up at the hand and then glanced away, fixating on the grass under his crossed legs. “You’re the doctor.”

“Yes, I am. I’m a medical doctor and I have a Ph.D. in genetics.”

“My genetics are all right. You can’t have them.” He shuffled away on his bottom tucking his hands under his armpits, but he kept watch on Carson out of the corner of his eye.

“Ah.” Carson found a smile. “I understand. Is Rodney in?”

“He’s taking a nap. He said he was tired. He said his body clock said it was the middle of the night.”

Carson glanced at his watch, which was still set to Greenwich Mean Time. He had slipped neatly back into the twenty four hour clock, since back at home in Scotland night and day nearly matched the Atlantean rhythm. Returning to Colorado meant that it was really early in the morning and he wanted his bed.

“Oh, well, never mind. Will you tell him that I popped ‘round?”

“You should see him,” the stranger suddenly said out of the corner of his mouth.

“And why’s that?” Carson crouched.

Rodney’s cousin or brother -- Carson wondered -- scrambled to his feet putting a body length of distance between them. The man definitely didn’t like doctors, Carson noted ruefully.

“Rodney has a headache. He had a headache yesterday – like bands of metal caught in a vice around his forehead.”

“Really?”

“Yes. But I’m fine. Honest.” He nodded fervently. “I don’t need to see a doctor. But Rodney’s got a bad headache.”

“Okay.” Carson stood. “I’ll check on him.”

“The door’s open. I didn’t lock it. I have a key, but I was only going to the yard so I didn’t need to lock the door. But I have a key in case I got locked out.” He bounced on his toes, rocking to the left then the right to look around Carson. “Where is your black medical bag?”

“I don’t have a black medical bag,” Carson said easily, holding up his hands. “I have a backpack and occasionally I have a briefcase or two when I’m at work but I’m on holiday. I can still check on Rodney, though.”

“Oh, okay.” The man darted around Carson, reaching the door with a hop, skip and a bounce. As soon as he touched the door, the manic energy drained away. Carefully, ever so carefully, he opened the door. He raised a finger to his lips. “It’s a bad headache so we have to be quiet.”

“Son, a second.” Carson raised his hand. “I told you my name’s Carson. What’s yours?”

“Why? Why do you want to know?” He cocked his head to the side and scrutinised Carson as if he were reading answers written on his face. It was the first time that he had faced Carson directly.

“It’s just polite. I can’t call you ‘hey you’. I might need to ask you to get something for Rodney.”

Face screwed up and dismissing the question, the man crept into the house. Carson tiptoed behind the funny, little cavorting man. The interior was as he had imagined it. Rodney had filled it from floor to ceiling with books. That Rodney had kept this sanctum even though they had travelled billions of light years, spoke profoundly of inherent need for security. The house was warm, overly so, and migraine dark.

Rodney lay lengthwise along the sofa, arms straight by his side. Carson cracked a smile, the man always slept like he was in a coffin. Rodney snored, wuffling softly in the back of his throat.

As Carson set himself on the coffee table by the side of the couch, Rodney’s double shuffled uneasily by the arm, a whisper away from Rodney’s head.

“Grant,” he said suddenly. “Grant.”

“I’m sorry?” Carson asked softly.

“My name: Grant.”

“Oh.” Carson smiled. “Pleased to meet you.”

Grant smiled back bashfully and then looked at the floor.

Carson turned his attention to his possible patient. “Rodney?” he said softly.

Rodney screwed up his nose. With the utmost care, Grant brushed a finger tip over Rodney’s temple.

“I used to do this when he was a baby,” he confided, “when he was waking up. It stopped him crying.”

“You looked after Rodney?” Carson asked.

“Babysat? Toddlersat?” Grant grinned toothily. “Rodney’s my little cousin, he was my responsibility. When Auntie Ruthie and Uncle were fighting, someone had to look after him. Jeannie used run out and go and play with her friends, but I was too small and Rodney was very small… to have friends.” He drew tiny circles on Rodney’s temple. “Except us. Each other.”

Rodney mumbled and turned into the caress as the gentle wing of his eyebrow was mapped.

“Come on, Rodney, wakey, wakey,” Carson cajoled.

“Grant?” Rodney blinked sleepily.

“He liked having his tummy rubbed too,” Grant confided.

“Well, we’ll give that a miss,” Carson said with a smile.

“Carson? What? Eh?” Rodney sat up, awake and pissy.

“Should have rubbed his tummy,” Grant observed.

Rodney groaned massively and rubbed the deep line between his eyebrows.

“Oh, that is a doozy of a headache, isn’t it,” Carson observed.

“Where did you get your degree from?” Rodney growled. “Kellogg’s breakfast cereal box?”

“Hey.” Carson caught his wrist and catalogued the pulse. A little bit fast, working too hard, for someone just awoken. Rodney was pale, pale as a bleached dishrag. “Grant said you had a headache. Had one for a few days.”

Rodney grimaced. “I can’t shift it. Paracetamol, Ibuprofen… I even resorted to Excedrin. Evenly spaced,” he added cutting off Carson’s next question at the knees.

“Describe it,” Carson ordered.

“Nasty. Like a band over my forehead and it’s tightening. It’s a brain tumour, isn’t it?”

Carson caught Rodney’s face between his hands and peered in his eyes. “Calm. Calm.” He sniffed. “You’ve thrown up, haven’t you?”

Rodney turned even pastier at the thought. “Once, twice, three times this morning. I lost count.”

Carson gently pinched the skin on the back of Rodney’s hand, lifting it and then watching it ever so slowly ease back. And, most worryingly, for an ill Rodney he didn’t complain.

“Grant?” Carson began.

Grant was watching them with wide eyes. He was nibbling on his thumbnail.

“Grant,” Carson said again. “Have you had a headache? I need to know, it will help Rodney.”

Slowly, Grant nodded and then more emphatically: yes.

“Just today or a few days?”

Grant pulled his thumb from his mouth and slowly extended two fingers

“And you’ve been gardening a lot while Rodney’s been feeling poorly? The garden looks lovely, by the way.”

Grant nodded.

“Okay, right, we’re going to--,” Carson thought quickly: he didn’t know Colorado Springs that well since he had been based at Area 51 and Antarctica; he factored in driving in a strange area on the wrong side of the road; knowing his destination; the presence of known, knowledgeable, competent staff; he knew what equipment was readily available and the miniscule possibility that it was infectious and related to off world activities. “--we’re going to the SGC and the infirmary.”

“What!” Rodney said stridently. “We can’t take Grant to the SGC.”

“Under my medical recommendation, we can,” Carson said strongly, but he softened his tone. “Grant?”

“Uhuh?”

“Would you like to get your… uhm… comfort toy, if you have such a thing, and a book?”

“He’s not a moron,” Rodney growled.

“Rodney,” Carson said quellingly. “Is there something that Grant should bring with us to the SGC?”

“Grant--” Rodney rubbed his forehead, hard, “--get your blanket. We’re going to see where I work when I’m in the United States.”

For a heartbeat it looked like Grant was going to balk, but abruptly he spun away.

“What’s the matter with us, Carson?” Rodney demanded. “I guessed it was the ‘flu or something.”

“Probably is just the ‘flu, but let’s just err on the safe side shall we?” Deftly, he helped a pale and sweaty Rodney to his feet. “Slippers?”

“What?” Rodney swallowed harshly.

“Uhm, you call ‘em houseshoes?”

“Oh yeah, I know.” Rodney used his toes to pull out a pair of slippers from under the sofa. Once Rodney had pushed his feet into them, Carson carefully shepherded him to the door.

“I can’t go like this!” Rodney gestured at his ratty old, faded sweat shirt and baggy trousers.

“I’m going to have you in a medical gown inside of thirty minutes, so I wouldn’t let it bother you.” Carson patted his back. “Now, where are your door keys and wallet?”

~*~

“Both hands on the wheel!” Rodney insisted, eyes firmly closed as he hunched over the plastic shopping bag in his lap.

Carson fired an annoyed glare at the man -- backseat driver even with his eyes closed -- as he manhandled the silly automatic car towards Cheyenne Mountain and kept up a conversation with Dr. Lam on his cell phone. Grant was rocking, silently in the back, securely buckled in and the door child locks engaged.

He tossed his cell phone into the passenger’s footwell as he headed up the road to the Cheyenne complex. Carson breathed a sigh of relief as he pulled up to the security booth. Three SFPs stood at the barrier. Carson had his security clearance card and Rodney’s on his lap. He pushed them up against the side window, but did not roll it down.

“And the passenger, Dr. Beckett?” the SFP asked.

“Mr. Grant Jansky, Dr. McKay’s cousin – he also needs to be checked out.”

The SFP waved them through. “Dr. Lam is waiting by the main entrance.”

“Thank you.” Carson scowled at the gear stick checking it was still in ‘D’ mode before pressing on the accelerator. He hated automatics; gear driven cars were much more responsive. He peeled through the open gate and headed straight for the tunnel, focussed on reaching the second security gate and medical aid. It was a straight drive from A to B, he picked up a little bit too much speed.

A hundred meters inside the tunnel, Carson slammed the brakes on and skidded to a halt next to the medical team. Reaching over he popped open Rodney’s door. Lam was waiting for him with a nonrebreather mask supplying 100% oxygen.

“What?” Rodney protested, flailing, as it was fitted over his nose and mouth.

“Just relax, Rodney,” Carson directed, catching his hand as it reached for the mask.

“What’s happening?” Grant demanded loudly. He fumbled at his seatbelt.

Carson turned, focusing on his second patient. “This is Dr. Lam, she’s a friend and a lovely person. She’ll be looking after your Rodney.”

Grant’s eyes darted nervously cataloging the high tunnel overhead, the many people now ringing the car and the actinic bright lights. Carson quickly checked that Dr. Lam had Rodney in hand and then scrambled out of the driver’s seat and opened the passenger door. Body checking Grant, he kept him in the car. The last thing he wanted was the man bolting and being taken down by an over enthusiastic marine.

“Hey, hey,” Carson soothed. Another member of the SGC medical staff joined him on the driver’s side of the car, squatting and unfurling a mask with an oxygen canister. Focused mainly on Rodney’s cousin, Carson raised a hand, warding the young woman off. She retreated obediently, moving out of Grant’s line of sight.

“I want Rodney,” Grant demanded.

Rodney yanked off his mask. “Grant, do what Carson tells you to. We’ll be together. Carson won’t separate us. Will you?” Rodney finished with a glare.

“Come on, Grant.” Carson opened his hands, palms up.

Grant breathed in and out harshly.

“We need to go with Rodney,” Carson cajoled, waiting.

Hesitantly, Grant placed his own long fingered hand on Carson’s, and then, balled up blanket clutched to his chest, slowly clambered out of the car.

“We’re going to use the wheelchair.” Carson waved the second nurse waiting at the back of the car forwards. “I know you probably don’t need one.” He smiled reassuringly as he guided Grant into the chair.

Grant swallowed nervously and scrunched up tightly into a ball. Carson took the mask from the woman and checked it and the canister.

“Wait. Wait. Wait.” Rodney demanded from the other side of the blue Taurus. “Not until Grant’s ready.”

“This is a mask. It’s got oxygen in it. You breathe through it.” Carson held the plastic face-piece a hairsbreadth over his own face demonstrating. “Rodney has one. You get to have one.”

Grant took the mask and cautiously held it over his face. He looked up begging for reassurance.

“Excellent.” Carson patted his knee. “Right, let’s go for a little ride.”

~*~


“I want: CBC; venous carboxyhemoglobin and arterial blood gases -- double check the lactic acidosis results,” Carson ordered as Rodney was transferred to a bed.

Rodney glared at all and sundry as two burly nurses descended on him.

“I want one litre normal saline at seventy five ml per hour,” Carson followed up as he helped Grant onto another treatment bed.

“Yes, Dr. Beckett,” the largest nurse said in a surprisingly quiet voice, for such a large man.

“You have base’s hyperbaric chamber ready?” Carson asked Dr. Lam.

“Yes, as soon as the diagnosis is confirmed,” Dr. Lam said flatly. “I concur that an infectious agent is unlikely; it would have a curious incubation period. Perhaps a spinal tap is in order.”

“Let’s get the CBC and the COHb results first, shall we.” Carson chanced a shy smile at his fellow physician, who seemed to be glaring at him a tad defensively.

“Of course.”

Carson clicked his fingers at the nurse dealing with Rodney. “I want a fingerstick glucose test; we need to rule out hypoglycemia complications.”

“Ow!” Rodney wrenched his hand away from the nurse trying to insert a needle in his wrist and suddenly Carson had his hands full with a panicking Grant bolting off his bed.

“Ssshh. Ssssh.” Carson tried to corral the man, but in a move worthy of any rugby winger, Grant ducked and dodged around him. The harsh sounds of his distressed breathing echoed around the room. Scrambling across the floor, Grant fetched up in the corner of the room. Spinning around, he then scurried along side the wall, knocking over an EKG unit and a tray of supplies to the floor in his panic.

“Rodney!” Grant begged.

Rodney swore loudly and tried get away from under the mask and the nurses prepping him for an IV and multiple blood tests.

“Calm!” an unfamiliar voice boomed.

Everyone froze, including Grant. A General stood silhouetted in the infirmary door way, tall and a larger presence than his girth, he commanded respect. A skinnier, taller, newly minted Lieutenant-Colonel stepped out from behind the general.

“Hey, Squirrel.” Sheppard held an arm out and Grant arrowed under the limb as if shot from a cannon. Rocking under Grant’s heavier weight, Sheppard simply wrapped an arm around his shoulders and held him. Then he shrugged and cocked a smile at the General, but he didn’t let go.

“Major Sheppard, I’m bloody well glad to see you,” Carson said.

“Hey, Carson, what’s up? I got a call saying I should come to the infirmary. And you were bringing in Dr. McKay and Grant, here.”

“Yes, Grant told me that you’d been visiting,” Carson said. “I just need to check you, just in case.”

Rodney sat on his gurney, legs hanging over the side, grimacing as he held the nonrebreather mask over his nose and mouth. The detritus of his own, failed, escape attempt lay about him – discarded IV port and abandoned blood pressure cuff. The burly nurse had a firm grip on his wrist and was attempting to reinsert a needle. Leaning tiredly, with his shirt pushed up over his shoulders, Dr. Lam was behind him listening to his lungs.

“Carson thinks that we’ve got carbon monoxide poisoning,” he grumbled under the mask. “Judging from the tests he’s got lined up.”

“I think that it’s a good possibility,” Carson clarified, “but let’s see the COHb results first.”

Sheppard nodded at the bed and then looked pointedly at Grant clinging to him like a limpet. Carson nodded.

“Come on, Squirrel, we need to get you and Rodney checked out.” Waddling somewhat, he managed to sit on a gurney with Grant still attached.

Carson smiled until he felt his dimples. “So how’s about I take some blood from Major – sorry – Lieutenant-Colonel Sheppard, first, so you can see that there’s nothing to worry about, Grant.”

Sheppard rolled his eyes heavenward, but proffered his arm without a word of complaint.

~*~

The door closed on the hyperbaric chamber, sealing in Rodney, Grant, John and the unit’s trained medic inside. Carson peered through the round, double glazed window and wiggled his fingers. Grant waved shyly back at him. Two bunks were set on either side of the Winnebago sized unit. Rodney lay on one, eyes tightly closed and palm splayed over his face. John and Grant sat on the opposite bunk. John already looked a little bored. The technician stood to check the chamber’s internal systems. Grant watched intrigued, fingers twitching as a laptop was powered up.

“Dr. Beckett,” General Landry said soberly, “a word?”

Slowly, Carson turned from the window. “Yes, sir?”

“I wonder whether breaking security protocols and bringing Mr. Jansky to the SGC was really necessary?”

Carson straightened. “Yes,” he said simply.

“Would you care to explain? Dr. Lam tells me that it was highly unlikely that this was a contagion from the Pegasus Galaxy.”

“Well, if you’d spent any time there, you’d know that anything is possible in the Pegasus Galaxy.” He smiled softening the criticism. “To be frank, your Dr. Lam is correct that the risk was minimal: all personal had been thoroughly checked before going off base after we’d returned from Atlantis. If it was an infectious agent it had a peculiar incubation period to affect both Dr. McKay after a prolonged period and then Grant in a matter of days. But it was entirely possibly that we were dealing with a pathogen which had been previously dormant.”

“But you suspected carbon monoxide poisoning from the outset.”

“After Rodney described his headache: yes. His house is rather old. The heating hadn’t been used for over a year. Grant showed similar signs, but reduced, because he had been working outside.”

“So why bring them here?” Landry said neutrally.

Carson reached back and patted the hyperbaric chamber. “I knew that this was here. Carbon monoxide poisoning can be quite insidious and research suggests that the intracellular uptake of carbon monoxide is a mechanism for neurological damage.” It behooved Carson to continue justifying his decision as Landry folded his arms over his chest and met the detail with a stoic expression. “Rodney also has a tendency to hyperglycaemia which can exacerbate central nervous system damage due carbon monoxide poisoning. Rodney presented with a COHb of thirty six percent which is quite serious. Hyperbaric oxygen therapy has been shown to significantly reduce the risk of cognitive problems further down the line.”

“The man’s intellect is a national treasure,” Landry said dryly.

Carson put his finger to his lips. “Don’t let Rodney hear you say that. We’d never hear the end of it.”

“He’s lucky that you dropped by.”

“Aye, that he is.” Carson smiled sublimely.

“Okay, Dr. Beckett.” Humming introspectively under his breath, General Landry took his leave with a respectful nod.

Carson peered back through the window. It wasn’t necessary for Grant and John to be tucked up inside the chamber, but it would prevent both Grant and Rodney from panicking and it kept them all corralled where he could keep an eye on them.

Satisfied on many levels, Carson smiled.

~*~



“How are you feeling, Rodney?” John asked.

Rodney lay on the lower bunk, stretched out and an IV stuck in the back of his hand. He cracked open an eye. “I’m dy--,” he spotted his cousin, “--much better, thank you.”

“We’ll be doing three hyperbaric treatments evenly spread over a twenty-four hour period,” the medic monitoring Rodney’s pulse suddenly spoke, his voice loud in the chamber. Pushing frameless glasses up his nose, he made note of the readings from the bank of gauges above Rodney’s head.

“What pressure?” Rodney snapped.

“We’ll only be increasing the pressure to twice normal atmospheric pressure.” The young man moved to the back of the chamber.

Rodney scowled at the words and looked like he was going to pontificate on the use of hyperbaric oxygen therapy.

“You look much better, Rodney. You’ve got some colour,” John noted quickly.

“Thank you for that observation.” Rodney thudded his head back on his pillow.

“Dr. McKay.” The medic returned with a transparent plastic hood. “We need place this over your head to ensure that you receive a hundred percent oxygen.”

“Get me some more pillows,” Rodney dictated.

“That’s not necessary, sir.” The head of the bunk ratcheted up and Rodney gracelessly submitted to having what amounted to a plastic bag attached to a hose placed over his head.

“Hey, Grant, how are you doing?” John asked.

Grant unfurled from his ball at the far end of their shared bunk. “Today’s just been a little bit too stressful. I don’t like it.”

“Look on the bright side, Grant,” John smiled winningly. “If you hadn’t been rescuing the weeds yesterday and today, you would have needed to try that fetching hood.”

Grant brightened, but then mercurially shifted mood and asked, “What about Mr. Jinx?”

“What? Rodney’s cat?”

“Do cats get carbon monoxide poisoning?”

John almost shrugged and managed not to roll his eyes. “I guess so, but Mr. Jinx probably was out most of the day. He goes out, doesn’t he?”

Grant nodded wisely. “He seems fine. But he’s sleeping so I can’t tell.”

“What?”

Grant carefully opened the balled up blanket that he had kept close through the whole ordeal to reveal a – John hoped – peacefully sleeping Mr. Jinx.

“Oh, uhm.” Dreading that Grant was carrying around a smothered, dead cat, John carefully stroked Jinx’s head and side. Grant blinked up at him, waiting for him to make it all right. John continued to keep up the smile as he waited for a sign, any sign.

The tiny ribs moved and John felt a cat-fast heartbeat against his fingertips.

“Mr. Jinx is fine, Grant,” John said honestly.

Grant beamed like he had been given Christmas and Easter both at once.

“That really shouldn’t be in here,” the medic said.

John glanced at the horrified looking medic and shrugged puckishly. “I guess he’s here for the duration – it’s not like we can open the door.”

“Hey,” Rodney said absently, waving a finger idly in the air, “leastwise it’s Grant and Jinx. It could have been my cousin Emmett and Betty.”

Grant nodded enthusiastically. “You never know what kind of creature Emmett’s got tucked down his pants.”

John crossed his legs automatically.

Rodney mumbled, “Grant’s exaggerating, it’s normally a snake.”

John shook his head, the McKay family were pretty weird.

Chapter three: Chocolate enticement


Grant snuck out of the SGC infirmary bathroom, crossed the expanse of the ward and dove back into bed.

Safe.

He burrowed under the blankets and pulled them up to his chin. The angry lady -- Dr. Lam -- was talking to the general on the other side of the infirmary. Her arms were crossed over her chest and her chin was raised. The general looked directly at her when he talked, not the slightest distraction in his gaze. The edges of the general’s aura gingerly extended, wanting to intersect with the colourless spiky edges of Dr. Lam’s aura, but her razor sharp edges made him flare blood-red with every careful probe.

“Yes, sir,” she said flatly.

The boundaries of General Landry’s aura retracted so fast that Grant winced. He clasped his hands over his ears and shifted his focus to his cousin. Rodney was on the bed next to Grant’s. Under a pile of blankets, Rodney was an unformed huddle of comfort. The hand with a sharp IV stuck in its back was curled by his face, so it looked as if he was nibbling on his fingertips. Mr. Jinx was wrapped, head around tail, in the hollow formed behind Rodney’s bent knees. They both looked content.

Grant smiled.

A clatter jerked his attention away from Rodney. Four nurses in painfully bright, white uniforms rolled a gurney into the infirmary. Dr. Lam raced forward calling out instructions. Another two soldiers entered with a bleeding man slung between them.

Grant had had enough; everyone was a little bit too spiky. His skin was starting to prickle. He kicked off the blanket and set his bare feet on the cold floor. That was nasty. Slithering off the bed, he settled before the tiny bedside cabinet. The change of clothes that Flyboy had brought him were carefully folded and set neatly on the top shelf. Grant pulled on Rodney’s favourite blue fleece over his white scrub top. Grabbing his wallet, he stuffed it in the front pocket. His scrub trousers were too thin, so he kicked them off and pulled on a brand new pair of jeans. The folds were sharp like the edges of a tightly nipped piece of paper. Grant lay on the floor and pulled them over his hips. Hordes of feet on the other side of Rodney’s bed rushed back and forth, stamp, stomp, skid, pattern-less and painful. Grant shivered. He grabbed a white pair of sneakers, tucked his hands in them and crawled under the bed, alongside the wall. Edging around banks of equipment, he slowly made his way to the open doorway. On hands and knees, ever so carefully placing the sneakers one after another, he snuck behind the man watching Dr. Lam. The man stood tall with a gun hanging off the carabineer on his waistcoat of clips and fasteners.

Grant’s thoughts fractured and repaired.

Outside the infirmary on the floor were lines of colour radiating away. The yellow one turned down the left hand corridor, the green one went right and the red one went straight ahead.

Slowly, Grant stood. He dropped his shoes to the floor and inserted his long toes in -- wiggling until one foot was settled. Grant contemplated the colours. Yellow, red and green. No blue, he noted. He liked blue. Red sometimes was angry. But it also was vibrant and full of life.

Grant toed on his other shoe and walked forwards.

Red was important. He was careful to stay within the line, placing one foot precisely in front of the other ensuring that he didn’t fall off the edges. Someone laughed at him, but he was used to that, as he picked his way towards the line’s destination. The right angled turns were a bit hard to navigate.

“Dr. McKay?”

Grant lifted his head from the contemplation of the line of red. A lot of people seemed to confuse him with Rodney. Some people just didn’t know how to look closely.

“Grant.”

“Yes, sir, I got the grant.”

Vaguely, Grant registered warm brown eyes and a mop of startling wild curly hair which had been tamed into tessellating hexagonal braids. More interesting was the laptop that the man angled towards him.

“We’ve been running a parallel series diagnostic on the Stargate trying to incorporate the presupposed redundancies that Colonel Carter found necessary to overlook when first initialising the Stargate to see if it is the source of an identified error.” The man took a deep breath. “I was coming to see you in the infirmary. I thought you were in the infirmary?”

Grant’s fingers twitched and he reached for the laptop. Braid man released the laptop without hesitation. Bracing the laptop on his forearm as carefully as holding a vulnerable baby’s neck, Grant squinted at the streams of numbers.

“Bad, bad. Hmmm.” Grant let his fingers tap over the keys, checking the laptop’s programs. A few key strikes opened a visual representation of the data stream. It was incomplete, unformed. “There’s not enough processing power in this computer.”

The man stuttered. “I know… I was uhm… I thought it best to bring this to… We could go to the Cray, the data’s uploaded.”

“Cray?” Grant rocked from foot to foot eagerly.

“Uhm… yeah, we have Cray X-0A. We updated the serial Cray X 1E. It’s a petascale Cray.”

Visions of chocolate danced through Grant’s head. “Where is it?”


~*~

Carter entered the Stargate control room as the event horizon settled in the gate room below. Walter was leaning back on his chair watching McKay and Dr. Storey working at the bank of Cray computers along the left hand side wall, or more accurately Dr. Storey was watching McKay opened mouthed.

“Solved!” Gleefully, McKay leaped to the Cray dual keyboard interface and, with the virtuoso of the pianist he once professed to aspire too, began to programme.

Carter raised her chin to better focus from a distance on the Cray screen. It appeared that McKay was using Python 2.4.2. with a few personal programming language quirks thrown in for good measure.

“Ma’am.” Walter held up a clipboard with a hard copy of the last hour’s activity report.

Carter glanced through the line of numbers showing the primary data stream, immediately registering the glitch that Dr. Storey had been charged with identifying. She leaned over Walter and consulted the real time data stream on the monitor to check the glitch, which smoothed before her eyes.

It appeared that McKay was helping the younger scientist. It struck Carter as a bit uncharacteristic.

McKay stepped back from the Cray and cocked his head to the side. He muttered disconnectedly under this breath. Carter couldn’t make out the words. A perplexed expression crossed McKay’s face and he executed a long limbed crab walk to the right and another which brought him directly before the main windows which looked down on the Stargate.

“Discrete wavelets,” he announced. “Einstein-Rosen bridge.”

“McKay? Are you all right?” Carter asked.

McKay glanced back at the Cray, the laptop that Dr. Storey held and then back to the initiated Stargate. SG-15 walked through the event horizon into the embarkation room.

“Why haven’t they frozen to death?”

“Because the stage modulations of their component atoms are artificially vibrated so that they do not approach absolute zero,” Carter supplied automatically. “Which you knew already.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Yes, you do.”

“No, I don’t.”

“Yes, you do.”

“No, I don’t.”

“You’re such a…” Carter focussed on the man, he was crouched in on himself, hands curled up to his chest, head canted to the side as he watched her through impossibly long eyelashes.

“Hello.” A shy smile crossed his face.

“Who the hell are you?” Carter automatically reached for her field issued Beretta, which of course was not holstered at her side. The three security officers stationed throughout the control room responded to her movement, unslinging their SIG P-226s and aiming at the intruder with satisfying speed and precision. “Sergeant Pritchett. Arrest this man.”

“No! No… no.” The alien metamorph, camouflaged goa’uld (possibly even wraith) or human with a chameleon device backed up rapidly, hands outstretched. His eyes darted to the left and right, hunting for an escape. “Braids invited me.”

Walter reached for the SCC intercom and made a station wide announcement of a possible alien incursion in the control room. Sirens wailed.

“On the floor.” Sergeant Pritchett took a measured step forward, moving threateningly but staying outside the reach of the intruder.

“I’m Grant. I’m Grant. I’m not Rodney!” the man squealed. He jerked towards the exit.

Carter made an instant decision. “Contain him.”

Pritchett took the stranger down like a ton of bricks, face planted on the floor in the space of a heartbeat. The sergeant’s arm lock immobilised him. The other two security staff kept their weapons trained on the man.

“Search him,” Carter ordered.

Pritchett hauled the man to his feet and then nodded at his fellow airman, who checking that the third guard kept them covered, proficiently patted the intruder. Peculiarly, once firmly contained, the man seemed to relax in the Pritchett’s tight grasp.

“Ma’am.” The security officer passed over a wallet.

Three other airmen entered the control room, scoping the situation they stood at the fringes waiting for orders from the officer in charge.

Carter flicked through the leather wallet pulling out a “Grant Jansky’s” credit and business card for a company in Toronto, Canada. A security swipe card showed a picture of the man before her. Why would an alien in the SGC, who was pretending to be McKay, have a derivatives consultant’s business and security card belonging to a total stranger, Carter wondered.

“Who are you?” Carter asked.

“Grant.”

At the back of the wallet where bills should live was a sheaf of well-thumbed photos. Sam extracted the first one and grinned.

“Who’s this?” Sam asked even though she now knew the answer. Two boys stood as close as skin, knock-kneed and grinning cheekily with wide, wide mouths. The photo was faded, but Sam would have laid a bet that the eyes framed by those long lashes were sea blue. The shock of light, curly hair was a practical joke waiting to happen. Sam’s day wouldn’t be complete if she couldn’t get a scan of this photo and post it on the SGC intranet.

“Colonel Carter, should we cancel the alert?” Walter spoke up.

Carter nodded. “Yes. I’m not entirely sure how he got in here, but I don’t think Mr. Jansky is an alien.”

The siren silenced immediately, and Walter’s calm measured tones announced that there had been a false alarm.

Grant leaned out of the airman’s grasp to peer at the upside down, dog-eared photograph. “That’s me and Rodney at Mrs. Anderson’s, before Rodney went back to Auntie Ruthie and I went into the ‘system’ never to get out.”

“That’s Rodney all right, but there isn’t an ounce of fat on him. On either of you,” Sam smiled.

“Jeannie was a bit skinny too, but Auntie Ruthie liked her more so she got treats sometimes.” Carter’s fingers flicked through the sheaf of photos and withdrew a second photo of three stick-thin creatures staring at the lens, the downward slanting mouths were as belligerent as sin. The contrast between the two photos was horrible.

“The…”

“Auntie Ruthie wasn’t well, but she got medication and got better. And then Jeannie and Rodney had to go back and live with her. But I was her only her nephew and I didn’t go back.” Grant looked at her directly. “I think I was the lucky one.”

“What are you doing here?” Carter asked.

“Get your hands off my cousin!” McKay bellowed.

The scientist blew into the control room riding a wave of ire. Even dressed in white scrub pyjamas, bare footed and one cheek sleep-creased, the force of his presence was not reduced in the slightest.

“You!” He pointed at the security officer holding Grant. “Stand down this instant.”

The dark-haired airman simply regarded Colonel Carter. She gave no such order.

“Hello, Rodney,” Carter said easily.

“Tell your dull-witted underling to release my cousin immediately.” His eyes narrowed furiously.

“I’d actually like to know what a civilian is doing in a high security area like the control room?”

“It’s none of my concern why your asinine Air Force security procedures don’t work. Release Grant now,” McKay countered.

Grant lifted his chin. “Rodney,” he said with a hint of trepidation.

“He’s my cousin,” McKay explained in the face of that nervousness. “Carson… Dr. Beckett brought us to the SCG to investigate a possible case of contagion. He’s not a security risk and he’s not responsible for an idiotic excuse of a mathematician mistaking him for me.” McKay pointed at Dr. Storey who had almost made it to the opposite exit from the control room. McKay then turned the laser glare of his attention to the security officer holding his cousin. “Release him now, or know the consequences.”

“Ma’am?” The officer remained impassive, but a hint of nervousness coloured the air.

“Sam!” McKay stepped forward and yanked his cousin bodily free from the guard as Carter nodded.

Freed from the security officer’s grip, Grant came alive and latched onto his cousin.

“It’s a wormhole. It can’t be an Einstein-Rosen it has to be Lorentzian. Rodney, is it an inter- or intra-universe wormhole? It’s not calibrated very well,” Grant said, his nose burrowed in McKay chest.

“Yes, I know. I keep telling them,” McKay returned smugly.

“But it violates Einsteinian causality.” Grant lifted his head. “How does it stay open in non-relativistic space?”

Carter raised her hand and made an abrupt cutting motion. “Mr. Janksy does not have clearance.”

“He discerned more in a two minute study of the Stargate than the retarded gnomes that you have have managed in three years of study,” McKay said pithily.

“It is just a mathematical solution to general relativity,” Grant said innocently. Turning in McKay’s arms, he looked at the Stargate. “Something inherent in that structure must allow the wormhole to stay open. But it has to be constructed of an element which doesn’t exist on this planet.”

Carter threw her hands in the air.

~*~


“Is Mr. Jansky capable of signing and understanding the provisions of a confidentiality agreement?” General Landry asked.

Rodney paced along the edge of the briefing room’s long table. “Grant is, I repeat, not a moron, nor is he an autistic savant. He is fully capable of understanding privacy issues. His… focus is different.”

Landry rested his elbows on the table and regarded Rodney over the edge of his folded hands.

“So Mr. Jansky is fully capable of holding a position here at the SGC?”

“What!” Rodney turned abruptly on his heel and jabbed a finger at the general. “No. No. Absolutely, no way. Grant’s one of the innocents that this whole place has been created, ultimately, to protect!”

Landry smiled. “But, ultimately,” he echoed, “it would be Mr. Janksy’s decision, since he is, as you are taking such pains to point out, capable of making his own decisions.”

Rodney’s response was succinct and to the point. “You bastard.”

Chapter four: Soufflé Furlough

“Mmmm, food.” McKay spun on his heel and walked backwards along the pavement. He spread his arms wide and inhaled the dry, warm air of a Colorado evening.

“Christ, McKay, you sound like Homer Simpson.” Sheppard rolled his eyes.

“Come on, I was locked up in the SGC Infirmary with carbon monoxide poisoning, I need red meat.”

“I’m not sure one necessarily leads to the other,” Carson said easily, as he walked alongside a newly minted Lieutenant Colonel Sheppard.

“It’s called convalescence, Carson. Steaks cooked to perfection.” McKay smacked his lips. “They know their steaks. Not a very good wine list, but they know how to char a hunk of meat.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to go that French restaurant that Elizabeth recommended?” Carson asked Sheppard out of the side of his mouth. “I mean it is your celebration.”

Sheppard shrugged easily. “Rodney says that this place is the best steak house in Colorado Springs. That – what did they call it? – Le Petit Bistro sounded a bit pretentious. Any rate the other newly promoted guys in the SGC had booked tables weeks ago.”

Sheppard’s unspoken ‘It’s not where you go, it’s who you’re with’ hung on the air.

“You won’t regret this. Trust me. The steaks. The steaks.” Rodney raised his hands in supplication. “Cooked to perfection, the barest hint of pink, a slither of Stilton…”

“Really?” Carson checked.

“Well, some kind of blue cheese,” Rodney said.

“What kind of chips do they have?” Carson asked feeling a little better about giving in to Rodney.

“With steaks?” Sheppard asked, his eyebrow lifted curiously.

“Our esteemed Scottish colleague means fries.” Rodney dropped back to walk at Carson’s side. “They provide fries that are so chunky and golden crisp that you’d think that your mother cooked them.”

Carson managed not to sigh; he had had a nice visit with his mum, and she was hale and healthy. He could be honest with himself; he was not needed at home.

They came to a halt at a pelican crossing on a cross roads and Rodney paused a moment, fingers moving to his mouth as he contemplated directions.

“Yeah, straight ahead.”

It was late and there was little traffic so -- rather than hitting the big silver pedestrian walk button and waiting for permission -- Carson strode across.

“If there was a cop around he’d yell at you for jaywalking,” Sheppard noted, but he darted across the road after a giant SUV passed.

“Pardon?” Carson asked.

“You’re not supposed to run across intersections like that. If you’d got hit by that SUV your insurance probably wouldn’t pay out. And, technically, you could get pegged for jaywalking if a cop was trying to fill their ticket quota.”

The lights changed and McKay ambled over to them. “Nah, he’s just fire that Scottish accent at them or bat those blue eyes and he’s be let off, Scot-free.”

“Where is this restaurant?” Carson asked, derailing any British-Canadian-American arguments before they could get started.

“Just ahead on the left.”

Sheppard planted his hands deep in his pockets and matched McKay’s ambling pace. Carson gently shifted his backpack on his shoulder.

“Did I tell you about Landry? The man’s offered Grant… Oh, hang on.” McKay looked down the back alley. “Yes, this is it.”

They turned down the side road and nestled beside a bicycle shop (which grabbed Sheppard attention until Rodney physically dragged him away) was a small ‘mom and pop’ establishment.

“Have you been here before?” Sheppard asked Carson as they followed McKay into the dark environs.

Carson blinked, once, twice, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the dimmer light within. “No, I never spent much time at all in Cheyenne Mountain. I was based at Antarctica and I spent time at the The Directorate for Development Plans Area in Nevada.”

The restaurant was small, only six tables in the immediate area. Two were already occupied with couples deep in conversation, heads close as they conversed. Warm and heady scents hung, welcomingly, on the air.

“Professor McKay, long time no see.” A chunky woman, setting a table for six by the window, straightened.

“Mrs. Reynolds, I brought… friends.” Rodney waved at Carson and Sheppard.

She folded her arms over her ample chest. “Hmmm, you’ve lost weight, Professor.”

“Ha, well, the stories that I could tell you. But can’t.” Rodney tapped the side of his nose. “Classified.”

“So table for three?”

“In the back, so we can talk if we want.”

“It’s going to be a boring meal if you’re not going to talk,” Mrs. Reynolds observed. “Take the one at the back on the right. I’ll be up in a moment with the new menu.”

Rodney smiled, actually smiled widely, and then bounded ahead and up a short flight of stairs to the next tier with a, “Come on.”

Sheppard moved after him, leaving Carson with Mrs. Reynolds.

She regarded him, rolled her head back so she could scrutinise him through her glasses perched on the tip of her nose.

“Can I help you?”

“Our friend, John, got a promotion.”

“That’s nice.”

Carson thought that the steaks better be good, because this lady was a lot like hard work.

“Rodney, Dr. McKay, mentioned that you normally just serve beers and you’ve only got a limited selection of wines. I don’t know how it works,” he continued rapidly, “and I don’t want to get you in trouble with the authorities. But because it’s a celebration and we’re shipping out in a couple of days, I took a chance and I brought a bottle of champagne with me and a bottle of red wine. I was hoping we’d be able to celebrate our John’s ...uhm… Lieutenant Colonel Sheppard’s promotion.”

“That’s a nice accent you’ve got there.” She held out her hand. “I’ll put the champagne on ice while your steaks are being prepared. I’ll come up with a corkscrew to your table.”

“Thank you,” Carson said simply as he slipped his haversack off his shoulder and pulled out the bottle.

“Off you go. You better order appetizers and dessert and big steaks.”

“Yes, ma’am. I’ll make sure that Rodney orders double.”

“Like that wasn’t going to happen.”

Carson smiled. Mrs Reynolds glanced at the wine label, shrugged. “Go get yourself seated.”

Carson obeyed; this woman was someone’s mother.

Sheppard was already settled at the table, lounging like he belonged, by the time Carson joined them.

“Pity that Grant didn’t want to come,” Sheppard said.

Rodney shrugged. “Grant’s not that fond of restaurants and it’s past his bedtime.”

“You’re kidding,” Sheppard blurted.

“Early to bed. Early to rise.” Rodney leaned back in his rickety chair and looked at the ceiling. “I can’t believe that Landry offered him a job.”

“He didn’t take it, though?” John checked.

“No, Grant’s more sensible than that,” Rodney muttered.

Carson sat himself down and simultaneously pulled out the bottle of wine from his bag.

“Ooooh.” Rodney’s chair legs smacked to the floor as he leaned forward to grab the bottle. Turning it in his large hands, he whipped off the protective netting. “Amarone Della Valpolicella Classico 2000. Is it any good?”

“I like it.” Carson took it back and set it on the table. “I don’t think turning around and about will do it any good.”

“Are you allowed to bring your own booze to a restaurant?” John asked.

“No idea, but I checked with Mrs. Reynolds and she said that it was all right.”

Sheppard shrugged and pulled out his Swiss Army knife and extracted the corkscrew. Rodney waiting in grinning anticipation as Sheppard cracked the seal and drew out the cork.

Mrs. Reynolds clomped over with three plastic covered menus. “Here you go, dears. I recommend the tender fillet steaks grilled and wrapped in bacon, Madeira sauce, with fried potatoes.”

Sheppard’s eyes bugged.

Carson ran his finger down the list of dishes. “Ha, blue cheese. Can I have blue cheese, please?”

“I’m hungry,” Sheppard announced suddenly.

Eyes turned to the Lieutenant Colonel.

“I think that is the first time I’ve heard you say that,” Rodney said slowly.

“He needs feeding up,” Mrs. Reynolds observed; the glint in her eye spoke of ‘cheek tweaking’.

John shuffled down in his seat a fraction chancing a smile. “I think I’ll have what Carson wants.”

“Fillet steaks, bacon, Madeira sauce and fried potatoes– well done,” Rodney said without looking at the menu.

“Appetizers?” Mrs. Reynolds asked, looking directly at Carson.

“Oh, my yes.” He looked to the menu, trying to find the most expensive item. “I tell you what. How’s about a selection?” He looked at his companions, checking their opinion, both shrugged.

“Sounds good,” John said.

“We can nibble as we drink our first bottle of wine. While the red is breathing. I see --” Carson scanned the wine list. Rodney was half right; the selection was limited but it wasn’t bad, “-- we can have the Sauvignon Blanc.”

“Can we get a bottle of sparkling mineral water, please?” John asked.

Mrs. Reynolds smiled. “Of course you can, dear.”

“And once again the female sex falls before his dubious wiles.”

John rolled his eyes.

“Rodney,” Carson chastised.

Rodney shrugged unrepentantly.

Mrs. Reynolds gathered up the menus. “Rodney, I’ll get started on your double chocolate Cadbury’s soufflé?”

Rodney flashed a wide, toothy grin at the woman.

“I’ll take that as a yes, Rodney.” She hummed under her breath.

John raised a finger. “Make that two, please.”

Mrs. Reynolds looked at Carson expectantly. “I don’t suppose you’ve got cheese board and biscuits? Hmmm, chocolate soufflé, please.”

Smiling, Mrs Reynolds tootled off.

“Curious sort of place,” Carson said, once she was out of earshot. “I mean, the food presumably is excellent, hardly any alcohol, except beer. Tucked down this back alley. Do they have a clientele in the know so-to-speak?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t statistically analysed the distribution of patrons.” Rodney poked the jar of bread sticks on the table. “It’s cooked on the premises. It isn’t part of a chain. It’s good food, mainly locally sourced, high quality produce. Not a massive selection of dishes. But she listens if you have a dietary ‘issue’. No peanut has ever been on the premises. And the soufflé…” Rodney rocked back on his chair and manufactured a tiny orgasm.

“You just wanted to come here for the soufflé.” John grinned.

Sitting upright, Rodney rubbed his hands together. “Believe you me, you won’t regret it.”

~*~

“Well, that’s enough breathing, I think,” Carson said as he poured the red wine into their glasses.

~*~

Mrs. Reynolds and her assistant waiter brought out the soufflé and the chilled Bollinger Grande Année 1997.

“Oh, my god, I’m in heaven!” Rodney proclaimed as the young man set the giant soufflé before him. “You should get promoted more often, Major.”

“Lieutenant Colonel,” John drawled.

Carson accepted the Champagne from their hostess and presented it to John. “Would you like to do the honours?”

John took possession with a smile. “Did you get this stuff from duty free?”

“I took advantage of the opportunity to travel between the US and the UK, yes.” Carson scooped up their white wine glasses -- there weren’t any champagne flutes -- and set them beside John.

“Enjoy your chocolate.” Mrs. Reynolds said, corralling her waiter the second he had finished placing the desserts and drawing him away so that they had their privacy.

John peeled back the gold foil and then ever so carefully teased out the cork. It came free with a delicate pop and, with panache, John poured three generous glasses.

“We are going to be so hungover; it’s a good job we’ve got nothing on tomorrow.” Carson gathered up his glass. “Would you like to do the honours, Rodney?”

“What?” Rodney said around a mouthful of soufflé. “Oh, yeah, sorry.”

Carson shook his head fondly.

A little shaving of chocolate was melting on Rodney’s bottom lip; his tongue dipped out gathering it in. He set his dessert fork down and picked up the glass of sparkly champagne.

“Well, what can I say? Unaccustomed as I am to public speaking.”

John sniggered.

“Lieutenant Colonel -- and I’m pretty sure that most people thought that you wouldn’t have made it past Captain -- I think that we can all safely say that Atlantis has made you. And--” he scowled thunderously, “--if you ever strap your ass on to another *thing* instead of waiting around for me to pull a brilliant plan out of my enormous brain, Pinky, I will kill you.” Rodney stood up. “To Lieutenant Colonel John Sheppard, Congratulations!”

Carson jumped to his feet and echoed the sentiment wholeheartedly.

A deep red blush flushed Sheppard’s pale, pale skin, turning his cheeks a rosy apple red.

“Thank you,” he managed squeakily, embarrassed out of his customary laconic drawl.

“And now, chocolate and champagne.” Rodney settled back, wriggled happily in his chair, lost in a happy place filled with chocolate, effectively giving John a moment to gain his equanimity.

Sitting, Carson bent his head and finally delved into his soufflé. The runny chocolate centre with a hint of Courvoisier was utter pleasure -- made a touch more perfect by a year of deprivation.

“Wow,” John said suddenly. He shovelled in another bit of chocolate. “Do you think we can get the recipe?”

“Told you,” Rodney crowed, as he topped up their glasses.

“It’s better than good, Rodney. Excellent choice,” Carson said.

Rodney preened happily.

~*~

Rodney slouched back in his chair and cupped his hands over his full tummy. Carson could tell that the man was replete.

“It’s a pity that Grant didn’t want to come.” John mused, carefully running his finger along the lip of his coffee glass, coating it with cream. “He missed an excellent meal.”

“I told you he doesn’t like restaurants,” Rodney said.

“We could take him a doggy bag?” Carson ventured muzzily; a third of a bottle of white, a reasonable proportion of the red and two glasses of bubbly and now an Irish coffee, was making the world a lovely place.

“Can you believe that Landry tried to recruit Grant!” Rodney suddenly grumbled. He pointed, finger wagging emphatically. “Grant can’t be at the SG-thingy. He’s got to be safe in Toronot-no-ro. Tornonto?”

“Toronto,” John supplied as he licked his finger tip.

“Yes, Toronot.” Rodney shook his head. “Grant’s the reason that we do what we do. It’s to keep him safe.”

“So he decided not to accept the general-bloke’s offer?” Carson clarified.

“Yes. And it’s a wise decision, and I, emphatically, did not coach him.” Rodney puffed out his chest. “He doesn’t like the guns and I think he finds uniforms a bit threatening. I can’t believe Landry. Yes, yes, he could make a valuable con-con--”

“Contribution,” John inserted.

“Contribution to the SG-thing. I can’t believe Landry trying to recruit my little cousin.”

“I thought that Grant was older?” John checked.

“Whatever.” Rodney waved his hand. “He’s my little cousin, now.”

“Surely, General Landry checked Grant’s curriculum vitae?” Carson asked.

“His what?” John asked.

“Resume,” Carson clarified, “and his medical history? I agree, Rodney, the SGC is not a good place for Grant to be. I would guess that he has adopted a whole suite of behaviours which he needs to maintain for comfort and security and if there’s one thing that the SG uhm – is not, is predictable.”

“Landry had a dossier on his big, long table--” Rodney snorted irreverently, “ --which he kept referring to when he was talking to me. He made an offer to Grant which was a legitimate…eh… thing. What’s going to happen when I’m not here if he was working for the SGC? I wouldn’t be able to look after him. I’m going to have to talk to Jeannie before we go back, make sure that no one tries to recruit…”

Rodney paled, his generous red, alcoholic flush fled.

“Rodney?” Carson sat up straight.

Rodney stood, abandoning coffee and chocolate mints.

John rose to his feet. “What’s the matter, Rodney?”

“Landry had Grant checked. It was a legitimate offer. Grant’s now in the SGC database.”

“And?” John raised his hand, trying to calm Rodney.

“He didn’t take the post. His details are on the SGC inter- and intranet.” Rodney, impossibly, paled even further. “I can’t believe that I didn’t think of this…”

“What?” John demanded as Rodney jerked in the direction of the door.

“The NID. The Trust. Anyone and any other covert operation that’s got a finger in the SGC pie will now be fully aware of Grant’s skills and he’s not working for the SGC so it will be open house.”

“So you think that someone will try to recruit him?” Carson felt a cold stirring in his guts. Working for Stargate Command was a brutal life and, as a civilian, required a certain amount of savvy to circumnavigate the personal and the political demands of any position. Grant would be melting butter on hot toast – snaffled up in a heartbeat. Slowly, Carson stood, picking up his backpack and shifting it onto his shoulder.

“That’s the best case scenario.” Rodney rifled in his wallet and threw down a wad of notes on the table top. “I have to get home. I have to check on Grant.”

“McKay!” Sheppard snapped.

Rodney froze.

“Do you believe that there is a threat to Grant?” Sheppard asked his tone neutral.

“Let’s say that I’ll be happier, when I get home and find my cousin curled up fast asleep with Mr. Jinx.”

“Okay, then. Let’s go check on Grant,” Sheppard said. “Now.”

Chapter five: Adrenaline Rush


“This is all your fault, major!” McKay snapped as he stomped out onto the sidewalk.

“How did you come to that conclusion?” Sheppard demanded, pushing through the restaurant doors and following the scientist out into the dusky, evening light. “It was Carson who took you both into the SGC.”

“Excuse me!” Carson caught the door on the rebound, his eyes widened with consternation. “What else was I supposed to do? Let Rodney’s brain fry?”

“It’s your fault, because if I was a fat and out-of-condition scientist used to sitting behind a desk I would have brought my car and we could almost be back at my apartment. Where’s a taxi when you need one?” McKay yelled. He spun in a circle and then turned to stare at Carson. “What do you mean? Could my brain have fried?”

“It’s a figure of speech, Rodney.”

“We need a cab.” Sheppard pointed back to the main road. “That way.”

“Actually, if you wait a moment.” Carson raised his hand. He stuck two fingers in his mouth, whistled piercingly and waved his other hand.

“That only works in New York, Carson,” McKay said snidely.

The engine of a low slung, black sedan at the far end of the alley turned over with a well-tuned roar.

“That’s probably the enemy!” McKay shrieked.

“Calm the fuck down, Rodney,” Sheppard barked. “Who are they, Doc?”

Carson gestured at the car, waving his arm in a long swoop, to indicate that the vehicle should draw up at their side.

“They’re my bodyguards.”

“What!” McKay splurted. “You rate a bodyguard? How? Where are mine?”

“They were assigned when I went home to Scotland. Rodney, you’ve probably got some assigned somewhere. I can make weapons of mass destruction with just my trusty laptop and my medical case.” He sagged, a bit sort of grey and diminished.

“I can kill you with my brain!”

Carson and Sheppard looked at Rodney sadly, the latter’s face pinched. “That’s just pathetic, McKay.”

“Okay, okay, I could blow up a solar system if I put my mind to it.”

The car pulled to a halt and the side window of the sedan rolled down. “What’s the matter, Doc?” The occupant was a middle aged man, who despite the evening’s waning light wore dark aviator glasses.

“Malcolm, you need to get us to Dr. McKay’s house, asap.”